by Gary Fry
The house seemed full of shadows. She switched on the hallway light and advanced to the kitchen to put on the kettle.
“Do you fancy a brew before bed?” she asked Alan, who’d staggered against the hallway wall to kick off his shoes but had yet to shut the front door. When Beryl looked that way, overgrown conifer trees in the front garden whispered and waved. But she was safe now. Her husband might be lazy around the house, but he was a big guy. If any of the heartless ruffians who’d seen off Dawn and Mick came prowling, they’d certainly have a fight to deal with.
Alan locked them in at last, using the key Beryl had already slotted in its latch. Then, with a slur, he replied, “Not for me. Bed calls. I don’t think heathen…I don’t think even a black coffee’ll get shut of a hangover in the morning.”
She had to nag him—it was written in the stars. “But you will trim the conifers tomorrow, won’t you? You promised, Alan. It’s getting like a forest out there.”
Tomorrow was Tuesday, his one day off from the Leeds garden centre. He spent all day working with plants but was unable to attend his own at home. What kind of behaviour was that for a horticultural expert?
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, the booze making him both agreeable and cantankerous, just as it always had. “It’ll get done.”
Too busy thinking about your next matchstick model, Beryl thought with impatience, but then settled herself by spooning sugar and coffee granules into a mug. She supposed she should indulge her husband artistic tendencies. Their daughter had certainly inherited this creative streak, even though Beryl wished Lisa’s turn of mind wasn’t so macabre. The last film she’d written had contrasted stridently with her dad’s twee models of ships and cathedrals. Still, their daughter’s success in the unforgiving movie business had made them both proud.
Beryl was about to propose contacting Lisa tomorrow when she heard Alan stumble into the bedroom and start struggling out of his clothing. Moments later, she heard him sliding beneath the sheets and could only sigh in response.
Now her drink was ready, she pondered the day’s events. She’d really liked Dawn, but had never been so sure about Mick—still waters, him. Beryl had been happy to look after the Mallinsons’ dog whenever they’d taken a holiday. They’d done that a lot, which was understandable. She couldn’t imagine what losing a child must be like, particularly one so young. Simon had been a nice kid—a bit introverted, like his dad, but thoughtful and artistic. Beryl recalled how fond he’d been of making models out of clay. The other kids, including Lisa, had teased him about that, but Beryl knew they’d secretly admired his ability. And now look at them, each one an artist…all except Anthony, of course.
Beryl carried her mug into the bedroom and grew dismayed when she heard her husband snoring. He’d fallen asleep with the lamp on beside him, his clothing a messy puddle near the foot of the bed.
Men, she thought, her disapporval deepening. What with Alan’s heavy drinking, and Jack Smith going on about his bloody sleepwalking, and then Frank Jenkins hardly saying a word all day…Good God.
Beryl climbed into bed, forcing her mind onto other matters. She wondered whether Anthony Mallinson and his charming wife and son would move into Dawn and Mick’s property. Beryl would welcome them as neighbours; they were clearly a respectable family. The fact that they’d rarely visited the Mallinsons, and that this had been a source of unhappiness for the older couple, had not prevented everything being left to them in the will. Dawn had told Beryl all about this over lunch last year.
Just then, Beryl detected a noise from the bedroom window.
Everything that had happened lately must be preying on her nerves; she was hearing things now. Nevertheless, staring at the window with its curtains drawn, she thought she saw silhouettes of conifer trees thrown onto the glass by moonlight flooding the back garden. But surely these looked…too short…too shaggy.
Perhaps earlier thoughts about her daughter’s films were getting to her. Beryl smiled with maternal affection. Lisa had always been fond of books, but Beryl found it difficult to understand why she wrote about dark things. Were Lisa’s predilections the result of anything she and her husband had done? Or was it rather the inevitable mindset of someone who’d grown up in a village with such a creepy past? Deepvale was very old, and there were many spooky stories associated with the area…But it was also true that their daughter had rarely been back since leaving in her teens.
Beryl was growing distracted. She looked again across the room.
The figures at the window had now become more defined. She shivered and sipped her hot coffee, which scalded her lips. Then she slid her legs out from under the sheets, fearful of spilling the drink on her furniture.
“Alan,” she hissed, hoping her husband would look outside, in case any of the thugs who’d done such a terrible thing to the Mallinsons had returned to cause more trouble.
Her husband muttered something vague—“Huh? Wha…? Lemme sleep…”—but continued to snooze with a snaffling sound.
Typical! thought Beryl, realising she’d have to sort out this problem alone. Perhaps the presence at the glass was just Jack Smith sleepwalking again. She’d seen him in his garden next door on many a night, and the hedge between his and their place could be penetrated by simply pushing through.
Beryl set her mug aside on her bedside table and stood to cross for the curtained window. She tried to combat her racing heartbeat by entertaining more thoughts about Lisa. After seeing Anthony today, Beryl had decided to call her daughter in the morning and invite her over. It would be good to have her back, even if only for a few days amid her hectic schedule.
As she drew closer to the window, the shapes beyond it lost a little definition and then vanished altogether. Moonlight beyond the curtains had softened the appearance of what were surely conifer trees, each untrimmed and shaggy. And she certainly hadn’t just heard someone scuttling away, soft footfalls shuffling…
Beryl reached out and parted the curtains.
And felt herself miss a breath.
God, there had been somebody at the window.
Although the moist fingerprints on the glass were too low to suggest adults—perhaps thugs had been stooping, casing the joint in a covert way—there’d been something wrong with the hands that had made these marks.
Around several smudges made by small fingers, each dripping dirty streaks of water, there was no sign of thumbs.
No thumbs at all.
SEVEN
Anthony had dreamed of trunkless elephants rearing up on their hind legs, and it was only after waking that he rationalised their source. The model he’d broken at the university was preying on his mind. He’d focused on repairing it later that evening, because the news about what had happened to his mum and dad had been too shocking to dwell upon.
He climbed out of bed, shaking confusion from his head. He recalled that he was in his parents’ home and that they’d both been buried yesterday. Then he rubbed his eyes and changed into casual clothing his wife had packed for the trip. He stooped to peck Melanie on the cheek (she muttered a few sleepy, incomprehensible phrases: “…no time…too small…”) before pacing to the kitchen and putting on the kettle. The dog had followed him from the spare room and now whimpered at the back door. Anthony unlocked it with the key Mrs. Robinson had returned yesterday (the police apparently held the original set) and let Lucy out for a pee.
As the kettle simmered, Anthony recalled scenes from his childhood: Simon constructing clay models at the table… Mum looking on with concern…Dad home from work in another edgy mood…
Anthony was locked so deeply in such reminiscences he was shocked when a small boy entered the kitchen. But it was only Carl, stretching to rouse himself from sleep. For a moment he’d resembled Anthony’s long-dead brother, but when Anthony looked again, he realised there was no mole on Carl’s upper lip.
“Hello, son,” he said, trying to eliminate disquiet from his voice. “Fancy some breakfast?”
�
�No, thanks. I’m still full from last night. Daddy, can I play out?”
Anthony had made two cups of tea and now used one to evade the issue his son had raised.
“Not so soon,” he replied, passing the steaming mug to Carl. “Here, take this to your mummy. We’ll see about taking a walk later. Would you like that?”
Carl looked disappointed, but nonetheless accepted the drink. He was a well-behaved boy, far less morbid than Simon had been. “Okay. Can we go up on the moors with Lucy?”
Anthony wasn’t prepared to admit how much this prospect unsettled him, but he nodded noncommittally. “We’ll see. Now off you go—skip, skip, skip!”
The boy laughed as Anthony gave chase, and that was enough to improve Anthony’s own feelings. At least Carl hadn’t asked to go and see Suman or whatever the boy he’d met last night was called. But that was another problem Anthony ought to postpone until later. Right now, he had to think about what the family should do next.
He soon heard his wife and son talking in master bedroom. After downing his tea with needful haste, Anthony stooped to a bag on the kitchen floor and removed his laptop. He’d brought this along so he could work on his PhD, but it was only now that he realised he might have had other plans. Whatever the truth was, he realised he shouldn’t have left the machine in full view of potential intruders. What if the thugs who’d killed his parents had returned overnight?
Not that Anthony was convinced the deed had been committed by such people.
And what did this mean? He hesitated, simply holding his laptop, but then thrust aside speculation and booted up the machine. And a minute later, after logging on with his password, he heard a knock at the front door.
His heart started drumming, but he eventually settled himself. This might be Mrs. Robinson, seeing if they wanted any more help. She was a nice woman and had already done more than should be expected.
Anthony removed the spare key from the back door, and while strolling along the hall passage, he called out to Melanie.
“I’ll get it—probably just one of the neighbours.”
“Okay!” his wife yelled back.
Then, with a calm bearing he felt incapable of sustaining, he unlocked and opened the front door.
A policeman stood on the step.
Anthony’s first reaction was to step back, as if he was responsible for what had happened lately in Deepvale. But when the man smiled—he was maybe his late dad’s age, midfifties—Anthony relaxed. It was odd how such a paternal gesture could make the world seem orderly; he linked this observation to some psychological theory or other. And after glancing at a police car parked in the grove, which surely drew all the neighbours’ attention, Anthony got this latest crisis under control.
“Oh, hi there. May I help?”
“I’d like a brief word, if you don’t mind. I understand you’re Anthony Mallinson, the son of the…well, of the deceased.”
“Yes, that’s me.” There was no reason to be sensitive about the matter. It had happened, and the law was inevitably involved. “Won’t you come inside? Would you care for a drink? The kettle’s just boiled.”
Jesus, he sounded as fussy as his mum had always been. When the tall man entered the hallway, Anthony paced backwards, eager to return to the kitchen.
“Not for me, thanks,” the policeman replied, following Anthony along the hallway. “This is just a brief visit.”
Why was Anthony put in mind of the hideous creatures he’d imagined overnight? He sat at the kitchen table, instructing the officer to do likewise. There was movement from another part of the bungalow, and Anthony realised his wife and son must be getting dressed, probably as worried as he’d grown after hearing their visitor speak at the front door.
Anthony stared at the man, who’d now removed his hat. He decided to be direct, even if this involved sounding casual. “So, how may I help?”
“Don’t you remember me, son?”
Again the man’s bearing came across as paternal. Anthony squinted, feeling as if he needed a cigarette. He restrained himself, however, and focused on the police officer’s wrinkled face. Then he experienced a disarming moment of realisation.
It was true. This was Derek Gardiner, the constable who’d dealt with his brother’s disappearance fifteen years ago. Christ, how time changed a face.
“Hey, good to see you, mate.” Despite the grave situation, Anthony found it difficult to suppress more nostalgia. Maybe this reacquaintance might even help him reflect on those past days. “How’re you doing?”
“Not as well as you if…well, if Dawn and Mick’s warm words were anything to judge by. Soon to become a doctor, aren’t you?”
Anthony suppressed a pang of anguish. So his parents had been proud of his achievements, after all…But he must reserve these concerns for later. “Yeah. In psychology. Not quite the same as diagnosing gammy knees and the like, but I suppose one day I’ll be regarded as an expert in my field.”
“Keep at it, lad. We need folk like you. Helluva world.”
“Isn’t it just.”
A lengthy pause followed, during which Melanie and Carl, dressed for the day, appeared from the property’s rear.
Anthony looked up and then, turning back to the policeman, said, “May I introduce my wife and son? Mel, this is a policeman I knew when I used to live around here. Derek Gardiner.”
“Was Ant as much trouble then as he is now?”
Shaking the hand Melanie offered, Derek laughed. “Oh, not at all. He was a good boy. They all were—him, Lisa, Paul and…well, I’m not so sure about Andy. But they were a great bunch. I wish I could say the same about all the young uns these days.” The policeman turned his attention to Carl. “Why, you look like a fine fellow. A credit to the family, I’m thinking. Tell your Uncle Derek if that isn’t the case.”
“You’re not my uncle…are you?” Carl replied, and everyone except him chuckled.
There was another silence; the episode had become solemn, and Melanie was sharp enough to perceive this.
“We’ll leave you to it, love,” she said, blowing a kiss at her husband. “Carl’s bribed me into taking him for a walk. Where’s Lucy?”
“Oh, she’s still outside,” Anthony replied, and watched as his son rushed to the door to let the dog back in. After entering, Lucy appeared giddy, as if she’d just been frightened by something. She reared up on her rear legs to get comfort from Carl.
At that moment, an idea occurred to Anthony. He produced the keys with which he’d opened the front and back doors, and then handed them to his wife. “You’d better take these, too.”
Melanie accepted the bunch, wearing a puzzled expression. “Why will I need them?”
Anthony glanced at the policeman, and then back at her. “Well, you never know,” he said, as if in a code only she could decipher.
She easily did so; they’d been married eight years, and so much shared experience had rendered them near-telepathic. Nevertheless, she asked, “But how will you lock up if…well, if you have to go out?”
“Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Mallinson,” said Derek, clearly suggesting that Anthony wouldn’t be going anywhere with him, even though his officious tone hinted at something else.
Melanie smiled awkwardly and grabbed Lucy’s lead from the kitchen work surface. “Right-o. We’ll see you later, Ant? And perhaps you, too, Mr. Gardiner. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Likewise.”
Anthony felt a need to express concern about his family venturing outside, but doing so might come across as disciplinarian. And so with only a knowing look at his wife, he instructed, “Be careful.”
“We will,” Melanie replied, placing a protective arm around their son. Then, after moving out of sight, they and the dog departed with a rattle of the front door.
“Okay, so what’s all this about?” Anthony asked Derek, hoping his mounting anxiety wouldn’t come across as rudeness.
“I just thought I should pay a call, son. I assumed you’d be
interested in what we’re doing about apprehending the young bastards who did it.”
Perhaps the man spoke bluntly because of a belief that, having endured one tragedy in the past, Anthony was equipped to deal with another. Anthony was also a psychologist, and Derek might imagine, as many people did, that life was more straightforward for such people. He should certainly think again.
Despite the fond memories the policeman’s presence had aroused, Anthony said, “Okay. Fire away. I’m ready.”
And Derek began at once.
“Well, there isn’t a great deal to tell. The autopsy confirmed that your mum and dad were…you must forgive my directness…that they were strangled. There was no sign of your dad’s wallet or your mum’s purse, and so we believe the motivation was transparent enough. The odd thing is, though…”
Anthony felt impelled to fill the man’s deliberate hesitation. “Go on,” he prompted, his fists clenching.
And the policeman obliged. “Well, if the thugs were after money, to purchase what you and I know they’re all after these days…”
“Yes?”
“…why did they leave your mum and dad with their house keys?”
Derek paused again, brushed a few specks of dandruff from impossibly grey hair, and then pushed one hand into a jacket pocket. Moments later, he produced the bungalow’s main set of keys and set them on the kitchen table.
“I mean, even a numbskull wouldn’t need much imagination to locate your parents’ home and steal fenceable goods. They might have simply followed the dog back here. But there’s something else…”
Anthony was growing frustrated by all these suggestive pauses. He knew how impatient he must sound, but simply couldn’t help that. “Please tell me.”
But the policeman was determined to let the issue linger. “First things first,” he said, standing from his chair as if his business was almost complete. “Can you tell me whether any of your parents’ goods are missing? We carried out a thorough search of the house, but were unable to find either a purse or a wallet. It could be that your mum and dad went out that evening without money. In which case, those items might still be here somewhere.” Derek hoisted a liver-spotted hand, the thumb turned to one side. “And of course that would make the crime even more inexplicable.”