A Song for the Brokenhearted

by William Shaw

  Fletchet hung his head. ‘I didn’t know. Not until later.’

  ‘Of course you knew. How could you not know?’

  ‘In other ways, she was very… mature.’ He was blushing now. ‘Besides, she told me she was nineteen. She told me all sorts of things. That her father was a film star. That she was born on an ocean liner. She liked to do that. It was always a show, you know? I broke it off as soon as she told me her real age. I don’t suppose you believe me. But she really didn’t look sixteen. She didn’t act it.’

  ‘Bet you were scared shitless when you found out. Any younger and you’d have been done for statutory rape.’

  Helen was tipsy already, and angry, and Fletchet was the sort of man she would have hated even if he hadn’t slept with her sister. Breen resisted interrupting her, telling her to keep her voice down. He wanted the opportunity to observe Fletchet. Fletchet was rubbing his palms against the top of his thighs as he tried to answer Helen. Were his nerves a sign he was lying, or was it just embarrassment that was making him squirm?

  ‘If you give me a chance, I’ll explain,’ Fletchet was saying.

  ‘I know the explanation already,’ said Helen.

  Fletchet dropped his voice. ‘For God’s sake. I am throwing myself on your mercy here. This was a deeply shameful and tragic episode of my life. I know that, OK?’

  Helen looked at him. ‘OK,’ she said, finally.

  Fletchet sat with a pint of stout in front of him. ‘I met Alex that spring,’ he said. ‘At a point-to-point. I had a couple of horses. One was a grey filly that had just come third in a race that day. Alex came right up to me and told me how beautiful the horse was. She said she’d like to ride it. She was so confident I never imagined she was only sixteen.’

  ‘She liked horses,’ said Helen.

  ‘And she was good with them, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. She was.’

  ‘I told her she should come up to the house. Try her out. And she did.’

  ‘And one thing led to another,’ said Helen.

  ‘Please. You’re making it sound like something it wasn’t,’ said Fletchet. ‘My wife and I had taken over the house here the previous summer. Eloisa had never wanted to leave Kenya. We had a big estate there in the White Highlands. She’s Italian. Doesn’t much like it here in England. She liked all the servants and parties out there. The whole shebang. It was high society, really. But my brother died. I inherited the estate here. It was my duty to come home and look after the estate.’

  ‘Poor lamb,’ muttered Helen.

  ‘What I’m trying to say, if you’ll let me, is that Eloisa didn’t like the change. We had rows. In 1964 it came to a head. She went back to her mother in Milan. For a while I thought that was it. And I was pretty down. I was finding it really hard to fit in back here. My brother had been popular and practical and had made a success of the farm. I was the unfortunate child they’d sent out to Africa. When I came back I was trying too hard, I suppose, trying to be the new lord of the manor. Out in Africa you had to be larger than life. The big bwana, you know? I suppose I carried that on a bit too much back here. I threw parties like we had in Africa. Went to all the races. Splashed out. Looking back, I realise everyone was just laughing at me. And then I met your sister. She was gorgeous. She was confident. There was something very pure and English about her. And she liked me. And looked up to me. And believe me, it wasn’t me who took the first step.’

  ‘She was a kid. Of course she was going to be impressed by you.’

  ‘Are you going to make this public?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? It’s true, isn’t it?’ said Helen.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Fletchet, putting his head in his hands, fingers in his thick hair.

  Breen decided it was time to speak. ‘We don’t need to tell anyone about this, Mr Fletchet. We’re more interested in knowing the truth of what actually happened between the two of you. We need to know what you told the police.’

  He looked up. ‘How did you find out I spoke to the police?’

  Helen said, ‘That’s what you’re worried about really, isn’t it? Because if we found out, maybe anyone could.’

  ‘Enough now,’ Breen said to Helen.

  Helen folded her arms and looked away.

  ‘And who are you?’ Fletchet asked. ‘Why are you so interested?’

  ‘I’m a friend of the family.’

  ‘So this is unofficial?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fletchet looked relieved about that. ‘OK.’

  Breen said, ‘If you tell us exactly what happened and don’t hold back anything, we won’t need to tell anyone else about this. We will agree to keep it to ourselves, won’t we, Helen?’

  Helen grunted, folded her arms.

  ‘Won’t we?’ Breen said again.

  ‘Yes. OK.’

  ‘Right. When did you last see her, Mr Fletchet?’

  Fletchet looked from one to the other, as if weighing them up, then said, ‘The day before she died. I took her out for a drive. We broke up.’

  ‘Why did you break up?’

  ‘Because I found out she was only sixteen, believe it or not. We were having an argument. I had a car radio. State of the art. It was the bloody Beatles all the time. All that yeah yeah yeah. She always tuned the radio to Caroline and then called me names when I tried to tune it back to the Home Service.’

  ‘The bloody Beatles,’ said Helen. ‘That was Alex.’

  ‘And then I told her to grow up and act her age and she got into a real bate with me and told me what her age was.’

  Helen closed her eyes, as if trying to picture her sister.

  ‘How did she take it?’ Breen asked. ‘When you told her it was over.’

  ‘Very well, I think. Better than I’d imagined.’

  ‘You being God’s gift, of course.’

  ‘Say what you want,’ Fletchet said to Helen. ‘I did adore her. You have to believe me. She was beautiful. I think about her all the time. She told me I was too old for her anyway.’

  ‘I bet she dumped you, only you don’t like to admit you were dumped by a sixteen-year-old girl,’ said Helen.

  ‘You don’t have to believe anything I say.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Were you angry with her?’ said Breen.

  ‘I suppose I was,’ said Fletchet. ‘But I know what you’re trying to say. And no. Not like that. I wasn’t angry like that.’

  ‘But you were worried that she would go round telling everyone she had slept with you,’ said Breen. ‘And that your wife would find out.’

  ‘My wife was in Italy. She had left me, remember? You must think I’m a bloody monster. I did not kill her. I was nowhere around her when she was killed.’

  ‘You made sure of that, did you?’ said Helen.

  ‘For God’s sake. The police suggested that too at the time. Don’t think they didn’t.’

  Breen sat and thought about this for a while. A car drove past outside. Breen could hear the tyres throwing up slush.

  ‘I think about her all the time too,’ said Helen.

  From the bar, the elderly woman who ran the pub called, ‘I’ll close down if that’s all you’re drinking.’ She wore glasses so dirty they seemed pointless. The single log in the fire cracked and shot a spark out onto the hearth.

  ‘I’ll have another drink,’ said Helen.

  ‘You’ve had enough,’ said Breen. ‘I can’t drive.’

  ‘I’ve barely begun,’ said Helen.

  Breen watched the old woman grope her way to the beer taps to pour Fletchet another pint.

  ‘How did you say you heard she was dead?’

  Breen stood and walked to the window. Snow had settled over the Morris, covering the windscreen.

  ‘It was on the news. I was watching it at home. I knew it was her.’

  ‘They kept showing that school photo,’ said Helen.

  ‘So I went out and phoned a friend I knew in the police.’

  ‘Milkwood,’
said Helen.

  ‘I made a statement, there and then.’

  ‘You made a statement to your mate Milky. Who happened also to be your alibi. I’m sure he gave you a hard time.’

  Fletchet lit a cigarette. ‘I came forward. I gave a statement.’ He chewed on his lip. ‘I was nowhere near poor Alex when she… died. Like it or not–and I do not particularly like it–because of my family, I was a well-known figure locally when this happened. Sometime in the autumn my wife, Eloisa, came back home. We both agreed to try and make a go of it again. It would not have been good for your family or for mine if our affair had been made public. Believe me, if I could find the man who did this, I would make him bloody suffer. I would dearly, dearly, dearly love to do that.’

  ‘Man?’ said Breen. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Well, it’s obviously a man, isn’t it? I mean…’

  ‘You were worried that if news of your affair with a teenage girl got out, your wife would divorce you,’ said Breen.

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt her,’ said Fletchet.

  Helen rolled her eyes.

  ‘As time went on, and no one was found, they announced that some people from another county were about to come in and review the case. I became worried that somebody would go back to the files and turn up at my house unannounced. I mentioned my concerns to Milky. He said he could sort something out. As a favour. And he did. I swear on my heart that I would throw away my entire inheritance if it would help find the bastard who did that to her.’

  ‘What was in it for Milkwood? Did you offer him money?’

  ‘God. No. It wasn’t like that at all. We were friends. We’d known each other for years. He didn’t do anything wrong. I was absolutely cleared. One hundred per cent.’

  ‘He removed the files. That’s wrong,’ said Breen.

  ‘Well. Maybe technically, yes.’

  ‘When did you last talk to Sergeant Milkwood?’

  ‘He was transferred not long afterwards. To London. I hear he’s in the Drug Squad now. He will tell you that everything I’ve told you is true, I promise,’ said Fletchet.

  ‘The Drug Squad? You sure?’

  ‘He’s a good copper. I expect he’s very useful to them.’

  ‘Do you keep in touch?’

  ‘Christmas cards. His wife sends them. She’s a bit of a social climber. She seems to like writing my full title on the address.’

  ‘Your full title?’

  ‘Lord Goodstone.’ He grinned. Brushed his blond hair away from his forehead. ‘Nobody calls me that. Ridiculous. This is 1969, for God’s sake.’

  Helen said, ‘You two used to be big mates, I recall. You’re not any more?’

  ‘Time goes on. He moved away. I’m busy with the farm. I’m sure he’s busy too. As policemen are. If you’re planning on heading back home, you’d better think about it,’ said Fletchet. ‘The snow’s getting thicker. I’d offer you a bed at my house, but… it would be hard to explain to my wife.’

  ‘What about other boyfriends?’ Helen asked. ‘Did she tell you about any others?’

  ‘No. But then I wouldn’t have expected her to. From the way she behaved, I expect there were others.’

  ‘What do you mean, “the way she behaved”?’

  ‘I was not her first.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  He blushed. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to use your imagination.’

  ‘Did that disappoint you?’ said Helen. ‘That you weren’t her first?’

  Fletchet looked at Breen and said, ‘I’ve come here to try to be helpful. There’s not a single day when I haven’t regretted what happened between myself and Alexandra. It was a mistake.’

  ‘You must have had some idea of other boyfriends she’d had?’

  Fletchet shook his head. ‘You didn’t know about me, did you? Alex was good at keeping things quiet. A girl who talks about these things gets a reputation. Alex was far too clever for that.’

  ‘How very convenient for you,’ said Helen.

  Fletchet pulled at his cuffs. ‘I should go. I need to check on the cows before it gets too late.’ The window was obscured by spatters of snow now. ‘I shouldn’t try driving if I were you. I’m sure Dot here will put you up overnight if the snow’s too thick.’

  He held out his hand for Breen to shake, then said to Helen. ‘I know you hate me, but please believe me. Your sister was a remarkable young woman.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘I miss her still.’

  ‘Right,’ she said quietly.

  When he was gone, Helen said, ‘Not staying in this dump,’ and fumbled in her handbag for the keys to the old Morris.

  His bare hands ached from the cold, brushing the snow off the windscreen in the darkness.

  ‘You sure about this?’ he said when they were both inside. ‘You’re drunk.’

  The engine was cold. It whined before the engine finally started, stalled and started again.

  ‘It wasn’t him,’ said Helen.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘His alibi, for one.’

  ‘He could have got someone else to do it,’ said Breen.

  ‘But why torture her? Why do all that stuff?’

  ‘To make it look like the work of a madman?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I just don’t think it was. Funny thing, but I think he meant it when he said he missed her. I mean, that’s really weird. It made me so angry hearing him say that. How does he have any fucking right to say that? But I think he meant it. He was in love with her.’

  She put the car in reverse and the wheels spun on ice.

  ‘Crap,’ she said. ‘Maybe there was another boyfriend then?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  She revved the engine again. The car didn’t move.

  Breen saw the light go off in the bar where they’d been sitting. He jumped out and started banging on the door of the pub until the light came back on again.

  SEVEN

  It was an unheated twin room, under the eaves. She had given them two hot-water bottles and brought a ewer of water up for them to wash in. A small gable window that didn’t fit properly let in blasts of cold air.

  There were no street lamps around here. The light from the window only illuminated the snowflakes closest to it.

  ‘Which bed do you want?’ she asked, looking from one to the other.

  ‘We could keep each other warm.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘Tonight, at least.’

  They lay in bed cramped together under a weight of old eiderdowns, his bare legs tangled with hers, Helen drinking whisky they had bought from the bar.

  A mezzotint of a smug Victorian mother, her round-faced child and a kitten playing with a ball of wool hung on the wall next to their bed. With age, the print had turned a deep brown.

  He reached out and switched off the bedside light. Under the blankets, she put her hand under his vest, running her fingers over his chest and gently across his bandage.

  ‘Makes my sister sound like a slag, doesn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘You’re shivering.’

  She clung onto him for warmth. ‘I mean, whatever happened, it wasn’t her fault, was it? She was just a kid.’

  ‘Shh,’ he said.

  ‘You think he was being honest with us?’

  ‘I don’t know. In some ways.’

  ‘All that “I’ve come to try and be helpful”. Only ’cause we twisted his arm.’

  ‘Maybe he was just ashamed,’ said Breen.

  ‘Scared more like. Scared about his reputation.’

  ‘Both, perhaps.’

  She turned to face him and he could smell the whisky on her breath. ‘I don’t believe anyone who cheats on their wife with a teenage girl is ever going to be honest with you,’ she said. ‘You can’t trust a man like that to tell us everything.’

  ‘Mind my arm,’ he said. ‘It’s sore.’

  The bed groaned and creaked as he tried to find a more comfortabl
e position.

  ‘I hate him,’ she said. ‘I would like to smash his bloody face in.’

  ‘Are you crying?’ he asked.

  ‘A little.’

  He held her. ‘She always used to go on about how she wished her father was a film star,’ she said. ‘Or a pop star. Not a bloody farmer.’

  He felt her chest rising and falling slowly as she sobbed. Eventually she lay still. They lay there together in the bed. ‘Have you got socks on still?’ She giggled.

  The first time she had laughed, it seemed, in days.

  It was only the second time they had ever made love. It wasn’t easy or particularly satisfactory in this small bed with the sagging mattress. The sex was painful, not just for his shoulder, and hurried. She didn’t seem to have enjoyed it much more than he did.

  Afterwards, she untangled herself from the muddle of blankets, got out of bed.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ she said. ‘Drank too much.’

  In the dimly lit room, she poured water from the ewer into a glass and drank it. Breen looked at her long legs. They seemed to glow in the lightless room.

  When she got back into bed, her body felt cold again. He wrapped his arms around her to warm her and leaned over to kiss her. But she was asleep already, snoring slightly.

  She had been drunk, just as she had the first time. In the morning she would probably regret what she had done.

  In the morning he would tell her he was leaving for London. He had a reason now. To track down Sergeant Milkwood and try to verify what Fletchet had said.

  It was for the best that he go away.

  He lay awake, trying to be still, so as not to disturb her, holding the moment. The world beyond this creaky bed was totally silent. It was as if they were on an island of their own in the middle of cold nothingness.

  The toilet door had a small ceramic sign on it: ‘Our Country Seat’.

  ‘Helen?’

  He banged on the toilet door.

  It was at the far end of an uneven corridor. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Five minutes,’ she said.

  Breen went downstairs. The lounge was deserted. Last night’s empties were stacked on the bar, and the room stank of beer slops and stale smoke.