The Noble Murder (The Barrington Patch Book 5)

by Emmy Ellis

  A picture of Lionel flashed up, and Francis shuddered. The image of the river with burst banks took his place.

  “In other news, the flood in Moorbury has caused untold damage to properties on the outskirts and the fields at Handel Farm. Cellars have been filled with water, and residents on Schofield Road, closest to the river, have been evacuated as water levels rose to the ground floors.”

  It had been a bad storm, lasting until this morning. Francis had listened to it rage on that evening, Wilbur held close to her chest, a comfort every time lighting flashed and thunder cracked. Such a shame Lionel had been left on the incline. If she’d kicked him down like she’d planned, he’d have been covered with water at the bottom and wouldn’t have been found yet—apparently, the ditches surrounding the woods were still flooded. She wouldn’t know. She hadn’t been allowed to walk through the woods ever since. The police had put up a cordon at the entrance and exit, preventing anyone from entering. She’d mused, on her walk home through the Barrington on Wednesday afternoon, how many officers were in the woods, on their hands and knees in search of clues.

  They’d obviously found the knife, else Dart wouldn’t have told Mam about it, but that had been a given anyroad, she’d anticipated it. What else had they found? Was there evidence beneath the leaves on the ground under Lionel? Of her lying there in times gone by? On the leaves themselves from Tuesday afternoon? Or had the rain come in from the fields on a slant, soaking them? If she had to, she could say she’d walked along the top of the incline—she hadn’t specified where she’d walked through the woods, just that she’d gone there, and Dart hadn’t asked. Silly of him to assume she’d used the track.

  Dad thumped downstairs and popped his head in. “All right, love?”

  She smiled. “Yeah.”

  “Good. Come on, I smell sausages and chips.”

  Francis followed him into the kitchen, and he sat at the table. Francis laid it while Mam finished frying the sausages and Dad told them why he’d got so filthy.

  “It’s that rain we had. Got the ground all boggy, didn’t it. We’ve had to slosh through a right old mess back and forth to the properties.”

  “How are they coming along now?” Mam asked.

  “They’ll be ready for the old folks inside a month.”

  Dad was working on a street of bungalows specifically for the elderly. “The police came today. Asked me about Lionel.”

  “What did they say?” Mam asked.

  “Wanted to know if I’d heard the rumours. I told them it was all a load of codswallop.”

  Francis zoned them out and helped Mam dish up, their voices fading, the ones in her head taking over:

  I hope Lionel rots in Hell.

  I hope any other girl he touched can sleep at night now.

  I hope I can.

  The letterbox clattered, pulling her into the now. She carried Dad’s plate to him then went to the front door to pick the local newspaper up. In the kitchen, she handed it to Dad, who, rudely as Mam always said, opened it out and read while he ate.

  “Bugger me,” he said after a short while. “That Forster woman has written about Lionel in The Times.” He prodded the page. “I can’t believe the tosh she’s come out with. That’s young women for you. No sense of decorum.”

  Francis speared a chip, popped it in her mouth, and leant forward to read.

  Mr Lionel Smart, 41, found on Wednesday morning, dead from a stab wound to the neck, is reported to have been keen on little girls. One person who came forward said: “He used to touch me years ago in The Donny. Had his hand up my skirt when my dad wasn’t looking. I’m glad he’s dead.”

  It’s another angle to the reason for murder. Some say Mr Smart was inappropriate while serving ice creams, and others say he made them uncomfortable by staring. Did someone find out what he was up to and sought revenge?

  The police have refused to discuss this issue, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a line of enquiry. Many people have suspected Mr Smart for years. If anyone has a story to tell regarding him, get in touch. We’re eager to take your call.

  “That’s just plain wrong,” Dad said. “Lionel wasn’t like that. I didn’t think they were allowed to print that sort of thing. That’s libel, that is, against the law.”

  “It isn’t libel if it’s true,” Mam said. “The editor wouldn’t have let it go to print if there wasn’t proof. Why do you keep shielding him?”

  “Eh? I’m doing no such thing. Lionel was a good pal of mine. He’d no more touch little girls than he’d eat sprouts. He hated sprouts.”

  Mam sighed. “Time will tell. I still haven’t forgiven you for leaving our Francis with him.”

  “She was all right. You said yourself she was colouring in.” Dad turned to Francis. “Isn’t that right, lass?”

  Francis nodded.

  “He probably hadn’t had time to reel her in,” Mam said. “And thank the Lord for that.”

  “There’s no thanking your blessed Lord about it. Lionel wasn’t a kiddie fiddler, and that’s an end to it. I knew him for years, since we were nippers, and I’d know if he was baddun.”

  Francis ate some of her sausage, holding back a heave at what the shape represented.

  Dad was so wrong.

  Lionel had been a monster.

  Chapter Ten

  Shirl sat at Mrs Cox’s scarred kitchen table and wondered at all the pits and scratches on it, each one with a story attached from many family dinners, many kids chattering to their mam as they ate. The dad worked away on an oil rig, and Shirl recalled him as a jolly sort, always laughing with his brood, his face tanned where he must work somewhere hot. She couldn’t imagine living in the middle of the sea, but Nan had once said he earnt a packet, and with the amount of rugrats they had, they needed the money. There was a joke that each time he came home, he left a bun in the oven for his missus to remember him by.

  The house was as still as a millpond, all the children at school. The neighbours either side must love it when the kids weren’t around. Blessed peace.

  A cup of tea in front of her, Shirl felt guilty at ruining the woman’s solitude, which was a rare occurrence, she’d imagine. It was well-known in this street that the Cox household was rowdy at the best of times and the matriarch was run ragged, but Mrs Cox—“Call me Judy!”—didn’t appear to mind the intrusion.

  “It’s nice to speak to an adult, to be honest,” she’d said when Shirl had stood on the doorstep and asked if they could have a chat. “There’s only so much Fortnite and TikTok yabber I can handle. With Pete away for work, I don’t get much adult interaction. There’s your nan, of course, and a few friends, but there’s never enough time to just sit, know what I mean?”

  Shirl didn’t, she had it pretty cushy, but she’d nodded anyroad. What did she know about a full life with umpteen people all living under the same roof? It was just her and Jimmy, no chaos, nowt pressing. They’d have nippers one day, but not for a while yet. Shirl wanted to see the world a bit, always had done (mainly to escape the shit in her head for a wonderful two weeks), and now they had the money, they’d be doing just that, providing Jimmy could have time off now he had such an important role. Cassie had said they could go to the Caribbean in a few weeks like they’d planned, the holiday paid for with the money Jimmy had been given for helping with Jason, but after that, time off was anyone’s guess.

  She sipped some tea and waited for Judy to join her. She was in the garden hanging washing out: “Just quick so I can get it partly dried in the wind. I have four loads a day, would you believe, and don’t get me started on when I have to change the beds.”

  Shirl looked around and marvelled at how tidy the place was. Judy must spend a lot of time keeping on top of the mess, what with seven kids and everything. Or maybe she’d taught them to help her clean up, like Mam had done with Shirl and Abel. Many hands make light work, she’d always said and, “If something’s on the stairs, it doesn’t mean you can walk past it, you rotters. Take it up, put it away.�
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  Blonde-bobbed Judy bustled back inside, a gust of cold air flouncing in with her. She flopped onto a chair opposite Shirl and let out a “Whoo!”, caught her breath, then drank some tea. “Now then, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

  “Nan said I should nip down and see if you know owt that could be useful. As you probably know, Francis Grafton’s been shot dead, and Cassie’s writing the eulogy. She wants some bits and bobs from her mam’s past to add to it. With no family left to ask, she’s a bit stuck. She wanted me to tell you not to open your gob about this chat, though.”

  Judy huffed out a breath. “I haven’t got a death wish. I didn’t really know Francis, to be honest, that was my sister’s department—she lives in Australia now—but I wasn’t surprised she was gunned down. Some folks would say she had it coming, nasty as that sounds. She wasn’t…most people’s cuppa. Like she had a thing about her where you didn’t get close or even try to make friends. The walls were always up.”

  Shirl understood that, she had walls of her own, and Cassie was exactly the same. The boss had had a few friends, but most people gave her a wide berth because of who her father was. For the first time, Shirl thought about how lonely Cassie might have been, how pushed out she must have felt at school. Shirl wished she’d had the bottle to approach her, be pals, but she’d had her own issues to cope with, let alone adding more.

  Judy went on. “Most people called Francis names behind her back—the ginger hair, see, and bloody cruel now I think about it—and couple that with how moody she used to be, well… You tend to avoid those with resting bitch faces, don’t you, afraid you’ll get your head bitten off. She was withdrawn when little, the type of kid who watched rather than joined in. None of the teachers encouraged her to do otherwise, which is nowt like it would be today. Now, someone would have noticed and tried to see if owt was wrong, but as far as I know, her mam and dad were nice people, so I doubt there was weird stuff going on at home.”

  “Nan knew Francis’ mam from church.”

  “Peggy? I remember her. Always pleasant. Shame her daughter didn’t follow suit. Francis did get a bit happier by the time we were in secondary, though, not that she ever smiled my way, more to herself, like she was stuck in her head thinking about something or other. A bit creepy to be honest, another reason to steer clear. Then there was the Lionel Smart business.”

  “Nan mentioned that.”

  “Hmm. People reckoned Francis did it, especially later when she gadded about like a maniac on the estate with Lenny. But at the time, she used to walk through the woods a few days a week, on the way home from school, like. She did that on the day he was killed. Now, you know what folks are like. One thing, and they grab on to it with both hands, spin a load of lies, and before you know it, it becomes gospel. That’s what happened there. The girls especially. They whispered that Francis had stolen a knife from Home Economics. The knife was found, used in the murder, and there were fingerprints on it. A kid got sent down for it.”

  Shirl held back a gasp. This story had more tension than Nan’s knitting. “Who was it?”

  Judy stared at the ceiling, maybe seeing the person’s face in her mind. She had a dreamy expression which switched to neutral when she focused back on Shirl. “I used to fancy him so have no trouble recalling the name. Mark Benson.”

  “What?” Oh my fuck, the name begins with a B. Shirl had trouble breathing steadily. Calm down, for God’s sake. “Benson?”

  “Hmm. Lovely looking, everyone wanted to go out with him. He swore blind it wasn’t him, but you know what these courts are like. The juries. The fingerprints sealed it—Francis’ weren’t on the handle, his were. He said he’d been the one to put the knives away after washing them, you know, the last lesson where both were in the drawer, and that someone else had done the stealing—he wanted to be a chef, hence being in that class.”

  “How did they know they were his fingerprints?”

  “That’s the unfortunate thing, and a lesson in watching what you get up to because it can come back later to bite you on the arse. After the coppers had spoken to more people, there was word of Mark being by the woods that day, at the entrance near the school. ‘Loitering’, as someone put it. ‘Acting funny’. He was eighteen, in the last year at sixth form, and he’d been collared for stealing just before, so they had his prints on file—he’d got a hefty fine for that malarky. I bet he wished he hadn’t nicked owt. They’d never have known who the prints belonged to otherwise. He got put away for a good few years for the murder, just over twenty, I think—note I said murder and not manslaughter. Him supposedly having the knife was classed as premeditation. Then there was talk of him moving to Spain or wherever once he’d got out. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to return to the Barrington if everyone thought I was a killer. Can you imagine?”

  “He’d be run off the estate.”

  “Exactly, even if he had killed a kiddie fiddler.”

  “So if he was done for it, why did people still think it was Francis? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Because of Mark spouting his innocence every chance he got. He did it throughout the years he was inside, getting hold of the papers and whatnot. If he’d done his time, not saying a word, eventually, people would’ve stopped accusing Francis, but he was loud and wasn’t going away. The sad thing is, I believe him, but no one came forward to say they’d seen him walking home, only that he’d been by the woods.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Hmm. Another thing he’s probably kicked himself for is that he didn’t go straight home, didn’t arrive there until six, drenched. He said he’d gone for a walk alone after school, to smoke a joint and drink some cider. The storm hit, so he stood under a tree near the bypass for an hour—bloody stupid when you consider the lightning, but there you go. When the rain didn’t stop, he legged it home. The problem was, he’d stood against the trunk, facing away from the road, and no one saw him as it was dark. His alibi was tossed out.” Judy sipped her drink. “I went to see him once, in prison. Before I met my Pete, like. Had to get the train as it was miles away. It wasn’t him, I know it, but what can you do?”

  Shirl felt sorry for him if he hadn’t done it. And as for Cassie wanting to know about the ‘B’ name—Jimmy had said something about Francis mentioning it before she’d died. Had Shirl been sent out to do the grunt work regarding Francis’ killer because no one would open up to Cassie? Why would Mark Benson even have a grudge against Francis anyroad if she didn’t kill Lionel? Unless he knew she’d done it—he was near the woods, he could have followed her. But if so, why hadn’t he said that to the police? Shirl was buggered if she’d take the blame for someone else’s actions; she’d learnt that the hard way, and it had taken her years to understand things weren’t her fault.

  “What else can you tell me about her?” she asked.

  Judy laughed sadly. “Nowt that could go in a eulogy. Once she met Lenny, she was an out-and-out cow. Honestly, the things she used to say and do. She terrorised folks, enjoyed it, too, and there was a sigh of relief when she got up the duff with Cassie; Lenny wouldn’t let her gallivant with him anymore, see. We only had one of them to worry about then.”

  Shirl could well imagine what it had been like with Francis on the streets as well as her husband. Shirl had grown up under Lenny’s reign, and Francis had been just another mam at the school gates. “Never mind, I’ll let Cassie know there’s nowt much she can use.”

  “It’s going to be hard to find anyone who has a good word to say about that woman—Francis, I mean. Cassie’s only the way she is because she has to be.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she was nowt like this as a child. She’s been moulded, trained, and that’s a shame. Kids should be allowed to be who they want to be, but I suppose with Lenny and Francis as her parents, two strong forces, she didn’t stand much chance. How come she’s asked you to do the digging on her mam’s past anyroad?”

  “I work for her now.” />
  “Then be there for her. There’s bound to be times she needs a shoulder.”

  “Jimmy’ll do that. He’s her right hand.”

  “I know. That Jason was a complete tosser, always shouting the odds like he was the king. She deserves someone like your Jim who’ll keep her on an even keel.”

  They finished their tea, talking about Judy’s kids and how they were doing, then Shirl had to take her leave. A message had come through from Cassie: Have you actually gone back in time to find shit out or what? Any news? Shirl should have bolted the second she’d heard the ‘B’ name, but she hadn’t liked to just get up and leave. Judy might have cottoned on and put two and two together, like Shirl had done regarding Cassie sending her out to scout for info.

  I won’t complain. I’m her ears after all.

  Shirl walked up past Nan’s to Jimmy’s old car parked on the corner, hers now he had the fancy motor Cassie had given him. She drove towards New Barrington, antsy about giving Cassie the news, hoping she’d have to let herself in so she could have a cuppa and think by herself.

  What if the boss ran with it and found Mark Benson was back living in Moorbury? What if she didn’t listen to him if he said it hadn’t been him who’d shot Francis? Shirl imagined Jimmy having to babysit the man at the squat like he’d done with Jason, and a wicked chill flooded her.

  What would Cassie do to a bloke she thought had killed her mother?

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cassie hadn’t sat idle while Shirl gathered intel, much as she’d wanted to after her fruitless search of the house last night. All the fight had gone out of her, and she’d had to gee herself up to get out of bed this morning. Whether grief was encroaching or she was just tired of everything, she wasn’t sure.