by Ann Granger
‘You can’t,’ Ganesh had said, ‘expect the police to take you into their confidence.’
‘Why not? They expected me to take them into mine. They must have found something in that garden. If they hadn’t, they’d have been round here like a shot, accusing me of dishing out false information and wasting police time.’
‘That’s if they followed up your idea and looked in that flower bed.’ Ganesh had been in a negative mood. He and Hari had had a long argument over installing a hot drinks machine. He’d half got Hari talked round to it, but it had been an exhausting process.
‘You would think,’ Gan had continued, his mind clearly running on his own problems to the complete disregard of mine, ‘he’d want to make that shop pay.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ I asked, forced to follow the conversation down the path he wanted to lead it.
‘Yes, but not much, not as well as it could. And why not? Because he’s so damn cautious! The hot drinks idea is a really good one. He sells cold drinks so why not, in the winter, sell hot ones? Look, what’s the difference?’
I played devil’s advocate and pointed out that whereas customers expected to find a cold drinks cabinet in a newsagent’s, a hot drinks dispenser would be a novelty. It might not catch on.
‘Go on, take his side,’ grumbled Ganesh.
‘I’m not taking his side. It’s just that he’s probably worried about your ideas after the business with the washroom.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that washroom!’ Ganesh was indignant.
‘No, but the whole business wasn’t incident-free, was it? Gan, can we get back to talking about whether the police have found anything in Mrs Mackenzie’s flower bed?’
‘They’ve probably dug up nothing but a load of bulbs,’ said Gan, getting his own back for my lack of support over the hot drinks idea.
But they hadn’t, or if they had, they’d dug up something else as well. That same evening, at long last, in the Evening Standard, we saw a report that human remains had been found in the garden of a house in Wimbledon. Just that. No mention of any names, but as I pointed out to Gan, unless there’d been a massacre recently in SE19, it had to be poor Nurse Cooper.
A few days later I received a message that Inspector Morgan would like to see me. I was round to the nick in record time.
I couldn’t help noticing, as soon as she walked into the room, that she’d got rid of the Miss Marple gear and the change was pretty startling. She was wearing a charcoal-grey pin-stripe business suit, black tights and low-heeled courts. Clearly finding a body wasn’t the only thing going on. The new look gave her a super-efficient air. She was certainly in bossy mood.
‘Nice whistle,’ I observed of the suit.
‘I’m giving a press conference later,’ she said, a bit starchy but not quite able to hide a smirk.
Now that smug look riled me because, after all, without me they wouldn’t have found out what happened to LeeAnne Cooper, let alone Clarence Duke. But does anyone invite me to come along to a press conference? Does any journalist hotfoot it to my dingy room at Norm’s asking for my personal account? Do I get any much-needed publicity? What do you think?
‘You found her, then, or so I read in the Standard.’ I couldn’t help but sound sarcastic. Morgan ought to be cringingly grateful, not sitting there dolled up for the cameras. ‘I wasn’t flinging accusations, as you said, and I wasn’t wrong about the flower bed.’
‘Yes, we found her.’ Morgan sighed and tapped her teeth with her biro in a very un-Superwoman manner. ‘And despite the fact that an attempt seems to have been made to hasten the destruction of the body by the addition to the soil of some lime-based garden product, the remains have been identified and there are sufficient details of her injuries in the pathologist’s report to point to her being the victim of a knife attack.’
‘Nasty,’ I said queasily. I stopped feeling sorry for myself. It was a horrid business. I said something more to that effect.
Morgan nodded and picked absently at a bit of cotton on her sleeve. ‘A very unpleasant business altogether.’
‘And you’ve charged Ben Cornish?’
‘We’ve charged Cornish with the disposal of the body of LeeAnne Cooper. That’s all for the moment, but it’s enough to hold him on. The elderly owner of the property was very upset when we arrived to dig up her garden. She was on the phone to her solicitor straight away, trying to stop us. She couldn’t believe we had anything against her great-nephew. Kept telling us what a lovely, kind boy he was. Then, when we found the remains, she collapsed and had to be taken to hospital. We end up carrying the can when that sort of thing happens to a member of the public,’ added Morgan grimly. ‘Accusations of insensitivity when dealing with an old lady and all the rest of it. Anyone would think we had buried the body along with the daffodil bulbs.’
‘I feel sort of responsible too,’ I said. ‘But I had to tell you.’
‘There are a number of things you should have told us, Fran, right from the beginning. We now know why LeeAnne Cooper and Clarence Duke were so interested in the Wildes. Mrs Marks eventually put us on to it. But you knew too, didn’t you, Fran? About your sister? You knew all along.’
‘I didn’t know she existed until my mother told me. It came out of the blue to me,’ I said bitterly. ‘And how could I tell you? Mum was counting on me.’
‘Withholding evidence is a serious matter. It could be said you tried to impede our enquiries. That’s an offence.’
‘I didn’t impede your enquiries into Rennie Duke’s death. I only tried to protect my mother and sister,’ I protested.
‘You could have told us straight away,’ she insisted, deaf to my argument. ‘Especially when you knew we were seeking the whereabouts of your mother’s other child. You could have saved us several wasted man-hours which could have been given to the Duke murder investigation. The superintendent was not pleased.’
I told her I realised that and was sorry. ‘But what could I do? Now you know it all, you ought to understand why I didn’t speak up. I couldn’t grass up my own mother!’
‘I know, and that’s why I put up a strong case in your defence. No charges will be made against you, Fran, but you’re very lucky. You’ve got away with it by the skin of your teeth, and not for the first time!’
Sergeant Cole, who was sitting in on this interview, complete with fresh set of spots, gave me a jaundiced look. Left to him, he’d have thrown the book at me.
‘Thanks,’ I told her. ‘But it seems to me the police are being a tad ungrateful. You wouldn’t have found LeeAnne and you wouldn’t have got Cornish but for me.’
‘Cornish nearly got you,’ she pointed out mildly.
I didn’t need to be reminded. I was totting up far too many close shaves in my life to date. Next time – I’d make sure there wasn’t a next time.
‘What happens now about Rennie Duke’s murder?’ I asked impatiently. ‘When are you going to charge one of them with that?’
‘Charges against Cornish in regard to the death of Mr Duke are being prepared.’ She was being evasive.
I smelled a rat. ‘What about the Wildes?’ It seemed I had to force them into the conversation. Morgan was being altogether too damn careful not to mention them.
‘That’s a separate matter. Clearly there’s a lot to sort out before any steps are taken. Because it involves the future of the child, however, it’s likely it will be treated as a civil matter rather than a criminal one, left to social services to sort out.’
‘You can’t leave it to them. They’ll take her away and bung her in some crappy kids’ home,’ I objected.
‘Not necessarily. They’re letting her stay with the Wildes until it’s decided what steps to take. It was wrong of your mother to hand over her baby as she did, whatever her motives or circumstances. Of course, it’s not illegal to ask someone to look after your child for you as a temporary measure. But this was a definite attempt to circumvent official adoption procedures and use a genuine birth
certificate to establish a false identity, plus all the later misrepresentations which follow from that. I can’t say for sure that there will be no charges. All I can say is that the welfare of the child will be put first.’
Morgan smiled thinly. ‘Mr Wilde has his legal team working on it. He’s a wealthy man. He can pay for the best. Naturally, even if she stays with the Wildes, her situation will have to be regularised. Legally, she’s Miranda Varady. It’s astonishing that they got away with it for so long. It’s all there in the records: registration of both births, issuing of a death certificate, record of the cremation of the infant Nicola Wilde . . . The Wildes must have spent thirteen years terrified someone would check.’
And someone had eventually checked, I thought. Rennie Duke, a methodical little guy with a knowledge of where to look and a nose for a secret. Not to mention poor foolish Nurse Cooper, who’d thought her boat had come in but had instead paved the way to her own violent death.
Very carefully, I asked, ‘So neither of the Wildes is being charged in connection with murder?’
Morgan shrugged her tailored shoulders. ‘Why should they be? Cornish has made a statement taking full responsibility for both deaths, but confessions have to be supported by evidence these days and that’s why he’s only being held over the disposal of a body until we get everything right. He’ll be charged eventually, I’m sure. But there is no evidence involving either of the Wildes in the deaths. Admittedly, both victims represented a threat to them. But there’s nothing to suggest they themselves turned to murder. Well, it’s not likely, is it?’
I wanted to shout out that hey! even the middle classes kill! But I didn’t bother. What Morgan was saying was that china-doll Flora, living in her own little doll’s house, and respectable professional Jerry were what Susie would call nice people living in a nice place. People with clean hands, clean records, good lawyers and good contacts. Murder? Perish the thought.
The dissatisfaction must have showed in my face, because she went on, ‘They admit LeeAnne Cooper came to see them with the aim of getting money from them. Wilde told her to clear off and reminded her that blackmail was a serious offence. He called her bluff, in other words. Jerry Wilde himself was satisfied they’d seen the last of her after that. Unfortunately, Flora had been very distressed by the episode and, unknown to her husband, confided in Ben Cornish, an old friend. He took it upon himself to remove the threat permanently from the scene. Neither of the Wildes was aware of that.
‘Later, Rennie Duke showed interest. This time, both Wildes confided in Cornish and asked him to meet Duke, acting as their go-between, and see if some sort of pay-off couldn’t be arranged. LeeAnne Cooper had been a rather nervous amateur. Duke had a seedy reputation. They didn’t think he could be frightened away so easily and they were prepared to pay.
‘But there’s nothing to show that they were prepared to resort to violence. They’ve admitted they had discussed skipping out, going abroad, if that was the only way they could protect their daughter, as they saw it. But Wilde says it was only a contingency plan. He really didn’t think it would come to that. He was content LeeAnne had already been scared off and he really thought he could do a deal with Duke. Their foolishness was in taking someone like Cornish, a real loose cannon, into their confidence. They’d no way of knowing he was a killer. He was to be their middle-man, not their executioner.’
‘Wilde acted really cool when I mentioned Duke to him,’ I said sullenly. ‘He’s one very good actor. Perhaps you ought to remember that when he starts spinning you his tales.’
‘He was one very frightened man,’ said Morgan, ‘because, by then, he knew Duke was dead. To go back to the beginning, first LeeAnne had appeared, then Duke. The Wildes were very, very jittery. Then a bombshell. Mrs Mackenzie told them about you and your mother, Eva Varady, and that you’d asked for their address. Jerry Wilde went at once to the hospice to see your mother, to discover if she were the source of Duke’s information, and to beg her not to tell anyone else the truth. But before he could see her, he received a call on his mobile phone from Cornish, telling him that Duke had been found dead and the police were involved. Cornish urged that it was imperative all three of them, himself and the Wildes, close ranks and deny they’d ever heard Duke’s name. Neither of the Wildes suspected Cornish had killed Duke any more than they suspected he’d killed LeeAnne Cooper. It was all Cornish’s doing from start to finish.’
‘I see,’ I said. I did, but what I saw was a different picture to the one Morgan had painted. I’d had personal experience of Flora’s instability and tendency to violent reaction. I felt sure, though I couldn’t prove it, that LeeAnne had sought her out alone. To tackle the Wildes together wouldn’t have made sense. Why let yourself be outnumbered? Anyway, LeeAnne might have reckoned the mother would be the more vulnerable of the two. When she saw that tiny blue-eyed doll she must have thought it was going to be a doddle. Instead, Flora had flown into a rage, perhaps in that very same cosy farmhouse kitchen where she’d attacked me, grabbed a knife and killed LeeAnne in a frenzied attack. Then she’d phoned her devoted slave, Ben Cornish, and asked him to help her get rid of the body. ‘No problem,’ says Ben, and buries LeeAnne in the raised flower bed he’s constructing in Mrs Mackenzie’s garden. It was at least possible, at that point, that Jerry had not even known of LeeAnne’s existence. Whether he’d found out later was another matter, and one we’d never get to know the truth of. But one aspect of his behaviour really bothered me.
Both Sister Helen and I had witnessed his panic at the hospice, after according to Sister Helen, he’d made his call by mobile. But she’d made a mistake. Wilde hadn’t made a call, he’d received one. This bit of Janice Morgan’s account I believed. Sister Helen had thought he’d walked outside to use his mobile to make a call. Instead, he’d walked outside because he was so jittery he couldn’t just sit in the foyer, waiting. However, it was after speaking to Ben that he’d leapt into his car and driven out of the grounds like a bat out of hell, nearly running me down. Was that just because he’d heard Duke was dead and the police were investigating, as Morgan apparently accepted? Or because he knew how unstable his wife was; had maybe even learned by then that she’d killed once?
It was a funny thing, I thought, but Jerry Wilde, whom I’d suspected from the first, had turned out to be the only one in that trio without blood on his hands. I’d been right to judge him a thinker. With Ben arrested, he’d rapidly stitched up a pretty neat version of events to protect his wife and get himself off the hook. It’d been easy with Ben playing along, taking all the blame. What better for Wilde? It left Flora and him in the clear and got Ben out of their lives. Two’s company, three’s a crowd. Jerry must have sussed out by now how Ben felt about his wife.
So Ben and Flora were killers in my book, partners in crime. But they weren’t, it seemed, in Morgan’s. Did I argue with her? No. Cornish would never implicate his beloved Flora. Even given the unlikelihood that he did, it wouldn’t be backed by evidence. Enough people’s lives had been messed up. The important thing now was to try and salvage something for Nicola from all of this wretched tangle. She was having to come to terms with the information that her ‘parents’ were not her parents. To learn that one of them was a killer would be to lose them twice.
‘If you’re not going to charge me with anything,’ I said, ‘can I go? I want to visit my mother.’
They let me go, Cole reluctantly. Morgan walked with me out of the building.
‘A lot of people are very unhappy with your role in all this, Fran,’ she said. ‘I managed to swing it in your favour but don’t let me down. It’s on file. You know what that means. Keep out of trouble from now on, please!’
I promised to do my best. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done for me,’ I told her. ‘Though I still don’t think the cops appreciate what I’ve done for them.’ I eyed the charcoal suit. ‘You might mention a public-spirited, currently resting actor at the press conference.’
‘Don’t push yo
ur luck,’ she said. ‘The less mention made of your name the better at the moment.’
With that she trotted off for her fifteen minutes of fame. I went to Waterloo to catch the train out to Egham.
The afternoon was wearing on and the commuters starting to make for home, so Waterloo was quite crowded. My journey was squashed and uncomfortable. Apprehension about what I’d find when I got to the hospice made things worse.
My mother had clearly been going downhill during the last couple of visits. I’d agonised over whether or not to tell her that her secret was out. But since it was quite likely that the police or social workers would turn up, I’d had to forewarn her.
She’d taken it quite well, all things considered. ‘I suppose it had to come out eventually,’ she said pettishly. ‘It’s a real nuisance. It was such a good arrangement. Why do people have to interfere? But they won’t take Miranda away from the Wildes, will they? Not after all this time?’
I told her I thought it unlikely, not because I believed it, but because it was what she wanted to hear. I didn’t point out that the person doing quite a lot of the interfering had been me, on her instructions. She still didn’t seem to think that either she or the Wildes had given rise to the basic situation. Instead she fixed blame on Rennie Duke.