by JANICE FROST
“Thank you for coming,” Nancy said, “You’re a good friend.”
For a few moments they talked in a desultory way about the turnout at the church service, the beautiful flowers, the impressive buffet, the weather, which was the same as it had been for weeks now, wet and miserable and becoming colder by the day. No one mentioned Amy.
Then, Nancy fell silent and Anna chatted with Julia, who seemed gentle and open, like her father. She was a pretty girl with waist-length strawberry blonde hair, pale, freckled skin and blue eyes which had a definitive limbic ring. Beautiful in an off-kilter way, as her nose was slightly too long, her lips not quite full enough, her face not perfectly shaped, but everything combined to create a look that was attractive and memorable. Sometimes, Anna thought, women who have faces that are too perfect are easily forgotten.
They began to talk about Amy, and Julia described how she and Amy had met as ten-year-olds, when Richard started seeing Nancy. It seemed to Anna that Julia was being circumspect, glancing at Nancy from time to time as she spoke, to see how her words were being received. As if she were holding back, Anna thought, trying not to speak ill of the dead. All the while, Bradley continued to stare morosely at his drink, contributing nothing. Once or twice Anna thought she caught him flinching at the mention of Amy’s name.
After a while, Bradley excused himself and went off to the ‘gents’. He didn’t return to their table, but joined a group of young people his own age, standing at the bar; Amy’s friends, Anna surmised. Their voices had been getting increasingly loud, and every now and again there was a burst of laughter from their midst, followed by guilty shushing and subdued talking. Then the noise level would steadily rise again.
“Shall I ask them to leave, love?” Richard Turner asked Nancy, not noticing that his son had joined the group. Nancy shook her head.
“You’d think they’d know how to behave on an occasion like this,” Julia remarked, “show some respect for Amy’s family.”
“They’ve had a skinful, I think,” Anna observed. Glancing across at the group, she witnessed Bradley move closer to a plumpish young woman as if he meant to slip an arm around her ample waist. She hoped Nancy wouldn’t see.
A moment or two later, a girl’s shrill voice could be heard above the general chatter, “Get off me, you pervert!” All heads turned in time to see her fling the contents of her wine glass in Bradley’s face.
“What the fuck? You little bitch!” a purple-faced Bradley gasped, stepping away from the girl and shaking wine out of his hair.
“He was touching me up!” the girl shrieked. Accusing eyes turned on Bradley who had pulled himself up to his full height and was now looming over the girl in a threatening manner.
A male member of the group stepped forward gallantly, with, “Take it easy, mate.” Two more moved to support him, one of them grabbing Bradley’s jacket by the lapels.
Anna moved out of the way quickly, as Richard Turner almost overturned their table in his haste to reach Bradley before his son had a chance to retaliate. He was beaten to the scene by Inspector Neal who quickly placed himself between the two lads, and the situation was speedily diffused. DS Merry led the girl away from the bar and spoke to her quietly, at a distance.
“What just happened here?” Neal asked, turning to Bradley.
“That little cow is crazy,” Bradley responded, running his fingers through sticky wet hair and glaring at the girl.
“Bradley!” Richard Turner’s voice seemed to freeze his son to the spot. It was very clearly a warning tone, and Bradley responded immediately, shrinking as if he had been struck by something much weightier than the sound of his name.
“I didn’t touch her,” he said in a low tone. “She’s making it up, just like . . . just like . . .” his voice trailed off. Richard Turner glared at his son, and Bradley fell silent.
Jim Neal glanced across at his DS who was talking in quiet tones to the girl. Sergeant Merry looked back at him, shaking her head. Inspector Neal turned to Bradley and his father. Conversations gradually picked up where they had left off.
Anna heard DI Neal say to Richard, “Take your son home, Mr Turner. My colleague and I will be paying you a visit later to ask Bradley some questions.”
Richard led Bradley to the door, pausing for a moment to apologise to Nancy for leaving so abruptly. Anna noticed the terrible loathing with which Nancy regarded the boy, and, glancing over at Inspector Neal, she saw that he too was observing Nancy intently, his brow furrowed in thought. There would be no need, after all, for her to give Neal or Sergeant Merry a nudge in Bradley’s direction.
Not long afterwards the mourners began drifting away. Nancy refused Anna’s offer to come home and sit with her, saying that Julia would stay for a while, so there was no real reason for Anna to insist. She returned to her shop, which, in Simon’s absence, she had been obliged to close for the day, and spent the afternoon stocktaking.
* * *
Now it was gone midnight and she was chilled to the bone, as the store was without heating. Earlier in the week, her boiler had broken down and the repair service would not arrive until the following day. She made some hot chocolate and warmed her fingers on the cup as she drank, realising suddenly that she had had nothing to eat or drink since lunchtime at the Black Horse.
Whilst she waited for the kettle to boil for a second time to fill the hot water bottle that she meant to take to bed to warm her icy feet, Anna leaned over the sink to rub her condensed breath from the windowpane. Rain pattered against the glass, the sound now as familiar as her own breathing; and the night sky was still full of it.
A tear rolled down Anna’s cheek. She longed to see Simon standing below on the pavement, fumbling in his pockets to find his keys. A sensation of dread, amounting to panic, threatened to overwhelm her. Ever since Simon had been handed into her care all those years ago, he had scarcely been out of her sight. How could she protect him now if she had no clue where he was?
With a stab of guilt, Anna acknowledged that rather than bear this uncertainty, she would even prefer to look down and see her son lying hurt on the pavement. At least then she could help him, the way she had helped him as a child when he came to her, damaged by his past. Sometimes, as he became more independent, she had entertained guilty fantasies about Simon becoming sick, or hurt, just enough to need her, enough to keep him safe from harm. Like an injured soldier, out of the fight for good.
In her bedroom, hugging her hot water bottle closely to her chest, Anna turned out her bedside light and lay awake in the darkness listening out for any sound that might mean that Simon had returned.
Chapter 7
“Nice place,” Ava remarked to Neal as they pulled up outside Richard Turner’s stone-built cottage on the outskirts of Shelton.
“Turner’s a furniture-maker. Rents a unit with a small showroom attached in the industrial estate on the outskirts of the village. He’s a craftsman — does bespoke pieces to order and restores old stuff for stately homes and the like. He’s got a good reputation locally, and further afield, apparently.”
Ava turned over the pages of her notebook. She had been researching Turner and his family, ahead of their visit.
“Both have clean records. Turner’s ex-wife lives in Norfolk. They had joint custody of their children, Bradley and his sister, Julia, but for practical reasons, the kids spent most of their time with their mother until they were old enough to make up their own minds who to live with. Bradley’s following in Dad’s footsteps. Studying furniture design and restoration at a college in Sheffield; his sister’s a trainee physiotherapist here in Stromford. Lived with Dad when she first moved here to do her training, but only for a few months, before moving into a place in town with her boyfriend who’s a qualified physio at the county hospital. I’ve got someone in the Norfolk branch rooting around for information on Bradley’s school record. Haven’t got back to me with anything yet.”
“Interesting that Turner and Nancy Hill don’t live together. Acc
ording to Anna Foster, they’ve been together for years,” Neal said.
“Bit unusual,” Ava agreed.
The front door of the cottage opened, and Richard Turner greeted them.
“Please come in, Officers. I’m sorry about that scene at the pub yesterday. Bradley had a bit too much to drink, I think, and lost control a bit. That, and he’s upset about Amy, of course.”
Neal nodded, “The girl isn’t pressing charges,” he said, watching Turner closely. The man’s relief was as palpable as his surprise, causing Neal to suspect that Turner had expected a different outcome.
“She’d had a lot to drink and thought she might have been mistaken about Bradley groping her. She doesn’t want to take it any further,” Ava went on.
Richard Turner seemed like the sort of man who would have taught his children how to behave, Neal thought, but he also knew enough about criminal profiling never to make judgements when it came to parents and children. So far, his own son had not given him reason to worry, but who could tell what the future held? He’d seen it often enough — a much loved, well brought up child led astray by others or by their own nature. He was not naïve enough to think that good parenting alone was a safeguard against delinquent or aberrant behaviour.
Neal said, “We need to speak with Bradley, Mr Turner. On another matter, relating to Amy Hill.”
“Bradley’s in his room. I’ll just fetch him for you. Please, bear in mind that Amy was like another sister to my son; he’s been deeply affected by her murder, just like Julia and myself.” He paused, as if uncertain whether to continue, “I sincerely hope you don’t believe Bradley had anything to do with Amy’s death, Officers?”
“We just need to ask him a few questions, Mr Turner,” Neal repeated. Turner showed them into the lounge and closed the door behind him. They listened to the sound of his footsteps on the creaking stairs.
“Do you think he knows about Bradley making a nuisance of himself with Amy?” Ava asked. “He certainly seems sensitive about his son’s behaviour. As though he’s aware Bradley’s no angel.”
Bradley entered the room behind his father, looking sullen. He said, “Dad’s already told me. I told you the little cow was lying,” he said. Neal raised an eyebrow at Bradley’s manners, and Richard Turner looked despairingly at his son. Neal imagined that he had given Bradley a pep talk before bringing him downstairs; evidently it had failed to penetrate.
“It’s been brought to our attention that your feelings for Amy became more than brotherly,” Neal said, a little provocatively. Predictably, Bradley became defensive.
Before he could reply, Turner interjected, “It’s true that you had a bit of a crush on Amy, isn’t it, Brad?” Turning to Neal and Merry, he added, “But that was a couple of years ago now and nothing ever came of it. Amy wasn’t interested.”
“Her loss,” Bradley said, in a surly tone.
“Bradley, back in the pub, when you said that the young woman was, ‘making it up,’ you were about to say something else, but you were interrupted.” Neal looked to Ava for confirmation, and she made a show of thumbing through her notebook.
“Here we go,” she read, “you said, ‘She’s making it up, just like—’” Ava shrugged, “Just like who, Bradley?”
“I dunno,” Bradley whined, “I don’t even remember saying that.”
“Was it Amy?” Neal asked, quietly, “Did Amy accuse you of behaving inappropriately towards her when you had a crush on her?”
“You what?” Bradley answered hotly, “Are you accusing me of murdering Amy, now?”
“Calm down, son, nobody’s accusing you of anything,” Neal said.
“I already told you, I don’t remember what I said. I was . . . upset.”
Angry, more like, Neal thought. He decided to change tack,
“I need to ask you both where you were the night Amy was murdered.” At his words, Richard Turner sank down into a chair, looking like a man who’d just been kicked in the gut. “I’m sorry, Mr Turner. These are routine questions,” Neal assured him gently. Turner made no reply. Either he was genuinely upset, or he was a very good actor. If he were to rely purely on instinct, Neal would have bet on the former, but he was well aware of all the unconscious prejudices and beliefs that could influence so-called intuition.
“Bradley?” Ava prompted.
“I was on a pub crawl with a mate, in Sheffield.” Bradley muttered. “His name’s Josh. He’s my flatmate.”
Ava nodded, jotting down the details.
“I didn’t do it,” Bradley said. “It wasn’t me. And it wasn’t Dad, either. You should stop wasting your time harassing innocent people and get on with catching whoever did kill Amy.” His tone was petulant rather than hostile, but he also seemed nervous, as though he felt guilty about something. Glancing at Ava, Neal could see that she felt it too.
Richard Turner cleared his throat, “Brad. You might as well tell them about Amy. It’s going to come out anyway.” If looks could kill, Richard Turner’s son would have been guilty of parricide at that moment.
“Bradley?” Neal said, “Care to elaborate?” Bradley, he could see, was seething. “Take a moment to gather your thoughts. As your dad says, if something happened between you and Amy, we’ll find out one way or another, so you might as well come clean.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I fancied her; she wasn’t interested, end of,” Bradley muttered.
“How long did it take for you to get the message?” Neal asked, ignoring Bradley’s scowl. “Were you pushy with her?” Bradley looked as though he was about to offer a vehement denial, but a nod from Richard Turner stopped him in his tracks. Perhaps, Neal reasoned, Bradley realised that if he didn’t spill the beans, his father would.
“I might have been.”
“How pushy? Did you stalk her? Did you make unwelcome advances?” Neal winced inwardly at the euphemism.
Bradley shrugged, “She might have thought I did.”
“Ah,” said Neal, “and you believe she was mistaken?”
Bradley looked at his father as if to ascertain how much he needed to reveal.
“I might have shoved her once,” Bradley said in a low voice. Now they were getting somewhere.
“Because she wouldn’t go out with you?” Ava asked.
Bradley glared at her, “Yes. And she made fun of me,” he said.
There was silence for a few moments, filled by the sound of a grandfather clock chiming from the hallway. This elaborate piece, carved out of oak, had caught Neal’s eye as they came in, because it reminded him of a clock in his grandparent’s house when he was a boy; that always chimed the hour three minutes early. He resisted a sudden urge to check the time on his wristwatch.
The silence extended until after the last chime, as though the clock’s deep, echoing sound had enchanted them all, forbidding speech. Neal broke the spell by asking how Amy had made fun of Bradley.
“She posted pictures of me on Facebook,” Bradley said.
“I see,” Neal said, thinking of Archie and the talks they had had about Internet safety. “I take it these pictures were not of a flattering nature?”
Bradley flushed crimson, telling him all he needed to know.
“When you said, ‘I might have shoved her once,’” Ava quoted from her notebook again, “what exactly did you mean by that?” Another silence.
“Bradley?”
It was Richard Turner who answered. “He pushed her. Amy fell awkwardly and hit her head. She fractured her skull.”
Bradley was staring at the carpet, an Axminster in a traditional design, which seemed to fascinate him so much he could not lift his eyes from it.
“I see,” Neal said. “Were you a witness to this assault, Mr Turner?’ Turner shook his head. “Did Amy report the assault?”
“Nancy wanted her to. I talked Amy out of it. She told the people at the hospital that she’d had an accident,” Turner answered, “I was convinced that it was just that, a one-off, that Bradley hadn’t really meant
to hurt her.” Neal wondered if Amy would have agreed.
“Did Nancy know you dissuaded Amy from pressing charges?” Ava asked.
“Not at the time,” Turner said, “but she found out. Amy told her later. Nancy was so angry she nearly broke up with me.”
“And was it a one-off, Bradley? Did you ever hurt Amy again?”
“No. I didn’t go near her. And it wasn’t my fault she got hurt. Like Dad said, she fell awkwardly.”
Neal could sense Richard Turner’s discomfort at Bradley’s lack of remorse. He thought of Amy’s tiny body lying pressed into the muddy ground, where it had barely left an imprint. Bradley was easily six feet tall and heavyset. He wouldn’t have needed to push very hard. Amy had sustained a serious injury, and Bradley’s cowardly excuse that she had fallen awkwardly was repugnant. Richard Turner was hardly better, covering up for his son, making excuses. He was, perhaps, a good man, but a weak one.
A few more questions and they were done. Richard Turner had an alibi for the night of Amy’s murder; he had been playing bridge with a group of friends, all of whom lived locally, so it would be easy enough to verify his claim.
“Thank you for your time,” Neal said politely, as they left.
* * *
Outside it was drizzling, just for a change; a slice of washed out sunlight glowered behind the overhanging greyness of the afternoon sky, failing to make an impression.
“Bradley’s a little shit.” Ava commented, “Did you notice how reluctant he was to take any sort of responsibility for Amy’s injury? He even went so far as to blame her for it.”
“There’s nothing little about him. He’s twice Amy’s size. Have his records at school and college checked out. I want to know if Amy really was a one-off. And while you’re at it, have a look at Amy’s Facebook page and see if you can find out what she put on there that incensed Bradley so much he felt obliged to ‘push’ her.”
“Do you think he’s capable of murder?” Ava asked. “Him, or Simon Foster, or Professor Taylor — who would you pick?”