A Poison Tree

by J. E. Mayhew

  Blake shook his head at the memory. He wasn’t the ghost. There were too many memories in this house. Too much guilt. He grabbed a half bottle of red wine from the work top and unscrewed the lid. Right now, he was going to fulfill his promise to Gerald Rees. That bugger might have the company of other people but Blake had the wine

  Saturday October 26th

  CHAPTER 17

  St Joseph’s Hospice nestled in a wooded hollow at the Northern end of the Wirral, just on the outskirts of Birkenhead; close enough for the hospital but faraway enough to be semi-rural. Fields surrounded the trees, although suburban rooftops were never out of sight. Blake noticed a gardener, pruning bushes on the well-tended grounds. There was a calm cheeriness around the complex that Blake found almost therapeutic. Working against criminals in dull offices and on grimy streets in a stressful job, he was taken aback by the wholesomeness of this place. People faced death every day here and yet a positive atmosphere pervaded.

  He had been directed to a brightly lit reception area with tables and chairs and a small bookcase for those waiting. At the reception counter, an elderly lady, with short, grey hair beamed at him and asked him to sign in. Her face fell a little when he identified himself and asked to speak to whoever was caring for Victor Hunt but she rallied quickly and made a phone call, telling him that Dr Mather would be along right away.

  Blake scanned the bookshelf while he waited. A collection of books about sports blunders stood between one about Gratitude, and one entitled ‘Am I Middle Class Enough Yet?’ All around him, people came and went. The place was busy but not hectic.

  A short, round woman in a green suit bounded up to him with her hand extended. “DCI Blake?” she said. “I’m Dr Karen Mather, I believe you’re here to see Victor Hunt?”

  Blake shook her hand. “I’d like to speak to him, if that’s possible. I understand he’s very sick and I didn’t want to arrive at his bedside unannounced.”

  Dr Mather led Blake into a side room and shut the door. “That’s very considerate of you, DCI Blake,” she said. She dropped the smile. “To be honest, I wouldn’t worry yourself too much about Victor Hunt’s sensibilities.”

  “Really?” Blake said, taken aback.

  “He’s been through a lot, what with the pain and the unpleasantness of the treatment but he’s as tough as old boots. He speaks his mind and a lot of what he says isn’t always agreeable. Not what you’d call our most popular patient. I think we’ll be moving him off Bluebell Ward to a private room if he carries on upsetting the other patients.”

  “I see,” Blake said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Even after the ravages of cancer treatment and eighty or so years on the planet, Blake could tell that Victor Hunt had been a vigorous and handsome man. Dr Mather introduced Blake and Hunt looked him up and down.

  “You’re the policeman off the television, aren’t you?”

  Blake tried to conceal the wince. “Yes, sir. I was involved with the Searchlight programme a while ago, now…”

  “But you’re a real policeman?”

  Blake gave a tight smile. “Yes, sir.”

  “Any relation to the real William Blake? The poet?”

  A double whammy. Great. It never ended. “Not that I know of, sir, no.”

  “Shame. Anyway, how on earth do you think I can help you, DCI Blake?” Hunt said, smoothing the sheets of his bed with long, liver-spotted fingers.

  “We have recovered a pair of red boots from a suspect in a murder enquiry,” Blake said, showing Hunt the picture. “Converse boots to be precise. Do you recognise them?”

  Hunt heaved a long sigh. “Yes,” he said. “They belonged to my daughter, Drucilla. But then you knew that already, didn’t you, Inspector? Why are you asking me?”

  “The boots disappeared almost forty years ago. Your daughter was wearing them the last time she was seen alive but they were missing when her body was found. Now they’ve cropped up, recently, at the scene of a similar murder. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it? A young girl was strangled in Eastham Woods.”

  Hunt lifted his arm, showing Blake the IV tubes and cannulas that tethered him to his bed. “I hadn’t heard, no. In case it escaped your notice, Blake, I have other things to worry about.” He gave a cheerless smile. “And I can assure you, I do have an alibi. I haven’t moved from this bed in days.”

  “I’m not suggesting you were in any way involved, sir,” Blake said. “The shoes appeared at the hospice charity shop earlier this week. The girl bought them and was found dead the next day. Those shoes have been lying hidden somewhere all this time. Do you have any idea where they might have been?”

  This time Hunt shrugged. “How would I know? Presumably they came from the lowlife that killed my daughter. A trophy. Don’t killers keep such things?”

  Blake nodded. “Sometimes. What do you know about Gerald Rees?”

  Before he could answer, Hunt launched into a spluttering cough and reached for a glass on the bedside cabinet. A greetings card fell to the ground, caught by his flailing fingers. Blake passed him the glass and picked up the card. It flapped open, revealing spidery writing inside: ‘To Victor, Remembering good times and happy ‘stolen’ hours. Hope you do too. Love always. J.’

  Hunt regained his composure and placed the glass back on the cabinet. “Rees? A fool. Not very bright, as far as I could see. He was very fond of Drucilla. His father was a pen-pusher of some kind, I believe. Worked for the council.” The last phrase came out as a snort of contempt. “Why? Surely you don’t think he killed this girl?” Blake noticed the numbers on the heart rate and blood pressure monitors go up a little.

  “He’s helping us with our enquiries. Protests his innocence.”

  “That boy couldn’t swat a fly. Really, he couldn’t. Look Blake, my daughter had her moments. Her mother died when she was young and, although I loved her dearly, I was probably the worst father you could imagine…”

  “In my line of work, you see some fairly bad parenting, Colonel Hunt,” Blake said. “I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself.”

  “No, I confess,” he said. “I failed her. She had no moral guidance and look where it led her. I’m guilty of that, not Archer. She used that boy; wrapped him around her little finger and led him on. I wasn’t so naïve as to believe all that crime-fighting nonsense. I could see through it. The police used her to plant evidence. She was a friendly witness from a respectable family and an informant. Gerald Rees was nothing more than a useful idiot. I don’t know what she made him do but from what I heard, she blighted his life. Dead-end job, never married. And look where he is now. In your custody, I imagine, and all because of my daughter.”

  Blake could see the numbers on the monitor creeping higher. “Well, thank you for your time, Colonel Hunt.”

  “I’d concentrate on the present,” Hunt said. “Don’t waste time raking up the past.”

  “Does your son visit?”

  Hunt looked surprised at the sudden question. “You’ve met him?”

  “Briefly,” Blake said.

  “Then you’ll know what an arse he is, too. Bad mannered and hot tempered. Thinks the world owes him everything. He’s just waiting for me to die. He might get a shock when the solicitor opens the will.” Hunt glanced over to the card on the bedside cabinet. “Might find he’s not the only pebble on the beach.”

  A nurse appeared at Blake’s shoulder. “Excuse me Colonel Hunt, the doctor will be here soon as you requested.”

  “Very good, DCI Blake was just leaving anyway,” Hunt said. “And get me a coffee, strong and black.”

  Back in the Manta, Blake sat, mulling over what Hunt had said. On paper, Gerald Rees looked like the killer; he admitted to chasing Rebecca shortly before she died, he had been at the crime scene but he had no scratches or marks on him. Kettering, the pathologist had said that, from the amount of skin and blood under the victim’s nails, the assailant would have scratches on their arms, hands and possibly their face. Rees didn’t have a mark
on him. But he was hiding something. Blake looked at his watch. He should go home; God knows what that cat would be up to by the time he got back. She had behaved herself last night, as far as Blake knew. He’d settled into his mother’s armchair and fallen asleep again after the first sip of the wine. It was Saturday which meant that a visit to Rebecca Thompson’s school was out of the question. Maybe a quick chat with Gerald Rees to see if a night in the cells had changed his attitude would be a good idea.

  CHAPTER 18

  A night in the cells hadn’t agreed with Gerald Rees. He’d looked rough when they brought him in, but he obviously hadn’t slept much last night and worry etched his face. Gareth Cornell, his solicitor wasn’t best pleased about being dragged in on a Saturday; he sat in a crumpled shirt, his tie slightly askew. Clearly, he did his ironing on a Sunday, Blake thought.

  “My client has had an unpleasant night, DCI Blake,” Cornell said. “Unless you have any actual evidence that he committed this crime, I’ll be insisting you release him later today.”

  Blake raised a hand. “We’re just waiting on forensic evidence, Mr Cornell,” he said. “Besides, I could charge him with assaulting a police officer right now, if I wanted. Not to mention perverting the course of justice. Of course, we can clear this all up if Mr Rees cooperates with us.”

  “I’ve already told you,” Rees said. “I didn’t kill the girl.”

  “So you just took the boots. How could you see a young girl lying there and your first thought is to take the shoes off her feet? It beggars belief.”

  Rees pursed his lips and looked down at the table. “I’m not proud of that,” he said. “But I didn’t know what to do…”

  “Phone the police. Call for an ambulance. Either one of those would have been an obvious place to start,” Blake said. He tried a different tack. “Where do you think those shoes have been all this time?”

  Gerald looked up at him. “I-I don’t know. Gary Archer, perhaps? He killed Drucilla after all.”

  “Yes, that’s one of our lines of inquiry, Gerald,” Blake said. “But, to be honest, I can’t see why, after all these years, Archer would pull a pair of shoes from his wardrobe and give them to a charity shop. Can you?”

  Gerald stared back down at the table.

  “You say these shoes were Drucilla Hunt’s and yet, they had Cameron Lock’s name written in large letters inside them. Why would anyone do that? Write the name of a child killer inside their shoes? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Does everything we do have to make sense? Drucilla was a teenager when she died. Surely you did stupid things when you were that age, detective,” Gerald said.

  Blake smiled. “I suppose so,” he said and eased back in his seat. “Tell me about when you first met Drucilla Hunt. The very first time.”

  Gerald looked a little taken aback but Blake’s request had clearly triggered memories. “Well…it was the summer and I was sixteen. August 1980. I was in the library searching for any Science Fiction books I hadn’t read.” He paused, returning to simpler times. His voice became distant. “I loved that library; the smell of plastic book covers mingled with floor polish. Everything had a place there, including me.”

  “You were a bit of a loner in your youth?”

  “You could say that. I’d just finished my ‘O’ levels. ‘A’ Levels would start soon but I had two or three glorious weeks yet. All I wanted to do was read,” Rees said. “I can remember the Sun streaming in through the huge library window. Leafing through the books, trying to decide which ones to take out.”

  “And this is where you met her?”

  Rees nodded. “She grabbed my arm. Gave me a shock. She was startlingly beautiful. She reminded me of a blonde Diana Rigg. Hair in a perfect bob, almond-shaped face and piercing blue eyes. Do you remember the Avengers, Detective?”

  “A little before my time, sir, but I am aware of the TV series, yes.”

  “She said, ‘Does your name rhyme with ‘trees’ or with ‘grease?’ in this cut-glass accent.” Gerald fell silent and stared down at the table, not seeing it. Lost in a dream of days gone by. “I said ‘trees’ and she smiled that funny smile of hers and replied, ‘perfect.’”

  “How did she know your name?” Blake said, gently, so as not to break the spell.

  “It was written on my school bag. Drucilla pointed to a man and said he was ‘up to no good.’ She said he worked at one of her father’s businesses and had far too much money for the job he did. I said that he was obviously waiting for someone because, although he held a book, he was glancing around and not reading. ”

  “Very astute of you,” Blake said.

  Rees nodded. “Drucilla said that too. Then a beautiful, tall woman walked in wearing dark sunglasses and a red, wide-brimmed sunhat. She didn’t look like she was getting a book out, either. She had this short red dress on and a pair of red stilettos. I noticed how her hand brushed his and he slid the book back onto the shelf. In another moment, they walked out of the library side by side. It was like being in a movie. Drucilla was so excited, she kissed me.” He paused again, half-closing his tearful eyes. “It was a long passionate kiss. I’d never touched a girl before that moment, detective. And there was I, skinny, bespectacled book worm, Gerald Rees, kissing Drucilla. Beautiful, clever talented Drucilla. I felt like a hero.” He looked up. “That’s how we met.”

  “And that man,” Blake said. “That was David Collins, right? The woman was Carly Simmonds, found dead on a canal towpath in Chester.”

  “I didn’t know he was a murderer,” Rees said. “Drucilla had said all along that a man who steals from his employer and cheats on his wife is capable of anything. So when the woman’s body turned up, we had the dirt on her fancy-man.”

  “And what was your role in this crime-fighting duo, Gerald?”

  Rees paused and then looked a bit crestfallen. “I don’t know, really. She used to bounce ideas off me. I’d do jobs for her. Some basic surveillance. I was still at school. Drucilla didn’t seem to go to school. I think Daddy paid for a governess or tutor but Drucilla came and went as she pleased. My parents got quite cross about the amount of time I spent away from my studies but I didn’t care. I just loved being with her.”

  “Were you lovers?”

  Even though forty years had passed, Gerald reddened at the question. “No,” he said, heaving a sigh. “She hugged and kissed me now and then but never like that first time and nothing more than that. But I was hooked by the mere possibility and the thrill of being known as her close friend.”

  “What about Cameron Lock? How did you help solve that case?”

  Gerald swallowed. “Observation,” he said. “Drucilla told me he’d exposed himself to her a while back. She said that it was only a matter of time before Lock killed some little kid if he hadn’t done so already. So we started to follow him.” Rees paused and shifted in his seat. “We’d been watching him for a while and he went onto the Wirral Way, near Willaston. He’d been following a young girl on a bike. Anyway, Drucilla told me to find a payphone and call the police while she went and caught him in the act…”

  “So you weren’t actually there when she caught Lock?”

  “No. I was close behind but she already had him pinned to the ground and the little girl was in tears by her bike.”

  “Drucilla managed to pin Lock down? He was a big lad by all accounts…”

  “She could handle herself,” Rees said and Blake thought he saw a twinkle of admiration in the man’s eyes. “She did Aikido or something. Besides, Lock might have been big but he wasn’t clever.”

  “And where was Lock’s backpack?”

  “It was nearby, open with the Bradshaw boy’s clothes poking out. We held him until the police came.”

  Blake rubbed his face with both hands. “Were you never worried that it was all a bit too easy? Too tidy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, why on earth would Lock carry a cumbersome bag around when he was committing opportunist cr
imes that required him to escape quickly and nimbly if needs be?” Blake said. “A bag containing incriminating evidence."

  Gerald blinked at Blake. “I-I don’t know."

  “And how did you know that Lock would be on that section of the Wirral Way at that time? If he was that predictable, then surely the police would have cottoned on to any patterns.”

  “Well, Drucilla said she’d been watching him…”

  “There’s a lot of ‘Drucilla said this' and 'Drucilla said that’ in your story, Gerald. Do you ever wonder if there was another version of this whole sorry tale?”

  “No,” Gerald said, his face hardening.

  “One in which Drucilla is planting evidence, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “I think there’s more to these stories than you’re admitting. I think you went after Rebecca Thompson to retrieve those boots to stop people from opening up the past.”

  “No comment.”

  “Oh come on Gerald. You aren’t just an avid collector of Drucilla memorabilia, are you? There’s a very good reason you took those boots.”

  “I was just shocked when I saw her in them. She looked… like…”

  “Like Drucilla? Oh, behave. You’re expecting me to believe that Becky Thompson reminded you of Drucilla? They couldn’t have been more different. Or do you mean just from the ankles down?”

  “I’m telling you, she was the spitting image of her,” Gerald said, close to tears. “Not in her hair or clothes but the look on her face and her mannerisms. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight but to me, it was spooky.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Blake drove home deep in thought. Was Rebecca’s death an echo of crimes committed almost forty years ago? He’d had to admit that nothing would come to light by the end of the day and had released Rees on police bail. But that still meant they could call him in at any time for questioning. Blake hadn’t finished with him by any means.