Haverscroft

by S. A. Harris

  ‘That’s the DCI for you now,’ she says, tugging down her jacket. I gather my pencils and get to my feet. He stops in the doorway and nods at the WPC.

  ‘Everything alright, Mrs Keeling?’

  ‘Just fine. Is the solicitor here yet?’

  ‘Just arrived.’

  ‘Let’s get started then,’ I say, moving towards him. ‘I need to go home.’

  Chapter 28

  Tuesday, 2nd November

  ‘You told the police you were just passing by, walking your dog.’

  Oliver Lyle looks down as he speaks at a ruled notebook, a counsel’s notebook, exactly the same as I’ve used a thousand times in the past when talking to clients. I feel displaced sitting here on the receiving end of it all. Being the one needing help. And he’s taking so long. If I’d known the duty solicitor tonight was this man I would never have agreed to wait.

  ‘Yes,’ I say to the top of his balding head. The dome of his skull has a bony ridge, the sides of his angular head falling to a long, thin face. Skin over bone, no flesh beneath to soften his features. I can’t see his face as he concentrates on the writing he scrawls on the page.

  ‘But you were seen by a number of people, sitting, watching the houseboat. You were there for some time.’ He looks up at me and smiles. ‘Why would they say that if you were just walking along the towpath?’

  ‘I sat for a while. It’s good to be out of the house.’

  ‘In the fog?’

  We look at each other. His smile is fixed, his eyes, cold.

  ‘I need to know the truth if I’m going to be any help to you, Mrs Keeling. I’m sure you understand?’

  I do understand, I just can’t respond. I watch his closed expression, find no clues. I just want him to hurry up so we can get out of here.

  ‘Now, tell me. Have you visited the houseboat before?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Why were you going there? You were going there?’

  ‘I was taking him a cake. He hadn’t been well lately. But he was dead when I arrived, like I told the DCI.’

  ‘Why not just leave it there? Why go into the boat?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to him.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘When you’re in court you’ll be asked these things. Others will decide what’s relevant. I need to know everything, as will anyone else who represents you. You know this very well, Mrs Keeling. Everyone will know you’re aware of these things. A qualified lawyer. They’ll wonder what you’re hiding.’

  ‘I’m not hiding anything! And I’m not going to be in court. He was dead when I arrived!’

  My voice has risen in volume and pitch. The fear is twisting, tightening in the pit of my stomach. I suck in a breath, speak more slowly, as calmly as I can manage.

  ‘I need to call my husband. I can do that, can’t I?’

  He continues to smile and stare, his eyes blank.

  ‘I’m not under arrest,’ I say, trying to grasp hold of this situation. Does this man know what he’s doing?

  ‘Tell me why you were visiting Mr Denning. Why not speak to him when he was working at Haverscroft? What was so important?’

  A knock on the door. It opens a fraction, the WPC peers in. ‘You ready? DCI’s keen to resume the interview now you’re here, Mr Lyle.’

  ‘Five minutes.’

  Lyle sounds irritated. The woman nods and closes the door. We listen to her soles squeak a retreat along the corridor.

  ‘Well, Mrs Keeling?’

  The truth isn’t going to help me, suggesting Haverscroft has weird stuff happening.

  ‘I went to thank him for his help when our son fell into the pond. I was taking him a cake. Shirley Cooper can confirm that. I’ve no motive to harm him, quite the opposite.’

  I hold Lyle’s gaze, relieved mine is fixed, that I don’t pull away before he seems satisfied and continues. ‘The police are aware that you didn’t like the man. He was odd, difficult and argumentative. That’s common knowledge . . .’

  ‘Who says I didn’t like him?’

  Lyle holds up his pen, continues ignoring what I’ve said. There’s something unsettling about him, his sneering contempt makes me feel he knows something I don’t. It was there that first day we met in his office.

  ‘. . . as is the fact that you have been unwell yourself, Mrs Keeling.’

  Do the police really know all this, has Mark or somebody else told them? Or is Lyle making more of it than he should be?

  ‘The police will have spoken to passers-by, people close to you. The towpath was busy today, despite the fog. You were in the vicinity of the houseboat for in excess of an hour. Your bag was found there and your phone. Why were they in the boathouse of someone you barely knew and didn’t like? They’ll ask you all these things. You must have answers, your silence will be held against you.’

  The police know I was there, I used my mobile to call them. At least they’ve found it. And my bag, the cake tin, all left there in the chaos that followed my discovery. Why is this man acting as though I’m under some sort of suspicion?

  ‘Do the police know, Mr Lyle, of your argument with Richard Denning? Do they know you didn’t get along, and why you argued with him and Mrs Havers?’

  A flicker of surprise crosses his features. Why did Mrs Havers despise this man so much? He’s a cold fish for sure, but even so, her loathing seems more than just dislike.

  ‘If the police are interested in people Richard Denning had trouble getting along with, I’d suggest they should speak with you, Mr Lyle.’ He watches my face intently for several seconds. I won’t let him unsettle me. ‘You purchased all the Haverscroft land and you want the house too, don’t you?’

  ‘None of this is a secret, Mrs Keeling, and it’s all above board. You’ve checked out the Land Registry?’

  I nod, remembering all the information I’d read on Shirley’s iPad, the land being sold off, lot by lot over the last twenty years. I’d found nothing irregular, but Lyle makes my skin crawl, the sooner we are done the happier I’ll be.

  ‘Mrs Havers, like many old families, was asset-rich but cash poor. Her claim she was made to sell is a ludicrous one. All the land was professionally valued, full market-price paid. Richard Denning was very likely mislead, as many have been, by that woman’s scandalous and unfounded allegations.’

  He holds my gaze as my brain scrambles for words. What he says makes sense. Was Mrs Havers simply distressed about selling her home? Am I letting my own dislike of Oliver Lyle get in the way a rational judgement?

  ‘Her financial situation became critical. Fairfield is an expensive place to live in; the fees keep coming. Mrs Havers had no option but to sell the house.’

  ‘Her home.’

  ‘She refused to sell to me simply out of spite. I was, by rights, due the house after buying the land. I’m sure you’ll agree, now you have all the facts.’

  We watch each other silently for a long moment.

  ‘But we digress, do we not? I’m not the one the police are questioning, Mrs Keeling. I’m not the one there today for a period of time I can’t sensibly account for.’ The smile again. I hold his stare. ‘Remember, I’m here to assist you. To represent your best interests.’

  ‘You remember, I am here on a voluntary basis. When I saw him, he was lying on his back at the bottom of the stairs. There was nothing I could do to help him. The police know that. They know why my bag and things would be there.’

  He’s right. I must have answers, sound firm and unhesitating, and at present I don’t. The police have to take a statement from me. I found a dead person, they have to check it out, that’s all. I know this. I’m gripping the sketch pad so hard I’m scrunching the edge of the page. I look down at the drawing and take a deep breath.

  ‘Where are my children
, Mr Lyle? Does Shirley Cooper have them?’

  He taps his pen on his notebook.

  ‘They’re with their father, naturally. I assumed you knew that. He smiles, a tight insincere movement of his lips.

  ‘Are they at Haverscroft?’

  The pit of my stomach turns over just at the thought of my children being anywhere near that place.

  ‘How would I know, Mrs Keeling? It has no relevance to the matters we are discussing.’

  I stare at him, my mind racing. Would Mark have taken the children to Jennifer’s, or are they at Haverscroft? Mark said he couldn’t have any more time away from chambers. The children will be with Shirley or his mother. Not at Haverscroft.

  I stand although there is nowhere to move to. The room is only a few feet wide, the door close enough to reach out and touch. I can’t bear to be in this room with this repulsive man for one more second. If the twins are at the house, they aren’t safe, I’m sure of it. Mark doesn’t get it, he won’t look for danger.

  I stare at Oliver Lyle as he stands. He isn’t going to help me, all he does is confuse and delay me and I don’t know why. I press the buzzer beside the door and hear the WPC’s quick footsteps along the corridor. A sharp rap, knuckles on wood, the door swings open.

  ‘Ready now?’ The WPC looks hopeful, it’s late, perhaps nearing the end of her shift.

  I nod in reply.

  ‘Mr Lyle has given me helpful advice.’ I look at the solicitor. ‘I’ll take it from here now, on my own.’

  Chapter 29

  Tuesday, 2nd November, 3:13am

  ‘My battery’s nearly dead.’

  The WPC looks up from the form she’s completing on the reception desk.

  ‘I can call a taxi for you. Weldon, is it?’

  ‘As soon as possible, thanks.’

  She picks up the phone and dials as Oliver Lyle approaches the desk.

  ‘Still here, Mr Lyle?’ Her tone is full of surprise.

  ‘I never run out on a client.’

  His insincere smile plays again on his lips. ‘I’ll drop you off at Haverscroft, Mrs Keeling. I’m going straight back to Weldon myself.’

  Lyle isn’t looking at me as he speaks, his eyes scrutinise an envelope on the reception desk. The WPC holds the phone receiver and raises her eyebrows.

  ‘I’d rather get a cab, thanks.’

  ‘Really, it’s no trouble at all.’ Lyle looks into my face and smiles again.

  ‘Sign here for me, please.’ The WPC holds the phone to her ear with one hand, points a biro at the bottom of the form with the other. A list of my things. I sign, pick up my bag, house keys and purse from the desk as she speaks to the taxi company.

  ‘Here in 10 minutes,’ she says, ending the call. ‘Just wait out front.’

  ‘What happened to the cake, it’s just . . . the tin wasn’t mine.’

  She smiles. I’m tired, anxious about the twins and just want to be away from here, away from Oliver Lyle. Why am I worried about a cake tin?

  ‘I’ll find out and let you know.’ She looks at the sketch pad as I flip the cover closed and pack it into my bag.

  ‘A lady hand-delivered this for you.’ She holds out the envelope, the paper smooth and stiff between my fingers. ‘She insisted that it’s given to you immediately. A bit difficult about it, she was. You were giving your statement when she called in. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Lyle?’

  The solicitor nods, his eyes again on the envelope as I stuff it into my coat pocket. I step away from the desk and head for the exit.

  Three percent battery. I call Mark’s mobile, straight to voicemail. I could switch off the phone and save what little charge is left. I dial Jennifer’s number, it rings and rings and rings. Answer the bloody phone. I cut the call and try Shirley’s number.

  ‘Anything I can help you with?’

  Lyle joins me as I stare out of the glazed front doors. Streetlights bathe the empty, wet road in a sodium glow. I shake my head, take a step away from the solicitor and listen to the ringing of Shirley’s phone. Her cottage is tiny, perhaps she’s a heavy sleeper. Surely she must be home at this time in the morning? No answer, I end the call. I can feel Lyle watching me, I wish he’d get the hint and leave me alone. I stare out at the street, the taxi must be here soon.

  The DCI, along with his sergeant, approaches the reception desk. A hurried conversation with the WPC. She nods towards the door. My stomach drops. Aren’t they done with me? There’s nothing more I can add to the statement I signed twenty minutes ago. They stride towards me, as tired as I am I muster a smile. Maybe they have the post-mortem results, new information of some kind? They pass me and stop just beyond where I stand.

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions before you go, Mr Lyle, about Mr Richard Denning.’

  The taxi’s headlights pick out fragments of a frost-covered landscape, bare fields, a gateway, twisted branches overhead. My temple bumps the window and jolts me awake. I’ve dozed on and off all the way back from the police station. The driver’s eyes stare back at me from the rear-view mirror. Each time I’ve woken, he’s been watching.

  Her letter lies in my lap. I’d torn the envelope open as soon as the taxi pulled away from the police station and read it swiftly from beginning to end. Words and letters ran before my eyes, failed to filter through to my brain. I pick it up and try reading it again.

  Fairfields

  Weldon

  November 1st

  Dear Mrs Keeling,

  Can you forgive me? I should have written this letter sooner. I wrote to you in the summer and now I fear you may not have received that correspondence. Richard urged me to act weeks ago. I procrastinated, it will not do. It is vital you understand about the house, Richard was insistent about that, and he was quite right, of course. Whatever you decide, I shall never forgive myself. My punishment is to live on without the companionship of my dearest friend. I shall miss him most dreadfully.

  I deluded myself in thinking that any problems at Haverscroft related to my family alone. Not for one moment did I consider your children to be in harm’s way. I will explain about the house, but do bear with me, it will take a little time.

  My late husband, Edward Havers, was a charming, witty companion, at least in public. Clever and rather handsome, he was well able to get his own way. He was my sister’s husband and for some time that was all. When I was seventeen, I stayed at Haverscroft for a few weeks during the summer. I was company for Helena, who, by then, was desperate to leave her marriage. But one thing led to another.

  I can hardly believe what I’m reading. Mrs Havers, so careful and concerned about her reputation, is the last person I would have thought capable of such behaviour. The scandal would have been enormous back then.

  My husband experienced things during the war that no human being should see. An injury to his ankle caused constant pain and affected his mood. He sometimes walked with a stick. Noise was a problem for him. Loud or high-pitched sound like a child crying or children shrieking with laughter tore his nerves to shreds. You have read Helena’s journal. You know some of her terror. I am sorry to say I did not believe her.

  I drop the letter into my lap and rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. That day in the garden, before Tom fell in the pond, the children had been shouting and screaming, Riley barking in the garden. Had that noise triggered something at Haverscroft?

  The taxi judders as the driver changes down a gear, the indicator, click, click, click. The moon is high and bright in a star-pricked sky. The old asylum looms above the road, its massive arched entrance shackled shut with rusting chains and padlock. How many years had Richard Denning spent in that place? I shudder at the thought of what his life must have been like. The driver slows down, searching for the Weldon turn. I sit forward and grasp the headrest in front of me.

  ‘Just up here, on the left.’
/>
  The driver nods.

  ‘The house is all the way through the village, left immediately after the church.’

  The driver nods again, I sit back in my seat. Haverscroft will be empty, Mark will have taken the twins to his mother’s, I’m sure of it, but I have to check. I have to be sure the children aren’t at the house.

  I dial Mark’s mobile and leave a voicemail to say I’ll be staying at Shirley’s. The line goes dead before I finish speaking, the battery flat. I can call from Shirley’s once I’ve checked out Haverscroft. I continue reading the letter.

  He used me, of course, to torture Helena. She was horrified when she discovered our liaison. Edward would allow Helena to leave and have a divorce, but if she left, she did so without her son, Freddie, and without me. Helena refused to go.

  Unfaithful himself, Edward was convinced his wives were too. He thought Freddie was Richard Denning’s child. I am ashamed to say, he convinced me too, for a time. You see, it seemed on the face of it to be quite plausible. Helena and Richard were childhood sweethearts – it wasn’t improbable that they allowed things to go too far after Helena married.

  We were newly engaged the first time he accused me of infidelity. I denied it. He said he loved me and forgave me. By then I knew what he was like, but it was too late. I dared not leave him and we were married the following summer. Our union was an outrageous scandal, gossiped about for years and brought us nothing but sorrow and misfortune.

  When I could stand it no longer, I made plans to take Andrew and Michael to Canada. We had family there to stay with. Edward discovered my intentions before I managed to leave. He told me to go but leave the children behind. Like my sister before me, I would not consider it.