by M K Turner
Irritated, she jabbed a finger at him. “Lucky little perfect Lorna. Well she won’t get what she wants this time.”
His hand on the door handle, Chris turned to her. “Don’t be bitter, Chelly. I don’t know what you said to make him leave, but I think he loved her in his own way. They are only kids, of course, but if he ever comes back perhaps there will be a chance for them. I hope so.”
“Meaning with me out of the way, I suppose.”
“Yes. Look, I’m going now, good—”
“Oh, he loved her. Besotted I’d think you’d call it. But that’s over.”
“Well, like I said, perhaps one day—”
“He will not be back! Go and tell the precious Lorna that.”
“Okay, Chelly, I’m going.” Hand still on the door handle, Chris paused again. A hatred was building for Chelly, and that wasn’t healthy, but he couldn’t resist one last swipe. “But you don’t know that. Who knows, once he realises you’ve gone . . .” He let the sentence drift away.
“He won’t.” Jabbing her finger, Chelly looked smug.
“You can’t possibly know that. Bye.” Chris started to pull the door shut behind him.
“I do. He’s dead.”
Sighing, Chris turned back. “I know that’s what his mother thinks, Lorna too, but they don’t know about you. I think I’ll keep an open mind.”
“That’s because you’re bloody stupid. I pushed him off The Ridge into the quarry, and then I buried him. I broke that stick seat thing you had by the way, it was a good shovel though.”
“Chelly don’t say . . .” Frowning, Chris remembered he’d left his hunting seat in the boot when he had to borrow Chelly’s car. When he’d gone to collect it, it wasn’t there. His boots had been muddy too. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really killed him?”
“Yes, I killed him. The little bastard was Lorna this, Lorna that, I love Lorna not you. So I . . . What are . . .”
Chelly’s eyes widened in fear.
Chapter Thirty
Hitting the stop button on the tape recorder, Margaret looked at the others. “And I know that’s where Chelly met her end. What I don’t know is how, or who she was frightened of, it seems like it was Chris Rogers, but I’m sure you all realised there was someone else in the house. At least I did.”
“I think I need a word with Mr Rogers.” Inspector Tipper scratched his forehead. “And the sooner the better.”
“Do you think you’ll witness more if we go back to the house, darling?” Bridget patted her daughter’s knee. She could see remembering what she had witnessed had worn Margaret out.
“No. It was the door handle that told me something had happened, but I had an urge to go upstairs. I don’t understand that. Whatever happened, happened in the sitting room. But while we were in there, nothing. Most odd.”
“In which case, Frank is right. Do we think Mr Rogers told Robin what happened? Perhaps that’s why Robin was so angry earlier.” Drumming her fingers on her knees, Angie looked at Tipper. “He’s an old man, would you mind if one of us spoke to him first? We might get the truth indirectly even if he doesn’t tell us.”
“Of course not. It’s taken many years to get this far, a few more days won’t hurt.”
“Well I never did. What a mess, poor old Lorna. She doesn’t deserve this. Never did, her father was right about that.” Getting to her feet, Bridget lifted the tray. “I need more tea. I’m getting peckish again, so I’ll bring more cake.”
Getting up, Angie opened the door to let her grandmother out. Her phone rang and she looked at the screen. “It’s Annette Cooksey. Two minutes.” She hit the answer button. “Hi, Mrs Cooksey. How are you?”
Frowning she put her finger to her lips and hit the speaker button.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Annette demanded. “Because something is and those buggers won’t tell me.”
“I’m not sure what you mean? Going on in what way?”
“Robin came over this afternoon, chit chat, cake, tea, and then when I mentioned you lot, and wondered how you were getting on, he got all stroppy. He told me that it was a fool’s errand, that it was all a waste of time. Nothing could really be achieved, and everyone would be upset all over again, and for nothing.”
“Ahh.”
“What does that mean? Have you found anything out?”
“Yes.”
“You know what happened to Henry?” The room could hear the amazement in her voice.
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Then tell me, why haven’t you told me?” There was a sob in her voice.
“Because we’ve only just found out, and because it’s complicated.”
“Bugger complications, tell me, now.”
“Not over the phone. I’ll come and see you, give me half an hour.”
“You can’t come here. I spoke to Lorna, who was also acting odd by the way, she said she might pop over. I don’t want to row with her too. Give me your address, I’ll get a taxi.”
Margaret touched Angie’s arm and nodded. “It’s only fair,” she whispered, and smiled as Angie gave her address and told Annette they would see her soon before ending the call.
“Oh blimey. I’d better get these last two typed up. It will be better for her to read it in private. I’ll do it upstairs, it shouldn’t take long.” Collecting her laptop from the kitchen, Angie left the others discussing the effect the truth may have on Annette Cooksey.
When Annette Cooksey arrived, the cottage was spotless. While Angie had typed the latest instalments, Bridget and Margaret had taken it upon themselves to do a spot of housework. Even the washing machine was chugging away.
Introductions were made, and once Annette had established Margaret had fully recovered, and was settled in an armchair, she looked at the others who were hovering around the doorway.
“Are you going somewhere?” she asked.
Kneeling before her, Angie placed the manuscript on Annette’s knee and took her hand. “This is what I’ve written so far. It’s taken from witnesses, like yourself and Lorna, and from notes and diaries. I think it’s as accurate a picture as is possible to get about what happened, and there is still a final chapter to go.”
“But are they going somewhere?” Annette flung her hand towards the group. Now it was crunch time, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, and asked herself if knowing the detail would help. She already knew the outcome.
“That depends on you. This is upsetting stuff, I’ll stay with you in case you have any questions, but you might want some privacy at least until you’ve read it.”
“Oh, I see.” Looking at the file, Annette ran her finger across her son’s name. “Will they get embarrassed if I cry?” A smile crept to her lips, “Because even without this,” she tapped the file, “I have a little cry for him now and then.”
“No, they won’t get embarrassed.”
“Then they can choose. I don’t mind either way.” Lifting the cover of the file, she looked at the first page and closed it again. “There seems to be a lot here. Diaries you say.”
“Yes, of sorts. Henry’s was just a list of reminders in his school book.”
“And you found them and made sense of them. I see.” The file remained closed.
“If you would prefer, you can take this home with you. Have a read and call me if you need me.”
“No, no. Lorna might come.” Lifting the file, Annette clasped it to her chest. “She needs to see this too, doesn’t she?”
“When she’s ready. There’s no rush. No rush for you either.”
The file came back down, and the cover lifted, but still Annette didn’t look at the words. Angie got to her feet.
“I’m going to make some tea. I’ll take this lot with me.” She shooed them away with a flap of her hands. “How do you take it?”
“White with one, thank you.” Annette watched Angie go, and as the door closed behind her, she lowered her eyes and started to read.
Placing the mug
on the table, Angie smiled at her. “Carry on, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
“I remember this. Him sitting on the stairs telling Lorna he loved her.” Grinning she ran her hand over the page. “Great lumbering oaf. Such a softy inside.”
“From what I’ve learned about him, he was a wonderful young man. Much loved by everyone, and rightly so. I’ll leave you to it.”
“You don’t have to. Take a seat, I’m fine now.”
Putting her phone to silent, Angie sat opposite and watched as Annette’s eyes devoured the words.
Her hand flew to her mouth, and she looked at Angie. “My Henry and Mrs Rogers? Are you sure? I thought it was some girl. I’d heard rumours about Mrs Rogers having dalliances, but . . .” Lost for words, she returned to the page.
Watching Annette Cooksey’s expressions change as she read on, Angie’s heart ached for her. She passed the tissues when it came to the chapter she’d named The Ridge.
Annette cleared her throat. “He was alive? He might have survived if she’d called for help.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know that, nor will we know how badly injured he would have been if he had survived. It seems his injuries were severe.”
“Better off dead do you mean?” Annette’s face hardened.
“No. I mean, Chelly thought he was dead. The angle of his limbs, the wound to his head, the fact that he didn’t move or call out when she arrived. He might not have survived even if she’d gone for help.”
“Well she could have tried. I know you’ve written this like she didn’t mean to push him, and she obviously had a thing about him, but I don’t think it was love, just lust, or worse, jealousy, not wanting Lorna to have him. I hope when the police see this, they track her down.” Annette looked up. “Lorna told you she did a runner while they were away, did she?”
“She did, but read on.”
“You’ve found her? Do the police know?”
“Not yet, read on and you’ll understand.”
Looking confused, Annette turned the page. She didn’t speak again until she’d finished.
“Oh. I see. Well I hope he killed her, and good riddance to the bitch. Because that’s what she was - a selfish, self-centred bitch who took my boy and . . .” Grabbing several tissues, Annette let the tears to flow. Finally, she could bury her son.
Allowing her time to come to terms with what she’d read, Angie remained silent, ready for the next question. She was taken aback when Annette gasped and pointed at her.
“You made some of this up? How do I know which bits are true?” Her chin wobbled as she waited for Angie to explain.
Believing that Annette had worked out that they had no idea what had happened in the Rogers’ sitting room she asked tentatively, “How do you mean?”
“Well this is like a blow by blow account. You said you used diaries, people don’t write this much detail in diaries - do they? My Henry certainly wouldn’t have, like going to Dan Simmons house. He didn’t write all that down.”
“Ah I see.” Relieved, Angie smiled, mentally crossing fingers that Annette wouldn’t think about how they knew what had happened in that sitting room, but only up to a point. “We met with Dan, only briefly, he was off on holiday, but he managed to clear a few things up for us.”
Smiling, Annette nodded. “He was a nice lad. Cheeky, but soft. He used to pop in and see Gerry a lot in the beginning. But Gerry thought it was too much for him, that’s why he moved away. Does he live far away? I’d love to see him.”
“He lives fairly locally again now, I believe. Married with children, and was delighted when I told him Henry had a son, and grandson. It made him so happy.”
“Yes, it would have. If you speak to him again, give him my number, ask him to call me. It would be lovely for the boys to meet Henry’s best friend. Lorna too I reckon.”
“I will do.”
“What happens now?” Still clinging to the file, Annette looked concerned. “Can I keep this?”
“Yes, it’s yours. Now, we will tell the police what we’ve managed to piece together so far, and they will hopefully recover Henry’s body for you. While they do that, hopefully we’ll find out what actually happened to Chelly Rogers.”
“Hm, well if she’s alive I hope they throw the . . . why don’t you just ask Chris?”
“Yes, we’re going to have to, but Robin asked us not to bother him. Unfortunately, I’m not sure that will be possible.”
“Well Robin can wind his neck back in. This is my son, the boy I gave birth to, the boy I watched grow with such promise, the boy I lost. Yes, he was Robin’s father, but Robin never knew what it was to love him.” Still clutching the file, Annette got to her feet. “Come on, I’ll come with you.”
“Now?” Also on her feet, Angie knew she should take advantage of the offer, but didn’t want to cause any more family upset than was necessary. “Are you sure, wouldn’t it be better if you spoke to Lorna and Robin first?”
“Why? I don’t need their permission to visit my friend. I do once a month or so anyway. Why . . . Oh.” Annette plonked back down into the chair. “You all think he killed her.”
Closing her eyes, she replayed the last chapter she’d read. “Perhaps we should let sleeping dogs lie. If he did kill her, he had good cause.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Have you told the police yet? He’s an old man, this could kill him.”
“They have a copy of that.” Pointing at the file, Angie knelt again. “He may not have killed her, and if he did, I doubt he’d be brought to trial, not at his age, and not without proof. How would they prove anything without his evidence? But I’d still like to know the truth, wouldn’t you? I’d like to write that final chapter for Henry. Because however Chelly Rogers died, and whoever killed her, it was all about Henry.”
It took Annette only a few moments to consider this, before she was back on her feet.
“I agree. Come on, let’s get this sorted out. I want to bury my boy, and I want a finished copy to go with him.” Annette slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
Margaret came into the room to ask if they needed a drink but stopped in the doorway. “Is everything okay? Is Annette leaving?”
“She wants to know what happened to Chelly Rogers, and we’re going to see Chris.”
“Oh, I see. Should I come?”
“Yes, dear. The more the merrier. He likes visitors, bring your mother too, but not the policeman, I don’t think that would be fair.”
“Don’t you think that might be a little overwhelming for him? I thought he was ill.” Angie looked concerned.
“He’s been ill for years, the rest of us call it old age.” Laughing, Annette’s eyes twinkled. “That’s what I tell him when he’s taking his fistful of drugs that keep him going. Always gets a laugh from him.”
“Well, I’ll ask Mother. She might have something on.” Having witnessed the first part of the demise of Chelly Rogers, Margaret wasn’t sure whether it was she who needed to see it through to the end. If she knew for sure that Angie would get there, she’d willingly stay away. But her mother too? That was surely overkill for the old man. Making a decision, she went back to the kitchen. “Angie and Annette are going to see Chris Rogers, now. Annette is insisting, I said we’d get dinner on while they were gone.”
“I’d better get off home, I’m already in trouble, I can feel it. I’ll pop in first thing, unless it’s urgent, in which case give me a ring.”
Tipper left them discussing what they should get for dinner. There was a difference of opinion.
“Do you know what? I’m deciding,” Angie announced. “I’m going to get a Chinese on my way home, and I’ll get a selection, so you don’t need to choose. Are you ready, Annette?”
“Oh yes. I’m glad I’ll be there to support him. Bye, ladies, enjoy your Chinese, I’m jealous, can’t remember the last time I had one.”
Once in the car, she directed Angie to the small estate of bungalows where Chris Rogers lived.
“Keep following the road round, and at the fork go left. He’s in the end one.” Annette flapped her hand in keeping with her directions. “Lovely place, he’s got those pull cord alarms in case he has a fall or gets ill, the matron or caretaker person lives on site. I wouldn’t mind living here, but I love my cottage too much.
Once Angie had parked, Annette picked up the file.
“Are you going to show him that?”
“If he wants to read it, yes. He has a right to know.” Standing on the step, Annette pushed the doorbell. “Don’t hold your breath he takes ages . . . oh, he must have been on the move.” She looked surprised as the door opened.
“Annette, you look nice. New hairdo? Come on in, I’ve been expecting you.” His shoulders hunched, and his hair a cuff of pure white around his bald crown, Chris Rogers extended his wizened hand into the hall.
“Expecting me, why? It’s not my week?”
“Robin visited and told me. So, I told him. I knew you’d . . .” As Annette stepped into the hall, he spotted Angie. “Who’s this?”
“My friend Angie. I’ll put the kettle on, and then you can tell us what you told Robin.”
Chapter Thirty One
Tea made, television turned down to a low level, and everyone seated, Annette looked Chris Rogers in the eye.
“Tell me then. What did you tell Robin, and why would it make me come here?”
Although his body was frail, his mind was as acute as it had always been, and he waved a feeble finger at her.
“All in good time. If you don’t know why I was expecting you, why are you here? And who’s she?” His eyes moved to look at Angie. “You’ve never brought someone with you before. I need to know everything. I don’t get to meet many strangers.”
Smiling at him, Angie answered for Annette. “I’m Angie, and I’m a writer. Until recently I was writing the TV soap, The Village, but I’m freelance now and I’m writing a book. I’m married with—”