by M K Turner
The dishwasher was on, a bottle of wine opened, and Annette was insisting she would get a taxi rather than bother anyone for a lift. Wanting to know what the police had found, she told them she would have a glass of wine and wait another thirty minutes for some news before calling a taxi.
Bridget sat drumming her fingers on the arms of her chair as they made small talk. Eventually, Margaret couldn’t bear it any longer.
“Mother! Stop drumming your nails. It’s like water torture. Find something to do with your hands.”
Clasping her hands together, Bridget looked insulted. “And how would you know? You’ve never been subjected to water torture, or have you been keeping secrets from us?”
Annette laughed and Margaret allowed herself a smile.
“I’d imagine it is slightly more irritating than the drumming, but not much. Why are you agitated?”
“I’m not.” Bridget frowned. “Not that I know of, anyway. But something is going to happen, I feel it.”
Glancing at Annette, Angie got to her feet. “We know that, Chelly’s things are being recovered. More wine anyone?” Lifting the bottle, she looked for takers. Only Annette held her glass up.
“Oh, go on then. It’s been a funny old couple of days, perhaps this will help me sleep. My mind is buzzing with all this.”
“You and me both.” Keeping her hands held firmly in her lap, Bridget shook her head. “I feel most peculiar.”
“Me too. But I need the toilet.” Placing her glass on the table, Annette attempted to push herself off the sofa. “My old bones are seizing up.”
“Here let me help you.”
Holding out her hand, Angie helped pull Annette to her feet. Annette kept hold of her hand. Watching from the other chair, Margaret became concerned, and looked from Angie to Annette. They were staring at each other. A single tear travelled Annette’s nose, and she shook her hand free.
“Upstairs?” she asked, and when Angie nodded, she smiled. “I don’t know how I know, but I think they’ve found my boy.” Brushing away the next tear, she hurried to the door. “All this is sending me loopy I reckon.”
“Wait.” Angie went to her and pulled her into a hug.
Annette clung to her like she’d never let go.
Bridget looked at Margaret. “He’s here. He’s saying goodbye. That’s what this was about.” She wiggled her fingers and Margaret gave a nod.
“I think you’re right, Mother.” Whispering, Margaret pointed at her daughter, “Look at Angie’s face.”
Eyes closed, head tilted up, Angie was smiling as she held Annette close. She looked happy, content and serene. Angie’s phone rang, and Margaret snatched it up.
“Frank,” she whispered to Bridget, keeping her voice low she answered the call. “Hello, it’s Margaret, Angie is tied up at the moment.
“It’s a quick call. We’ve found the luggage, but more importantly, I’ve had a call from the quarry. They’ve found Henry.”
“Yes, we know.”
“I should have guessed. I’ll call Mrs Cooksey.”
“No need, she knows too. She’s here.” Glancing up, Margaret watched Annette step away from Angie. With a warm smile she left the room. Listening to her tread on the stairs, Margaret returned her attention to Tipper. “Henry finally said goodbye.”
“Good. I have to go, they’re coming out. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
Having got to her feet, Bridget was hugging Angie. “You channelled him.” Her smile was wide. “I’m not sure that he’s gone though, I still feel odd.”
“Don’t start with the words, Gran. Channelling is something tunnel diggers do. It was rewarding though, I feel very light-hearted . . . happy. I think I might open another bottle of wine.” Turning to her mother, she asked, “Who was on the phone?”
“Frank. He wanted to let us know Henry had been found, and that he would pop in later. They found Chelly’s things.”
“I hope they don’t find anything that will make things worse for Chris Rogers. I think he’s done his time, so to speak. He’s a lovely old chap.”
“It’s certainly a difficult one. Nothing is ever black and white.” Cocking her head towards the door, Margaret smiled. “We need to tell Annette she was right.”
“Right about what?” asked Annette walking into the room.
“The police have called. You were right they have found Henry.”
“I know. I think he must be haunting me.” Flapping her hand, she laughed. “Ignore me, just a silly old . . .” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I must tell Lorna.”
“Yes. I think it would be best coming from you.” Margaret got to her feet. “Angie was threatening another bottle of wine. Would you like to join us?”
“No, no, thank you. I’ll call a taxi and get off home. I’ll call Lorna from there.”
“I’ve only had one drink, I can give you a lift,” Angie offered.
“No. You’ve done enough, I feel quite light-hearted, you know. I’ll sleep well tonight, happy that my boy’s been found. Can I borrow your phone? I came out in such a hurry I left mine at home.”
“Here you go, use mine.” Scrolling to a local taxi firm, Margaret held her phone out. “They are very reliable. I’m going to get that wine. A happy mother is reason enough to raise a glass.”
“Would you like Henry’s things back now?” asked Angie.
When Annette nodded, Bridget volunteered to fetch them. During the spurt of housework, she’d put the box in the corner of Angie’s bedroom. As she left the room, she heard Annette speaking to the taxi firm. Angie was happy, Annette was happy, and Margaret was getting more wine, she must be happy. Why then, she wondered, did she still feel on edge? Shrugging as she reached the top of the stairs she went into Angie’s bedroom.
Lifting the box onto the bed, Bridget took out Henry’s book, making sure that the earrings and flyer were tucked inside. Lifting Henry’s scarf, she found the photograph of the rugby team and looked at his smiling face. If she weren’t mistaken, his smile seemed even wider today. Placing it on top of the book, she held the little pile against her body, and then on a whim picked up his scarf and turned for the door. As she did so, her head spun and she felt dizzy. Sitting on the bed, she waited for the feeling to pass.
When she arrived downstairs, the others were coming out of the sitting room.
“I thought you’d got lost. Did you find everything? Annette’s taxi has arrived.” Margaret looked closely at her mother. Her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed not to be focusing on them. “Mother, are you okay?”
Bridget caught her eye. “Fine, darling, thank you. I just had a moment that’s all. Felt a little dizzy. Here you go, all present and correct. I thought you might like to give Lorna his scarf. The police will have no use of it now.” Handing everything to Annette, she added, “I’m sure she’d like it.”
“Oh my goodness. It’s her birthday tomorrow, she’ll love it. Best b—”
“The earrings!” Angie gasped. “Gran, the earrings are there, aren’t they?”
“Yes dear, in the book. What wonderful timing, it’s almost like Henry timed it.”
Looking from one to the other, Annette was frowning. “What did he time? What earrings?”
“Lorna’s birthday present,” explained Margaret. “Henry made a note in that book, that he’d bought Lorna some earrings for her birthday and now he was broke. The earrings are in the book. You can tell her you have a present from him when you break the news about finding him.”
“Oh gosh.” Covering her mouth with her hand, it looked like Annette would cry. The tooting of a horn outside made them all jump, and Annette smiled. “I must go, but that’s perfect, simply perfect. Goodbye all. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“You are most welcome. Goodbye.” Bridget stepped forward and pecked her on the cheek. “Hurry now or he’ll charge you for waiting.” She’d closed the door before Annette had reached the gate.
“That was a little obvious, Mother. You’ve witness
ed something, haven’t you?”
“Oh yes, and . . .” The bell rang, and Bridget opened the door. It was Tipper. Ignoring the bag in his hand, she ushered Tipper into the living room. “Good timing, Frank, I’ve got something to tell you.”
Chapter Thirty Two
Chelly Rogers was curled up on the back seat. To anyone glancing in the car, she was sleeping, but the driver knew differently, and beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead as they drove through the village.
On approaching the planned location, his eyes darted back and forth from the mirror to the windscreen, checking that no one was about, and that the removal of her body was unlikely to be disturbed. Driving past what was to become Chelly’s final resting place several times before turning off the main road, he drove past the signpost for the Medieval Village, ignoring the large warning sign that no vehicles should pass that point, and followed the footpath. Once at the end of the shingled walkway, he continued until the car was unable to go further. He stopped the engine.
Leaving Chelly’s body in situ for a moment, the driver looked around to get his bearings. There was the circle where the main building had housed the women and children when the village was attacked. There was the spot where the children’s graves were discovered, which meant . . . yes, there it was. The village well. Gravel crunched and twigs snapped underfoot as he hurried forward.
The iron grill which had been placed over the opening was rusting but still fully intact. Gripping the bars, shaking hands tried to lift it off the low stone wall surrounding the hole. It moved but was too heavy to remove. Running back to the car, the wheel brace was retrieved from the boot, and used to lever the grill up. Rocks were pushed under the grill to stop it falling back into position. Once this had been repeated around the outer wall, a shoulder was placed against the grill, toes dug into the surrounding soil, and with much grunting and groaning the grill was manoeuvred forward until it balanced precariously on the rocks. Half the opening of the well was now exposed.
Sweat dripped from his face as he returned to the car. Opening the back door, and placing his hands under her arms, Chelly was pulled slowly out of the car. When her torso had cleared the back seat, an arm was placed under her legs, and she was carried as one would carry a sleeping child, towards the well.
His tears dripped into her hair as he balanced her on the edge of the well. Careful not to disturb the grill, he paused to catch his breath. Gulping in breaths, he slowly pushed her backside forward with his knee. Almost folded in half, Chelly’s body reached the edge, and then as it reached the void, it was snatched from his hands. Chelly was gone. He listened for a splash, or more likely a thud, but heard nothing.
Dropping to his knees, he allowed the sobs to take hold. After several minutes, he wiped his nose on his sleeve and worked quickly. Collecting as many rocks and stones as he could find, he dropped them in on top of Chelly. Finally, exhausting the supply, he set his shoulder against the grill and pushed it back into position. Several of the rocks which had been supporting the grill, fell into the well as the grill clattered back into its slot.
Looking around, the only evidence that anything out of the ordinary had happened, were several gouges in the stones that formed the top of the well. Scrabbling at the surrounding earth with his fingers, he filled his hands with soil and rubbed it into the gouges, before dragging his foot back and forth across the footprints he had made when manoeuvring the grill.
Scuffing his feet along the ground to avoid leaving obvious footprints, he made his way back to the car. The further he got from the well, the easier his breathing became. By the time he parked the car, the only evidence that anything was wrong with him was his red puffy eyes, and the tremor in his hands that wouldn’t go away.
Walking to the rear of the car, he looked around, and content no one was watching, he pushed the key into the exhaust pipe. He gave the sign above the chained gates a cursory glance as he hurried past. Opening the door of a car parked further up the street, he climbed in.
“It’s done.”
Chapter Thirty Three
There was silence for a few moments before Margaret spoke. “Are you saying that there were two of them?”
“I’m simply telling you what I witnessed. No faces, not even a glimpse of anything that might identify who it was. An educated guess would suggest that someone else knew what was going on though.”
“I know where that is. It’s only about five miles from where she died. I’ll leave the search until tomorrow though. The team are still working on recovering Henry, no point in having them out all night.” Pursing his lips, he pondered. “Here’s a thought, given her many failings as a loyal wife, is it possible Chris Rogers might have hired someone to kill her?” Tipper held his hands out. “The ‘it was an accident’ thing can only be verified by Rogers himself. Murderers have a habit of lying.”
“I don’t think so.” Angie looked at the others. “All my instincts tell me he’s almost telling the truth. But he is holding something back. I’m certain of that.”
“We’ll have to start with the car,” Tipper mused. “I’ll get on to DVLA tomorrow and find out what cars were registered to Chelly at that time. With a bit of digging around and with a bit of luck we might find out who owned the car next and who they bought it from. That might give us a clue to who it was.”
“Why don’t you simply see if that car place is still operating first. Might be the quickest route. Although that was—” Bridget looked affronted as Margaret interrupted her.
“What car place?”
With a little grimace, Bridget rolled her eyes. “Didn’t I say?”
“No, Mother, you did not.”
“That’s where the car was parked. In front of the gates of a second-hand car place. The sign said . . .” closing her eyes she brought back the image, “Bristol’s Premiere Car Sales.”
“Thank you. Do you know if they still exist, Frank?”
“Think they might be on the Stapleton Road. That or something close to it anyway.” Tipper pulled his phone from his pocket. “Let’s have a look.”
“The trouble is though, Frank, that was the seventies. Even if there were computers, which were few on the ground in small businesses, would they still have the records?”
“I was thinking that myself, but there’s only one way to find out.” Tipper hit the search button, and exclaimed a few seconds later. “Ha! There it is. Well it’s a start anyway. Well done Mrs B.”
He checked the time and getting to his feet, disappeared into the hall. When he returned, he was carrying the bag he had arrived with. “I really must get going, I promised her I would only be away for an hour. But first I’ll leave you this.” He placed the bag on the table. “Chelly’s overnight bag. Make-up, jewellery, passport and a few nick-knacks. The boys have taken prints from what they could, and her hairbrush, might need it for DNA when we find her.”
“Oh my, I don’t think there’s going to be much sleep in this house tonight. It’s just as well Lily and Ryan have gone. I was going to have another glass of wine, but I don’t think I will now.” Bridget got to her feet. “I’ll show you out, Frank. Would you like a call should we witness something else, or shall we leave you in peace until the morning?”
“That depends on what it is. You’ll know what’s best, I’m sure. Night, ladies.”
Topping her glass up as her grandmother showed Tipper out, Angie looked at her mother. “I had promised myself a day off tomorrow from being,” making speech marks with her fingers “a witness.” She took a sip of wine. “Mind you, I was expecting Ryan and Lily to be here. When did you two decide to stay anyway?”
“I didn’t know we had. But it seems it’s a possibility, don’t you think?” Running her fingers along the top of the case, Margaret looked at Bridget as she returned. “Even if nothing comes of looking in here, I think Mother has had a little too much to drive home.”
“Quite possibly, but that’s not going to happen now. Get that case open and let�
�s see what’s in there.” Bridget sat on the sofa next to Margaret. “This is so exciting.”
Staring at the overnight case, Margaret wasn’t convinced. Already mentally exhausted, she wasn’t sure she was ready for more, although she conceded they had nearly reached the end of this particular case. Holding her breath, she placed her thumbs on the buttons and pressed. The clasps flew open, and she opened the lid.
“Shall I do the honours, dear. You look a little wary.” Bridget was already lifting what she assumed was a make-up bag out of the case.
“Be my guest.” Clasping her hands, Margaret leaned back into the sofa. “I’m more than happy to be a spectator.”
One by one, Bridget lifted the items out onto the coffee table. Angie moved the glasses to the floor to provide more room. One of the items was a velvet drawstring bag. Peeping inside, Bridget announced, “Jewellery,” before returning to the task in hand. The last but one item was a long gold chain holding a pendant, the next a plain wedding band.
“That’s the necklace she was wearing.” Holding out her hand, Margaret took it and held the pendant in a tight fist, closing her eyes.
The other two waited a while before sifting through the other things as quietly as they could. Bridget dropped the passport and gasped as Margaret spoke.
“Nothing. I’m pleased to say . . . I think.” Dropping the chain on the table, she looked at Bridget.
“Are you okay, Mother?”
“Nothing that a good heart surgeon couldn’t sort out.” Patting her chest with one hand, Bridget held out the other. “Now I’m in the action. Let me have a try.”
Before Bridget could take it, Angie grabbed it. “This is for me I think.”
Passing her daughter the chain, Margaret sighed. “You look like I feel.”
“Yep. But like Gran says, we don’t get to choose. You two carry on, but I don’t think there’s anything else there. I’ll go upstairs.”