by M K Turner
The others didn’t answer, and waited until they heard her above them, before they spoke.
“Poor Angie. This is worse for her than it is us, Mother. She’s already frazzled.”
“I know, but let’s hope this is the end of it. Once we know what happened to Chelly, all the emotional stuff is done. Although I do feel we should attend the funerals . . . both of them.”
“Agreed. Fingers crossed this won’t take long.”
Upstairs, Angie lay on her bed, and held the pendant in one hand and the chain in the other. Yawning, she wished she wasn’t so tired. Why didn’t Tipper bring the bloody case tomorrow? She’d have been better equipped to deal with it then. Pressing her head into the pillow she closed her eyes. “Speak to me then.” Her tone was sharp, and she half wondered whether anything would happen when she was in this frame of mind.
Two hours later, Bridget folded the last pillow case and shook her head. “She’s asleep.”
“Probably.” Margaret closed the dishwasher.
“Perhaps we should wake her?”
“Mother, she’s exhausted, even if she’s finished witnessing whatever it was, she needs her rest.”
“But—”
“If we have to wait until the morning, so be it. If that means we don’t sleep, it’s a price I’m happy to pay.”
“What if I wake her when I go in?”
“You won’t. Not if you don’t want one almighty row. Actually, scratch that, I’ll sleep with her, that way you won’t accidentally give her a nudge.”
“How could you say that? Margaret! I’m hurt. Hurt to my very core. As if I’d do anything to harm that child, even if it is only a little sleep deprivation. Hurt. Put the kettle on before I say something I’ll regret.”
Lifting the kettle, Margaret walked to the tap. “When have you ever regretted something you said?” A smile appeared. “Everything you say has been fully considered. You’ve never made a faux pas in your life. Although, I will admit your acting is good.”
Tittering, Bridget lifted two mugs from the rack. “It’s lucky I’m only an open book to you, darling.”
Smiling as she listened to their conversation, Angie crept into the sitting room and opened her laptop. With a bit of luck she’d be done before they realised she was there. Her wish was not to be granted. Margaret bustled in about ten minutes later carrying a plate and saying something about Chinese cuisine not keeping hunger at bay for long.
Holding up her hand, Angie shook her head. “Out. I won’t be long, almost there.”
With a curt nod, Margaret hurried back to her mother with the news. When Angie held out the final chapter, her bottom lip jutted out. “I never saw that coming.”
Hitting the switch on the kettle and lifting a slice of cheese from the plate on the centre of the table, she smiled as the two women scooted their chairs close together to enable them to read it at the same time.
“I’m going for a shower. I’ll have a tea when that’s boiled.”
Chapter Thirty Four
Unable to believe what he was hearing, he closed his eyes. His heart was still thundering in his chest, but now it wasn’t fear. Now, it was pure hatred. A hatred that had caused his clenched fists to beat against the side of his head, hoping to remove the image planted there. A hatred that caused his teeth to clench, holding back the questions he had from spewing forth. Drawing in a breath his knuckles whitened.
“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 as he charged forward, roaring as though he were charging an enemy. And at that moment, she was his enemy. Unable to curtail his momentum, his words were lost on her as the outstretched hands intending to grab her, to shake her, collided with her shoulders.
Taking a step backward, ready to give as good as she knew was coming, her head swam, and her vision blurred. She stumbled, and too shocked to attempt to break her fall, she hit the floor. Looking back, Chris Rogers always wondered whether she’d heard the sickening thud as her head hit the corner of the grate.
“Tell me you’re lying.”
The demand was sobbed as Chris Rogers fell to his knees and searched for a pulse. His chin hit his chest. “Dead, she’s bloody dead.”
“What?”
“Dead. Simmons, fucking dead. Were you shagging her too?”
“No! No, she’s not. Sit her up. Sit her up.” Dan Simmons joined Chris Rogers kneeling beside Chelly’s body. “No, no, no,” he sobbed, and grabbing her arm he tried to pull her up.
“She killed him. The bitch killed him. Didn’t she?” Wild eyes wanted confirmation and letting go of Chelly’s arm, he grabbed Chris Roger’s hand. “Did she kill him?”
“Yes, I think she did. I need to do something.” Pulling off his jacket, Chris covered Chelly’s upper body, and rearranged her robe over her legs.
“No, no, no. She’s not dead.” Simmons tried to pull the jacket away, but let his hands fall to his side when Chris Rogers slapped him hard. His tears mingled with the snot which mingled with the drool from his open mouth. “I didn’t want to kill her. She was my last hope. I thought they were planning on running away together or something stupid. I thought he’d been lying to me.” Pulling his sleeve across his face, he tried to control himself. “Should we call an ambulance?”
“They won’t be much use to her.” Flicking away his own tears, Chris sniffed. “What do you mean, lying to you?” Getting to his feet, he yanked Simmons to his feet and pushed him into a chair. “Tell me why you were here.”
“I can’t,” Simmons eyes darted to Chelly’s body momentarily. “I . . . it’s not what you want to hear.”
“You heard what she told me. It can’t get any worse. Why did you come here? To take up where he left off?” Not a big drinker, Chris wished there was some gin left in the bottle. He was about to sit on the sofa but remembering Chelly’s taunts he walked to the other chair, as Simmons began to protest.
“No. How could you think that, sir? I wanted to know why Henry had done a runner. I knew he’s been seeing a woman, and that he’d dumped her when he started seeing Lorna. He loved her. Lorna that is. He told me this woman was hounding him. Kept promising to leave him alone, and then turning up. Then one night at rugby training as I arrived, I saw her. I saw her in a fur coat getting into her car around the corner from the entrance. I knew there was someone else there, but I didn’t see who it was. When I got to training, his bike was there, but he wasn’t. I put two and two together, but I didn’t say anything because I was a bastard of a friend, who thought I’d save it for a better time. A time where I could tease him and take the micky.” Pressing the flat of his hands against his cheeks, he scraped away his tears.
Chris Rogers put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He tossed it to Simmons. “That doesn’t explain why you came here, only that you knew my wife was a whore.”
“When he disappeared, he should have been with me and Lorna, and I knew only something serious would have kept him away. At first, I refused to believe what his mother was saying about him being dead. He was my best friend. He wasn’t allowed to be dead. But as the weeks trickled by, I thought that had to be the only answer. Henry wasn’t nasty enough to just up and go without a word.”
“What changed that?” Chris got to his feet and went to the cabinet. Lifting out the whiskey he tilted the near empty bottle. Hardly worth getting a glass for what she’d left. Unscrewing the cap, he swigged it straight from the bottle. He turned to look at Simmons. “I asked you a question.”
“My mum. She’s a bit of a gossip, and she bumped into one of your neighbours, who said you and Lorna had gone away without your wife. She asked me if I knew anything. Me! Anyway, it got me to thinking, why didn’t she go with you, and I thought . . . hoped really, that he was here. And that he’d been telling porkies about trying to get rid of her, and they were running away together.” Simmons smile was brief. “So I came to see
if she was here. When I saw her car, I thought I’d knock and ask. After all, she could hardly get funny about it.”
“Keep talking.” Chris Rogers took another swig.
“Why? Do you think you should be drinking, sir? It’s all been a bit of a shock, for me anyway.”
“Oh for me too, Simmons.” He waved the bottle. “This is giving me courage.”
Beginning to feel uneasy, Simmons shifted forward. “To do what, sir? I didn’t mean to kill her, and I certainly didn’t shag her.”
“You’ll have to get to the end of the story for the answer, but not to beat you, Simmons. I don’t think I could, do you?”
“No, no disrespect, sir. I don’t think you could either, so courage for what?”
“To make the right decision. Whether to call the police and have my sorry, sordid life dragged through the courts and no doubt the press if they charge you with murder, or more likely manslaughter, or to help you dispose of her body.” He took another swig. “The latter being the preference, but one which demands courage, which seems to be evading me. So . . .” He held up the bottle again. “Carry on. What happened once you’d knocked?”
“Charge me? Why? It was an accident you know that.”
“I do, but I’m the wronged husband, my word will count for nothing. A woman has died in suspicious circumstances. There has to be an investigation, and as you made contact . . . Simmons, just tell me what bloody happened!” The whiskey was beginning to take effect.
“She opened the door, dressed like that.” Waving a hand in the general direction of Chelly’s body, Simmons avoided looking at her. “I asked her if Henry was here.” Simmons sat back in the chair, and gazing at the ceiling, wished he’d never listened to his mother . . .
“Is Henry in there?”
“Henry, here? What are you talking about? Go away.”
“Not until you tell me the truth, I know you were shagging him, and now you answer the door like that. Is he here?”
“Shut your mouth, get in.” Leaning forward, Chelly grabbed his jumper and pulled him in. Her robe had fallen open and most of one breast was exposed. Closing the door, she followed his gaze. “Really, young man. You insult me on my own doorstep and then have the cheek to look at me like that.” Waving her glass, she walked away into the sitting room. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.” He followed her in. “I want to know about Henry, and then I’ll go. Are you running away with him?”
Shaking her head slowly, her eyes filled as she answered him. “No. No, I’m not.” She held up her hands, “I can’t prove that, but you’ll have to believe me.” Topping up her glass, she pointed to the sofa. “Take a seat, lovely boy and tell me why you really came.”
He shook his head, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. “I came to find out. I know you had a . . . thing with him, and I just thought that—”
“A thing, a thing? You said shagging, and that’s what it was. Simply a bit of fun.”
“Then why were you chasing after him?”
“Is that what he said. Silly old Henry.” Chelly walked closer, twitching her shoulders so the robe exposed more of her breasts. “I think Henry took passion to mean something else.” Sitting next to him, she placed her hand on his knee. “I’m a passionate woman, and I have so much to give.” She smirked. “Henry was certainly a taker, are you a taker . . . I’m sorry I don’t know your name.” Drawing her nails up and down his thigh she waited for his name.
“Dan.” His voice was little more than a croak. His erection was growing, and he now knew how Henry had become ensnared.
“Dan. Lovely name. Are you a taker, Dan?”
“Uum . . .”
“Well, no more talk of Henry. Let’s find out about Dan. What does Dan like?” Getting to her feet she stood before him and pulled open her robe. “Does Dan like this?”
Dan didn’t like it. In other circumstances Dan would love it, but not here, not with her. He shook his head unable to speak.
“Are you a homosexual? Is that why you are so worked up about Henry going missing? Did everyone love the wonderful Henry?”
“I am not.” Dan was horrified. “I don’t know you, and I’m not going to get trapped like Henry did. I have a girlfriend.”
“Oh, I touched a . . . what was that? Did you hear that cough?” Chelly hurried to the window. Turning back, she tied the belt of her robe. “In there quick. My husband is here.”
“What, I thought . . . shit!” Heart pounding, Simmons ran to the door she was pointing at and closed it quietly. Barely able to breathe he was so frightened Mr Rogers would find him and think the worst, he almost threw up when he wondered what Mr Rogers would have found if he’d responded to her offer.
The door opened and he nearly fainted.
“He’s upstairs. Keep still and keep quiet,” Chelly hissed and closed the door again.
Leaning forward, burying his face in his hands, Dan groaned.
“The rest you know.”
Chris Rogers remained silent.
“Mr Rogers, sir, you do believe me, I wouldn’t have, I couldn’t have.”
The nod was negligible, but the groan loud and long. “I do. Shit, Simmons, this is a bloody mess.”
“I know. I’m sorry. What shall we do?”
“That’s up to you. I’ll do whatever you choose. We can try and dispose of her body, and if we do, how and where et cetera, or we can call the police and deal with whatever that throws at us.” He closed his eyes against either possibility.
“We can’t do that, and as for the police, I don’t want to be charged with something I didn’t do, because right at that moment, I wanted to kill her, I was so angry. But not for real. Bloody hell, Mr Rogers, we need a . . . wait a minute, can’t we clean up and just leave her there. I’ll go home, you go back to your holiday and then you can ‘find’ her when you get back.”
“No.”
“Think about it, no one knows you’re here, or me for that matter. She’s been drinking and they’ll think she fell because she was drunk.”
“No. I said, no!”
“But why? Why not?”
“Because I will not subject Lorna to that. She was leaving you know. Chelly, not Lorna.”
“Yes, I know, I heard.” Simmons looked confused. “Why is that relevant?”
“Not then, before I came home. I know because she’d packed all her things, she thought I hadn’t noticed. You should have put the toilet seat down, dead giveaway.”
“I didn’t use the toilet. I told you what happened.”
Chris raised his eyebrows. “Whore. My wife was a whore, who didn’t lift the toilet seat. If it wasn’t you, she’s had other visitors.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Rogers. You’re a decent bloke, this is so wrong.”
“It is. But facts are facts, let’s create a few of our own. Where can we get rid of a body?”
“I don’t know. The quarry?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. We need somewhere fairly inaccessible where even if she’s found it won’t be soon. Somewhere remote.”
“What about the graveyard? There might be a hole dug ready for someone else, we could put her in first and cover her up. I saw that on a . . . the well! That’s a hole already dug, and it’s very deep, not really remote, but not many people go there. Not much to see.”
“Are you talking about the medieval village? I remember the well, helped out on a school trip there. I think you might be onto something. We could take her there, put her down and . . . yes. Yes. If that’s your choice that’s what we’ll do.”
“Oh shit. I don’t think I could. I want to, but . . . can I do it?”
“Think about it, when I get back, we either get on with it, or I’ll call the police. I must get back to Lorna. I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to.”
Leaving Simmons to think it over, Chris took the stairs two at a time. Overnight case under one arm, and a suitcase in each hand he carried them down a
nd stopped outside the sitting room door and dropped them. Simmons hadn’t moved, other than to put his hands over his face. It was clear he was crying. He patted him on the back.
“Shall I give them a call now, or would you like five minutes?”
“No, let’s go to the well.” Unable to bring himself to even mention the body, Simmons pulled his shoulders back. “I can do this.” The words were to reassure himself as much as Chris Rogers.
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“Then follow me.” Once in the hall, Chris pulled open the door to the under stairs cupboard. He removed an ironing board, the vacuum, and a set of golf clubs. Finally, with a grunt, he pulled forward a small wooden box full of tools. “We can put the luggage in here, there’s a huge void down there. I can deal with it at a later date.”
Selecting a claw hammer, he jammed one end into a gap in the floorboard and began to lever it back and forth, he achieved little more than to cause a few splinters in the wood.
“Here, let me.” Simmons held out his hand and accepted the hammer.
“Lift enough just to drop them in. No need to waste any more time than is absolutely necessary.” Leaving him to it, Chris went back to the sitting room. “You stupid, stupid woman.” His voice caught in his throat as he removed his jacket and placed it over the back of the chair. Lifting Chelly’s hand he removed the band from her wedding finger. It hadn’t been cheap. Even though she had refused to marry him, Chelly still wanted the best he could afford. Placing the ring on the floor, he took hold of the chain and released the fastener, sliding it as gently as he could from her neck, he then placed it next to the ring. Finally, he removed the silver hoop earrings.
Back in the hall, he found Simmons measuring the gap in the boards he had created by trying to force one of the suitcases in.
“One more,” Simmons told him solemnly.
Chris released the clasps on the overnight bag and dropped the jewellery in. Closing it he handed it to Simmons. “Will this fit?”