Epitaph: a gripping murder mystery

by Anita Waller

  ‘You can’t give in to her, you know,’ Dan warned when he phoned that evening. ‘This whole Harry Lester thing is for you and Shirley. He was your genetic father. Whatever is done, it has to be because you want to do it, not because Miss Megan Sherlock Holmes Steer wants it.’

  ‘But that’s the thing, isn’t it? I do want to know more about him. I don’t even know what he looks like. Mum kept no pictures of him, and I bet she’d forgotten about the diaries she left. She even stopped writing them after he went. If she’d had, say, a cancer diagnosis, I bet those diaries would have disappeared so fast… but dementia took her memory. She’d be devastated if she knew we’d found them. I wish you were here, Dan, I need you tonight.’

  ‘I know, but I need to meet up with a client, with Northbrook’s in Chester in the morning, so I can’t come home. I’ll be back tomorrow, most likely mid-afternoon. We’ll have takeaway for our evening meal, as long as the daughter promises to curb her ideas.’ He laughed.

  ‘Fat chance. She’ll want you on her side. I’m probably the evil witch at the moment because I won’t send for a death certificate for her. She’s not going to let this drop, you know.’

  ‘What was she like, this Mrs Lester?’

  ‘Very nice. She has an investigation company at Eyam, in Derbyshire.’

  ‘And she knew nothing of you?’

  ‘Not prior to getting my letter. And she knew nothing at all of Shirley. That must have been a massive shock to her. She knew of Harry’s affair with Mum, but she apparently told him to choose, and he chose her. As far as she was aware until a week ago, he had ditched Mum, and she didn’t know it carried on for three years and two babies. I can’t approach her yet, she needs to assimilate everything she’s found out, and I can’t begin to imagine how she’s feeling.’

  Doris couldn’t describe her thoughts. Her initial reaction had been relief that it was over and they could get on with the holiday, but the more she dwelt on the afternoon, the darker her mood became.

  The letter had initially made her see that she hadn’t really known her husband at all, but meeting up with both his daughters had thrown her. She could accept that he hadn’t known about the second baby if Lily Chambers had told him she had lost it, but he had obviously completely disregarded Rosie. He couldn’t possibly have paid anything towards her upbringing, because she was the one who balanced the books for their lives; both salaries went into a joint account, their savings were rarely touched, and she managed their investments. He had been happy to pass on that responsibility. In fact, thinking about him, he had been happy to pass on all responsibility for everything, including his two girls to Lily.

  Wendy had disappeared early to her room, saying it had been a long day and she was tired; Doris had felt relieved. She too had needed time out, time to think, but she knew she could feel tears starting and emotions invading her brain.

  She knew the Hucknall families would want to know more. They had seemed close, Rosie and Shirley, and she guessed once they had had chance to discuss her visit, they would realise they still knew nothing about their father. And what could she tell them? He worked for the Secret Service? The Official Secrets Act said no, she couldn’t do that.

  She would, out of necessity, have to leave a huge gap in their knowledge of him. She could simply say he was a civil servant, but even that would lead to questions she couldn’t answer. Her thoughts went to her own daughter’s questioning of her about what Mummy and Daddy did, after Claire heard her giving instructions to Harry. Harry had had to come to terms with his wife being his boss, but Claire had spent a lot of time trying to get them to say exactly what it was they did. In the end she had given up, but Doris suspected it was because she grew up and realised exactly what the term civil servant could entail. She stopped asking.

  Doris was afraid that Rosie and Shirley, and even possibly Megan, would ask. Doris dabbed at her eyes, keeping tears at bay. The knock on the door surprised her, and she cautiously opened it.

  Wendy was standing there with a whiskey in each hand. ‘I figured there’d be tears around about now.’

  Doris opened the door fully and Wendy walked in. She handed one of the glasses to Doris, and sat on the bed.

  ‘Let’s talk.’

  ‘My brain is buzzing,’ Doris said with a slight smile. ‘I’m so sorry I made the decision to include this in our holiday…’

  ‘You think I’m not a good enough friend to share this burden with you?’ There was a challenge in Wendy’s voice.

  ‘Of course you are, but we’re on holiday. I should have put it to one side and dealt with it after we got home.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve come to talk about. I think we should postpone the rest of the holiday. We can restart in a few weeks. I don’t work now, you can take time out whenever you want, so we can wait. We know we’ve enjoyed doing it, and I’d be more than happy to carry on, but not at the moment. I think you have things to resolve, and you’re going to be distracted and not enjoy our dead people as much. I think we forget Sylvia Plath for the time being, and start with her next time.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I am. Never been more so. You’re seventy, I’m seventy-two, and if we can’t change plans at our time of life, then there’s something wrong.’

  Doris sat down in the chair with a thud, clinging to her toothbrush glass of whiskey. She said nothing for a minute.

  ‘If I agree to this postponement,’ Doris said finally, ‘there’s a condition.’

  Wendy waited.

  ‘Nobody is expecting you home until the weekend after next at the earliest, not even Bingo Jen, so if we go home, will you stay with me at Little Mouse Cottage? Let me show you Derbyshire, we can do that on odd days while I’m dealing with this and getting it out of my life.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No discussion, no arguing?’

  ‘Doris Lester, for crying out loud. Of course I’ll stay with you. There may be things you need to discuss, and you know it will go no further. You can’t guarantee Belle not running off to her feline friends and telling them your problems, can you?’

  ‘You’re a star, Wendy Lucas, an absolute star. You see, I can’t help but feel they should have some knowledge of Harry, these girls, but equally I’m not sure that what I will be giving them will be totally accurate. It was the nature of the job to be secretive for both of us, and he certainly took secrecy to a whole new level.’

  ‘So that’s settled then. We’ll cancel our bookings in the morning, check out of here and head off to Bradwell. Don’t forget to let Luke know. He’ll die of shock if he walks in to check everything’s okay, and we’re sitting there in our PJs.’

  Doris laughed. ‘I feel so much lighter now. It’s like a massive worry has gone because I’ve not felt in control of what’s happened. I’ll have to let Kat and Mouse know also, but make sure they understand I’m still on holiday. I’ll make up some excuse – you might have to have caught a heavy cold or something – because Mouse knows nothing about this secret in her granddad’s life, and I’m not ready to share it yet, if ever.’

  6

  Mark Ledger straightened his tie slightly and turned to face his wife. ‘We’ll go next weekend instead,’ he said. ‘I can’t miss this function on Saturday.’

  ‘But the boys are expecting us to visit them on Saturday.’

  ‘Shirley, it’s Thursday tomorrow. Ring the school and ask them to pass the message on to them that it will be next Saturday and not this Saturday. That’s plenty of time to get the information to them.’

  ‘They’re only eleven, Mark,’ Shirley said quietly. ‘You know I don’t like them being away from us at this crucial point in their lives.’

  Mark gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Huh. You mean you don’t like them being away from you. They couldn’t care less about me. This school made a man of me, and it will do the same for them. I had to pull a lot of strings to get them in, you know.’


  ‘They hate it,’ she whispered.

  ‘I did for the first year, but then you get used to it. They’ll be fine. Stop worrying about them. Do I look okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said shortly, not prepared to tell him about the chalk mark on the back of his jacket. Let others see it, and maybe tell him. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The Grand. I’m speaking on global warming and what this area can do to help the national effort.’

  She gave a small nod. Another subject alongside schooling for eleven-year-old boys that he knew nothing about.

  ‘And what time will you be home?’

  ‘Don’t wait up for me. Now, how do I look?’

  She wanted to say revolting, but didn’t. The truth was he was an almost-perfect specimen to look at, nearly six feet tall, dark hair that insisted on falling slightly forward on to his face, adding to the cavalier look he portrayed; his grey eyes exuded warmth to the people he wanted to impress. To her, they showed coldness.

  She watched him walk out of the bedroom, ignoring the clothes he had scattered around the place, and she listened for the bang as the front door closed. Holding back tears of frustration, she put his clothes in the laundry basket, leaving his suit till last, remembering he had asked that it be dry-cleaned.

  Maybe he would die. Maybe there would be an accident on the bypass and he wouldn’t survive it. Then she could go to the school on Saturday, tell her boys that unfortunately their father was dead, and they could come home and go to a state school. Maybe.

  Melanie Brookes, dainty, her short dark hair brushed until it gleamed, sat by the side of her partner, Patrick, at a large round table and listened to Patrick’s brother speaking from the top table. Her blue eyes, perfectly complemented by the long blue silk dress she was wearing, were fixed on Mark.

  Mark was an inspiring speaker, no matter what subject he was covering – she could almost believe he cared about global warming, cared about what the Nottingham area could do about it. Almost believe.

  Patrick Ledger moved his hand along the table towards hers, and gave it a gentle squeeze. She responded with a smile that looked genuine but her mind was fixed on Mark Ledger, not Patrick. It was so wrong, how she felt about her potential future brother-in-law. He totally set her on fire every time he touched her, and several times during his speech he had glanced in her direction; she knew the smile was meant only for her.

  She shuffled in her seat, uncomfortable with her thoughts, her feelings, and her disloyalty to Patrick, but hadn’t a clue in hell how to change things. Walk away from Mark? That was the logical thing to do, but the sex was so bloody good…

  ‘Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentleman, and I hope we can count on your help and support when we start to put these plans into operation.’ Mark sat down with a smile, immediately glancing over towards the table where Patrick and Melanie were sitting.

  Patrick, a slightly weightier copy of his brother and with the same grey eyes, was speaking with the waiter, so she gave a little wave in Mark’s direction, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  Mark was beginning to worry about the foolishness of seeing Melanie. If Shirley ever found out… he shuddered at the thought. He would lose everything. The house, the boys, probably his job. Oh, and Shirley as well.

  The house was owned by both of them, but he knew if they split up she would stay in the house; the boys would definitely not want to go with him. And he had got his current job through a friend of Shirley’s at the WI, so there was half a chance he wouldn’t get to keep that.

  If anyone found out about him and Melanie, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about; he guessed Patrick would be none too pleased as well. He’d ordered some flowers to be delivered to Mel’s home for the following afternoon, wishing her luck for her York conference, softening her for the planned Monday evening together they hoped to enjoy. And the sex was so bloody good…

  The room was emptying, and Patrick waved Mark over towards their table. ‘We’re going to get off now,’ he said, and winked at his brother.

  Mark knew exactly what the wink meant and wanted to punch Patrick in the face. Instead, he smiled. ‘Okay, you two. Be good. I’m stuck here for a bit until a few more have gone home, then I’ll be getting off. Patrick, you in or out Monday evening?’

  ‘Out. We’ve a bridge tournament in Nottingham, and I can’t cry off.’

  ‘Okay, doesn’t matter,’ Mark replied, ‘it wasn’t anything important. We’ll meet up some other time.’ I’ll be meeting with Melanie on Monday, then.

  Patrick stood. ‘I’ll go and get your jacket, Mel. You got the ticket?’

  Melanie fished around in her bag and handed over a cloakroom ticket. Patrick walked away and Mark sat down by her side.

  ‘Are you okay for Monday?’

  She nodded, feeling almost breathless at how close he was to her. ‘I am. You coming to mine?’ Melanie spent most of the week at Patrick’s, but still maintained her own small flat – it had proved to be a smart move when she started seeing Mark.

  ‘I will. Make an excuse for you being out somewhere, so if he does come back early it won’t matter. He’ll know there’s no point going to yours, you won’t be in.’ He stroked her leg, then stood up as he saw Patrick heading towards them, holding Melanie’s jacket.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Patrick said. ‘The chap on the door is getting us a taxi.’ He high-fived Mark. ‘Good talk tonight, bro, thanks for getting us the tickets. Pity Shirley couldn’t come, but maybe next time.’

  Mark smiled. ‘Yeah, she was gutted at having to miss it, but she’d already booked something to do with the WI.’ The lies came so easily.

  He leaned forward and kissed Melanie on the cheek, then shook his brother’s hand. ‘Take care, speak to you soon.’

  It was a warm evening and Mark checked his watch as he walked down the stone steps. He’d refused the doorman’s offer to get him a taxi, saying he’d brought his car and would be driving home. By the time he’d reached the bottom of the steps, he knew he wasn’t going to be driving anywhere. His head felt as if it was moving in a different direction to his feet, so he decided to walk home, clear his mind, have a good sleep and collect his car the following day.

  He grinned to himself. Surely he’d have sobered up by noon the following day. God, he must have had a lot to drink.

  The doorman watched Mark as he tried to walk along the pavement, and shook his head in disbelief. The bloke had said he was driving home, but he was struggling to walk, never mind drive. ‘Changed your mind, pal, have you?’ he said to himself.

  Mark staggered along the road, occasionally using the light on his mobile phone when the going became a little tricky. Sometimes there was a pavement, sometimes there wasn’t, and when there wasn’t, he dug out his phone. The third time he did that, he saw the text.

  Don’t bother coming home. You won’t get in.

  A wave of anger washed over him and he threw the mobile phone with some force against a tree. The light disappeared, along with the phone. He staggered over to the tree and felt around at the base; there was nothing there.

  ‘What the fuck!’ he roared, and staggered back to the road, looking right and left, hoping against hope that there would be a red phone box. Any damn colour phone box. There wasn’t. He went back to the tree and searched again, but in the end had to admit defeat. It must have bounced off the trunk and it could be anywhere, he finally realised.

  He set off to walk again, and had gone a couple of hundred yards before remembering what had caused him to throw the phone – the text from his dearly beloved. ‘You can’t tell me not to come home,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Shirley bloody Ledger?’

  After half an hour of further walking and two bouts of vomiting, he sat himself against a large oak tree, closed his eyes and gave in to the overwhelming fatigue. He couldn’t carry on; he’d have to sort his bloody wife out in the morning when he was sober.

  The postman woke hi
m. He took in the smart suit, the shiny shoes and silk tie, all covered in vomit, and helped Mark to stand.

  ‘You stink, mate. Can you go somewhere and get a wash before you go home?’

  Mark shook his head. He’d never felt so ill, and knew he wouldn’t be going into work later. What the hell had he had to drink? He tried to remember how much, and was somewhat surprised to realise he’d not had an empty glass throughout the night, the drinks had kept coming. He groaned, knowing he must look as bad as he felt. ‘You got a phone?’

  The postman nodded.

  ‘Can I ring for a taxi, please?’

  The postman handed it over. ‘You not got one?’

  ‘Threw it at a tree,’ Mark mumbled.

  ‘Yeah, I can see you doing that. In a bit of a state, were you?’

  Mark paused and looked at the man. ‘If you’d had four glasses of wine, would you look like this?’ The lie came out easily.

  The postman shook his head. ‘No, mate, you look as though you’ve had four bottles, not four glasses.’

  Mark spoke to the taxi office, and handed the phone back. ‘Thanks for your help. It’ll be here in five minutes.’

  ‘You’ll be okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be home in no time, sort out the bloody wife, and ring in sick.’

  The postman nodded again, wished him good luck, and resumed his walk to work.

  Mark stepped nearer to the edge of the road and waited. He saw the blue Mondeo approaching slowly, obviously looking for him and he walked out and waved his hand. Quarter of an hour later he was home.