by Helen Oliver
“She were driving to summat down in Bath, and after that she wanted to be on hand when bairn arrives.” Tears glistened. “It’s due in about three weeks. …Lucy were stopping wi’ her boyfriend and his mum. Just for time being.”
Cally thought about the cot and the mobile. What plans had April Parsons made for this child?
Lyn said suddenly, “I forgot to tell policeman about the woman who came to see Mrs Parsons.” She turned to Cally. “Must’ve slipped me mind.”
“A client?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Can you describe her?”
“She were fairish. Slim, smart.”
“How old would you say?”
Lyn looked thoughtful. “Around thirty, wi’ right nice legs.” She paused. “She were wearing a skirt.”
Cally made notes and Hammond said, “Have you any idea where Mrs Parsons intended going this morning?”
She shook her head. “I’ve not been while Friday, so I’m not that up to date.”
Cally looked at Hammond. “Perhaps in her diary?”
Lyn Worsnop indicated the evidence bag, “I can see hers in there. It’s separate from her appointments book. I…” She tailed off.
Hammond waited. “You were going to say?”
Lyn looked awkward. “T’other day I happened to get a quick glimpse of her therapy diary.” She hesitated. “It were right in front of me.” She turned to Hammond. “Did you notice she had nowt in it for this morning?”
“I did.”
Cally said, “Getting back to the caller. Did you notice if she came by car?”
Lyn nodded. “Black. Might o’ been a VW.”
“That’s a help, good for you,” Hammond said. “You didn’t happen to spot the number plate?
She shook her head. “No. It were parked bang across gate.”
Cally pushed back a strand of hair. “We’re taking away the phone and answer machine, Mrs Worsnop. The most recent message was from a woman called Harriet who we reckon was Mrs Parsons’s guest last night.”
“That’ll be Miss Bloom.” Tears brimmed. “She’ll be that upset.”
“We’ll need to speak her,” Cally said. “Do you know if she has a job, or whether she’s busy with a family?”
“She’s summat high up at th’hospital.”
Cally asked, “Is that the General?”
“I think so.”
While Cally made a note, Hammond asked, “Did anything else happen before you found Mrs Parsons?”
“There were a half-baked lad delivered a box,” Lyn said, and described the courier.
Cally said gently, “This must all have been a terrible shock, Mrs Worsnop. I admire you for keeping your cool.”
“You’d not have thought that if you’d seen me up there wi’ her. I were all over place. In me head, I mean.”
Hammond said quietly. “Is there anyone you can think of who would want to harm Mrs Parsons? Someone who holds a grudge, perhaps?”
Lyn’s mouth worked nervously. “She’s not got enemies, if that’s what you mean.” She took a quick breath. “She’s got a funny family but there’s none would go that far.”
Hammond and Cally exchanged glances. “How do you mean ‘funny’No, best if?” Cally asked.
“Well, she didn’t get on wi’ her ex. Most don’t, do they? No – hers were the same as all families, some she liked better than others.”
Cally said, “Who d’you think she was most fond of?”
Lyn straightened her back. “Lucy.” Tears caught in her throat. “She were longing to be a nan, were Mrs Parsons. Bairn’s due any minute, but Lucy’ll not be coming here. Not now.” She took a sudden anxious breath. “What’ll happen to Eddie? She loved that cat.”
Cally said, “Don’t worry, we’ll see to Eddie.”
Hammond put his phone away. “Apart from you, Mrs Worsnop, who else has a key to Spring House?”
“Russ Sykes has a set. Mr Parsons has some. …Lucy has a front door key, not sure about the back.” She blinked. “I don’t think there’s anyone else.”
Cally asked, “How well do you know Mr Sykes?”
“Only on a day-to-day basis. Twice a week, like.” She paused. “He lives in Leeds.”
Hammond asked, “Is he married?”
“Not as far as I know.” She gave a half smile. “Dead proud of his mum. She works at Borough Building Society.”
“In Leeds?”
Lyn nodded and he asked, “Any idea why he wasn’t coming today?”
“I did wonder if it were dentist. He’s been having trouble wi’ a wisdom tooth.”
Cally said, “D’you know who his dentist is?”
Lyn shook her head. “Sorry.”
“Presumably he drives?” Hammond said.
“Aye. Old brown Toyota.”
“Thank you, Mrs Worsnop, you’ve been very helpful.” He took a card from his wallet. “If you think of anything else, let me know. Or ask for Detective Sergeant Burns.”
Hammond and Cally rose, followed by Mrs Worsnop. Unsure of herself she turned to Cally. “Is it all right if I go?”
Cally smiled. “PC Ryan will run you home.”
“Thank you,” she said, and looked relieved to see her flat-nosed friend standing beside the front path. She started to walk away, stopped and turned back.
Cally asked, “Was there something else?”
“Her bed weren’t made.”
2
Kettle Kaffe. Terrible name, terrific coffee. While Hammond went to the counter to order, Cally chose a table in the window. They’d left the two Crime Scene Investigators behind. A crying shame Lyn Worsnop was such a good worker. Surfaces wiped clean of prints. Hammond joined her. “How did Worsnop strike you?”
“Nice woman. In shock…”
“But?”
“Not sure. Did you feel she was holding something back?” Hammond drummed three fingers on the table. “Methinks the lady doth clean up too much.”
“Sweeping away the evidence? Not the impression I got. When are we ever sure we have the whole story?” She looked thoughtful. “Shock, distress, disgust. Devoted to her employer. Totally gutted.”
Hammond stroked the indent in his chin. “When she realized what she’d done?”
Cally eyed him, shifted back in her chair. “I’m not buying that, Steve.” She traced her finger along the red gingham check, thought of Lyn Worsnop’s frightened grey eyes and the lip she’d bitten so hard it bled. She recalled the image on the couch. “Parsons lay there as if she could have been waiting for it.”
“For what?”
“Perhaps she treated herself to a massage from another therapist. There was nothing to indicate she’d been surprised.” Cally tucked her hair behind her ear. “Could she have been killed somewhere else?”
“Neil thinks not.”
A perky Scottish waitress brought their coffee to the table. “Who’s for the hot milk?”
Cally raised a finger. “Thanks.”
“Black for you, sir?”
When she’d gone Cally said, “Why d’you think you’re sir, and I’m not madam?”
Hammond’s eye strayed to the window. “Perhaps because you look so young?”
She poured milk into her Americano. “Flatterer.”
He turned back. “You asked for it.”
She avoided his eye, picked up her cup and sipped.
Hammond laid his phone on the table. “There’s family to inform. I’ll print them off in the car.” He paused. “You for the daughter.”
Cally rolled her eyes. “Thanks, boss.”
“Sorry, I know it won’t be easy.”
“Do we know where she’s living?”
“I’ll check,” he said, thought for a moment, then sent a text. He looked at Cally. “Priority – track down Russell Sykes.”
She pulled out her phone. “I could try his mum.”
“Why not.”
*
Outside, in shade under a lime tree, Cally’s forefinger found th
e Borough Building Society. Introducing herself to a chatty member of staff, she learned they had no Mrs Sykes, but Mrs Morris had a son called Russell. The woman gave Cally the address and went on to say that Mrs Morris was using holiday time to do some decorating.
Hammond’s phone vibrated. “DCI Hammond.” He leaned forward, frowning. “What sort of scan?” He listened for a good minute. “Not exactly run of the mill,” he said, and ended the call as Cally slid back into her seat.
“Who was that, Steve?”
“Crime investigators at Spring House. They opened the box beside the umbrella stand.”
“And?”
“They found an ante-natal scan.”
“What the hell? …Why a box that size?”
“Shock tactics? It was in the middle of a load of bubble wrap.” He pushed his mug aside. “There’s more. You know the yellow slogan dog-lovers stick in their rear window?”
“A dog is for life, not just for Christmas.”
“One of the Trust’s strips was wrapped round the scan, with Dog deleted, and Child written in.”
“God, Steve. A child is for life, not just for Christmas?”
Hammond nodded.
“Was the box addressed to April Parsons?”
“Yes.”
Cally was silent for a moment. “And it arrives on the day she dies.” She sat back. “Should be easy enough to trace the scan.”
“All details erased.”
She pulled her coffee towards her. “Twelve week scan? Twenty?”
He shrugged. “A radiologist should know.”
A short silence, until Cally said, “Sykes’s mother is a Mrs Morris. They gave me her address.” Stealing a brown sugar lump, she said, “Was Sykes down in the house diary for today?”
He nodded. “With notes about extra weeding.”
Cally rubbed her forehead. “She already knew Sykes wasn’t coming.”
Hammond stood up. “Like Worsnop said, could be a dental appointment.” He paused. “Parsons could have written the gardening note days earlier.”
They paid, were walking to the door, when Cally said. “How about Parsons’s mail?
“Akpata can go through it.”
Back in the car, Hammond printed his list, tore off a piece. “You should find Lucy at her future mother-in-law’s. Here’s the postcode.” He raised a sympathetic eyebrow. “Hard, I know, but you’re best for the job.”
3
28 Victory Villas was a red-brick semi, home to Lucy Parsons’s boyfriend’s mother. There wasn’t a gate as such, yet the minute Cally set foot on the lumpy crazy-paving, nearby dogs knew she was on their territory. The uPVC front door stood open. Leaning in, she raised her voice above the ear-splitting din. “Hello?”
A blowsy blonde, middle aged, swayed into view. “They’ll quieten down in a bit.”
Cally produced her warrant card. “Detective Sergeant Cally Burns. Are you Mrs Martina Hemsworth?”
“I was last time I looked.”
Joker in the pack. “All right if I come in?”
“What’s this about, then?”
Cally crossed the cracked step. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Mrs Hemsworth looked undecided and Cally said, “The back garden?”
“You all right wi’ dogs?”
“Fine.”
Leading the way through a small kitchen, the woman said, “Soft as butter. They won’t hurt you.”
Soft or not, three huge dogs, barking louder than ever, leaped up behind a fenced off area.
Mrs Hemsworth opened out a splitting deckchair. “Take a pew.”
Cally eyed the other seat. “How about you?”
Mrs Hemsworth laughed. “Sit in that and I’ll not get up again.”
“Then I’ll stand too.” The dogs sank down on sparse patches of warm grass. Cally drew a slow breath. “I understand your son is an expectant father.”
“He’s a good lad,” Mrs Hemsworth said quickly.
“There’s no suggestion he’s not. However, I have some sad news for him.”
The woman’s eyes widened in alarm, and Cally said quickly, “Nothing to do with Lucy or the the baby.”
“Thank God.” That out of the way, she relaxed. “He’s not here at the minute, isn’t Jez.” She gave a secretive smile. “More important things to do.”
Cally waited a moment. “Are you married, Mrs Hemsworth?”
“Once bitten, twice shy.”
“I’ll take that as a no?”
“You can do.” She ran her tongue over protruding teeth. “There’s just me boyfriend.”
Cally pulled her notebook from her bag. “His name?”
“You writing stuff down?”
“Just to get my records straight.”
“Well, just for record, he’s called Dylan Beck. Twenty-nine and a boxer. Human variety, though we did once have a couple of t’others. Slobbery articles.”
“Does Mr Beck live here?”
“He certainly does.”
“Mrs Hemsworth, the reason I’m here… ”
“Ah – so this in’t some kind of guessing game.”
Ignoring the clever stuff, Cally said, “I have to inform you that Lucy Parsons’s mother was found dead this morning.”
Mrs Hemsworth’s arms flopped to her sides. Her mouth hung open. “Jesus wept. … Where?”
“At home in Browbridge.” Cally paused. “It might be best if I broke the news to Miss Parsons.”
“Definitely.” The banter was gone. “I’d be hopeless, me.”
“Where is your son at the moment?”
“He’s wi’ Lucy.”
Cally held her pen ready. “Where’s that?”
“Lass started getting contractions. They’re at th’hospital.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh my word, that poor wee bairn.”
“Which hospital?”
Mrs Hemsworth blinked hard. “The General.”
“What time did they set off?”
“Lucy went first, ’bout eight-thirty. Jez weren’t back off his fracking protest, so I called a taxi for Lucy – from him over road. I didn’t go because o’ dogs.”
“Okay.” Cally gave the woman’s arm a squeeze. “You’re not to worry. I’ll talk to Lucy.” She paused. “When the time’s right.”
*
Cally parked up. Collecting her thoughts, she gazed at the expanse of concrete that made up the General Hospital. Somewhere behind those shining windows lay a girl who would soon learn she’d lost her mother.
She approached Reception, palmed her warrant card discreetly and asked where to find Lucy Parsons. The receptionist checked her screen. “If she’s not gone into labour, she’s probably still in Maternity.” She waved a hand. “Lift to the first floor. Follow the signs.”
A porter, pushing an empty trolley, nodded to Cally to go ahead of him into the lift. Waiting for the door to open at the first floor, she nodded her thanks and headed for Maternity. She pressed the security button, waited until an auxiliary nurse asked her in. The girl smiled. “Sorry to keep you.”
“That’s all right.” Her eye drawn towards the end of the corridor, Cally watched a pregnant young woman push past a drugs trolley. Could this be Lucy? “If it’s convenient,” she said, “I’d like to see Miss Parsons.”
“I think she’s gone home.” The nurse raised her voice: “Glenda? Didn’t Miss Parsons and that young man go home?”
The ward receptionist glanced up briefly. “Braxton-Hicks contractions. They’re false, you know.”
“I do know,” said Cally. “I’ve had them.”
Downstairs on her way out she passed the café where the smell of coffee, though not at all bad, hadn’t the whiff of Kettle Kaffe. She watched two volunteers working their socks off, and waited while one of them whipped up a cappuccino froth for a large man on crutches. She joined the queue and picked out a family-size frangipane tart. It would save Greg’s mum from having to think of something for afters. The kids would love it, too. If she told them it was jam tar
t.
*
Hammond parked, checked his watch, reckoned he’d get through any necessary business in thirty minutes and pushed coins into the meter. Stepping back on the pavement, he gazed up at the carved-from-ice Leeds office block bookended between Victorian buildings. Seconds later he shouldered his way through the glass door, approached Reception and entered his details in the visitors’ book. The raven-haired receptionist waited for him to replace the pen, glanced at his name and keyed in four numbers on her phone: “Mr Hammond to see you, Mr Parsons.” She listened for a moment, turned her waxwork face to Hammond. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Sorry, no.”
The girl bent her head to the phone. “Mr Hammond doesn’t have an appointment.”
She listened again, laid the phone against the ridge of her collar bone. “Mr Parsons is in a meeting at the present.”
Hammond showed her his ID. “It’s important.”
She leaned forward to check his card, dipped her chin into the phone. “Mr Hammond is from the police.” Half cracking a smile, she replaced the phone. “He’s coming down.”
Moments later, an inner door swung open and Philip Parsons strode forward. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”
Hammond shook the outstretched hand, extricated his own and produced his warrant card. “Detective Chief Inspector Hammond.” Parsons, he guessed, was mid-fifties. Good looking in a cared-for kind of way.
“Mr Parsons, we need to talk.”
“Please, come up. My office is free.” He smiled. “Not before time.”
Philip Parsons’s office was large, tastefully equipped and cool. Glasses and a carafe of water stood on a tray. He waved towards a steel and leather chair. “Do sit down,” he said, and moved to the other side of the clinically tidy desk. “So. How can I help you?” He smiled. “Always happy to assist the police. As a matter of fact I play golf with Chief Inspector Ronnie Simpson.”
Hammond waited. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Parsons’s eyebrows knitted in an instant. “My daughter?”
“Not your daughter.” Hammond raised a hand. “Nor your son. I believe you have a son – James?”
“Yes.”
“Mr Parsons, can you confirm that your wife – or ex-wife – is April Parsons, living at Spring House, Browbridge?”