by Helen Oliver
“Yes I can.”
Hammond stood up, poured water into a glass and slid it towards Philip Parsons. “I’m sorry – very sorry – to have to inform you that she was found dead this morning. …At home.”
Parsons looked as if he’d been slapped.
“How – ?”
Hammond said, “I know this is hard.” He watched Parsons’s manicured hand go towards a glass of water. And miss. “Are you all right, Mr Parsons?”
“Yes.”
Hammond lowered his voice. “Your wife was murdered.” He let a moment pass. “She was strangled.”
“Christ.” Parsons found the glass, and drank. “Does my daughter know?”
“My colleague will tell her.”
“She’s pregnant. …April planned to help look after the baby.”
Hammond paused. “The baby’s father, Jez Hemsworth. Did he intend living at Spring House?”
Parsons threw back his head. “That fucking useless eco-warrier!” He looked across at Hammond. “Don’t ask me where he meant to live.”
Hammond waited a moment. “I understand you and your wife are separated.”
“Divorced.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead. “Not all marriages work out.”
“True.”
Parsons folded the handkerchief. “I can’t believe this.”
“May I have an address for your son, please. Work or home.”
Parsons looked blank.
“Your son James’s address. At work or at home.”
Parsons blinked. “PZ Motors, Headingley.”
“Would you like to inform him?”
Parsons nodded. “It’ll hit him very hard.” He hesitated. “I’ll tell him.”
Hammond said, “We’d appreciate your formal identification of the body.”
Parsons seemed to lose track. “The body?”
“Your wife’s body.” Hammond stood up, checked his watch. “I’ll have someone call you.”
*
Hammond sat in his car. Parsons wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d guessed the man would be shocked, but wouldn’t a guy from his background show a bit of stiff upper lip? The shock had seemed genuine, but then how many killers fool everyone: their nearest and dearest, let alone the authorities? He turned the key in the ignition, checked his rear view mirror. Thought about the man who presumably once loved April Parsons, and hadn’t given the impression of any existing bad feeling. He’d saved that for the loathing he felt for the ‘eco-warrior’.
Relieved to be out of the city and heading north, Hammond found room in his head to envy couples drinking outside a pub in Harewood. Allowing for traffic, he’d reach Browbridge in twenty minutes, ask Akpata to seek out an expert to examine the ante-natal scan, and arrange a time for Parsons to identify his ex-wife.
4
Cally called Hammond. “I’m back outside the Villas.”
“What happened at the General?”
“False alarm. They sent Lucy home. Her and the demo-loving Jez.”
“That the eco-warrier?”
Cally said, “You knew?”
“I had a few words with Philip Parsons.” He paused. “Couldn’t read him. Except he detests Hemsworth.”
Cally pulled on her door handle. “Time for me to go in and see if Martina’s waiting for me to break the news.”
Hammond took a breath. “I intended going straight back to the office, but I’ll join you instead. See you shortly.”
Cally tucked her phone away and made for the Hemsworths’ door.
*
Martina Hemsworth carried in mugs of tea. Jez, on the couch, sat next to Lucy, whose small heart-shaped face looked incongruous above her swollen body. Practically too pregnant to move, the girl held a ball of sopping tissues to her face. There’d been no way to soften the blow. Her eyes, reduced to slits, searched Cally’s face “Who would do that?”
“This is what we have to find out.”
Fat tears flooded down the girl’s face. Barely coherent, she said, “She ought to be going to Bath…where she’d still be alive.”
Cally asked, “When was she going to Bath, Lucy?”
The girl grabbed a breath. “Wednesday. …That’s tomorrow isn’t it? …I was desperate when I thought I’d gone into labour. I thought she might decide to go a day early.” She began to sob again and Jez, forcing an arm behind her shoulders, held as much of her shuddering form as he could get hold of.
A knock at the front door resulted in manic barking. Guessing it was Hammond, Cally made for the hallway. She put a finger to her lips. “Go gently, poor girl’s in a dreadful state.”
Hammond nodded, moved into the front room. “Detective Chief Inspector Hammond,” he said quietly, and dipped his head to Lucy. “Miss Parsons? I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
Any day now, any minute even, thought Cally, this grief stricken girl would go into labour without the mother she needed.
Mrs Hemsworth cleared her throat, looked at Hammond. “I’m Lucy’s future mother-in-law,” she said, and added sharply, “Stand up, Jez.” She grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table and sniffed into it. “Let the Inspector sit down.”
“I’ll stand, thank you, Mrs Hemsworth.” Hammond eyed Jez, who showed no signs of extricating himself from Lucy. “You’re Miss Parsons’s partner?”
“Yes, he is,” said his mother, “and before you ask, he’s the baby’s father.” She paused. “Will be. When it’s born.” She took a quick breath: “Which we hope to God will be soon.” She nodded at Cally. “You drink your tea. I’ll fetch Mr Hammond one from kitchen.”
Cally said, “I’ll come with you.” More closely than earlier, she looked around the small room. At the fridge stuck solid with dog magnets; at a ‘Britain’s Going to the Dogs’ tea towel. The kitchen table, too small for more than two, had three chairs wedged round it. Was the boxer boyfriend a fly-weight?
Mrs Hemsworth held up a tea bag. “How does he like it?”
“Medium strong, please. No sugar.” Cally glanced towards the hallway. “Do Jez and Lucy live here?”
“Not as a rule.” She loosened the top of a milk carton. “Right now though, with her nearing her time, they’re making do wi’ me and Dylan. Lucy were all set to move in wi’ her mum, until her and Jez found somewhere better’n the bedsit.” She shook her head. “Looks like it’s Nana Hemsworth to the rescue.”
The underlying hint of smugness wasn’t lost on Cally. “Have you enough room?”
The surviving nan straightened her shoulders. “We’ll make room,” she said, and led Cally back into the front room.
Hammond accepted the Leeds United mug. “Thank you.”
“Jez,” Cally said, “your mother told me earlier that you weren’t able to go with Lucy to the hospital because you’d not returned from a fracking protest.”
Lucy touched Jez’s cheek. “He wasn’t to know I’d get contractions.”
“If I had done,” he said. “I’d’ve been here for you.”
His mother bristled, “Of course you would.”
“The only thing is,” Cally said, “I thought it slightly odd because, as far as I know, villagers hold their fracking protests during the day. It’s not the sort of thing they do at dawn.” She paused. “Am I right, Jez?”
Mrs Hemsworth sighed. “He used to be dyslexic,” she said, as if that excused everything. Raising her bosom, she took a breath. “Jez, lad. Were you or were you not – ”
Cally interrupted. “Thank you, Mrs Hemsworth, I’ll ask him.” She perched on the arm of the sofa. “Jez, were you at a fracking protest early this morning?”
Jez shot his mum a look. “No.”
Mrs Hemsworth said, “Oh. Well, I’m very sorry if I got that wrong.” She looked at Cally, then Hammond. “Think I need me hearing tested.”
Hammond swallowed a mouthful of tea. “Where were you Jez, between, say, three a.m. and six?”
“About four I were on a demo at a Catch.” He paused.
“S’when poultry get transferred from broiler house onto wagons.”
Cally wondered if Jez Hemsworth could lose himself in that sort of crowd, or simply go unnoticed? Or possibly not have been there at all? “When you say a demo,” she asked, “what does that entail?”
“We’re there to bloody protest. Some of us take photos. Or video what’s going on.”
Hammond asked, “Did you take photos?”
Jez handed Lucy a bunch of fresh tissues. “No.”
Hammond added, “Or video it?”
He threw his mother a resentful look. “I’ve not got the equipment.”
Cally caught Hammond’s eye. Convenient lack of evidence regarding Hemsworth’s part in the demo? On another tack, she wondered, would he be better off without April Parsons in his life? He must have been aware of Lucy’s parents’ disapproval. Was he so thick-skinned it didn’t matter, so long as he shared a chunk of Lucy’s inheritance? “Do you think,” she asked, “that you might be in a photo, or on film?”
He pulled a face. “Shouldn’t think so. All the attention’s centred on what’s happening. Chucking birds into crates, like.”
Hammond said. “Would you say it was a successful demo?”
“Hard to tell. Have to see what comes of it.”
Hammond looked down at Jez. “Where was the demo?”
“Full Acres Farm.”
“Could anyone confirm you were there?”
Jez moved at last, tried to nudge Lucy to one side. “I’d have to think.”
Hammond said. “You do that. Let us know what you come up with.”
*
Hammond walked Cally to her car, came round and opened her door. “Was he lying?”
Cally shrugged. “Be useful if he produced proof. A photo or video would show the time.” She started to slide into the car. “Cocky little whatsit.”
“Doesn’t make him a murderer.” He closed her door gently, crossed the road to his car and called, “Remember me to the kids.”
*
In less than half an hour, parked up in front of the garage, she smiled as the front door opened. Lou yelled, “Mummy!” and flew to where Cally stood holding the box of frangipane. The little girl hopped from foot to foot. “Guess what?”
Cally put out a hand. “Try me.”
“I got a Head Teacher’s award!”
Cally gasped. “You didn’t!”
With one arm round Lou and the kid’s arms round her waist, she watched Tom, nine, amble out of the door. He said, “You know what she got it for?”
Cally put an arm out to him. “No – tell me.”
He grinned. “She’d better tell you.”
Cally ruffled Lou’s dark curls. “Go on, then.”Lou stood back, puffed out her chest. “Because I’ve got such nice manners.”
Cally said, “That’s wonderful, I’m extremely proud of you.” She exchanged a glance with Tom, held up the cardboard box. “I think this deserves an especially nice jam tart.” She paused. “How was it for you, Tom?”
“Ninety-eight in my maths test.”
She gave him a thumbs up. “Brilliant ,” and handed him the box. “Take this to Nana.” Bag over her shoulder, case under her arm, she clicked the remote and followed Lou indoors.
“Hi, Eileen.” Greg’s mother turned from where she was bent at the oven. Red in the face, she blew a strand of hair out of the way. “Hello, love. It’s too warm, really, for toad-in-the hole – but never mind.”
Cally laughed. “Frangipane might be a bit heavy, too.”
“Where did you get it?”
“The hospital.”
Eileen straightened up. “Well – there’s a first for everything.”
Cally ran her wrists under the cold tap. “Don’t forget to call it jam tart.” She reached for the kitchen towel. “How’s Greg been?”
“Okay.” Which, translated, meant ‘not wonderful, though not the worst day on record’.
5
Hammond finished listening to April Parsons’s answer machine messages. One, yesterday evening, from a company offering to clean her oven, the other, today at 9.02 a.m., from Harriet Bloom, who’d been last night’s guest. Miss, Mrs, or Ms Bloom had loved the starter, and wanted the recipe. She thanked April for a lovely evening. She’d be in meetings most of Tuesday and Wednesday. How about a catch-up on Thursday?
Another was from a David Marsh: Mrs Parsons, this is David Marsh, Angie’s husband. (A pause.) Thank you for your advice. Unasked for. (Another pause.) We’ll not be taking it. Hammond keyed, ‘See D Marsh’, into his phone.
Back in his flat, opening the fridge on a drab selection of day-to-day needs, including a piece of possibly edible cheddar, Hammond thought of Rutter and what the post-mortem would reveal in relation to the contents of Parsons’s stomach. Had Parsons enjoyed the meal as much as Harriet Bloom? He fished out a lager from the fridge, felt inside a cupboard drawer for a bottle opener, poured a glass and held the froth-topped liquid up to the window. Exploring the salad container, he found two lone tomatoes on a spike of vine. He had eggs; he’d make an omelette.
He cracked two eggs, added salt and pepper and thought of the meal Cally’s mother-in-law had probably prepared. He put a small amount of butter in the frying pan, let it sizzle as he swirled the pan round. Greg, he thought. Was he eating better these days?
His phone buzzed and he glanced at caller display. Dan. “Hi, Dad. You’re not eating, are you?” Hammond turned off the heat, pushed the frying pan aside. “No. Good to hear from you.”
“I was talking to Mum.”
Hammond cleared his throat. ‘How is she?”
“She’s good.”
Hammond said, “Look, son, can we talk another time?” I’m bloody starving.
“I wasn’t going to be awkward. About Mum, I mean. It’s just I’m in a play and hope you can both come.”
“Oh, right.”
“I’ve told Mum she can bring a plus one.”
Hammond sank onto the windowsill. “Does she have one?”
“I’m not sure.” He paused. “You can bring one, if you like.”
“What’s the play?”
“The Tempest.”
Hammond grinned. “And you’re playing Prospero.”
“Dad! I’m not ninety. I’m Ferdinand.”
“That’ll suit you down to the ground.” Hammond reached for his glass, refilled it, put it aside and took a pizza takeaway menu from the toast rack. Nodding, as if Dan were in the room, he underlined a Mega Caribbean and smiled at his son’s enthusiasm. “Look. Text me the date, time and place and I’ll put it in my diary.” He paused. “Where is it?”
“Bristol. Where did you think?”
Of course it was Bristol. “I’ll do my absolute best.”
“I’m pretty sure Mum’s coming.”
*
While Eileen loaded cutlery into the dishwasher, Cally scraped Greg’s plate into the swing bin.
Making the best of things, Eileen smiled. “The jam tart was a success.” She slid dinner plates into the bottom rack. “Go and have a sit-down with him, love.”
Cally went into the hall, called up the stairs. “Bed, Lou! And clean your teeth! Homework, Tom!” She waited. “Did you hear me?”
Footsteps scurried along the landing. “What are you two up to?”
Tom leaned over the banister. “Doing what you said.”
“Me, too,” said Lou.
“Good. I’ll be up later.”
Greg was watching a film about swifts. “Did you know that swifts fly thousands of miles every year?”
“I think I did.” She bent to unbuckle her sandals. “Budge up.”
Eyes fixed on the TV, he moved a few inches.
“Bit more,” she said.
“There was one particular swift,” he said, “they worked out that it lived for twenty-one years and flew three million miles.”
“How did they know it was the same one?”
“Tagged it when it was a chick.”
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Cally slid along beside him. “Ah, modern science.” She wanted to ask him how he’d been today. If he felt better on the new meds. But she didn’t, it wouldn’t be fair. As far as Greg was able to enjoy anything, he was enjoying the film about swifts. She watched with him, half her mind on April Parsons, wondering about the belt round her neck. Forensics would have had a look at it by now. Where did it come from? What kind of killer was it, who’d scatter the place with clues?
Steve had said that, from the sound of her phone message, Harriet Bloom was a close friend. She made a mental note to talk to her in the morning.
*
The Mega Caribbean arrived. Hammond opened another lager, took a long swig then dialled Press and Media liaison at Northallerton: asked Harry Davies to release the bare facts first thing tomorrow. It was going to get out anyway; another day might leave too much to some hack’s imagination. Harry, ex-journalist on the Post, knew how to drip-feed a story. Hammond dropped a confirmation email to Detective Chief Superintendent Pat Kerridge, and put the pizza on a tray.
Eating in front of the TV, he caught the tail end of a nature programme about migrating birds. Grateful to Dan for putting a spoke in the omelette’s wheel, he finished the pizza and lowered the empty tray to the floor.
Leaning back, he put his hands behind his head and thought about Russell Sykes. Who else did the guy work for? Today had been a fine summer’s day. Did another customer have greater need of him? There’d been a bit of a wind last week. Hammond knew diddlysquat about gardening, but he knew that stuff got blown over and you had to tie it up again.
6
Anne Morris lived on a street of mixed semis and older terraced properties. Slowing down, Hammond turned to the DC beside him. “Number?”
“Thirty-seven.” Jason Nolan laughed: “You have nearly reached your destination.”
Hammond drew into the kerb. “Okay.”
The 1950s house gave every indication of being as neat and tidy inside as it was out. Upstairs windows were pushed open; probably, thought Hammond, to air rooms being painted. He pressed the bell, thought what an ill-assorted pair they made: Nolan, the image of a glossy advert for Savile Row tailoring, and he, Hammond, in cords and checked shirt. Still, he had a couple of inches on the young DC.