by Helen Oliver
Hammond parked up behind two taxis outside First Served, climbed out of the BMW and puzzled briefly over what looked to be a pile of clothes lying on the ground under No. 28’s front room window. Clicking the remote, he stayed with his car while a clapped-out Fiesta half-mounted the pavement outside the house. He watched a loose-limbed black guy – early-thirties and naked to the waist – roll out of the dusty grey motor, amble into the garden through the non-existent gate, then stop dead at the heap of clothes. Bending, the guy chucked aside a pair of track-suit bottoms, drew out something shiny and held it up. Next, he beat furiously at the front door. This set the dogs off, and an elderly couple, weighed down with Asda bags, stopped to gawp.
Hammond waited.
The front door remained shut, but Martina Hemsworth, leaning out of an upstairs window, let drop a pair of dumb-bells. “You needn’t think you’re comin’ in ’ere!”
The black guy looked up. “What’re you up to, you daft mare?”
“You been up the ’ospital?”
“No,” he said, “have you?” and waved what Hammond now recognized as a ‘silver’ trophy.
The upper window slammed shut and within seconds Mrs Hemsworth pulled open the front door, leaned out and slapped Dylan Beck round the face. Grabbing him by the belt of his jeans, she dragged him inside.
Maddened voices vied with the canine cacophony. Hammond crossed the road, strode past the front window, winced at the slanging match in the living room and stopped just long enough to watch Mrs Hemsworth throw a punch to the side of Beck’s head. Turning away, blood pouring down his face, Beck clocked him.
Martina, arm raised for a further attack, changed her mind. Hammond took a sideways stride to the front door. Beck, blood splashing onto one shoulder, opened it.
Hammond stepped inside. “That looks nasty.”
Mrs Hemsworth leaned against the living room door frame. Sneered at Beck. “Toe rag, you deserved it,” she said. “Not you Inspector. Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
Hammond held Beck by his unbloodied shoulder. “Dylan Beck?”
Beck blinked blood away from his left eye. “Yeah.”
Hammond said, “Bathroom, Mrs Hemsworth?”
Muttering, “Jesus,” she flapped a hand. “Facing you at the top.”
“First aid box?”
“Not so’s you’d notice.”
A hand under Beck’s elbow, Hammond urged him up the stairs. He called down, “Clean towel, please Mrs Hemsworth.”
She shot a murderous look up at Beck. “God knows why I should.”
Hammond ordered, “Just find one, Mrs Hemsworth,” and ran warm water into the none-too-clean hand-wash-basin. He reached for a nail brush, half its bristles missing, and scrubbed away at the mucky porcelain. Beck leaned into the basin, watched the blood swirl round the plug hole. “This rate I’ll fucking bleed to death.”
Hammond shook his head. “You’ll be fine.”
Mrs Hemsworth’s footsteps thumped up the stairs and into the cramped bathroom. She thrust a tea towel at Hammond and sank onto the see-through starfish toilet seat.
Turning Beck’s head to the window, Hammond squinted at the cut. “You’ll need stitches.” He took out his phone. “Ambulance, please. 28 Victory Villas, Browbridge. This is DCI Hammond, North Yorkshire Police. Yeah. An eye injury. There’s blood, and I’m aware. Thanks.”
Martina Hemsworth kicked the side of the bath. “Shit.”
Hammond soaked the tea towel in cold water, folded it into a wad and told Beck to press it against the cut. The ambulance arrived and Hammond took Beck downstairs to help him in. Mounting the stairs again, he heard the cistern fill up and waited for Mrs Hemsworth to open the bathroom door. “Martina Hemsworth,” he said, “I am arresting you for assaulting Dylan Beck and causing him actual bodily harm. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” She waited while he finished the caution, eyes shut as if she were bored stiff. Hammond paused. “Do you understand?”
She puffed out her cheeks. “Jesus wept,” she said, “I can’t believe I’m hearin’ this. In’t it clear enough? You saw for yourself.”
“You can give your account,” he said, “when you’re interviewed.”
“Interviewed? What about me dogs?”
Hammond said, “You shouldn’t be gone long. Get hold of Jez.”
“He’ll be in no fit state, not after what he’s been through today.”
“You can call him from the police station.”
Hammond checked the security of all doors and windows at No. 28 and led the way to his car. He held open the passenger door for Mrs Hemsworth, made sure she fastened the seatbelt, slammed her door shut, slid in on his own side and started the ignition.
She turned to Hammond. “It’s his fault, you know.”
He slowed, ready for a T-junction. “Whose fault?”
“That swine. Taking me down the Drill Hall, letting me have a bash at them punch bags.”
Hammond didn’t pursue the image. He turned to the left, drew into traffic on the Otley road. “Have you any idea where Jez is, right now?”
“Don’t ask me. He were beside hisself wi’ rage and misery.” She found tissues in the glove box. “Wouldn’t you be?”
Hammond slowed at traffic lights. “Mrs Hemsworth,”
She half turned. “What?”
“I want you to think back a bit.”
“Not too far, I hope. Me head’s shot to bits.”
“Monday,” he said, “before Mrs Parsons died. Was it a normal day for your family?”
“Depends what you call normal. Nowt’s normal when you’ve got a big kid puffing like a grampus ’cos she’s stuffed full of a bairn she lied about till she were blue in’t face…”
He waited, decided she’d finished. “Did you and Lucy spend the day together?”
Her teeth fastened on her lower lip. “She went to her mum’s in morning.”
“To Spring House?”
“I think so. Yeah, she did, because she said they had a row. Said it were summat to do wi’ cot in bairn’s nursery. But me, I think it were more to do wi’ my Jez not being good enough for her precious Lucy. She were always hintin’, were Mrs Parsons.” She puffed out her cheeks: “What my Jez had to put up wi’!” A smirk crept across her face. “Her ladyship imagined this pink little bairn tucked up at her place every night.” She gave a short laugh. “How the tables have turned, eh?”
“Where was Jez on Monday?”
Mrs Hemsworth stuck a finger in her ear as if it might tap her brain. “I’ll ’ave to think.”
Hammond slowed down, let a builder’s van in. “Was there a demo?”
“Thanks for reminding me! No, there weren’t, but he were on his laptop. He’s on Facebook and he wanted to put summat on it about this frackin’ he keeps mitherin’ on about.” She paused. “He says it’ll cause earthquakes.” She turned to look at Hammond. “What do you think?”
“I’m not a geologist or engineer.”
“But what d’you think?”
“It needs looking into.”
“You see. That’s what Jez says. You and ’im gotta a lot in common.”
“What time would you say Lucy Parsons came back?”
“Dinner time.”
“Between twelve and one?”
“More like one.”
Hammond turned left. Slowed for the entrance to the police station. “If you see Jez before I do, tell him I want another word.” He turned into the entrance. “He can come to the station. Get him to phone first.”
Getting out of the car, Martina Hemsworth’s skirt rose over her puffy knees. “You goin’ to put me in a cell?”
Hammond shook his head. “No.”
Inside, her eyes were on stalks. “I’ve not been ’ere since you had it all new.” She paused. “I want toilet.”
While they waited for a fem
ale PC to show her to the lavatory, Hammond said, “You’re entitled to a solicitor.”
“What’s difference between that and a lawyer?”
“Same thing. Depends what TV show you’re watching. Americans call them lawyers.”
“I don’t want neither.”
“Would you like to call Jez?”
“No ta. I don’t want him gettin’ in more of a state.”
When Hemsworth had finished in the WC, Hammond called for DC Akpata, and the three of them went into the interview room where Hammond switched on the tape. Fifty minutes later he charged Martina Hemsworth with causing Dylan Beck actual bodily harm.
Hemsworth, standing in front of custody officer Sergeant Hewing, rolled her eyes as he handed her the details of her Court hearing and conditions of bail; including not making contact with Dylan Beck. Shoving it in her bag like an old shopping list, she asked, “How’m I expected to get ’ome from here?”
Hewing said, “There’s a bus stop over the road.”
13
Lunch time and the microwave pinged. Pete felt for his cigarettes, patted his pocket, watched Lyn take out microwaved kippers. “Is there bread and butter?”
Lyn fished for scissors in a drawer and cut into the plastic packaging. “There could be. I’ll not have any, I’m watching me waistline.” She shot the kippers onto a dinner plate, shared out the buttery liquid and put a shiny orange kipper in front of Pete. “Fat’s in fridge.”
Groaning, Pete pushed his chair back, fetched bread and spread it with Butter Lookalike. “They’re all talkin’ about it. They know fuzz were round here.”
“Who’s they?”
“Everyone. It’s in paper. The local and Post.”
Lyn forced down a chunk of kipper, moved the rest aside. “’Course it is. What d’you expect?”
“I didn’t tell ’em owt.” He gave her a look. “Matter o’ fact, you’ve been a bit short on details.”
“Are you trying to make me ill?”
“What sort o’ question’s that?” Stretching across, he poked her kipper with his fork. “You leavin’ that?”
Lyn pushed her plate towards him. “It’d make me ill to tell you more’n I’ve told you already. You’ve still no idea what I went through – ” She broke off as Jordan’s high-pitched jabbering floated through the open window. She hid a sigh: “What’re they doing back?”
With Jordan scampering in front of her, Donna pushed the buggy into the kitchen. “Y’all right?”
Pete prodded Jordan in the stomach. “We were till you come in.” Jordan giggled, and Kiera, squealing, tried to wriggle out of the buggy. Unclipping the belt and buckle, Donna hauled her up and bounced her onto the floor.
Lyn asked. “Have you had your dinners?”
“Fish and chips in Morrison’s with Danielle and her lot. By, that Taylor’s a bloody handful! Made these two look like bloomin’ angels.”
Lyn stood up. “Sit down, love, I’ll make a brew.”
Donna fished in her bag among nappies and sun hats. She pulled out a ‘Herald’. “You’re in here.”
“Not a photo, I hope.”
Donna laughed. “You’re not front page news yet.”
Lyn filled the kettle. “Hope I never will be.”
Donna went to the fridge for orange juice, poured a beaker for Jordan. “Have the police been round again?”
“No.”
Donna looked at her dad. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“I’m owed for Monday night, plus me back’s playing up.”
“Monday night, eh? Did you see Danielle’s Jason? He were on wi’ that display.”
Pete frowned. “Mighta seen ’im. Mind you, I were up to me eyes.”
Lyn fetched mugs for the tea. “I don’t mind admitting I’m bushed.”
Donna spooned formula into Keira’s bottle. “You need to put yer feet up.”
14
Late afternoon Cally called Eileen. “It’s still busy this end, plus I’ve a visit to do.”
“Okay, love.”
“Everything all right?”
“Fine. They were starving so they’re already having their tea.”
Cally laughed. “Keep some for me.”
“Of course I will. Is it this local business?”
“Afraid so.”
*
You have reached your destination. Cally eyed her destination. Not too far, only six miles or so from the hospital. Wychwood. detached and epitomizing the nineteen-thirties, was brick-built with diamond-paned windows, a monkey puzzle tree in the front garden and enough room on the right-hand side for off-road parking in front of a double garage – where a navy Peugeot stood on the block-paved drive. She drove a few yards past the entrance, waited for a gap in the traffic and reversed in.
Harriet Bloom must have heard the car, and was opening the door before Cally had a chance to reach for the iron bell-pull. She wore a sundress, and bright pink lipstick to contrast with her sun-kissed complexion. “Sergeant Burns – you didn’t take long. What a beautiful evening.”
“Yes, lovely,” said Cally, “though I wouldn’t mind if it were slightly cooler.” With a quick glance over her shoulder at the garden, she added, “Tuesday night’s rain doesn’t seem to have made much of an impact.” Stepping into the hall onto parquet flooring, she was conscious of a woman in the background.
The woman, smiling, came forward and Miss Bloom said, “Mother, this is Detective Sergeant Burns. She and –”
Cally helped her out. “Detective Chief Inspector Hammond.”
Miss Bloom said, “Ah, yes. I’ve not actually met him.” She gave a quick sigh. “He and Detective Sergeant Burns are investigating this horrible business.”
Mrs Bloom, tall and in white linen slacks, extended a hand. “Diana Bloom. How nice to see you. Only sad it has to be under these circumstances.”
Miss Bloom said, “Let’s go into the sitting room.” She looked briefly at her mother. “Pot of tea, Mother?”
Diana Bloom smiled. “Perhaps Sergeant Burns would prefer a glass of lemonade? Home-made.”
Every cell in Cally’s body craved for home-made lemonade.
“Ice-cold, of course,” said Diana Bloom.
Cally smiled. “That would be perfect.”
Miss Bloom said, “Thank you, Mother,” and Mrs Bloom walked swiftly towards a door at end of the hall.
Following Harriet Bloom into the sitting room, Cally took in the décor: comfortable furnishings, muted watercolours, oriental rugs and elegant French doors standing open. If there’d been a small grand piano in the corner it wouldn’t be far off the room where, as a child, her music teacher failed to find any talent. She smiled to herself: ten minutes in a room like this, and Tom and Lou would have it looking like home. She turned from the window. “Miss Bloom.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to seem rude, but I’ll need to talk to you privately.”
“Absolutely. There’s no point in Mother being involved.”
Mother must have got the message. Allowing enough time for her daughter and Cally to dispense with a few niceties, she returned with two tall tumblers and lemonade in a glass jug. She placed the tray on the coffee table in front of a long, low sofa. Miss Bloom said, “Thank you, Mother,” and moved a copy of Yorkshire Life.
Cally, who’d chosen an upright chair, smiled her thanks. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Diana Bloom said, “I’m very glad,” and was gone.
Cally accepted a glass and let a mouthful slide down. It was heaven: sweet enough, yet full of lemon. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Harriet Bloom said, “One of Mother’s specialities.”
Cally nursed the cold glass. “Yesterday, Miss Bloom…” She waited expectantly, a ploy that worked for Hammond.
Miss Bloom shook her head slowly. “I still can’t think why I told that stupid fib. I was ready to discuss the outcome of that poor boy on the bike. But April’s death? I was beyond shock. I couldn’t share that with Mrs J
ukes.”
Cally put down her glass. “Can you say why not?”
“If only I could. I can’t believe it myself. Perhaps I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me.”
“Why you, more than anyone else?”
“I know. It must be equally dreadful for Lucy and James. Worse, of course. April was their mother.”
Cally held her eye; perhaps letting the woman off the hook would be the best move. Loosen her up. “Denying the loss of someone close isn’t uncommon.”
Miss Bloom took a deep breath. “April and I go back a long way. Before she had James and Lucy.”
“Of course, you’re Lucy’s godmother.” Miss Bloom looked surprised and Cally added. “James Parsons told Mr Hammond.”
“How is poor Lucy? I heard she had a C-section.”
Cally took another sip of lemonade. “Have you spoken to anyone on the ward?”
“Not yet.”
Cally put her glass down. “There’s something you should know.”
The woman swallowed hard. “For God’s sake, what next?”
“The baby’s fine. Absolutely beautiful.” She paused. “But Jez Hemsworth is not the father.”
“What?”
“Jez Hemsworth is –”
“How do you know?”
“Because the baby is of colour.”
Miss Bloom’s hand covered her mouth. “Oh my God! Whatever would April have said?” She paused, said hurriedly, “Mind you, she had liberal views. She wouldn’t have cared at all about a mixed race grandchild. Actually, not half as much as she disliked the idea of Jez Hemsworth as a son-in-law… Does Lucy’s father know?”
“I don’t think so. He soon will, of course.”
Miss Bloom reached behind her neck, as if it suddenly ached. “What about Mrs Hemsworth?”
“I understand she’s very shocked.”
“She will be. Lucy’s been living with her for the past few weeks.” She took a gulp of lemonade. “Am I allowed to ask who the father is?”
“We’re not sure, so it’s best to put that to one side for now.”
“Do you think Mrs Hemsworth will be prepared to give this child a home?” She paused. “And Lucy, of course?”