by Helen Oliver
“There again,” Cally said, “I can’t say.”
“To be honest, I don’t know too much about the woman, except she wasn’t pleased that April would have first claim on Jez’s child. She was already kicking off about that.” She took a breath. “Now this. God knows how she’ll react.”
“How d’you mean, kicking off?”
“Well, jealous really.” Miss Bloom hesitated. “It wasn’t as if April and Mrs Hemsworth had anything in common. Completely different backgrounds.”
Letting moments pass, Cally took out her notebook. “I’d like you to tell me about your meal with April Parsons on Monday evening.”
“Of course.” She paused. “Are you able to tell me how she died?”
“You knew she was strangled.”
“Yes, but where?”
“In her treatment room.” She paused briefly. “The killer used a belt.”
“A belt?”
Cally smoothed her notebook. “I’ll be taking a few notes. Just some basic facts.” She clicked her pen. “What time did you arrive at Spring House on Monday?”
Miss Bloom pulled an amused face. “Before you go on, DS Burns, I hope you don’t mind me saying that I feel a bit like a suspect. All that’s missing is a spot-light.”
Cally leaned back. “In a way it’s unfortunate I have to start with you. But I need to, because you were the last person to see Mrs Parsons before she died, except for her killer. Every piece of information, however irrelevant it might seem, could help us make an arrest.”
“I’m sorry.” Miss Bloom gave a little smile. “Well, let me think. I got to April’s at about a quarter to eight. Before I left, Mother was setting up for a Bridge evening. I must have left here around seven-twenty.”
“What did you have for supper at Spring House?”
“We had smoked-salmon pate as a starter.”
“The one you mentioned on your message?”
“Oh yes, my message.” She paused briefly. “After the starter we had cold meats from the delicatessen, and salad. It was such a warm evening. Well, you know it was. Neither of us felt like anything heavy.”
Cally asked, “Did Mrs Parsons enjoy the supper? Sometimes, especially after preparing a meal, you don’t fancy it yourself.”
“I know what you mean, but that’s not usually the case with April. She enjoys – enjoyed – her food. She was a good cook.”
Cally made a note. “And she enjoyed Monday evening, too?”
“Actually, not as much as usual. She had things on her mind.”
Cally took her time. “Anything in particular?”
“Mainly the thought of Lucy marrying Jez Hemsworth.” She paused for a moment. “She would have liked him more if he’d knuckle down and get a proper job. He’s very eco, you know.” She gave a short laugh. “Which doesn’t stop him thinking money grows on trees.”
Cally waited a moment. “Mrs Parsons can’t have thought being eco-minded was a bad thing.”
“No, of course not, but it seemed to prevent Jez Hemsworth from finding work. April said it might be a different matter if he decided to train for something.”
Cally tapped her pen on her knee. “I understand Lucy and the baby were coming to live at Spring House.”
“They were, until they found somewhere suitable for a young family. Though I don’t think April had much faith in that happening any time soon.”
Cally said, “It rather sounds as if Mrs Parsons expected to be giving Lucy and the baby a home for some while. Would she have offered Jez a home, too?”
“She might have done, for Lucy’s sake.” She took a breath. “Now you tell me he’s not the father, God knows what she would have thought.”
“When did Mrs Parsons last see her daughter?”
“That morning.”
“Monday morning.”
“Yes.”
“Did they do anything special together?”
“April didn’t go into detail. Only that apart from Lucy being fed up with her pregnancy, they’d had a couple of happy hours planning how they’d care for the baby.” She put her head in her hands. “My God, I know this sounds dreadful, but it’s almost better she’s not here.”
“But you say she wouldn’t have cared about the baby being mixed race?”
“Of course she wouldn’t. It’s just how awful it would have been for her to cope with the knowledge that her adored daughter (and she did adore Lucy) had, how shall I put it, behaved so casually.” She looked steadily at Cally. “I’m sorry I said that about April. Nothing’s worse, for all of us, than facing life without her.”
Cally pushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. “Russell Sykes…”
“What about him?”
“Did Mrs Parsons mention the fact he wouldn’t be working on the Tuesday morning?”
“Actually, she did.”
Cally underlined a note. “Did she have anything else to say about him?”
“I think she said he’d decided to look for work on the south side of Leeds.”
Cally raised an eyebrow. “Did she say how she felt about this?”
“I think she was more disappointed than anything. It meant she’d have to look for someone else.”
“You were a close friend. Did she ever mention him in regard to girlfriends?”
Miss Bloom gave a little laugh. “She once said she hoped he’d settle down. Find the right girl. Perhaps have a family. She thought he’d make a good father.”
“He’s twenty-four, I believe.”
“Is he?”
Cally waited a second. “Mrs Parsons left a note telling Lyn Worsnop she’d be going out on the Tuesday morning, and that Russell Sykes wouldn’t be coming.”
“Oh, right.”
“Did you spot the note?”
“No, she probably wrote it after I left, or in the morning before she went out.” She clenched her jaw. “Not in the morning, of course.”
“Did Mrs Parsons say where she intended going?”
“She didn’t mention anything.”
Cally looked at the lengthening shadows in the garden. “While Mrs Worsnop was cleaning, someone called at the house. Do you know who that might have been?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“We’re keen to know who this was.” Cally waited. “She might have been a client, of course.”
Harriet Bloom said, “Oh, so it was a woman. If she was a client you’d be able to track her down.”
Cally nodded, put her notebook away and stood up. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She smiled. “Please thank your mother for the lemonade. Best I’ve ever tasted.”
Harriet Bloom rose. “I’ll tell her.” Leading the way to the front door, she added “I hope I’ve been a help.”
*
Cally checked her seat belt, turned the key in the ignition and looked in her rear view mirror. Diana Bloom had joined her daughter at the front door. Both were waving.
*
Harriet took her phone upstairs, sat at her dressing table and dialled. Philip sounded distracted. “I’m in a bit of a rush, Harriet. Did you want something?”
“I don’t want anything. I just wondered if you’d heard about your grandson.”
“Ah – a boy.” Harriet heard his intake of breath. “Is everything ok?”
“Fine. Though Lucy had a C-section.”
“What’s that?”
“A Caesarean.”
“Is she all right?”
“I believe she’s doing well, and the baby’s beautiful. But listen, Philip. Prepare yourself.”
“You said everything was all right.”
“Everything is all right.” She paused. “Just one thing.” She cleared her throat. “The baby is black.”
There was a pause. “Say that again.”
“Jez Hemsworth is not the father.”
*
Driving home, Cally drew together her thoughts about Harriet Bloom. Clearly, the woman had known April Parsons very well over a long pe
riod, and the death had affected her deeply. Was there more Bloom could have said, or would have said if Cally had probed for longer? Families differed. They could be loving, secure or unsettled. Looking on the bleak side, resentment could run through relationships like roots smothering smaller plants. From Bloom’s standpoint, however – despite Lucy’s choice of a husband – life at Spring House appeared to have been operating on an even keel.
15
Hammond’s mobile vibrated. Hearing the voice, warm and rounded like its owner, he grinned. “Hi, Neil. Thought you’d gone down a black hole. How’re you doing?”
“Fucking good. I’m playing darts.”
Hammond laughed. “Right now?”
“Don’t be daft. Look, it’s a good game – beer on tap. You should try it.”
“You’re mad.”
“S’what my good lady says.”
Hammond said, “Did lacrosse not work out?”
“I carry too much weight.”
“You keep saying that, you should do something about it.”
“Stevie boy. Have you seen the size of darts players? It’s de rigueur.”
“That doesn’t make it all right. Think of the cost to the NHS.”
“I know, I’ll go on a diet. Talking of which, Trish says – ”
“She’s not on a diet?”
“Shut up and listen.”
“I am listening.”
“She’d love it. We’d love it, if you’d come for a meal.”
“Promise you won’t try to fix me up?”
“After last time, you must be joking.”
Hammond thought back to ‘last time’ when Trish invited an old uni friend, fresh from a messy divorce. Bloody woman laughed like a drain; whenever, that is, she stopped talking. Hammond had watched what he drank, but she got blind drunk and needed a lift home. He had to stop twice while she retched in the gutter.
Neil said, “She was in a bad place, mate.”
“Yeah, my car.” He paused. “Please thank Trish. I’d love to come.”
“Why I’ve rung…”
“To invite me for a meal.”
“That too.” A short pause. “No, just to to let you know the Coroner’s releasing Parsons’s body.”
“Good. Sooner than I thought.”
“I thought he might want double checks DNA and so on, but he seems satisfied.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell the family.”
Neil said, “You any further on?”
“Irons in the fire, that’s all.”
After a couple of minutes of Neil and the joys of darts, Hammond dialled Philip Parsons’s office number. “Parsons Technology, how may I help you?”
He pictured the Madame Tussauds lookalike. “DCI Hammond. I’d like to speak to Mr Parsons.”
“He might’ve gone home. I’ll just check.”
Seconds later. “Philip Parsons. Good to hear from you, Chief Inspector.”
In a tone suited to the content of his message, Hammond said, “Mr Parsons, I’ve heard from the Coroner. He’s ready to release your wife’s body.”
There was a slight pause. “So we can organize the funeral?”
“Yes, you can go ahead.” Bringing the call to an end, Hammond wondered if it was odd, or not, that Parsons hadn’t asked about the post mortem. Perhaps he watched ‘Silent Witness’: organs removed and weighed, Y shaped flaps sewn back. Perhaps it was unbearable.
Hammond pulled a heap of files towards him. What happened to a paperless world? The Parsons file nagged at him. First step: apportion part of the work to Kylie Akpata; see what her analytical mind made of it. He smiled to himself; God forbid she wasn’t setting her sights too high. Had she been in the job long enough to sit her sergeant’s exam?
He picked up the phone and half a minute later there she was: in the doorway, a smile to warm the cockles of his heart. He handed her the file, asked her to sort it into family, friends, clients and contacts generally.
She’d closed the door behind her when his mobile buzzed. Dan. “Hi, son, all okay with you?” Dan was fine. Happy as Larry: talking about rehearsals, certain the acting world awaited him. He chattered on until Hammond, his phone smile fading, wished him well.
He stood up and stretched. Which perhaps didn’t constitute exercise, but had to be better than staying put without a break. He lifted his jacket from the back of the chair, felt for his diary, checked he’d written in the date. Yeah, he had: Bristol, The Tempest.
He sat down again, brought up April Parsons on the computer. Do a quick skim. Check if there was a connection he’d missed; decide on priorities; run over Cally’s interview with Worsnop.
Just as the germ of an idea looked like darting into his mind, Sergeant Cope’s head poked round the door. “Sir”?
“Yes?”
The desk sergeant stepped into the room, checked the piece of paper in his hand. “David Marsh, sir. Would like to see you.”
“Any idea what about?”
“April Parsons.”
Hammond pushed back his chair. “Anyone in Interview Room Two?”
“No, sir.”
“Put him in there.”
“Sir.”
“Just a sec, Sergeant. Is Higgins around?”
“I’ve seen her, sir – she’s on a late.”
“Send her in with him.” He paused. “Marsh, you said?”
“David Marsh, sir.”
“Right. Thank you.”
Hammond pushed up his shirt sleeves and headed for the door. Worsnop told Cally she heard this man’s wife sobbing. If, that is, he was about to meet the same Marsh.
Entering the room, Hammond acknowledged Denise Higgins and sized up David Marsh, who stood up as he came in. Mid-forties, mid-height, thinning hairline, small face, shirt and tie. Nothing to write home about. Hammond introduced himself. “DCI Hammond.”
Marsh said, “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I feel guilty, you must be very busy.”
Hammond pulled out his own chair and Marsh sat down again. Hammond asked, “Why guilty?”
“I’m concerned I’m wasting your time. Police time is expensive. I’m worried about taxpayers’ money.” He paused. “I’m an accountant. A tax expert, for my sins.”
Hammond nodded at Denise, who pulled forward a clipboard and paper. “PC Higgins will take notes.” Folding his hands on the table, he waited a few seconds. “You have some information in regard to the death of Mrs April Parsons?”
Marsh looked him in the eye. “I need to get something off my chest.”
Hope waned, the hope that April Parsons’s killer was sitting across the table from him. But, hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Since when did a killer look like a killer?
Marsh said, “I don’t know anything about Mrs Parsons’s death.”
The two maintained eye contact. The other man’s were dull blue, maybe grey. Hard to tell. Hammond wanted to say let’s not play games. Instead he took a slow breath. “Tell me what you want to off-load.”
Marsh’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. “The scan.”
Hammond waited a moment. “That would be an antenatal scan in a large box, delivered to Mrs April Parsons on the morning of her death?” Marsh’s features tightened. His face looked even smaller. Hammond said, “Okay. Was it a twelve week scan. Or later? Perhaps earlier?”
Marsh said, “I don’t know,” and Denise looked up.
Hammond said, “Nothing to do with you, then. Like April Parsons’s death.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“So what’s with the scan?” Hammond paused. “Could you not find something smaller to put it in?”
The man ignored the question. “I made changes to the Dogs’ Trust slogan.” He swallowed. “But you knew that.”
Her knuckles whitening, Denise’s pen raced across the page.
Hammond leaned back. “It’s rather soon to take a break, but let’s take one anyway. Just a quiet moment while you have time to think.” He watched Marsh’s mouth narrow abov
e the puckering chin. Surely, he thought, the guy can’t have gone to such lengths without having some sort of axe to grind. Hammond said. “Let’s hear why you’re really here.” While Denise put down her pen and flexed her fingers, Hammond allowed the second hand on his watch to move through fifteen seconds.
Marsh shuffled his feet. “My wife became pregnant. After many years we were having a baby. A girl.”
“Were you hoping for a girl?”
Marsh rubbed his chin, discovered a whisker he’d missed. “We didn’t mind.” His shoulders drooped. He opened his mouth to speak, failed and tried again. “The scan, not the one you saw…”
Hammond frowned. “What did we see?”
Marsh stared at the table top. “Just a photograph I found online, and copied.”
Hammond waited until he had the man’s eye again. “What about the scan of your baby?”
Marsh looked at the table. Waited. Looked up again. “It showed she had Downs Syndrome.”
Hammond also waited. “Was that the end of the world?”
Marsh banged his fist on the table. “No, that’s the whole point!” Denise’s pen rolled inches away before she retrieved it. Marsh shuddered, leaned across the table. “My wife went to April Parsons for advice.” His face contorted. “But that woman didn’t care if our baby never drew breath. She said the decision was for my wife to make.” His eyes glittered. “To put it like that was wrong. I think she sensed Angie was leaning towards a termination.” His lower lip trembled. “She ought to have made Angie think harder. For longer. I don’t believe for one moment she sat Angie down and talked through the enormity of ending a child’s life. You know what that could mean?” He hurried on. “It means that if Angie made up her mind to terminate the pregnancy, she’d take a pill and go into false labour –” He stopped abruptly, then recovered. “I don’t think April Parsons gave a toss if our daughter flopped out into a stainless steel dish, and died.”
Denise stood up. “Excuse me.”
Hammond said, “All right, Denise?”
“Fine, sir. I just need a minute.”
Marsh watched her close the door. “I’m sorry, that’s my fault.”
“No, no,” said, Hammond, “she drinks too much tea.”
They sat quietly. Marsh folded his arms, stared at the table again.