by Helen Oliver
Hammond said, “We’ll carry on when PC Higgins returns.”
Marsh looked up. Nodded.
Denise came back in, sat down and picked up her pen.
Hammond said, “Mr Marsh, would I be right in assuming that your action – some might describe as extreme – was a form of protest?”
“Absolutely. And more.”
“Which is not to say you wouldn’t have followed it up.”
“I didn’t kill April Parsons.” He paused. “I can’t kill anything. I throw slugs next door.” He coughed, and Hammond said, “Would you like a glass of water?” Marsh shook his head. “We’d been through four courses of IVF, then later – out of the blue – Angie found she was pregnant. As I see it, this is almost certainly my last chance of being a father. To be honest, I think I’ve been more desperate for a child than Angie. I’ve seen myself walking along, holding my little kid’s hand, even thought of walking her down the aisle.” He paused. “Though I’m not sure if Downs Syndrome offspring get married.” He looked to Hammond.
“Sorry, I don’t know.”
Marsh said, “Though what I do know is, these kids are happy, make their parents happy and can lead fulfilling lives.”
It seemed a salient fact that Marsh’s desire for a child was stronger than his wife’s. “Despite several attempts at IVF,” Hammond said, “which can’t be easy for either partner, your wife’s wish to be a parent appears, to me at any rate, less critical than it does for you.”
Marsh nodded. “It hasn’t taken over her life – not like it has mine.” He seemed ready to talk, and Hammond, hopeful the guy might trip himself up, didn’t stop him. “Angie,” Marsh said, “has personal ambitions. She thinks she’s hitting middle-age without making her mark. She has some ambitious idea about studying interior design and running courses at home.” His voice dropped, “But she doesn’t see how she could do this if she had a child with Down’s about the place.” He looked up. “Can you imagine killing a human being because they don’t look right, or might get in the way? Isn’t that Fascism?”
Hammond noticed Denise decide on a full stop. “Were you ready,” he asked Marsh, “to lay the blame at April Parsons’s door, for what could lead to the death of your unborn child?”
“That’s how it felt.”
“Is your wife still considering a termination?”
Marsh’s voice cracked. “She’s made the appointment.”
Saving the life of slug, Hammond thought, didn’t preclude the intention to rid the world of the person whose influence looked like thwarting your life’s overriding desire. “So you found yourself on the horns of a dilemma.”
Marsh said hurriedly, “A dilemma for Angie, but not for me. For me it’s black and white. A child – whatever, whoever – is a child for life. Their own life, or their parents’.”
Hammond asked evenly, “Was your wife a regular aromatherapy client of April Parsons?”
Marsh nodded. “She had been for years, then after the scan she started going every week. Sometimes twice.” He paused, his jaw working. “It was good money after bad. Can you believe it: shelling out on being advised to make up your own mind?” Tears sprang to his eyes. He felt in his pocket, but Denise was first with a folded tissue from her sleeve. He took it, wiped his nose.
Hammond said, “We’ll leave this for now, but I’d like you to clarify something.” He waited. Denise attached a fresh page to her clipboard. Marsh frowned and Hammond asked, “Where were you during the early hours of Tuesday morning: between roughly three and six?”
“On my way back from Edinburgh.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I’d been working on an audit for a client. She has a guest house.”
“Were you driving, or on the train?”
“Driving.”
Hammond’s mind ran over the route and approximate length of time it would take to cover the journey. “When did you leave Edinburgh?”
Marsh frowned. “I still had some VAT to check. I must have left at about ten.”
“Had you driven up on Monday morning?”
“Crack of dawn.”
“With your client owning a guest house, had it not occurred to you to stay the night?”
“They were stuffed to the gunnels. That’s Edinburgh for you.”
“Well, it’s a popular tourist city.”
Marsh scratched behind his ear. “To be perfectly honest, I had previously arranged to stay, but changed my mind.”
“Why was that?”
“I was afraid Angie might make an earlier appointment. Go ahead with the termination before I got home.”
“But she didn’t.”
“No.”
Hammond asked, “When is the appointment?”
“I don’t dare ask.”
“How long was the return drive to Browbridge?”
“Around four hours. Not much traffic at that time of night.”
“And when you got home?”
“We sat up talking,” Marsh said. “Angie was in a state. My fault, I suppose. I couldn’t stop talking about the baby.”
Hammond let seconds elapse. “Did you stop off anywhere on the journey?”
“No. My client made me a sandwich.”
“How about stopping for petrol?”
Marsh shook his head. “I filled up at the start, plus I filled a can for the boot.”
“Belt and braces. Was this usual for you?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the name of your client’s guest house?” Hammond asked. “And their name, please.”
Marsh took out his wallet and handed Hammond a business card. “Shelagh Macklin, and it’s Beech Tree House.” He ventured a smile. “You can keep that, if you like.”
Hammond examined the card, stood up. “Thank you.”
Marsh pushed his chair back slowly. “I can go?”
“Yes.” He watched Marsh straighten his tie. “I’ll let you know if I need to talk to you again. PC Higgins will show you out.”
Denise stood up. “Sir.”
Marsh followed Denise. Hammond closed the door, took out his phone and dialled the Edinburgh number for Beech Tree House. “Good evening. Shelagh Macklin, Beech Tree House.” Hammond spoke briefly and the warm voice verified Marsh’s times and movements.
He dialled Cally who’d slipped into her car, ready to drive home. He pictured her: elbow on the open car window, hair behind one ear, as she listened to his account of Marsh’s visit. “He’s got a motive,” Hammond said, “like nothing I’ve come across before. He’s convincing and I’d guess not normally a liar. Though what would you say if you’re not keen on spending the rest of your life in gaol?”
Cally asked, “You want me to call on his wife?”
“Please. She’s called Angie. Get her side of the picture.” He paused. “I wish you’d been in on the interview. It was hard-going,” he said, “I wondered for a moment if Higgins would stay the course.”
“Denise is pregnant, did you know?”
“God no. Poor kid.”
Cally said, “Give me the Marsh post code and I’ll fit it in after I’ve seen Lucy and the baby tomorrow.”
16
Where had Friday gone – and still she hadn’t called on Angie Marsh? Late afternoon Cally felt as if her brain physically ached from trying to piece together the jigsaw that was April Parsons’s death. Computer documents springing from hopeful fingers (hers and Akpata’s) ended up either too short for any use or too long for clarity. She emailed the young DC. ‘Thanks Kylie, let’s see what a night’s sleep can do.’ She thought for a moment and added, ‘Think I’ll indulge myself: go to the hospital and spring a surprise visit on Lucy and the baby. …Make sure you switch your brain off for a few hours!’
*
More mums had delivered. More babies lay in cots at their side. A nurse, encouraging a baby to breast feed, smiled as Cally drew level with the bed. Clearly in agony, the young mum said, “Fuckin’ hell, when can I put him o
n the bottle?”
“Give it time. Nature knows best.”
“Stuff nature!”
“If you were in the jungle, pet.”
“I’m not in the fuckin’ jungle.”
Embarrassed, the nurse said, “Sshh,” then brightly, “they’re in the day room, Sergeant Burns.” She put a hand on Cally’s arm. “I’m glad to report Mum’s temperature is back to normal, but…” she lowered her voice, “there’s a touch of the blues. We’re hoping nothing too serious. We might be a wee bit tearful. Not surprising, all things considered. By the way, Miss Bloom was in earlier. I think it did Mum good.”
Cally thanked her and made her way through the glass door to where Lucy, alone and with the baby in her arms, sat in a high-backed vinyl chair. Looking up as Cally came in, she said, “Hello. You can pull that chair nearer.”
Dragging the chair, Cally said, “How are you both?”
“A bit better. …I’ve called him Leo. Would you like to hold him?”
Cally leaned forward. “Heavens, it’s ages since I held a new-born.” She moved back in the chair. “He’s so tiny.”
“He’s a normal weight.”
“I didn’t mean he’s too small, Lucy. It’s just you forget how small they actually are.”
Deadpan, Lucy said, “They all say he’s gorgeous.”
“He’s beautiful.”
Lucy’s eyes brimmed. “I want Mum.”
“I know – it’s very hard for you. Has your dad been in?”
Lucy shook her head. “He’s supposed to be coming soon. And James. …If they leave it much longer I’ll be out of here.”
Yesterday, when Harriet Bloom visited and reported back to Cally, there’d been no mention of where Lucy and Leo would live. In the back of her mind Cally had assumed that Lucy, after a C-section and fever, would be in hospital for another few days, and that with Martina Hemsworth out of the picture, Philip Parsons would somehow step up to the plate. However, Lucy wasn’t giving this impression.
Cally trod gently. “Out of here, Lucy?”
“We’re going to live with Auntie Harriet.”
Cally tried not to sound surprised. “Miss Bloom?”
“She was Mum’s best friend. She’s my godmother.”
Cally smiled. “That’s marvellous, Lucy. When was this decided?”
“About an hour ago.”
When Cally’s mobile buzzed, Lucy said, “It’s okay for you to answer it. I’ll have him again.” Cally put the phone to her ear, mouthed thanks to Lucy, and with extreme care handed Leo back.
“Hi, Steve.” She listened, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. I can go. Honestly, no probs. I’ve been with Lucy for a while, and her very gorgeous baby boy. Yes, I will.” She finished the call and turned to Lucy. “It was someone you know. Mr Hammond. He sends his best wishes to you both.”
“He’s nice.”
“Yes, he is.” Cally eased her little finger into Leo’s fist. “He’s very nice.”
*
Turning a corner on the stone stairs leading to Reception, Cally ran into Harriet Bloom. “Miss Bloom. I’m so glad I’ve bumped into you.”
Harriet Bloom put a hand on the wall while she adjusted a strap on her sandal. “Sergeant Burns, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I’ve been to see Lucy and the baby.”
Miss Bloom laughed. “Don’t you think he’s gorgeous!”
Cally chuckled. “I was beginning to think ‘gorgeous’ is an over-worked adjective, but I can’t think of a better one.”
They moved aside for two visitors needing the hand rail. Miss Bloom’s smile faded. “It’s a sad subject to bring up, but have you any idea when April’s funeral is likely to be?”
“Fairly soon, I should think. The Coroner’s given his go ahead. …Look, don’t let’s stand here on the stairs. I wonder if the café’s still open.”
Miss Bloom glanced at her watch. “It might be if we’re lucky.”
Cally started down the stairs. “I want to hear more about your news. Yours and Lucy’s.” She looked over her shoulder, gave a little laugh. “And baby makes three – or would it be four?” It wasn’t until they were on the ground floor, making for the café and finding it closing for the day, that Harriet Bloom said, “My news?”
Watching the shutter come down in front of a plate of scones, Cally said, “I’d call it headline news.” Hesitating at the woman’s blank look and wondering if she’d spoken out of turn, she said, “Lucy and Leo coming to live with you?” The woman’s expression didn’t change, and Cally said quickly, “Perhaps it’s an interim measure.” She paused. “You visited Lucy earlier.”
“Yes I did, and having seen her I’m even more keen for them to speed up a psychologist’s appointment. She’s been through so much. I’m no expert, but I don’t think it’s a good thing to diagnose postnatal depression and simply hope it’ll pass.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Cally said, and wondered if Lucy was suffering from some sort of post-natal delusional state. She looked at the empty café tables. “Shall we sit down for a minute?”
Miss Bloom looked doubtful. “I mustn’t be too long, I’ve a tennis match at half-six.”
“I didn’t know you played.”
“I’ve played for years.” She looked modest. “I played mixed doubles at uni.”
“Where was that?”
“Durham.”
Cally pulled out a chair. “This is important,” she said. “Lucy is under the impression that she and Leo are coming to live with you at Wychwood.”
“Whatever made her think that?”
Cally said, “You tell me.”
“I’m afraid can’t.”
“How did you find Lucy?”
Miss Bloom shrugged. “Rather depressed.” Checking her handbag, she didn’t seem keen to elaborate.
Cally took a breath. “Did you say she’d be welcome to stay with you for a while, or suggest she brings Leo to see your mother? Something she could look forward to.”
“You mean, did I encourage her?”
“I meant something that might cheer her up. I’m not trying to interfere. It’s just that I can take myself back to that state of feeling pretty desperate after childbirth.”
Miss Bloom said, “So you have children.”
“Two. A boy and girl.”
“A pigeon pair.” She paused. “I’m one of three girls. My sisters live in the West Country. One of them’s always pregnant. I’m a bitter disappointment to Mother.”
There was no answer to that, and Cally said, “Where Lucy’s concerned, we’ll have to hope professional help will be the answer.” She stood up. “I’d better let you go. Good luck with the match.”
“Thanks.” Harriet Bloom slipped her bag over her shoulder, made for the main entrance and carpark. As the automatic doors slid open, she called back, “I hope it works out for Lucy.”
*
It would be tight, but Cally reckoned on fitting in her visit to Angie Marsh before getting home in time to check Tom’s homework and listen to Lou’s chatter about her am-azing day.
*
Bank Top Cottage lay at the top (no surprise) of a twisting country lane, roughly two miles north of Browbridge. A detached double garage, perhaps once a pair of stables, stood to the left. Cally rang the bell and took a step back. The cottage was stone built, long and low; its front door sage green. Mauve wisteria hung in heavy swathes beneath the first floor windows. The door opened, and a woman – petite, mid-blonde, shapely legs – gave a faint smile.
“Mrs Angie Marsh?”
“Yes?”
Cally produced her ID. “Detective Sergeant Burns, North Yorkshire Police.” One more glance at the wisteria. “May I come in?”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m hoping you might be able to help us.”
Mrs Marsh stood aside. “Is it about this awful thing?”
“It concerns the death of Mrs April Parsons.”
“Come into the kitchen.”
/>
An old dog, shaggy and grey, lay in a large basket. Cally bent over it. “Hello,” she said, and it yawned. “He’s lovely,” she said, “how old is he?”
“She, Betsy. Sixteen. Good age for a lurcher.” She nodded. “Do have a seat.”
Cally sat with her back to the window and took in the kitchen-diner: pure country-house magazine. Close to one corner, an oak door stood ajar. Leading, Cally guessed, to a room every bit as desirable as this one. She brought out her notebook and pen. “Sorry about this.”
The woman raised a palm. “Feel free,” she said, “I’ve a pretty good idea why you’re here. April and I were good friends.”
“I understand your husband knew her, too.”
“Not as well as I did.”
“You were a client of hers?”
“Not just a client. As I said, she was a friend; someone I could trust.”
“Earlier today,” Cally said, “your husband spoke to Detective Chief Inspector Hammond.”
“So I understand.” Angie Marsh took a deep breath, seemed prepared to talk. “David had a bee in his bonnet. He wanted to make sure the senior investigating officer realized he was miles away at the time.”
Cally asked, “The time?”
“When April died.”
“I’m not sure if anyone actually knows the time she died.”
Angie Marsh tucked in her pointed chin. “Surely it can’t be hard to work out. Apparently she had a friend staying until late and was found by her cleaner quite early on. Plus, the pathologist must have drawn his, or her, conclusion.”
Cally smiled. “Do you read crime fiction, Mrs Marsh?”
The woman pulled a little face. “Guilty. If I’m a bit down I shut myself away with a Ruth Rendell or P D James. The latter preferably, I love Adam Dalgliesh.
“More than Inspector Wexford?”
“I think so. They’re both intellectuals, of course.” She crossed her tanned legs. “Dalgliesh is sexier.”
Cally nodded. “Definitely.” She paused. “Did you not think it odd that your husband would want DCI Hammond to know he wasn’t in Browbridge at the time Mrs Parsons was killed?”
Angie Marsh didn’t answer at once. “Yes and no. I was aware April wasn’t his favourite person. Even so…” Tailing off, she looked Cally in the eye. “In fact I asked him point blank: whatever made him think he would be a murder suspect? Admittedly, he strongly disagreed with April over something that affects us both. Something no one else would know about, least of all the police. God knows why he wanted to draw attention to himself.”