by Helen Oliver
Cally waited a moment. “I’m actually here to ask you to cast your mind back, not very far, to your husband’s trip to Scotland.”
“When he visited his client in Edinburgh on Monday?” Shrugging, she added, “As I hope I explained, that’s exactly what he’s getting worked up about. But he needn’t be. I heard him leave at around six, and I was here when he got back. We sat up talking for ages, then went to bed.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mrs Marsh – but do you sleep in the same room?”
“We do usually, but on Monday night David slept in the guest room.” She hesitated. “I haven’t been sleeping well recently. I’ve a lot on my mind and occasionally, with David having to shoot off each morning, it’s better if he gets a good night’s sleep.” She watched Cally make a note. “Perhaps I oughtn’t to read so many detective novels.”
Cally smiled. “What makes you say that?”
“Maybe because I wouldn’t think you were trying to catch me out. I’d just say I’m sure David didn’t leave the house that night.”
Cally nodded. “Okay.”
There was a short silence before Mrs Marsh said suddenly, “I nearly forgot.”
“Go on.”
“I got out of bed because I heard Betsy padding about, and thought I’d better check on her.” She paused. “When I passed the guest room I heard David’s radio.”
“I thought he needed a good night’s sleep.”
“It helps him to sleep. He starts listening to the World Service and goes right off.”
“Was that what he’d been listening to?”
“I stopped for a moment on the landing. It’s unmistakable.”
In the pause that followed, Cally thought to move up a notch. “There’s the question of the scan, Mrs Marsh.”
It was barely perceptible, the hand smoothing her summer top. “You knew about that?”
Cally nodded. “I’m aware of the Downs Syndrome.”
Angie Marsh said sharply, “Apart from David and me, only two people knew about that. And one of them’s dead.”
“The radiologist will have known.”
“Agreed, but there’s such a thing as medical confidentiality.” Her mouth tightened. “David’s been bleating, has he? To your Detective Chief Inspector and every Tom, Dick and Harry who happened to be in the room at the time?” At the sound of a car, she stood up. “Talk of the devil.”
Glancing through the window, Cally made a mental note as a black VW drew up on the drive. She rose and took a step towards Mrs Marsh. “I’m so very sorry about the Downs Syndrome. Actually, though, that’s not the scan I’m referring to.”
“I can assure you there’s only been one.”
“Your husband didn’t mention the one he sent to Mrs Parsons?”
Tilting her head at the sound of the garage door rising, Mrs Marsh said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your husband, clearly in a troubled state of mind, sent a copy of an ante-natal scan to Mrs Parsons.”
“What copy, for God’s sake?”
“One he found online. He – ” Cally stopped and they both listened to the front door opening and footsteps in the hallway.
David Marsh stood in the doorway.
Cally said, “I hope my car wasn’t in your way.”
“Not at all.” He looked at Cally, then at his wife. Who, her voice icy cold, said, “This is Detective Sergeant Burns.” She glanced at Cally. “Presumably a colleague of Detective Chief Inspector Hammond?”
Cally nodded.
Marsh loosened his tie. “I ought to have stayed at the office, but I’ve something to tell you.” He sank onto the sofa. “Angie, I’m so sorry…”
“If I were you, David,” his wife said, “I’d keep my mouth well and truly shut.”
Marsh lowered his head, blubbed into his hands.
Cally said, “Is there anything either of you would like to say?”
Marsh raised his head, and his wife said, “Not without our solicitor present.”
*
Cally called Hammond. “They’re tying themselves in knots.”
“I’ve been thinking about Marsh,” he said. “Could the Dogs’ Trust scan have been a red herring? Skimming the surface of the truth.”
“I’m sure his wife didn’t know anything about it. She wants a solicitor present before either of them says anything else.”
“Because she thinks he’s guilty?” said Hammond. “Or could be guilty?”
“Whichever, she’s worried.”
17
Harriet Bloom slammed the car door and hurried round to the garden room. Diana, cool in cream linen, stood waiting. “You’ve a match, haven’t you? What held you up?”
Harriet made for the stairs. “Something and nothing.”
Diana called up to the bedroom where her daughter was opening and shutting drawers, “I’d still like to know. Is it that policewoman again?”
Harriet shouted down. “Not directly.” She came out of her room, sank onto the top stair and pulled off her sandals. “Have you seen my Fred Perry dress?”
“In your wardrobe, washed and ironed.”
“Thanks.”
“Wait, Harriet. You’re not getting out of it that easily!”
“I’ll tell you later, Mother.” She leaned over the banister. “You’ve got a ‘Foyle’s War’ at nine. I’ll be back before you can turn round.”
*
With a loser’s smile, Harriet watched Carol Parkes jump into the red two-seater and drive away.
She opened the glove box, took out her satnav and checked the postcode for 28 Victory Villas. Pulling down her mirror, she didn’t like what she saw and pushed it up again. She put the Peugeot in first, moved forward, decided she was too close to a classic Morris Minor, went into reverse, and braked just short of a mustard Fiat.
A female face appeared at her window. “D’you realise what you nearly did?”
Harriet let the engine idle. “But I didn’t, did I.”
“Aren’t you going to apologize?”
“Probably not.”
The woman stepped back. “Suit yourself.”
Harriet lifted an eyebrow. “I will, thanks for the advice.” She waited for the woman – young and busty – to get into the Fiat and drive off. She sighed, rested her head on the steering wheel: told herself 7-5, 6-4 to Carol Parkes wasn’t as bad as it might have been, gave the smug Morris Minor a wide berth and set off for the wrong side of the tracks.
28 Victory Villas looked as miserable as she’d expected. She waited, making sure the loud barking didn’t mean the beastly creatures were about to appear. She smoothed the skirt of her white dress and headed for the plastic front door.
The woman who opened it looked exhausted. “What you after? I’ve ‘ad enough for one day.”
“Are you Martina Hemsworth?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Actually, I do.”
“And who, actually, are you?”
“Harriet Bloom. I’m a friend of April Parsons. Excuse the garb, I’ve been playing tennis.” She paused. “I’d like to come in.”
With a ‘dirt before the broom’ gesture, the woman waved Harriet inside.
Standing in the front room – containing more bad taste crammed into a small space than one would have thought possible – Harriet knew she’d not made a mistake and thanked God there was no point in wasting time on this ageing tart. She gave a deep sigh. If April could see how narrowly her grandchild had escaped infancy in this horrid little house; never mind being torn to pieces by a pack of dogs. Lucky for him the little bastard wasn’t pure white. No, this was not the place for Leo, or his expensive cot and mobile. She’d been about to tell the woman she was Lucy’s godmother but kept it simple. “I saw Lucy Parsons
today.”
“Little slut’s nowt to do wi’ me, nor bairn neither.” She paused. “So, Mrs Gloom or whatever your name is, why don’t you sling your ’ook?”
“It’s Miss Bloom. I just stopped by to make myself known.”
The dogs in the garden set up a racket again, and their owner yelled. “Shut it!”
Harriet said quickly, “But I can see you’ve got your hands full.”
The woman’s eyes fill with tears. “I were lookin’ forward to bein’ a nan.”
Harriet shook her head sadly. “Better luck next time.”
*
Diana, hands folded in her lap, sat on the small sofa in the TV snug. Harriet asked, “Was it good?”
“What?”
“Foyle’s War.”
“I watched an old Midsomer Murders.”
“But you love Michael Kitchen.”
“You must have given me the wrong time. Anyway, I like John Nettles.”
With the television still on, though mute, both women continued to stare at a soundless Newsnight, during which Harriet tried to piece together an item about a volcano that must have erupted around the time she played her disappointing match against Carole Parkes.
Giving a short laugh, as if what she was about to say was too ridiculous, Harriet told her mother how DS Burns had recounted Lucy’s crackpot assumption that she and her offspring were about to come and live at Wychwood.
Her mother reached for the remote, and the picture vanished. “It would take some thought, I know,” she said, “but speaking for myself, and let’s face it, I’d be the one most affected, I think this is something we could do.”
“Christ’s sake, Mother.”
Diana said sharply, “I don’t need to remind you that Lucy is your goddaughter.”
“Actually, Mother, I think that’s cruel. You know as well as I do that christenings mean bugger all. Half the time it’s an excuse for a party.”
“When you girls were christened, your father and I were sincere.”
“Right – name me a godmother.”
“Yours, you mean?”
“No, Princess Anne’s.” She glared. “Of course mine.”
“Andrea Cormack.”
Harriet frowned. “And when did we last see her?”
“We always write in the Christmas card.” She looked annoyed. “We’re getting off the point.”
Harriet hugged her knees. “I can’t believe Lucy means it.” She puffed out her cheeks. “She’s all over the place.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Of course not. It’s been dreadful for her.” She paused. “But I don’t think lumbering us with a new-born baby will solve anyone’s problems. Didn’t Lucy have another godmother?”
“Yes, but she died at twenty-eight from an aneurism”
Harriet allowed that this was tragic, after which they sat in silence for several minutes. Diana went to the window, tried locking it for the night until Harriet said, “Mother, you already did that.”
“I didn’t, did I?” Arranging three sofa cushions, Diana said, “Why don’t we give it go?”
Harriet frowned. “What if it didn’t work out; the poor thing could get shunted off somewhere else. I mean, is that fair?”
“Is doing nothing fair?”
“Mother. it would change your life.”
Diana looked out of the window into the half-dark. “So I’d give up a bit of Bridge. I was thinking of it anyway. It’s time I took up Scrabble.”
“You despise Scrabble.”
Her mother walked to the door. “I’m not going to despise a small whisky. How about you?”
Harriet said, “Yes, okay,” and sat staring out of the window at nothing. She thought about Lucy and the baby. The baby April had longed for.
Diana returned, handed her a stiff measure and said, “Let’s talk about this in the morning.”
18
Eyes dry with exhaustion, Harriet squinted at the sun as it filled a gap at the bottom of the bedroom blind. Thank God it was Saturday. She eased herself out of bed, pulled at the deep shag with her toes and tottered into the en suite.
Head back, eyes closed, she let the water run. Bounce off her. She reached for the shampoo, lathered her hair, massaged hard, let her thoughts gel. She’d sat on the edge of the bed last night, thinking until her head hurt. If only she had someone to talk to. If April were here (the irony!) there wouldn’t be any need to talk. Everything would sort itself out. April would be thankful Jez wasn’t the father of the baby and would lessen her workload accordingly. Harriet would leave work on the dot, hurry to Spring House to help bath the baby.
She stepped out of the shower, pulled a bath sheet off the radiator and gazed in the mirror. The idea grew. It could be good, couldn’t it? Harriet Bloom – already in line for promotion to Deputy CEO – displaying compassion?
Wouldn’t it be a blessed relief not to be the daughter who didn’t yearn to waddle through pregnancy? She smiled at her reflection. Not only was Leo beautiful. He was ready-made, practically pret-a-porter. All right, he was of colour, but far more beautiful than any other brat she’d seen on the ward. And once Lucy started to benefit from a psychologist’s help, became settled with Mother, and got over April’s death…
Had she spoilt things last night, being so obtuse when Mother was eager to discuss the matter? Diana was sixty-one and as strong as an ox. She’d revel in having Leo. She’d revel, too, in being Lady Bountiful: taking on a child who through no fault of his own – poor little mite – found himself without a father. And wouldn’t it cast Harriet in a favourable light, when she became warm-hearted Miss Bloom who gave up what little spare time she had to make a home for her goddaughter’s unfortunate child?
Harriet dried her hair, slipped into jeans and a Hobbs shirt, slicked on a new Estee Lauder lipstick and ran lightly downstairs. She filled the kettle, placed a teacup and saucer on a tray.
“I thought I heard you!”
She turned quickly. “Oh, Mother, I didn’t know you were up.”
“I didn’t feel much like a lie-in.” Diana pulled out a chair facing the window. “I’ve been thinking –”
Harriet took an orange from the fruit bowl. “Me too.”
“I think I went a little bit mad.”
Harriet cut the orange, ready for juicing. “No, you were absolutely right. If you feel you can take Leo on, and personally I think you can, then we should go ahead.” She switched on the citrus squeezer, placed half an orange on it and spoke above the gentle whir. “I’ll go into the hospital today. Let Lucy know.”
“Oh, Harriet. That’s wonderful! Thank you so much. I was worried you might think I couldn’t cope.”
“Of course you can cope. …I began to see things in a different light.”
Diana frowned. “I suppose it’s legal.”
“It can hardly be illegal! Lucy is Leo’s mother; it’s perfectly natural. It’s what she wants – anyway for the time being.” With a light laugh, she added, “And I shouldn’t think the father will turn up to box our ears.”
The joke was lost on Diana until Harriet said, “Dylan Beck is a professional boxer.”
*
Later, in the hospital day room, Harriet told Lucy she would be talking to the appropriate department first thing Monday morning. Lucy nodded. “That’s good.”
Dodging the Saturday visitors, Harriet went back to her car, sat inside and dialled Cally Burns.
“DS Burns.”
“This is Harriet Bloom. Look, I’ve had a discussion with my mother, and we’ve decided it would be the best thing for Lucy and the baby if they come to live with us. Mother’s totally up for it.”
There was a short pause. “Are you thinking of this as a permanent arrangement, Miss Bloom?”
“Yes, we are. Well, as far as one can tell.”
DS Burns said, “That’s great. Keep in touch. Let me know how you get on.”
*
Cally dialled Hammond. “Our Miss Bloom has done a ‘U’ turn. She and her mum have agreed to give a home to Lucy Parsons and the baby.”
“Did that surprise you, after all she said?”
“It did really. Yeste
rday she was shocked at the very thought. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.”
19
Lyn hadn’t much liked DS Burns’s suggestion. Wasn’t it a bugger, though? The minute she had enough space in her head to decide whether she needed more Mr Muscle, something cropped up to put the mockers on it. Pete wasn’t going to like this. Trouble was: hiding stuff from Pete got her screwed up in a different way, leaving even less trouble-free space in her head.
So while he was in the front room picking his Lotto numbers, she put her head round the door, told him DS Burns had rung, and hurried back to the kitchen.
Maria was working. Donna, who liked to feel the weekend was special, was out with friends who didn’t have kids.
Pete came in. “What did she want?”
Lyn said innocently. “Who?”
“That policewoman.”
“Oh, her. She wants me to do an e-fit of the woman who came to the door. Her wanting to see Mrs Parsons.”
“You’re not going to do it, are you?”
“Of course I am.”
“That’s police pressure, is that.”
“If it helps to find out who killed Mrs Parsons, I need to go along with it.”
“You want to watch out. Give ’em half a chance and they’ll accuse you of murder.”
Lyn gave a wry laugh. “Accuse me? Don’t be so ridiculous. Anyway, I’ll only have to pick out the features. Shape of her face, hair colour, that sort of thing.” She stopped: “If I can remember.”
“What if you can’t?”
“I will do when I get there. I said I’d go today. Get it over with.” Keira, tottering into the room, grabbed Lyn round her knees. Patting the toddler’s head, she looked at Pete. “D’you want to drive me down there – bring the kids?”
“Not specially.”
“Suddenly all right, is it, me taking the car?”