by Helen Oliver
“I’ve just told him.”
“Is he all right about it?”
“Perfectly, yes. But he doesn’t know the bloody builder’s disappeared off the face of the earth.”
*
His father’s words stayed with him. You don’t know the half of it. Lying on his water bed, eyes fixed on the skylight, James watched a cloud wash the moon. Christ almighty, now that he did know the half of it, he wished he’d known from the off. It put a different complexion on everything. Harriet, Dad, darling Mum. Everything.
As for the bombshell about that sod of a builder. He scratched the sheet with his toenails; he wasn’t going to give up what he loved more than life itself: this studio flat a stone’s throw from the canal. Surely this fucking Spanish thing wasn’t going to eat up too much of his inheritance. He’d have Spring House valued. As soon as.
The plan for Lucy and the baby to move in with Harriet and her mum sounded good. Though he hoped Harriet didn’t think she was getting back her Spanish £10K in lieu of taking on the kid.
After Harriet had flounced out – when Dad went onto Merlot and started pouring his heart out – James’d had an uneasy feeling he was about to be touched for a loan, out of the money his mum, his brilliant mum, had left him. In the event it didn’t happen. And if it ever did? He wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t want to see Dad skint.
His shoulders started to heave and the mattress trembled. Tears spurted, rolled down his face. Jesus, they’d not even had the funeral yet. If they asked him to stand up and talk about Mum he wouldn’t be able to cope.
23
Moving house? Lyn couldn’t think what had got into Pete. Now was not the time to cut and run. What was he trying to run away from? He hadn’t got the brain to plan anything really bad. And why would he? But then why did that dreadful doctor kill all those patients? Does a murderer have to have a reason?
She’d read in the Sun about men and the mid-life crisis. It could be that; Pete was the right age. She’d seen it affect Mr Parsons: new haircut, jeans and a leather bomber jacket at weekends.
Lyn had never known the true cause of it. Why Mr and Mrs P separated. She’d guessed there was another woman. She never saw signs that either of them was looking elsewhere. Marie hadn’t long left school when Mr P did his disappearing act. Lyn wouldn’t have known he’d gone if his wardrobe doors hadn’t stood open. Empty. Mrs Parsons explained of course, though she was calm and appeared to take it in her stride. That was Mrs P all over.
Was this about Pete’s job? She’d been down to HomeAll, checked he was doing what he said he was. You heard about men who got the sack, and pretended to go to work every day. Pete was there all right: talking to a big-busted woman with bad skin. Lyn stopped beside them, told Pete she’d come for sample tins of paint. He’d gone bright red and the woman, making a face, had said, “Better scoot before they dock me wages.”
*
The briefing room hadn’t warmed up. A light breeze touched the back of Cally’s neck. Some in the room looked as if they’d had a restful weekend, others like they had a job getting out of bed. But they were all well turned out. Kylie Akpata looked band-box fresh, her candy-pink mouth matching the stripes on her shirt.
Pat Kerridge was turning up the heat. It was nearly a week since April Parsons’s murder. Any real leads? Hammond pointed out headshots and details warranting discussion. He lingered on April Parsons’s gardener, Russell Sykes, but said to guard against giving him all their attention. There were others in the frame. He gave a synopsis of investigations carried out so far. There wasn’t anyone they could charge, and it was clearly vital to learn the whereabouts of Sykes. He, Hammond, had been checking regularly with Tim Grayson, a nurse in Leeds who shared a small flat with Sykes. He explained that April Parsons had posted a generous cheque to Russell Sykes, which had been banked and cashed. It was obvious there’d been some sort of liaison between Sykes and his employer.
Kerridge commented that although the cheque sounded generous, it wasn’t enormous and she assumed Hammond had considered Sykes could be looking for vengeance. Hammond emphasized he’d thought a lot about this, and an all-out effort was being made to find him.
With a nod to Kerridge, Hammond addressed the room. “We’re looking for a man, early to mid-twenties, who may be looking for revenge –” He stopped, waited for a latecomer who tried dodging a dirty look from Kerridge. “He may be feeling that an older woman had led him up the garden path – sorry. That he’s been made a monkey of. He drew the room’s attention to a photo of Sykes. “He has the physical strength to be our man. April Parsons would have offered no resistance, especially if he coerced her into a position of trust: mental or physical.”
A PC sneezed. Hammond waited while she blew her nose. “We know April Parsons called time on their ‘affair’.” He paused. “Sykes had been given his notice, but perhaps he returned that night.” He cast an eye around. “You have his photo. Get out there. Jog people’s memories, especially in the pubs. Did they see Sykes, or his W Reg brown Toyota, on Monday evening or in the early hours of Tuesday morning?” A hand went up. “Yes?”
DC Akpata spoke up. “Sir, might Sykes have thought that if he pretended he’d come with the purpose of thanking Mrs Parsons for the cheque, he could make her agree, for one last time to –” Kylie cleared her throat, “to have sex with him?” She hesitated. “But things went wrong,”
Kerridge’s eyes quelled the start of a dirty murmur. “Carry on, Akpata.”
Kylie nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. Or perhaps she began to remember special things they did together.” She paused. “Although she apparently didn’t eat much on Monday night, she drank a lot. Maybe she called him because she was having second thoughts. He might have resented her playing with his emotions. Perhaps she led him on.” She paused. “He could easily have killed her.”
Kerridge nodded slowly. “Thank you, Akpata.” She looked to Hammond. “Pick your team and see what else you can turn up. We need something soon.”
Kerridge left and a group of officers looked to see if Hammond wanted them. He spoke to those he’d use. Some were to go to Leeds. Investigate small builders who might have used Sykes’s services recently. Drop into Jimmy’s, see if Tim Grayson was on duty. If he was, ask if there was any word on Sykes. Did Grayson know more than he originally told Hammond?
Others would do a pub crawl, paying special attention to the Red Cat and those within a five mile radius of Browbridge. Discover those frequented by Russell Sykes. Regarding the Red Cat, get the landlord on one side; find out if Pete Worsnop, buying a sexy belt, rang any bells. Don’t mention where it ended up, though it wouldn’t be long before every man and his dog knew it was round Parsons’s neck.
Cally had a quick word with Hammond; he nodded and turned to the assembled seven, “Keep an ear open for the names of Jez Hemsworth and Dylan Beck. The latter is a black boxer and father of April Parsons’s newborn grandson. We’ve nothing on him right now.” He paused. “You may already know that for reasons of her own Hemsworth’s mother gave Beck a good pasting. If you do happen to hear anything about him, or Hemsworth, keep it close to your chest and let DS Burns or me know. Okay?”
When, slightly hesitant, Kylie Akpata asked, “When is the funeral?” Hammond said, “Quite soon. When it takes place there’ll be police presence.”
The room emptied, and Hammond turned to Cally. “My paperwork’s at tipping point. How are you fixed?”
“More or less under control, though Pete Worsnop niggles me. Him and the belt.”
*
Lyn Worsnop looked at her husband. “I want to talk to you.”
He went to the fridge, took out a lager. “Sounds like I’ll need a drink.”
“This idea of yours about moving. How daft can you get?”
Pete sat down. “Folk do move, y’know.”
Lyn sat down opposite him. “Not like us, they don’t.” She took a quick breath. “Anyway, you can forget that. There’s no way you’re going anywhere.” To be honest, she t
ook pleasure in her words: “DS Burns was here.” She knew Pete was scared, and let him suffer: gave him time for a pull at his lager. “Aren’t you going to ask why she came?”
“Because she’d nowt better to do?”
“You wish.” She waited, let him stew.
“Okay. Why was she here?”
“Because she wants to know where you were between three a.m. and six, the night Mrs Parsons was murdered.”
A muscle under Pete’s right eye tightened. “I told you.”
“But were it t’truth?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
She said quietly, “Because you were somewhere else?”
“I were working on’t new display. You knew that.”
Lyn nodded slowly. “Was that the time Danielle’s husband Jason were part o’ team?”
“Who’s Danielle?”
“Don’t talk silly, you know who she is.”
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
Lyn spelt it out. “Danielle is Donna’s friend whose husband works with you at HomeAll, and was there the same night you say you were working on’t display.” She paused. “The night my employer was strangled.”
Pete shuffled in his chair, opened his mouth, shut it again.
Lyn went on. “Strangled with the belt you gave me. Not only does DS Burns want proof you were at HomeAll, she’s still on about where you got the belt. She thinks it’s dead odd, the way you can’t remember who you bought it from.”
He put his glass down, presented his thoughtful face and put his hand across the table to take Lyn’s. Which she pulled away. “I know it’s best to tell truth.” He took a deep breath, held it. “I bought it from Russ Sykes.”
“Russell Sykes?”
“All right, I should’ve told you before.” He tried a smile. “I thought you’d like it. Made me realize what a nice-looking woman you are. I thought we could go out and get you a skirt to go wi’ it.”
She stood up. “Shut up, you great fool.”
“I were only saying …”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, or the police? Think of the time and trouble you’d have saved.”
“He’s a mate.”
“Since when were Russell Sykes a mate?”
“Okay. A drinking mate. He’ll have reckoned that if I shoot me mouth off, it could make him look like a suspect. So he scarpers.”
“What’ve you got between your ears, Pete? Russell disappears straight after Mrs Parsons is found dead. And that doesn’t make him look like a suspect? Do you want to call DS Burns, or shall I?”
Waiting for his answer, she went to the back door. Stood looking at the sandpit. Flippin’ needed cleaning out. She watched two collared-doves fly onto the hedge. What a beautiful afternoon. Why did Mrs Parsons have to die? Why would Russell Sykes do a thing like that? If, of course, he had done that dreadful thing?
She forgot the mucky sandpit, turned back and walked to the phone. Picked it up, held it out to Pete.
24
Thursday. Day of the funeral. Rain was forecast. Wearing a black linen dress and keeping a low profile, Cally stood outside the crematorium chapel. A small crowd waited while an earlier funeral ran its course. When, after ten minutes or so, a clutch of the other mourners made their way to the graveside of the departed, and the rest headed for their cars, an official let the Parsons family know the chapel was theirs.
Trying not to look as if she were hanging back, Cally stood aside for a family group to precede her. Having assumed that the handsome, impeccably dressed black guy was Dylan Beck, and noticing Angie Marsh had come alone, she guessed she had a note of the main players. Unless, Victorian-novel style, a latecomer rattled the chapel’s heavy doors at the moment the coffin neared the altar.
Noting bright ties, scarves or flowers in buttonholes, Cally assumed it had been suggested mourners should wear a splash of colour. If so, it was too late for her to oblige.
Taking a seat at the back, next to the aisle on the right, she glanced down at a card asking for her name. She was about to take a pen from her bag, when, as a sudden piece of cello music filled the chapel, everyone rose to their feet and April Parsons’s flower-strewn coffin, followed by James and a fragile-looking Lucy, was borne along the aisle and set on a plinth between the choir stalls. One of the bearers (presumably Philip Parsons) moved to the left-hand front row next to Harriet and Diana Bloom, where James and Lucy were now taking their place. The five remaining bearers, quiet as ghosts, slid to the right-hand side of the chapel.
Reverend Rowlands, thin-faced, pale, dressed in a dark suit and dog collar, a marigold pinned to his lapel, welcomed the mourners and expressed the community’s shock over April Parsons’s death. He followed this with a prayer and announced a hymn. Cally, familiar with the hymn from school, sang more easily than those with a lump in their throats.
She spotted, in the centre of the pews to her left, Lyn Worsnop: shoulders heaving and a hanky to her eyes. For a brief moment Pete put a hand on her arm, and Cally allowed her thoughts to turn to his account of buying a belt from Sykes in The Red Cat.
After the hymn, Reverend Rowlands referred again to the especial sadness of the occasion, and invited Harriet Bloom to read ‘Remember’ by Christina Rossetti, a poem April had loved. Elegant in black, a yellow rose close to her neck, she read with sincerity. When she resumed her seat, Reverend Rowlands announced that James would give the family tribute.
Cally, who’d previously seen only a photograph of April Parsons’s son, watched the young man with streaked hair and a rosebud mouth, bow his head briefly at a photograph of his mother on a side table and make his way to the lectern. As he touched the knot of his bright tie, the pieces of paper in his other hand shook uncontrollably. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and the mourners waited. And waited. Aware of movement in the front row, Cally wondered if Parsons senior was about to take his son’s place. However, head down and mouthing ‘sorry’, James read a short account of his much-loved mother’s admirable life. He thanked the reverend for visiting his family. The assurance they had received, that although this wonderful woman was lost to the world, she was not lost to eternity, had given them strength to get through this sad time.
A prayer of thanksgiving followed, after which the mourners stood for another hymn. Finally, after the Lord’s Prayer and a blessing, the bearers, joined by Philip, lifted April onto their shoulders and, to a sudden clap of thunder and Handel’s Water Music, carried her through the side door and out into the rain.
The congregation, after slipping contributions into a collection box, made their way out into the downpour. Harriet Bloom put up an umbrella and beckoned to Cally. “I’m going to the committal, but if you’d like to come to the wake – such a horrid word – Mother and I would be pleased to see you at home.”
Cally said, “That’s very kind, but I’ve work to do.”
Harriet Bloom said, “You’ll get soaked,” and moved so that she and Cally were under the umbrella. “Let me see you to your car.”
Cally backed away. “It’s okay, thanks. I’ll run between the drops.”
Harriet said, “Thank you for coming,” and Cally dashed off, waving over her shoulder.
*
The rain was so heavy that Pete stopped the car on the road for a couple of minutes before they ran indoors.
Crayons and paper: lots of it half drawn on and pushed aside for a new attempt, covered the kitchen table. Donna sat, legs sprawled, texting on her phone. She looked up. “Hi. How was it?”
Lyn said, “Oh, you know, very sad.” She looked at Pete. “Cup of tea?”
Donna asked, “Lots of people there?”
“Dozens.”
Pete said, “The son made a right balls-up of his speech.”
Lyn sighed. “It were a tribute, not a speech.”
Pete took mugs from a shelf. “Whatever.”
Filling the kettle, Lyn spotted the local paper on the draining board.
Donna paused from h
er texting. “Didn’t you get owt to eat?”
Lyn dropped teabags into the mugs. “There were a note on back of Order o’ Service. Folk were invited to Miss Bloom’s house, but we didn’t go.” Waiting for the kettle to boil, she opened the local paper. Flicking through it, her eye was eventually caught by a photo of a group of folk demonstrating against fracking. She continued to examine the photo, running a finger from person to person; always coming back to the same slight figure with a pretty face.
“It’s her,” she said.
Donna, putting down a beaker of juice for Jordan, looked over Lyn’s shoulder. “Who?”
“The one who came to t’door same day as –” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “Mrs Parsons were killed.”
Pete overheard her comment and came across. “Is she like your e-fit?”
“Very much like,” said Lyn.
Donna asked, “You going to tell that policewoman?”
*
As instructed, DC Akpata had bought a copy of the Browbridge Herald. and now watched Cally turn the pages until she reached the photo of a group of fracking protestors in Kirk Pulham that included a woman who looked quite like Angie Marsh, but wasn’t.
Cally pointed to the line-up. “Look who she’s standing next to.”
“Who is it?” Akpata asked.
“Jez Hemsworth.”
“The guy who reckoned he was the father of Lucy Parsons’s baby?”
“Yes.”
The DC gave a low whistle. “My days! So what happens next, Sarge?”
“We find out who this woman is.”
Akpata took an excited breath. “Could you put me onto that, Sarge?”
Cally said, “I don’t see why not.” She paused briefly. “You can start by getting in touch with Jez Hemsworth. See if he knows her. If he doesn’t, ask around the village. Someone’s bound to know who she is.”
Kylie headed for the door. “Thank you, Sarge.”
Cally leaned back, rubbed her eyes. So. It was ninety-nine percent certain the unknown woman wasn’t Angie Marsh. She chased a thought for a moment, lost it, and was about to dial Hammond when the desk sergeant leaned into the room. “Sorry, Cally.”