Authors: Michael Robotham
‘Was Elizabeth religious?’
‘Not especially. She didn’t go to church every Sunday if that’s what you mean.’
‘Would she have read the Bible?’
‘I’d be surprised. She was superstitious rather than religious. I know she thought the farmhouse was haunted and talked about having an exorcism.’
‘She believed in ghosts?’
‘And palm readers and fortune tellers and tarot cards.’
‘Do you have any thoughts on who might have wanted to harm them?’
Becca’s shoulders rise and fall. ‘We’re a very ordinary family. We don’t have enemies.’
‘What about Dominic Crowe?’
‘What about him?’
‘You’ve stayed in touch.’
She stares past me as though distracted by something outside. ‘Dominic likes to sing. We’re in a choir together. We practise twice a week at the community centre. He has a lovely voice. Elizabeth used to laugh at him.’
‘You know he’s a suspect.’
‘He would never hurt Harper.’
‘He hit your sister. She took out a restraining order.’
‘It’s true that he and Lizzie fought like cat and dog. She knew how to press his buttons.’
The phone rings. I give Becca the handset. She listens and then covers the receiver. ‘Can you excuse me, Professor? I have to take this.’
Stepping into the dining room, still holding George, she kicks at the door, which only partially closes. I hear her voice rising in concern and then irritation. ‘You haven’t received it? That’s strange. I paid last week…’
A woman appears in the kitchen, asking for Becca.
‘She’s on the phone,’ I explain. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Somebody shouldn’t be here.’ She motions through the window and I see Milo Coleman standing beneath the jacaranda tree, carrying his jacket over his shoulder, hooked on his finger.
‘Where’s Francis?’ I ask.
‘I can’t find him.’
‘I’ll handle it.’
Milo is chatting to some of Harper’s friends. Dressed in pleated trousers and an open-necked shirt, he seems to have recovered completely from his meltdown at the church.
‘Professor, we keep bumping into each other,’ he says, rolling a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
I grab him by the forearm and pull him away from the crowd.
‘Are you the bouncer?’ he jokes.
‘You’re not welcome here.’
‘I thought it was a general invitation.’
‘You have to leave.’
‘But I could have important information for the family.’
‘Do you?’
‘I’d be willing to share it with you. We could work together, just like the old days.’
‘There were no
old days
.’
He grins cheekily. ‘So how is the investigation going? I hear they arrested the neighbour. Was it your idea? Garrett is an imbecile. I’m a more likely killer than he is.’
‘Is that a confession?’
He flashes another smile. ‘You’re playing catch-up, Professor. I’ve been following this case from the beginning and I’m going to get the credit when it’s over.’
‘Leave now, Milo, or I’ll call the police.’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I just came here to pass on an observation. You should look more closely at Elliot Crowe. He’s a junkie and he can’t provide an alibi for the night of the murders. He also inherits the farmhouse. Motive. Means. Knowledge. Addiction. Ticks all the boxes.’
Over Milo’s shoulder, I see Francis emerge from the house, his eyes fizzing with anger. He’s searching the garden. Milo has seen him now.
‘Well, it’s been fun talking to you, Professor, but I have to places to be, people to meet.’ He shrugs on his jacket. ‘How’s that lovely daughter of yours?’ he asks. ‘I met her years ago. She was waiting outside your office at the university. Quite the looker, even then – must take after her mother.’
He vaults athletically over the gate and is gone by the time Francis comes around the side of the house.
‘What did that creep want?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. Milo is a human horsefly – he bites and flies away.’
Francis looks over the gate to make sure. ‘I don’t want him coming here.’
‘I told him.’
Sunlight flickers through the trees and I notice something dangling from his hand – a small handgun.
‘What are you doing with that?’
Francis looks surprised to have the weapon in his hand, before clumsily pushing it into his pocket.
‘I’m taking precautions,’ he mumbles defensively.
‘You think you’re in danger?’
‘Someone killed my sister-in-law and niece. Until I know why…’ He doesn’t finish.
At that moment I hear Becca calling his name. Francis turns back along the path and rounds the corner of the house. Becca meets us in the shade of the jacaranda. She looks at Francis. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Hunky-dory,’ he replies, keeping his hands in his pockets.
‘My mother wants to meet you,’ says Becca. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course.’
She leads me across the lawn to a corner of the garden where a large wicker chair has been positioned beneath a trellis of lilac blossoms. Shaped like a snowman with steel-wool hair and heavy jewellery, Becca’s mother looks every inch the family matriarch, surrounded by a semicircle of women of a similar age, giving her cake and cups of tea.
‘Please don’t stand,’ I tell her, but she insists on getting to her feet with the aid of a polished wooden cane. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ I say, introducing myself. My left arm jerks but she looks amused rather than frightened.
‘Sit down. Sit down. Call me Betty.’ She turns to one of her friends. ‘This is the psychologist I was telling you about – the famous one.’
‘You have an odd definition of fame.’
‘Don’t be modest. I read about your wife and wee girl being kidnapped.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Oh, but I bet it seems like only yesterday. Do you still think about it?’
Every day,
but I don’t tell her that
.
‘I was hoping I might talk to you about Elizabeth.’
‘Of course,’ she says.
‘Perhaps somewhere more private.’
She reaches behind her for the polished cane walking stick and a packet of cigarettes. ‘It’s time I moved my arse.’ I help her stand. She holds my forearm. We walk along a path beneath a vine-covered arch and down three steps on to a lower lawn.
‘Should I offer you one?’
‘No.’
Lighting up, she exhales, waving her hands at the smoke. ‘I couldn’t wait for that funeral to end,’ she says.
‘I thought it was very moving.’
‘Yes, well, some people sob louder than others.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Her ex-husband.’
‘You don’t like him.’
The old woman rolls her eyes and doesn’t answer me directly. ‘I think society tolerates aggression in men. They are seen as being fragile, unhappy creatures, no longer in control, no longer having the same privileges or power as in the past, so we are supposed to forgive them if they swing a fist.’
‘He denies that he hit Elizabeth.’
‘I saw the bruises.’
‘Did you see him hit her?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘The problem with men,’ she says, ‘is they don’t understand their own gender. You’re not a man until you’ve broken a heart, or had your heart broken, or beaten the shit out of someone or had the shit kicked out of you. How does that sound?’
‘You just summed up the last thirty years of my life.’
She laughs. ‘Congratulations, you’re a man.’ We’re standing next to the fishpond, where several carp are doing lazy circles and mouthing at the surface of the water. A gust of wind swishes the foliage and a serviette goes flying across the lawn.
‘Does Becca feel the same way as you do?’
‘About men?’
‘About Dominic Crowe.’
She places her hands on the railing fence. ‘Becca is a bit soft in the head when it comes to men. She married Francis.’
‘What’s wrong with Francis?’
‘Oh, he’s all right, I suppose. Doesn’t have an ambitious bone in his body, but he’s harmless enough.’
‘He seems to be a good father.’
She mellows. ‘You’re right. He’s very good with George and tries hard to keep Becca happy.’
Pinching the half-finished cigarette, she tears off the burning tip and pockets the unused portion, saving it for later. Everything she does seems to be the act of a survivor. Rationing words. Keeping her own counsel. She reminds me of an old-school Fabian and suffragette who has not mellowed with age.
‘Are you going to catch whoever killed my daughter and granddaughter?’
‘I’m going to try.’
‘And what can you do that the police haven’t done?’
‘I look at things in different ways. I study the victims. I discover how they’d react under stress. What they’d do if confronted by someone late at night.’
Betty sticks out her chin. Lipstick has smudged her teeth. ‘Blame it on the victim – isn’t that what you’re saying?’
‘No.’
‘I hear what people are saying about Elizabeth.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘She was divorced. She was good-looking. She took care of herself. She had a shitty marriage and wanted to enjoy life. What’s wrong with that? She was her own woman. She was liberated and self-sufficient. She did not believe that her marriage should define her.’
It feels like a speech that she’s made before – the homily of a woman with a great capacity to defend her own and hate outsiders – the skivers, shirkers, puritans, hypocrites and small-town gossips.
‘What’s going to happen to Windy Hill Farm?’ I ask.
‘We’ll sell it.’
‘And Elliot gets the money.’
She breathes in, breathes out. Something rattles in her chest. ‘That depends upon what Elizabeth wanted. Her will is being read next week.’
‘You think she left the farmhouse to someone else?’
‘I don’t know. But I’ll tell you one thing for certain – Lady Muck next door won’t get the place. Not if I can help it.’
‘Doreen Garrett?’
‘She’s been trying to buy the farmhouse for years. Her family used to own Windy Hill, but had to break it up in the seventies. Ever since she’s been trying to buy it back. That’s a motive for murder, isn’t it?’
‘You think Doreen Garrett is the killer?’
‘Maybe she put her grandson up to it. He’s an odd creature. Elizabeth caught him stealing her underwear.’
‘
Did
she catch him?’
‘Stuff went missing.’
‘That’s not the same.’
She looks at me directly, her jaw working. ‘Are you married, Professor?’
‘Separated.’
‘Thought so. You have that look on your face – like someone just pinched the last biscuit.’
I find myself laughing at the line. She also smiles, but her eyes don’t show any amusement. She reminds me of a child born into poverty who watches all her friends queue up at the local ‘chippy’, seeing them unwrap the greasy parcels while she cringes inside from the embarrassment of wanting.
Across the garden, I can see Becca showing off the baby. It’s amazing how the mood of the gathering seems to lift at the sight of the infant. Betty is no longer focused on me. Her grandchild is more important.
Death is supposed to be the final act, yet so much is left unfinished when someone dies suddenly or unexpectedly. It’s as though they’ve walked offstage in the middle of the performance, hoping to come back later to explain the plot and tie up any loose ends. This is what I contemplate as I sit in my car, watching people drift away from Francis and Becca’s house. Up until now I’ve had some vague notion that I might stumble upon the key that unlocks this crime – a cache of family papers, or a diary, or a bundle of love letters – but nothing is going to arrive in the post or fall into my lap.
Putting the car into gear, I pull away and drive into Clevedon, parking on the seafront, opposite the Moon and Sixpence. The pub is one of those places that look bigger on the outside than on the inside, with exposed beams and riotously patterned carpets and Toby jugs on a shelf above the beer taps. Still too early for the dinner crowd, the restaurant is empty and most of the patrons are downstairs at the bar. I take a table on the terrace, overlooking the seafront and pier.
Sophie Baxter is setting tables. She has a dense shock of brown hair, walnut-coloured eyes and the traces of a fake tan unevenly applied to her legs. At some time in her past she suffered a facial injury, which has left her with a small feather-shaped scar on her left cheek.
‘Do you have a few moments?’ I ask, as she nears my table.
Nervously she drops her head. ‘I’m working.’
‘It won’t take long.’
She glances over her shoulder at her manager and moves closer, wiping down my table.
‘You weren’t at the wake,’ I say.
‘I had a shift.’
‘Tell me about you and Blake.’
‘We’re just friends.’
‘Oh, I see, so the other day – the kiss – you were checking his fillings with your tongue?’
She gives me a heavenward flick of her nose. ‘That’s a shitty thing to say. We’ve been helping each other grieve.’
‘Touching.’
‘You are a horrible man.’ She takes a small packet of tissues from the edge of her bra. ‘I actually met Blake first. Harper said she didn’t even like him, but then she changed her mind.’
‘Did you two fight over him?’
‘No, not really.’ She blows her nose. ‘Harper tended to get what she wanted. I mean – look at me compared to her.’
Sophie is looking for sympathy, but I don’t sense any lack of self-esteem. The manager has wandered outside. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asks.
‘Not at all,’ I reply. ‘Sophie is just explaining the specials.’
‘The restaurant isn’t open yet.’
‘I’m planning ahead.’
He nods, unconvinced, and moves away. Sophie whispers, ‘You’re going to get me in trouble.’
‘Oh, I’m the least of your problems.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s a criminal offence to impede a murder investigation.’
‘I done no such thing,’ she says, more anxious than affronted.
‘Harper worked on the Saturday she died. She came to your house after she finished her shift. What did you do?’
‘Watched music videos and tried on clothes.’
‘When Harper left you – where was she going?’