The Skeleton Garden (12 page)

A sob exploded from Pru. She clapped her hand over her mouth and shook with guilty tears of relief.

“You thought it was Simon?” Christopher asked.

She gasped for air. “He…he said he would come back, check on the plants in here. We had just argued.” She looked over Christopher's shoulder. “What happened, can you tell?” she asked. “Did he have an accident?” She tried not to, but her glance flickered to the spade lying nearby.

Christopher put his hands on her waist as he scanned the garden—the inside of the hedge, the ground at their feet, back to the body. “I didn't see any trauma. But I can't move him, not yet.”

“Could he have fallen?” she asked.

Orlando returned, panting, his breath coming out in clouds of fog, and handed Christopher the phone.

Christopher stepped away to make the call, and Pru wiped her face before turning to the boy. She touched his arm. “Orlando,” she said in a quiet voice, “it's Jack Snuggs. He has died, but we don't know how. He might've had an accident, but the police need to come out to make sure.”

“We can't interfere with the crime scene,” Orlando said. He tried to look over Pru's shoulder to get a better view.

“We don't know it's a crime scene,” Pru replied, but the boy didn't seem to hear.

Christopher came back to them. “There's no need for the two of you to wait out here. Why don't you go into the kitchen?”

“But, sir, can't I stay and help? I won't be in the way, I promise.” His face was the color of the moonlight and his eyes were dark pools. None of them had a coat on, and Pru, for one, had started to tremble.

“Go with your aunt,” Christopher said. “I'd rather she's not alone.”

Orlando glanced at Pru, straightened his shoulders, and nodded.

Pru put the kettle on and reached for mugs, her hands shaking. She tried to get Orlando to sit down, but instead, he waited at the open mudroom door, calling out updates. “Two police cars. One has its lights flashing, but no siren. And a van.” He glanced back at Pru. “Forensics, probably.”

“Orlando, sit down. Please.” She poured tea as the boy sank into a chair at the table. Even in the warm light of the kitchen, he continued to look pale, and she could see dark circles under his eyes. “Listen, come with me into the sitting room. You can help me get a fire going.” There was no way of knowing how long the night would be.

Pru had learned a thing or two from Christopher about starting a fire, and soon they had a small blaze. She perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning toward the warmth, and Orlando sat on the floor, turning over a piece of kindling in his hands.

“I was the one who found Gran when she died,” he said, not looking at Pru. “I'd come in from school, and she was in her chair. I thought she was asleep, but she'd always wake up when I came home, and ask me about my day. Mum was at some meeting and Dad at work. I had to ring Bess at uni.” He tossed the stick into the fire. “But Gran was old, and this fellow—well, he was old, too, but not that old. He wasn't old enough to die, was he?”

Pru didn't think she was up for a discussion about the nature of life and death, and was saved by Christopher looking round the door.

“You two all right? We've finally got hold of Martin. He's on his way. The DI is here. They aren't ready to move the body yet.”

“I'll come out and make more tea. Orlando,” she said, ready to ask him to stay put. He was still hunkered down by the fire, his face now red from the growing heat, but his eyes just as large. She changed her mind. “Will you come give me a hand?”

He jumped up with a look of relief. “Yeah, I will.”

Three hours, several pots of tea, and a plateful of custard cream biscuits later, Pru still waited to hear details. Orlando, unable to get anything out of the stream of police officers that came in and out of the kitchen, had gone back to sit in front of the fire. When Pru looked in on him later, he was asleep on the sofa, one leg hanging off, and an arm thrown over his face. She took a lap blanket and covered as much of him as it would reach, and switched off all the lights except for a lamp in the corner.

Pru knew that sleep for her was a distant country she wouldn't be visiting anytime soon. Eventually, kitchen traffic slackened, and there was little to keep her occupied. She had washed and dried the cups and saucers and put them away and now leaned up against the counter in the kitchen. She glanced at the time: three o'clock. She felt hollow inside, as her mind hopped and skipped around the few images of Jack she'd acquired—at the Blackbird, under the marquee, in the potting shed, in the cellars with Polly, across this very kitchen table. And now gone.

The door opened and Christopher stepped in behind a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a bushy mustache, who was saying, “We're a bit stretched at the moment, and I can't get anyone else. I'd prefer you, but if you insist on doing it that way, all right then. As long as I know you're on it. But yes, let him have his go.”

Christopher put a hand out to her as they came in. “Let me introduce you. Pru, this is Detective Inspector Adam Harnett from the Romsey station. Adam, my wife, Pru Parke.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Pru said, holding out her hand.

DI Harnett had a brief, firm handshake. “Christopher has spoken of you, of course. I'm sorry about the circumstances of our meeting. You knew Jack Snuggs?”

That didn't take long,
Pru thought,
straight to questioning
. “I met him recently. He'd just come back from Canada. I didn't see him at all today.”

“Sorry,” Harnett said, shaking his head. “Professional hazard. This isn't an interview. Look, I'm sorry about all this”—he nodded in the direction of the parterre lawn—“it'll keep you away from your work for a few days. Christopher, I'll be off now. We'll stay in touch.”

The men shook hands and the DI departed. Christopher took Pru in his arms, and rested his cheek against her hair. The cold came off him in waves. They stood silent for a few moments as she shared her warmth. Finally, she stirred.

“Was it an accident?”

“We can't be sure yet, but it doesn't look like it.”

“How can you tell?”

“There was bruising on the back of his neck.”

“Did someone hit him?”

Christopher shook his head. “The bruising looked like the imprint of a hand.”

Pru frowned as she tried to visualize the scene. Jack lay facedown in the dirt when they found him. She took a quick breath and swallowed hard. “Someone held him down hard enough to bruise him? Did he suffocate?”

“It's a possibility.”

“But why didn't he fight? And what was he doing here? Do you think it had something to do with the plane—and the skeleton?” She rubbed her forehead to erase the images popping up in her mind. “Who did this?”

“And why? Did he meet that person by chance or by design?”

Pru studied Christopher's face. She saw that familiar, determined set of his jaw and a gleam in his eyes that revealed an eagerness to get started on the investigation. She felt it, too. “Stan may know why Jack was here. I could talk with him.”

Christopher narrowed his eyes at her, but he softened the look by brushing a strand of hair from her face. “This is a police matter, Pru.”

“He was in our garden,” she said.

“There will be an inquiry,” Christopher replied. “Finding answers isn't your responsibility.”

They'd been over this ground before—it had deep, well-worn ruts in it. She changed directions.

“Has Stan been told?” she asked.

“Martin went to see Jack's father.”

“Did he leave Stan on his own?”

“I don't know—Martin should've taken care of that.”

“Martin should've brought him back here.”

“Stan will need to go into Romsey for the official identification,” Christopher said.

Ah yes, police procedure—but it was more than that. In her mind, she could see Stan in his dark kitchen, hunkered over a cold mug of tea, staring into his bleak life with his wife and only child dead. “He shouldn't be alone. Someone needs to be with him—at least check on him.” She had thought ahead. “I could go over. Or I could ring Polly. Stan knows her and she would be good with him. But I would need to tell her about Jack.”

“Please don't—” He stopped himself, took a breath, and locked his brown eyes on her. She returned his steady look without blinking. “You don't want to wait until morning?” he asked.

Pru shook her head. “I doubt if Stan went back to bed.”

He nodded. “Why don't you ring Polly and say we'll come round.”

“What about Orlando?”

“I'll have one of the uniforms come in while we're gone.”

The uniforms.
She smiled to herself. “Are you going to take this case?”

Christopher shook his head. “No.”

“What did DI Harnett mean about you being ‘on it'? Did he ask you to take it?”

“He asked, but I can't do that to Martin. This is his first”—he stopped short for a moment—“his first big case.”

“But, Christopher, they'll need you. It's all well and good for Martin to work on the case, but Jack has died, and finding the person responsible shouldn't be left to someone with no experience. They can't expect a detective sergeant to be able to conduct a”—now she stopped short—“you know, investigation.”

Christopher gave her a squeeze. “I told Adam I'd stay in the background, but I'd keep an eye out. I don't want to interfere.”

“You wouldn't be interfering—you would be in charge as you should be.” She raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea you had such a stubborn streak.”

The corner of his mouth went up. “I've learned from the best.”

Christopher opened the car door for her, but Pru hesitated before getting in, glancing around the yard and drive. Two police vehicles remained, and she could see lights from the parterre lawn, but there was something else. “At last,” she said, “I knew something was different when we got home. Peachey must've picked up our donation for the jumble sale. It was beginning to look like a junkyard around here.”

Martin approached them. He looked as if he'd been yanked out of bed—hair tousled, one collar button undone. Christopher explained their mission.

“I'm sorry I didn't think about that,” Martin said, frowning and rubbing the side of his face. Pru thought he already looked stressed from his new responsibilities. “Poor old Stan. I should get someone out from the station, shouldn't I?”

Christopher shook his head. “No need—we'll take care of it.” They got in and drove away down the pitch-black lane, the moon now too low in the sky to help light the way. “Did you talk to Simon when you rang?”

“No, I rang Polly's mobile. I didn't tell her what it was about—just assured her it wasn't about family. I thought it would be better to explain in person.”

“How did she sound?”

“She sounded awake.” Not sleepy or disoriented—Polly had sounded prepared, as if she'd been waiting for Pru to ring. “She senses things, you know,” Pru said, as she reclipped her hair in an attempt to look as if it wasn't six hours past her bedtime. “She's very…in tune. She'll be a comfort to Stan, I know she will.”

They pulled up in front of the house. Christopher switched off the engine and took Pru's hands. “I don't think we need to go into details with them.”

“We don't have any details,” Pru pointed out.

“Yes, well. We need only say that Jack has died and that Stan needs someone to look in on him. It's early days yet—no need for speculation. Is that all right?”

She nodded. Christopher's caution masked a keen police mind that had already assimilated the initial facts of the case, and she could see by the look in his eyes that those facts were leading him into a murder investigation.

Pru knew that her phone call to Polly had carried an ominous tone, and so, when they arrived, Pru didn't see the need for preliminaries. They'd barely shed their coats when she put her hand on Polly's arm. “It's Jack. I'm afraid he's dead.”

“Jack,” Polly said, a hand going up to her face and her eyes filling with tears. “Ah, Jack. And he had just come home.” She swooned. Simon caught her and led her to the sofa.

“How did it happen?” Simon asked, looking down at Polly's hand in his.

“We'd just got back from Winchester, the three of us, and gone indoors,” Christopher said, as Pru poured the tea, which had been ready on the table. “Pru was looking into the garden from an upstairs window, and—”

“What?” Polly's head jerked up. “He died at Greenoak?”

“That's where we found him,” Christopher said.

“What was he doing there? How did he die?”

“Did you see him at all today?” Christopher asked.

Pru spotted the police technique—answer a question with another question—but Polly didn't seem to notice and only shook her head. “I was in Yeovil with a client. She wants to open a second day spa and we were going over her finances, and it took us the afternoon to—but I don't understand. Was it an accident?”

“At the moment, we're unclear on the details,” Christopher said, looking first at Polly, and then at Simon.

“Martin went to tell Stan,” Pru said, bringing them back to the point, “because the police had to be called, of course.” She could feel Christopher's eyes on her. “But that isn't why we came. It's because now, Stan is alone, and it's just that we thought he shouldn't be. I would check on him, but he knows you better, Polly. Would you mind going to see him?”

Simon's gaze dropped to the floor. Pru's face grew red. Surely Simon wasn't annoyed that his wife would be off to take care of the father of an old flame? Pru hadn't meant for this to be awkward.