The Sting of Death (7 page)

‘You’ll have to ask him that,’ said Den primly. ‘Meanwhile, since I’m here, it would be helpful
if you could supply the model and registration number of Miss Pereira’s car. And a photograph of her, if you have one.’

‘You’re going to carry on searching for her, then?’

‘Just to put our minds at rest,’ he said easily. ‘She might be a responsible adult, but she also sounds rather vulnerable. Wouldn’t you say?’ Without waiting for a reply, he went on, ‘And perhaps I could have her mother’s address as well?’

This time, Penn’s reaction was to flush crimson. ‘What? Why the hell do you want that? Her mother hasn’t set eyes on her for five years or more.’

‘Doesn’t know you’ve been worried about her daughter, then? I understood that you visited her at the weekend. You never mentioned it to her?’

Penn chafed, eyes darting from point to point in the room. ‘Well, I did phone her yesterday, as it happens. I hadn’t the nerve to mention Justine face-to-face. Aunt Roma tends to get into quite a state if the subject arises.’

‘And what did you tell her?’

She lifted her chin and looked directly at him. ‘I said I was worried about Justine, who’d apparently gone missing, and that I’d asked Drew to help me find her. She knows Drew, you see. I thought I should at least warn her.’

‘Warn her? You think there might be bad news on the way for her?’

‘Well, I did think something like that. But now …’ she almost shouted at him, ‘now we know she’s gone camping, everything’s all right, isn’t it? You can just forget the whole business.’

‘We’ll very likely do that in a day or two,’ he soothed her. ‘Just bear with us while we give the matter a bit of attention first. If you’ll give me those details, I’ll be on my way.’

He found himself whistling, albeit rather a mournful tune, as he went back to Okehampton. There most definitely was some sort of case to answer here; something unusual and complicated. There were so many undercurrents you could be swept out to sea by them if you didn’t watch out. And – happiest thought of all – he had every reason to see Drew Slocombe again. Drew Slocombe and his charming, good-looking, observant girl assistant.

Laurie Millan was never very comfortable in his own company. He paced the living room restlessly, waiting for Roma to come home from the shops. ‘Got herself arrested this time, for driving with the dog on her lap,’ he muttered. He didn’t know what to do with himself while he waited. He’d already carefully laid out a pad and
pen on the dining table, to make it look as if he were about to write a letter. The moment Roma’s car turned in through the gate, he would sit down and start writing, glancing up as if distracted from something absorbing, as she came in. It was important that she should never realise just how needy he was at times like this.

She was taking much longer than expected. Even if she stopped to natter with one or two women she knew, she wouldn’t be as late as this. Fiercely he quashed the idea that she’d had an accident. Somebody would have phoned him by now, if that was the case. She was just thoughtless, dawdling around the country lanes, maddeningly self-sufficient, not considering him at all. It made him angry and very frustrated because he could never reveal his anger. This was one of their many unspoken agreements.

When Pereira had buggered off, after years of towering arguments and broken crockery, Roma had rapidly discovered the many pleasures of living alone. It had been a revelation. Life became peaceful and easy, and she vowed, loudly and often, that nothing would ever induce her to live with a man again. For thirteen years, she stuck to her vow. Then Laurie had come along, and slowly persuaded her that he would never get in her way, would give her company without making demands; would listen to her
complaints, and make no attempt to change her views. He would cook for her, and sleep with her, and go on holiday with her. All he wanted in return was someone to accompany him on his dream retirement to the country. Someone who would make the house feel alive, and give him something on which to fix his attention. Roma had protested that it was unfair; that all the benefit accrued to her, but he’d insisted, and eventually she could not resist the offer.

His persona was of a mild, harmless chap, in a tweedy jacket and carpet slippers; that was why Roma had married him. He was a sort of glorified servant, a butler-cum-gardener, who also provided reliable companionship and a listening ear. Nobody paused to ask themselves what was in it for him. Or if they did, they found easy answers in the present-day balance between the sexes. Men were essentially drones, after all. They earned their billet by being affable, pleasant company, keeping out of the way, and never
ever
showing the slightest hint of violence. This last was punishable by the most cruel sanctions. One thoughtless slap, and they were cast into the outer darkness, sans virtue, sans money, sans hope, sans everything. Laurie never forgot that. He would never never slap Roma, that much was certain. The fact that she had slapped that horrible little beast
in her school carried no implications for how she behaved towards him. He wholeheartedly supported her in her view of the matter – that society had gone mad, that there was no justice, and it was a perpetual unforgiving scandal that she had lost her job over it.

She arrived eventually, breezy and liberally besmirched with black smudges on hands and face. Laurie looked up from his writing pad, a questioning smile on his lips. ‘Did something happen?’ he asked mildly.

‘Oh, not really. There was a man with a flat tyre, on the bypass, and I stopped to help him. It was raining,’ she added, as if that explained everything. ‘He had no idea where the doings were. It was like my old Renault – remember? You had to turn a bolt from inside the boot, and that released the spare tyre from underneath. Impossible to guess, if you didn’t have the handbook. Poor chap was going mental, bashing the thing with a club hammer he happened to have with him.’

She spoke breathlessly, good cheer sparking from her, at her piece of charity. Laurie sighed. ‘It could only happen to you,’ he said fondly. ‘Was he grateful?’

‘I suppose so. A bit embarrassed, me being a woman. The old habits aren’t quite dead yet, more’s the pity.’

‘Did you get my stamps? And the lightbulbs?’

‘Of course. Everything that was on the list.’ She was unstoppable in this mood; so proud of herself, so sure she had life by the ears and could make it go any way she wanted. Laurie could only hope that it would last. ‘I’ll go and get some soup started, shall I? Must be nearly lunchtime.’

‘It is,’ he agreed, slowly packing away his small collection of writing materials. ‘And it looks as if the rain’s stopping at last.’

Sheena Renton had been late home on Monday; so late that Philip was already in bed and made only a token grunt in greeting. Tuesday morning, however, seemed unusually relaxed, given her normally hectic schedule.

‘Good God, it’s eight fifteen!’ Philip cried, on waking. ‘Why are you still here?’

She stretched lazily. ‘Nigel said we could take a few hours off after last night. The meeting didn’t finish till past ten. We got everything sorted, though. I feel great.’ She looked at him through her lashes and pouted. ‘You haven’t got to be anywhere, have you?’

He couldn’t pretend to miss her meaning, although he really didn’t like sex in the morning. Too sober, too relaxed, too much light streaming through the window. But Sheena was deftly
determined and her conjugal rights were satisfactorily claimed.

‘Isn’t it great without Georgia,’ she purred afterwards. ‘At least for a few days.’

‘Mm,’ he concurred, before rolling back the duvet and flopping heavily out of bed. ‘Cup of tea?’ he offered.

‘Okay.’

By the time he got back with two mugs of tea and a few rounds of buttered toast, she was asleep again, rather to his relief. He quickly dressed and left her to it, the tea cooling beside her.

He wandered aimlessly out of the house and stood in the empty yard. It was eighteen months or more since there’d been any animals on the farm, but he could still hear the ghostly sounds of cows and calves and pigs. They’d been culled as ‘dangerous contacts’ with a foot-and-
mouth-infected
pig farm, because Philip’s father had bought in three new sows just at the wrong moment. He hadn’t been able to forgive himself for it, despite everyone insisting he couldn’t possibly have known the risk. He’d forced himself to participate in the slaughter, as some kind of penance. But not penance enough, it seemed. Only self-destruction had relieved him of his misery and remorse, his helpless rage and loss of hope.

Philip had watched impotently, his own
memories just as terrible. He too had taken part in the cull. The cows had gone passively enough, but the pigs had been frantic. He still heard their screams in the night and supposed he always would.

Sheena used the whole catastrophe as justification for returning to her full-time-plus job, even though Georgia had been barely a year old at the time. Philip had wanted to talk her out of it, but could never find a convincing argument. He’d thought it was obvious: a mother’s place was with her child. But Georgia made no complaint, despite a gruelling routine under the care of a day nursery where the staff seemed to change every week. Gloria, the blowsy woman in charge, never seemed to remember which one Georgia was when Philip turned up to collect her. He knew it wasn’t the right way for a child to grow up; she was so quiet and withdrawn it was often as if she wasn’t in the house at all. The only times she seemed animated and happy were when Justine was around.

The household became a haphazard business, with food snatched at odd times and Justine drafted in to babysit at short notice much more often than originally intended. It had begun to feel as if they were mere automata, running round in mechanical circles, with no idea of
why, until Philip had woken up one morning uncomfortably convinced that it couldn’t go on like that any longer.

Sheena was right that it was much more relaxed without Georgia; in some ways, at least. Never an attentive mother, she had jumped at the suggestion that the child spend a week or two with her granny on the Isle of Wight. Leaving all the arrangements to Philip – after all, it was his mother, who had moved to the island with a close woman friend after she was widowed – Sheena hardly seemed to notice the absence of her little girl. Philip observed this with a painful knot of tangled feelings, but made no comment. Time enough for all that when his wife decided Georgia should come home again.

At least he’d dealt with those people looking for Justine without rocking any boats. He was pleased with himself about that. The next problem was going to be Penn. But Philip’s policy was always to take things one step at a time. It was surprising what you could do, how much you could bear, if you broke it all down into manageable slices. It had been like that through the foot and mouth nightmare. He’d gone through the daily motions, inventing routines for himself, slowly incorporating ideas for the new business, making new contacts, until it came to
Christmas and he could look back and feel he’d triumphed over the horror of it all. He’d done it then; he could do it again now.

Helen Strabinski was losing the battle against her curiosity. Something was obviously going on, to do with Roma and Justine and Penn, and she wanted to know what it was. The drizzle was depressing, thwarting the plan she’d had to do some outdoor work. She’d promised she’d have a dozen stills for the tie-in book the BB C were producing, to accompany a gardening series. The garden in August was supposed to be full of lush sunlit borders, dahlias and gladioli and red hot pokers, all epitomising high summer. Instead, everything was damp and bedraggled and completely unsuitable. She could get on with a few indoor mock-ups, but she wasn’t in the mood. It never really worked, anyway.

Instead, she resolved on paying an unannounced visit on her sister. If she took her camera, she could claim to be searching for a cover shot for a new
Glorious Gardens
magazine; yet another glossy monthly to squeeze onto the shelves. A number of photographers had been invited to submit possible shots for the cover, and Helen was determined that they’d choose one of hers. She thought Roma’s beehives might
add an original touch – if she could pluck up the nerve to approach them.

It was a forty-mile drive, but there wasn’t a lot of traffic on the small roads she chose. Twice she stopped to take pictures: first of an old barn with its roof falling in, and later of a field full of glossy-looking red-and-white cattle. Made a change from the ubiquitous black-and-white ones, she judged.

Roma had always been one for dramas, of course, since they were children. Six years older than Helen, she’d forged her way through school, making enough of a mark for teachers to shudder slightly at the name of Willowfield. ‘Not Roma’s sister?’ they’d asked hopefully, only to sigh when she nodded. ‘But I’m not at all like her,’ Helen had learnt to say, brightly.

It was true – she was nothing at all like her sister. Roma had been fearless, argumentative, noisy. Helen was altogether different. And their brother had been different again – older than them, neurotic even in his teens, and very poor company.

Laurie was standing in the doorway, before she was even out of her car, as if he’d been watching out for her. There was no car in the driveway, suggesting that Roma was out. ‘Hiya!’ she greeted him cheerily. ‘Thought I’d drop in for a bit. Sorry to arrive so late. Must be
nearly teatime, but you don’t have to feed me.’

His face looked dark, somehow, as if in shadow, and yet he was standing in the open. He smiled a welcome, but nothing changed in his eyes. ‘Helen,’ he said, as if he hadn’t been able to remember her name at first. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘Roma writes to me,’ she said. ‘I gather things are a bit frazzled at the moment.’

‘Are they?’ Laurie looked alarmed. ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

‘Well, Penn said …’ She stopped herself. Something in Laurie’s face made her insides clench for a moment. A bleakness, mixed with a flash of anger, told her to shut up and wait for Roma.