Asking For Trouble (23 page)

‘How did she ever get to be there, with you?’

‘She needed a place to live,’ I pointed out.

Her voice rose to a wail, part rage and part, I realised, despair. ‘She had a place to live!’ She flung out a well-manicured hand to point at the house behind us. ‘She lived here!’

‘She didn’t want to live here.’

‘Why not?’ she shouted furiously.

‘Why ask me? Why didn’t you ask her when you had the chance? Did you ever ask her if she wanted to be dumped here?’

‘She wasn’t dumped!’ she practically spat.

‘Wasn’t she?’ I ought to respect her grief, but she was a street-fighter, underneath that designer chic, and I recognised the type. She’d give no quarter and any attempt at niceness on my part, would be seized on as a weakness.

‘You know nothing about it!’ She’d moved slightly towards me and looked as if she’d attack at any moment. Those manicured nails were long and pointed.

I got ready to get out of the way. ‘Perhaps I know something about being dumped. My mother walked out on me. I know how it feels.’

She paused, looking me over, and thinking it out. When she spoke next it was more calmly but the voice was still steel-hard.

‘I don’t owe you any explanation. My marriage broke up. I needed to earn a living. I was offered an opportunity to get back into the only job I know. I couldn’t turn it down. Theresa was well looked after. Her father paid the fees to send her to a good school. When she left school, I tried to get her to take up a place at art college. She turned it down and ran off somewhere. We were worried sick, and after a lot of trouble, found her and brought her home here. She did it again. More than once. On one occasion, she went traipsing across country with a band of hippies. I tried talking to her but I couldn’t get through. She just seemed hell-bent-on—’ Her voice wavered. ‘She seemed hell-bent on her own destruction. We should have seen it coming, what happened.’

I realised that what she was telling me was true, but only partly so. There was a lot more she wasn’t telling possibly because she considered it none of my business. She was right: it wasn’t. But perhaps she was leaving out anything which didn’t fit with the picture she was anxious to paint of a caring parent, who’d done her best, everything she possibly could in difficult circumstances. She wasn’t painting that picture for my benefit, but for her own. She needed to believe it. How could I blame her for that? What would I have done in her place?

I still didn’t like her but I’d begun to feel some sympathy for her and it hampered my side of the conversation. I mumbled something to the effect that not every runaway finished in such tragic circumstances.

She picked up the words as though they represented a foreign phrase she hadn’t heard before, rolling them experimentally round her mouth.

‘Tragic circumstances. Which, of all the utterly wretched circumstances, would you dignify as
tragic
? Her death? The waste of her talents? The miserable life she was leading in London? The sordid acquaintances who dragged her down with them – eventually to her death?’

She waited, as if I’d give some precise answer to this unanswerable list of woes.

I would’ve objected vigorously to the last, but I was beginning to understand Janice’s dread of speaking ‘to the family’ in cases like this.

I floundered with, ‘She didn’t see her lifestyle the way you see it. The house in Jubilee Street was home to us and we were comfortable enough there. Terry was really very capable and knew what she was doing.’

She cut me short with a look which was pure vitriol. She didn’t want to hear any of this.

I’d been a fool to try. Her grief had put her beyond reason. I compounded my errors by repeating my regrets. Since I didn’t now know what to call it, I ended lamely with a reference to ‘the accident’.

‘Accident? You call it an accident?’

She was back on the offensive. ‘My daughter was
murdered
and I’m by no means convinced that you and the others in that squat weren’t involved! More to the point, right now, what are you doing here?’

‘Alastair—’ I began weakly.

‘Don’t bother!’ She moved in close. ‘Just pack your bags and get out! You’re trouble. You were part of Theresa’s problems and you’ve brought yourself and your street manners with you down here. Alastair and Ariadne don’t need that. My hope is that, one day, someone will catch up with you. If not the police, then someone else, the sort of person who caught up with my daughter. My daughter’s life was wasted. She could have done so much. No one would miss you. You’re nothing.’ Her voice rose again, wavering, ‘Why couldn’t it have been you? Who would have missed you? Why had it to be my lovely daughter? It’s so unfair!’

She turned on her heel and almost staggered. I stepped forward to grab her elbow and steady her but she gave me a fierce look and made her own way indoors, head high.

Jamie had reappeared at some point during our talk. I hadn’t noticed exactly when. He must have overheard a good part of it. He met my gaze now and chuckled.

‘You think you’re so tough, don’t you, Fran? But you can’t begin to match Marcie.’

‘Get lost!’ I told him. I tramped off towards the gate in my borrowed wellies, hearing him laugh behind me.

I knew he was wrong. Marcia was finding out she wasn’t as tough as she’d thought she was. None of us is.

Chapter Thirteen

I had to admit that the conversation with Marcia had shaken me. Not just by her grief or her expressed wish I’d been the one found hanging from the light fitting. It had disturbed the way I’d felt until then about my own mother’s desertion. Perhaps I’d also judged her too quickly. When she went, she must have had good reason. Much as I’d loved my father, obviously my mother and he had troubles which couldn’t be resolved. If she hadn’t taken me with her, possibly it was because she, like Marcia, had needed to begin her life over again from scratch, without the encumbrance of a young child, or had had nowhere to go remotely suitable for a kid.

Then I thought about Lucy and her children. Even reduced to living in the squat, Lucy had never once envisaged parting from the children. No matter how bad things got, she’d told me once, the three of them stayed together. No way would she ever let the kids be taken into care, and, as for the father having them, ‘I’d kill him first!’ she’d said. I think she meant it.

It was complicated and, to be fair, not having faced a similar situation myself, I was in no position to judge. But I liked to think that, like Lucy, I’d have hung on to my children. Or at least tried.

The dog saw me coming as I walked into the farmyard and ran towards me. It barked once, then sniffed at my feet and wagged its tail. It was nice to be recognised. I hoped Nick remembered me and that he’d asked me to call.

He came out of a barn at that moment, dressed in grubby dungarees and wiping his hands on an oily rag. He looked more like a mechanic than a farmer.

‘Old truck’s just about given up the ghost,’ he said. ‘Have to be replaced. I just about manage to keep it ticking over from day to day. Nice to see you again. Have a good trip into town?’

‘Fine, thanks. Nice place. I’m a true townie, as you can probably see.’ I waved a hand around. ‘Never been on a farm before in my life.’

‘No? Really?’ That seemed to puzzle him. He glanced at the buildings around. ‘Not much to see. This is a working farm, not someone’s tax dodge. Come inside and we’ll have a cup of coffee or something. I could do with a drink.’

I hesitated. ‘I don’t want to trouble your wife.’

‘Wife?’ He looked surprised.

‘Jamie asked after Mrs Bryant . . .’

‘Oh, my mother!’ he grinned. ‘Not married. Haven’t yet found a woman willing to take on the farm! It’s a tough life.’

I hadn’t counted on his mother and felt apprehensive. Respectable old mothers and I seldom saw eye to eye. I was glad I wore the boots and Barbour. At least I wouldn’t be teetering along in my pixie boots.

As I followed Nick to the house, I tried to prepare myself. I imagined ‘mother’ as rosy-cheeked, in an apron, baking scones after a hard morning feeding chickens.

Nick took off his boots at the back door, using an ancient wooden device which I guessed was a ‘boot-jack’. I followed suit and the pair of us padded indoors in our socks. The floor was stone-flagged and uneven, and the kitchen had an untidy, cluttered and comfortable look. Nick led me into an equally untidy sitting room where a woman sat at the desk, muttering to herself as she stabbed at the keyboard of a home computer. She swivelled round as we entered.

Nick’s mother was surprisingly young. She had long hair, wore jeans and an old sweatshirt and I liked the look of her on sight.

‘Hullo,’ she said. She didn’t seem surprised to see me. ‘Do you know how these things work?’

‘Sorry, no.’ After all, I’d been living in a house which didn’t even have electricity. When would I get to learn about computers?

‘Never mind.’ She sighed.

‘This is Fran,’ Nick told her. ‘She’s come to have a cup of coffee. She’s staying with Mrs Cameron.’

‘Penny,’ she said.

I wondered if that was what she meant to charge me for the coffee, but even in the country things couldn’t be that cheap.

‘My name is Penny,’ she explained. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll put the kettle on. I’m fed up with this machine. I want to get out of sight of it for a bit.’

Nick made an excuse and went off to clean up. In the kitchen, Penny rattled about in a cupboard and apologised for not having any proper coffee. ‘Only this stuff in a jar. I’ve got to go shopping this week. I never seem to get any time. That machine in there—’ She jabbed a finger viciously towards the distant computer. ‘Is supposed to save me time. It takes me four times as long to do anything! Nick says I’ll get the hang of it. Wish I felt sure.’

It seemed she didn’t bake scones, either. She produced a tin, looked inside it, grimaced and said, ‘And I haven’t got any biscuits, either. You must think I’m a lousy hostess.’

I assured her I didn’t need biscuits. I really appreciated being offered coffee. ‘It’s not just a social call. I’m – I’m on a sort of fishing trip, for information.’

I had decided that with Penny it would be best to be quite straightforward.

She clanged the empty biscuit tin back on the shelf. ‘What about? Not computers, I hope? Farming? Ask Nick.’

‘Do you and Nick farm here alone?’ I asked, curious. I’d always thought farms abounded with dairymaids and shepherds and so on. I said as much and she burst out laughing.

‘Not these days! Everyone has to be a Jack of all Trades! There’s only Nick and myself and Jeff Biles who comes when an extra pair of hands is needed. He knows more about farming than either of us. My husband bought this place and had ideas.’ She hesitated just fractionally. ‘He didn’t live to carry them out.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said awkwardly.

‘Yes, it was a pity. I wish I were more use. I can run the book-keeping side of it. Farming is a business, after all. I’m used to that, dealing with the financial side of things. I’ve got a little antiques shop in Winchester. The trouble is that I have to spend a lot of time there and can’t always be here.’

‘Antiques?’ I asked. That sounded interesting.

Very quickly she said, ‘It isn’t grand. It’s more what once upon a time would have been called a junk shop. But I try to keep it looking decent and it doesn’t do so badly, especially in the summer. The tourists, you know. A lot of people want a souvenir which isn’t modern tat. They’re happy to buy what, frankly, is often Edwardian tat. However, the deal leaves everyone happy.’

I remarked that it must be difficult, keeping the place stocked. She said she went to house sales, of which there was usually one somewhere in the area most weeks.

‘Remember,’ she said, ‘I’m not after valuable stuff. Just old photo frames, odds and ends of china and ornaments, scrapbooks, period clothes which are still in good condition. Best of all, if I can get them, are toys. But old toys of all kinds are highly collectable and the dealers usually get there before me. There’s a strict cash limit on how much I can pay for my stock because I have to price competitively when I sell on.’

‘Who runs the shop when you’re not there?’

‘A friend. She’s actually a partner who put up some of the original money. But she doesn’t do any of the business side of it. She says she’s got no head for it. She likes being in the shop, meeting people and selling things. Only she’s been in poor health recently so I’ve had to spend a lot of time in town. I’ve hardly been out here at the farm at all the last few weeks.’

Penny looked glum. I realised she did have a lot of worries and I felt badly about coming here and with the intention of pestering them about Terry.

But Nick’s mother obviously wasn’t one of those to brood on things. She dismissed her personal problems with a brisk shrug. ‘I can offer you some tips on how to run a business on a shoestring!’ She grinned at me.

Nick came back just then looking much more presentable, in fact, really rather handsome, in a clean sweater and jeans. We all sat round the table, very cosy. I didn’t know why he had so much trouble finding a girl interested in the farm and in him. I was beginning to get quite interested myself.

‘Everything all right at Mrs Cameron’s?’ Nick asked.

‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’ They were watching me. Obviously they were both pretty bright and I felt I might as well tell them everything. One thing I’d already realised was that Nick didn’t approve of Jamie Monkton. So I wasn’t taking too much of a risk confiding in them. The fact was, I was too much on my own out here. I needed allies of some sort. The Bryants looked as if they were the sort of people to have on my side.

‘You know the circumstances of Theresa Monkton’s death?’ I began and they nodded, both silent, both watching me and waiting.

‘I knew her in London,’ I said. ‘We all shared a squat. We called her Terry, not Theresa. She preferred it.’

Penny stirred and sighed. ‘Poor girl,’ she said. ‘She really had rotten luck. I used to urge her to call by here sometimes, when she was at home, just to have a chat and – I don’t know – get away from the house. But she was a funny girl. She never came here. I don’t know whether she was shy or it was just that she didn’t want to talk. She was very – closed up. It was as if she was frightened to talk about herself.’