Death of a Friend (18 page)

Den was impressed afresh. To his knowledge, DI Smith had never met the Cattermoles and had nothing more than Den’s own reports to go on, and yet it felt as if he knew them inside out. ‘Martha would be best,’ he agreed.

Yet another trip to High Copse might have been tedious, but the presence of Jane Nugent beside him gave it a new angle. She chatted sporadically, talking as much about her plans for a fortnight in Egypt as the murder of Charlie Gratton. She also admitted to considerable ambition in the uniformed police. ‘Don’t fancy CID much,’ she laughed. ‘I wouldn’t feel like a proper copper without the outfit.’

An atmosphere of weary depression greeted them at the house. Martha had only just got home and was in bare feet, holding a substantial sandwich. ‘Last day of term,’ she said, as if in explanation. ‘Look, I should be there when you talk to the boys, but I’m too whacked. Leave the
door open and I’ll just sort of listen in. Is that okay? Don’t upset them, will you? I hope I can trust you on that. They’ve only been home about five minutes.’

They were ushered into the gloomy living room and the door was left open. Hugh and Clem sat together on the sofa. Jane and Den took two armchairs. It was scarcely informal, but Den supposed it was the closest they were going to get.

‘Would you tell us, in your own words, what happened between the day your mum died and the day of her funeral?’ he asked gently. Between them, the children described the arrival of the coffin, unfolding it, applying the first coat of white paint; Charlie disappearing at some unnoticed point.

‘We never said bye-bye to him,’ noted Clem wistfully.

‘Don’t be so—’ Hugh began, before checking himself. He gave his brother’s arm a punch; not vicious, but not good-natured either. Den scrutinised each boy in turn, remembering fleetingly that parallel universe you inhabit as a kid, where adults totally fail to see what’s going on. Even those who made an effort to understand usually got it completely wrong. He remembered when his own mother married for a second time, importing young Gary as a
step-brother and worrying about all the wrong things. She’d made promises about fairness, about nothing in Den’s life changing, when what he’d really wanted was to take the little chap about with him and teach him the rules of Warhammer and Masters of the Universe. The adults had been so worried about jealousy that they had effectively confined the boys to separate cages and wasted what could have been a very affectionate relationship. Seven years his junior, Gary could almost have been a practise son. But Den hadn’t given up – they saw each other regularly now.

None of which was much use in working out what was going on between Hugh and Clem. ‘So who’s in charge here now?’ he asked. ‘Or does the place run itself? I remember it was Clem who fetched the eggs last time I was here. You’re lucky there aren’t any cows to milk, or fields to plough. My girlfriend lives on a farm where there’s never any let-up. Jobs to be done, the whole time.’

Hugh frowned and circled a forefinger on the worn arm of the sofa. His head was held at an awkward angle against the cushion behind him, making an uncomfortable picture. ‘It’s not so different from before,’ he muttered. ‘Richmond does most of the work, and Martha’s out every day at school, same as us. We like it like this.’ He looked up defiantly. ‘Don’t we?’ he appealed
fiercely to his brother. Clem just nodded half-heartedly.

Den remembered the accusation of abuse and gave the younger boy a closer inspection. He was certainly alarmingly pale; his skin looked thin, almost transparent, and there were blue shadows under his eyes. He gave every sign of being completely dominated by his older brother. Den wondered whether there might be some value in getting Clem on his own for a chat: a simple conversation might at least settle one or two doubts. He glanced at Jane and wondered if she would co-operate in such a dubious strategy.

‘Well, I don’t think there’s anything more to ask you,’ he said. ‘It seems to me you’re going to be okay, when all the fuss dies down a bit. Life goes on, eh?’

Hugh’s frown reappeared. ‘Not for my mum, it doesn’t,’ he said. ‘She’s out there in that grave. Dead!’ He slammed a fist on the sofa, and repeated the word. ‘
Dead!
’ Clem gave a supportive murmur. Den noticed tears hovering on his lower eyelids.

He stood up slowly. ‘Well, I think we’d better get going. Although it’s so nice up here, it’d be good to stay. Especially with the sun shining like it is. Those primroses of yours are really something. And did I see beehives up in the orchard?’

‘Those are Martha’s,’ said Clem. ‘She’s good with bees.’

Den looked at Jane again, meaningfully. ‘Would you show me?’ Den asked Clem. ‘Just for a minute?’

‘Yeah – go on,’ said Jane carelessly. ‘I’ll keep Hugh company.’

The man and boy walked up to the orchard, behind the house, following a steep path. ‘You must keep fit, coming up here every day,’ Den remarked. ‘Seems as if you’ve got your share of the jobs, even though you are the youngest.’

The child shrugged and said nothing.

‘Did Charlie do anything around the place? He was more or less living here, wasn’t he?’

‘Charlie was useless,’ said Clem, matter-
of-factly
. ‘Richmond said he wasn’t all there in the head. Couldn’t even tie his own shoelaces.’ Den could hear the quotation marks – the line evidently originating directly from Richmond.

‘But you liked him, didn’t you? Hugh said he was cool.’

Clement sighed impatiently. ‘We wanted Nev, not Charlie,’ he said simply. ‘Look, these are the hives. That one’s new. It’s a bait hive – waiting for a swarm in the summer. Martha’s always lucky getting new swarms, even though there aren’t any other beekeepers for miles. Last year we had nearly five hundred pounds of honey. Richmond
sells it for us.’ He waved at the row of hives, under a hedge. Den counted six, each painted with bold colours and swirling patterns. He was reminded suddenly of Nina’s coffin, as he’d heard it described.

‘Nev and Charlie were best friends, is that right?’ he went on. ‘Nev must be really upset now.’

‘He’s got us. And he’s got Granny. He’ll be all right. He’ll have to stay here now, you see.’ Suddenly the child’s face was earnest, even enthusiastic. ‘Hugh says so. Nev’ll have to stay and be our guardian. Nev’s
really
cool.’

The word
guardian
echoed for a moment, oddly old-fashioned.

‘Is he a guardian because he guards you from something?’ he ventured, trying to make it sound jokey.

‘Oh, no. We don’t need guarding. Not now, anyway. Everything’s okay now. Except we’re sad, of course. About Mum. I like the grave being there, you know,’ he confided. ‘I can go and talk to her any time I want. I can tell her things – Martha says she might be able to hear me. Nobody knows for sure, do they? And it’s sort of good, really, about Charlie.’ He looked suddenly anxious. ‘I don’t mean
good
– but, well, we didn’t need him hanging around, making trouble. Richmond said he was a pest.’

Den marvelled at how ineffective his lengthy interviews had been. How wrong his assumptions were turning out to be …

‘So you think you’ll be okay now, do you? No need to send the social workers in?’ The risk was calculated, and his heart pounded briskly at the implications. With justification, as it turned out. Clem’s lower lip was instantly seized between sharp little teeth and his hands turned to fists. He shook his head violently, and said nothing. Den had all the answer he needed.

‘Okay, forget I said that. The hives are great. Shall I help you with the eggs?’ Stiffly, Clem moved to the hen coop and lifted a large flap at the back. A clutch of five eggs waited for him. Den carefully slipped two into each jacket pocket, and let Clem carry the fifth.

Alone in his flat for an hour before paying an evening visit to Val Taylor, Den made himself a sandwich and arranged himself on the sofa, legs stretched out so his feet hung over one arm. A sofa big enough to accommodate Den’s length would have taken up too much space, but he’d long ago developed a technique for getting comfortable. He reached out to put a CD in the player, and tried in vain to think of nothing. It was no good, there were too many things he ought to be getting on with; too many things that might be happening without him.
When this is all over
, he promised himself,
I’m going to have a week just doing nothing at all.

The first task was to keep his fiancée sweet. Miranda answered the phone at Redstone and he asked her to tell Lilah he was expecting to be out later than usual. This being so, she might not feel it worthwhile coming over to the flat that evening. ‘She can get an early night and I’ll try and see her tomorrow.’

‘
Try
?’ Miranda repeated.

‘It’s this murder,’ Den said slowly. Miranda had that effect on him. ‘Charlie Gratton. A lot of people are only at home in the evenings and we’re getting behind with the interviews.’

‘Can’t you insist on seeing them at work?’

‘They’re not suspects. It’s not always a good idea to embarrass people unless you have to. You lose their goodwill that way.’

‘Yes, I suppose you do,’ she said drily. ‘I’ll tell Lilah when she comes in. She’ll probably welcome the early night, as you say. She’s looking tired today.’

Den felt a stab of alarm. If Miranda had noticed, then Lilah must be looking
really
rough.

It was almost six. He’d give Val another hour and then call in on her. Outside the light was fading, the sky an appealing display of pink-tinged clouds. Suddenly his flat felt too constricted, his head too crowded with jumbled theories and unfinished investigations. It hadn’t been helped by the few minutes’ conversation
he’d had with DI Smith on his return from the session with Hugh and Clement Nesbitt.

‘Sir!’ he’d called, catching up with an impatient superior. ‘I’ve seen the High Copse kids – can we have another think about this alleged abuse? The kid is obviously allergic to social workers and he seems rather glad that Charlie’s permanently out of the way. Shouldn’t we order up the full report from Social Services?’

‘Already done,’ said the Inspector. ‘But it doesn’t get us very far. No names named and the whole thing dismissed as a piece of mischief. Not before they’d investigated, of course, and had a quiet word with the mother. She just laughed and the social proceeded to comprehensively traumatise the poor little bugger.’

‘Christ!’ spat Den. ‘Why can’t they be more sensitive?’

‘Not really their fault,’ Smith chided mildly. ‘Blame the person who gave the tip-off in the first place. You know as well as I do the social workers had no choice after that.’

‘What if the informant was deliberately pointing the finger at Charlie? Then the same person flipped last week and mowed him down with a horse.’

‘Charlie hadn’t been going out with Alexis more than a couple of months when the accusation was made. He’d been nowhere near
High Copse before then, as far as we know. I really don’t think the abuse thing has anything to do with him.’

‘He was Nev’s friend for years, so he probably had been there,’ Den argued, feeling an odd pang of disappointment at this mistake on the DI’s part. ‘And … what if Charlie himself was the informant? He might have noticed something going on and done it from the best of motives. There’s probably some moral requirement to blow the whistle if you’re a Quaker.’

Smith shook his head. ‘Only if you’re a hundred per cent sure of your facts. Otherwise it’s malevolence.’

Den felt defeated. ‘I’m interviewing Valerie Taylor now,’ he said. ‘She’s only at home in the evening, which is rather a nuisance.’

‘I’m sure it is, Cooper, but this is a murder investigation. We don’t stick to nine to five at a time like this. I thought you understood that. You keep going until you’ve got a full report on every one of those Quakers who knew Charlie. By rights, it would have been finished days ago. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He wasn’t sure whether to regard it as lucky or unfortunate when he discovered that Polly
Spence was at the home of Val Taylor when he arrived for the interview. It was very likely that neither woman would be as frank and open with an audience as she would have been on her own. And in the event that either or both of them had been directly concerned with Charlie’s death, they could flash unspoken signals to each other as he posed his questions and he’d have little chance of intercepting or interpreting them.

Never mind, he decided – it was something to have caught up with Val and thus to complete, for DI Smith’s gratification, his report on the entire membership of the Chillhampton Preparative Meeting, as the local Quakers called themselves.

The two women made a fine couple. Val’s house was furnished with great care and some expense. Nothing on the shelves except books and one or two framed pictures. No untidy piles of newspapers or unpaid bills. A modern oak desk stood beneath the generous bay window and on it was a stack of leaflets and envelopes. This apparently was the reason for Polly’s presence. She sat silently, folding the leaflets and putting them into envelopes, as the interview proceeded.

‘To start with,’ said Den, ‘would you be kind enough to tell me where you were on Sunday and Monday of last week?’

‘Sunday morning I went to Meeting, then came
back here for the rest of the day. On Monday I was at work,’ she said promptly.

‘Did anybody see you on Sunday afternoon?’

‘Half a dozen people, actually. I had a bit of a party, which started at six and went on until about nine. It was by way of a small celebration. My younger brother just announced his engagement and I invited a few people here to get to know his fiancée.’

‘Could I have the names of the guests?’

She blinked at him. ‘All of them?’

‘Please.’

‘Right. Well, Paul Taylor – that’s my brother. Jenny Samuels is his fiancée. Then there was Andrew Pickering, who works with me and knows Paul, with his girlfriend Annie. And there was another woman, a friend of mine. She’s called Helena Fairfield.’

Den reacted quickly. ‘Fairfield? Is she any relation to Gerald, the Master of Foxhounds?’

Val turned pink and looked worriedly at Polly. ‘Well, yes. She’s his daughter. But I hope you won’t give her away to her father. He doesn’t know she’s friendly with me.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Twenty-two, I think. She doesn’t live at home any more. In fact, she’s in her probationary year as a social worker. And she’s deeply involved in animal rights work. That’s why her father—’
‘I understand,’ Den interrupted. ‘Her secret’s safe with me.’ He hoped this was true. He could think of a few scenarios whereby Gerald would have to hear about his daughter’s activities via the police. ‘What time on Monday did you arrive at work?’

‘Eight forty-five, as always. If you’re thinking of me as a possible suspect for the murder of Charlie Gratton, I’d say I’ve got a fairly good alibi. People don’t go riding around after dark and I’d have had difficulty in getting hold of a horse at any time.’

‘Sunday afternoon?’ Den suggested. ‘It looks as if there are a few hours unaccounted for then.’

Val laughed. ‘That’s true, I suppose. I was cooking and cleaning, but I can’t prove it. I might add that I’m a hopeless rider, and I liked Charlie far too much to kill him.’

Den smiled absently. Something had just struck him:
People don’t usually ride around after dark
. It was far too dangerous on the roads, but might they not trust to the animal’s senses in the fields? Or could they make the assumption that Charlie had died during the hours of daylight?

‘Anyway, it’s against our principles,’ put in Polly, from the table. ‘Riding, that is.’

‘Slave animals?’ Den said, growing tired of this particular emotive but meaningless phrase. Both women nodded vigorously.

‘So you endorse Charlie Gratton’s protest activities?’ he asked, eyeing Polly’s leaflets.

‘Absolutely. And Nina’s,’ Val confirmed. ‘It seems a great pity that poor Nina is being forgotten in all this. We’re going to carry it on for both of them, although it will be extremely difficult on our own.’

Den closed his eyes for an unwary moment, and once again the details of Nina’s death replayed themselves. ‘She isn’t forgotten,’ he said softly.

‘Oh, you were there, weren’t you,’ Val remembered. ‘You were the tall plain-clothes officer who tried to revive her. I phoned the ambulance,’ she added proudly. ‘Fortunately I had a mobile in my bag.’

‘Yes,’ Den confirmed uncomfortably.

Bare facts elicited, he did his best to assemble his thoughts.
Watch out for inconsistencies. Get a feel for the atmosphere. What aren’t they telling you?
He let a small silence develop while he tried to focus.

‘Are you aware of anybody who might have wanted Charlie dead?’ he asked, hoping to catch them unawares.

Val laughed harshly. ‘Only about twenty people, and that’s just the locals. He was a hunt saboteur. He understood how to get the best publicity for himself and his beliefs. He wasn’t going to stop.’

‘So somebody stopped him,’ Polly put in, softly. ‘We think it must have been someone from the Hunt.’

‘Anybody in particular?’

‘I hope it wasn’t Gerald Fairfield,’ said Val. Polly sniffed derisively and Val’s head snapped round to glare at her. ‘What does that noise mean?’ she demanded.

‘You hope it wasn’t Gerald because you’re so
very
fond of his simpering daughter.’ Sensing unsheathed claws and barely concealed passions, Den misguidedly tried to head off the fight.

‘Can we stick to the subject?’ he said. ‘Are there any other hunt people you think might have been involved?’

Val ignored him. ‘Don’t make yourself look stupid, pet,’ she said with withering contempt. ‘There’s nothing whatsoever between Helena and me.’

‘Oh no, and birds don’t fly, I suppose.’

Den had heard that lesbian quarrels could be every bit as vicious as the heterosexual equivalent, but he had never experienced one. He had no difficulty in recognising it for what it was, however, and he knew he couldn’t disregard it. If these two were really a couple, the police would be foolish to ignore the fact.

‘I take it you two are … partners?’ he said boldly.
It stopped the fight, at least. ‘Partners?’ repeated Val icily. ‘As in
lovers
, do you mean?’ She turned away from Polly as she spoke and Den watched the latter’s expression betray pain and then rage.

‘That’s the impression I’m getting,’ he said. ‘Forgive me if I’m wrong.’

‘You’re totally wrong and I find it hard to forgive you. That sort of assumption –
innuendo
– leads to nothing but spiteful gossip. A tarnished reputation. Have you any idea what it would do to my career, if it was believed that I was a lesbian?’

‘Well, these days …’ began Den.

‘These days, nothing! Whatever the politically correct attitude might be, the reality is very different. My sexuality is entirely irrelevant to all this. It has nothing whatsoever to do with Charlie Gratton. He was in love with Alexis Cattermole. We all knew that.’

‘Okay,’ Den conceded. ‘And what about Nina? From what I personally witnessed, he was profoundly upset by her accident.’

‘Of course he was,’ said Val scornfully. ‘We all were.’

The scraping of Polly’s chair interrupted them. With a hand to her face, fingers clasped over her mouth, she was making for the door. ‘Oh, Poll,’ cried Val, impatience, capitulation
and concern all in her voice. ‘Come back.’

Polly looked back, her eyes wet, and shook her head. Den knew betrayal when he saw it. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ said Polly thickly, and left the room.

‘That was
your
fault,’ Val accused, a moment later. ‘Are you always so tactless?’

‘And are you always so heartless? That poor girl!’

‘She’s not a
girl
. She’s thirty-eight and she’s been in love with practically every woman this side of Exeter in her time. Polly
is
a lesbian – you got that part right. But she isn’t my lover, much as she’d like to be. I meant what I said about my job. If I slept with Polly, it’d be common knowledge in two shakes. Besides, I don’t dislike men – only the ones who chase wild animals for the fun of it.’

‘Women do that too,’ he reminded her.

‘Not the way men do. You should see how excited they get when they scent a fox. It’s obscene.’

Den didn’t argue; the fox hunting battle would run its course without any contribution from him. Apart from a vague distaste for the kind of enthusiasm Val had just referred to, he found it hard to understand how the sport could engender such passions.

But he had to pursue the relevant angle.
‘With Charlie gone, would you say your protest activities have been severely weakened?’

Val pursed her lips and sighed. ‘In the short term, they might be. We can’t do everything ourselves. With the loss of Charlie and Nina, some of the energy has gone out of it. But there’ll be new people coming along. It’s growing every day. We’re an irresistible force.’

‘But what if someone realised that you’d be badly thrown by their loss? When Nina died they did some quick thinking and went after Charlie as well?’ Even as he spoke, he knew the idea was implausible.

‘Sorry, I can’t see it. The battle’s lost for the hunt lobby anyway. All such an act would do would be to delay the inevitable.’

‘Can I ask you about the Quakers? I understand you attend regularly. I’ve seen Mr and Mrs Aspen and all the others. I understand that not all of them approved of Charlie’s activism?’

‘Clive certainly didn’t,’ she agreed. ‘He made no bones about it. Said it was casting a slur on the law-abiding reputation of the Meeting. Which is ridiculous, given our history of protest and rebellion. Clive’s not very representative.’ She grimaced, as if this was a serious understatement. ‘He actually sneaks off to follow the hunt sometimes, which I think is despicable. I have a
feeling that Mandy secretly sympathises with our protests, but she would never say anything against Clive.’