Death of a Friend (23 page)

He went back to his musings about Clive and Mandy. Did Good Friday mean anything special to them? What did Quakers do at Easter?

By some connecting process, he found himself thinking about Nina Nesbitt’s grave in the High Copse garden, from which she was never going to rise again, and from there he remembered once more the details of how she died. Martyred to her cause. He had said very little to Lilah about it, but the image of Nina dropping to the ground with a small gasp would never completely go away. He heard again the sound she made – a little
Oh!
of surprise. Surprise, yes, but also resignation, acceptance, perhaps even understanding. Or had she died with absolutely no awareness of what was happening to her? One sharp blow to the face and her brain had immediately started to die. It no longer instructed her legs to hold her weight, her heart to pump blood, her lungs to draw air. But surely, Den insisted to himself, there had been time for
thought
? Plenty of time for final thoughts of where she was going and what she was leaving behind.

And Charlie Gratton? Had
he
been given time to register the transition? Had he had time to see
and recognise the horse and the rider who had mown him down? Unbidden, on this day when the slow crucifixion of Jesus Christ was marked worldwide, he felt the utter loneliness of death for the first time in his life. And he shook his head in shame at the light way he had regarded it until now. The handful of murder inquiries he’d been involved in had all seemed like puzzles to be solved rather than terribly human tragedy. He’d used the idea of justice carelessly, viewed it merely as something that made life just that bit tidier. When they’d caught the person who killed Lilah’s father, nearly a year ago, there had been a satisfaction in knowing the case was closed, the murderer put out of action – but he didn’t remember feeling much more than that. He didn’t remember giving a single serious thought to the suffering victim, dying in horror and disbelief.

He was not religious; he had scarcely ever been to church other than for school events and a few weddings. But now he allowed himself to wonder whether he’d been missing something. Now he wondered whether there’d be a place for him at the Quaker Meeting, where he might sit quietly and ponder these unwelcome new insights. With a sense of an invisible hand propelling him from behind, he went to find his notepad. There was only one person who could help him.

The voice on the phone was thick with sleep and Den remembered too late that it was still only nine in the morning. But there was no going back now. ‘Mrs Map … I mean, Mrs Mansfield? I’m terribly sorry to wake you. I didn’t notice how early it was.’

‘Is that the piano-playing policeman? Cooper?’ She wasn’t so sleepy after all, then.

‘That’s right.’

‘And?’

‘Er … well, this is more of a personal call than part of the investigation,’ he prevaricated. ‘I was wondering, do the Quakers have a meeting today? For Good Friday, I mean?’

There was a trace of surprise in her voice. ‘No, Den. We make very little of the big Christian festivals. We try to act as if every day was the same – equally special. Do you see?’

‘I think so,’ he said, feeling like a fool, wishing he could drop the phone back on its cradle and forget the whole thing. ‘So you just have the usual meeting on Sunday, then?’

‘That’s right,’ she confirmed. ‘Unless we hold a special one for some reason, like we did last Friday.’

He forced himself to continue. ‘What time is it? On Sunday, I mean?’

‘Ten-thirty. We’d be very happy to see you there. Don’t try to think too much about it,’ she
counselled him. ‘Just do what feels right. You know where to find us, that’s the main thing.’

‘Thanks,’ he managed, appalled to find his voice thickening with emotion. ‘Thanks very much.’  

The phone rang again at nine-thirty, interrupting Den’s light doze. The duty officer informed him he was needed. They’d had a call from a distraught woman claiming that a man intent on murder was trying to break into her house. The woman was Hannah Gratton. 

Two police cars were sent speeding along the narrow lanes, one of them containing DC Cooper.

A cloud of bewildered thoughts filled his mind, as he urged the car on from the passenger seat. Was Charlie’s killer stupid enough to attempt another murder? If so, he’d failed miserably, from the sound of it. Was this to be the climax of the inquiry, the
deus ex machina
that would render superfluous all their interviews
and patient attempts at unravelling the mystery? Where did this new development leave the Aspens – yet another dangling loose end in Den’s untidy and interrupted schedule? The familiar mixture of curiosity, apprehension and fatalism churned its way through his guts. ‘It’s left here,’ he said unnecessarily to the driver.

The cottage was strangely calm as they arrived. There was no sign of a would-be murderer battering the door down, no stirred-up ground or pools of blood. Two uniformed police officers were walking up to the door before Den’s car had been parked. Den watched as Bill Gratton slowly pulled the door open, and stood back to let the men in.

‘Doesn’t look as if we’re needed,’ said Den’s companion. ‘Rather a crowd in that little place, if we barge in too.’

‘But I know them. They’ll be glad to see a familiar face,’ Den protested. ‘They’re part of the Gratton murder inquiry. I’ve got to see what’s been going on.’

‘Go on then,’ shrugged his comrade, not really caring. ‘I’ll just sit here until you need me.’

Den trotted up the path and entered the house, ducking his head from long habit to clear the low doorway. The small front room did indeed feel very crowded – but with more than just people. There was an atmosphere of such strong emotion
that he could almost taste it. Hannah Gratton sat curled in an armchair, her face crumpled and sodden with tears. Her brother stood beside the fireplace, away from the room, his head lowered like a wounded bull. ‘What happened?’ asked Den weakly.

‘He’s gone now,’ Hannah said, looking at the limp hanky in her hand. ‘He didn’t hurt us – not physically. I should have known he wouldn’t hurt us.’

‘He ought never to have come here,’ Bill’s voice was rumbling and slow. ‘I said to him, years ago, he was never to come here again. I said I wouldn’t be able to bear the shame of it, if he did.’

Hannah reached out a hand towards him, but couldn’t quite bridge the distance between them. Bill made no move towards her. ‘It’s all right. He’s gone now,’ she said. Then she looked quickly around at the men filling her living room, as if only just noticing them. ‘I’m sorry I called you. I was afraid. I let myself down,’ she added softly. ‘It’s all my fault.’

Den crossed the room to her, and squatted down beside her chair, bringing his face close to hers. ‘Who?’ he breathed.

She met his eyes, and smiled damply. ‘I remember you,’ she said. ‘I’m glad it’s you.’

‘Who was here?’ he repeated.

She heaved a shuddering breath, and more tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Frank,’ she said. Den realised he’d known the answer anyway.

‘Charlie’s brother,’ Den confirmed. ‘And can you tell me what he did – what caused so much trouble?’

‘He’s not his brother,’ came Bill’s gruff voice. ‘He’s—’

‘
Wait,
Bill,’ Hannah gasped. ‘There’s no need to say any more. It has nothing to do with the police.’

The old man shook his head hopelessly, and Den could see him shaking, one knee jittering so much it seemed in danger of collapse. But he remained silent.

One of the uniformed officers spoke. ‘There’s no sign of any misdemeanour having been committed here,’ he judged. ‘If you’ve got no formal complaint, madam, then we’ll be on our way. It seems to be one of those days.’ He smiled ruefully at his partner. ‘Everybody’s dialling 999. I always think there’s something about Bank Holidays that makes people do strange things.’

Nobody responded. Den tried to think. ‘We can’t leave these people in this state,’ he said. ‘They’ve been very badly shaken.’

‘We can call a doctor, or a social worker,’ came the dubious reply. ‘But there’s no sign of any injury. And if they don’t want to tell us the
whole story, there’s no way we can force them.’

A choking sound came from Hannah. Den peered at her, and decided she was laughing.
Hysterics,
he thought, with some alarm. What did you do with someone with hysterics?

But she rapidly controlled herself. ‘Not a social worker,’ she said weakly. ‘There’s really no need for that. We’ll be all right. It’s a very bad time for us – with Charlie—’

‘Of course it is,’ soothed Den. ‘Now, is there anything you want to report? We’re going to have to pay your nephew a visit, in any case. He oughtn’t to have left you in this state.’

‘It’s not his fault,’
Hannah protested vehemently. ‘Don’t be hard on him. He’s in enough trouble as it is.’

‘When you phoned us, you said you were being attacked by a murderer. We can’t just forget that you used that word. You understand that, don’t you?’

Hannah said nothing, but she glanced at Bill, who was now clinging to the mantelpiece like a drowning man, his face grey and twitching. Den jumped up, and took hold of him. ‘Sit down, Mr Gratton. You’re going to fall, otherwise.’ He steered him to the sofa, where he flopped heavily and awkwardly.

‘I’m calling a doctor,’ said a uniformed officer nervously. ‘He doesn’t look too good to me.’

‘Bill?’ Hannah’s voice was suddenly sharp. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ She heaved herself out of her chair, and rushed to her brother. She looked up at Den – for reassurance or perhaps explanation. ‘He had a minor stroke last year. It slowed his speech down, but didn’t do any lasting damage. Do you think this is another one?’

Den pulled his lips back in a grimace of uncertainty. ‘It could be,’ he said. ‘We’ll get an ambulance for him.’ He nodded at the other men. ‘They’ll be able to assess what’s going on.’

It was all happening at a nightmarish pace. Bill Gratton had slumped sideways on the sofa, his eyes rolling grotesquely and short, huffing breaths coming from his mouth. Putting a restraining hand on him, trying to keep him upright, Den was aware of an unnatural heat. The man was very obviously seriously ill, and Den wondered frantically how many early signs they’d missed, and whether they could have made a difference by calling for help ten minutes sooner.

‘Oh, Bill,’ Hannah wept. ‘Not you as well. Don’t leave me, Bill. I can’t manage without you. Please, Bill!’ Den gently held her back, watching the old man sink into unconsciousness like a small child whooshing down a well-polished playground slide. There was even a little smile on his lips, as if the letting go had relieved him of a great burden.

When the ambulance men arrived, it was too late to save him. They could do no more than sigh and remind Den of the need for a police doctor before summoning the undertakers to convey the body to the Exeter mortuary for the necessary post-mortem.

Numb with shock, Den found himself with an arm curled tightly around Hannah’s shoulders. He had never seen anyone die until a fortnight ago, and now here he was witnessing a second sudden death. He couldn’t make it true inside his own head. He glanced at the ceiling, into corners of the room, out of the window, dimly aware that he was looking for the vanished Bill. He reran over and over those few minutes between moving the old man from the fireplace and hearing the ambulance men pronounce him dead. He understood the mechanics, more or less. Bill’s brain had haemorrhaged, somewhere deep inside. The pressure of the blood in the wrong place, or the lack of blood to a vital area, had closed down his body’s normal workings. His heart had stopped beating; his lungs had stopped taking in oxygen. Whatever the precise detail, the maintenance of life had ceased. He wondered what that meant. In the minutes following the death of Nina Nesbitt, he’d been busy with managing the crowd, calling for assistance, distracting himself from the reality.
This time, he had nothing to do but watch. He tried to imagine how it would be to die himself, and found the idea impossible. He clutched Hannah even tighter, trying to prevent his own arm from shaking.

‘We need a cup of tea,’ she said to him, gently removing the constricting arm. Her natural composure was rapidly returning, greatly to Den’s admiration. ‘There’s nothing more we can do now. And really, you know, it’s probably the best thing. Bill never could take too much truth. He never allowed Frank’s name to be mentioned. Never for a second allowed himself to remember what happened.’ She paused, watching the ambulance drive away, with the car containing the police officers following it. ‘I was right, though,’ she said distantly. ‘There was a murderer at the door, all along.’

It was half past eleven when Den walked into the police station. He had stayed with Hannah for a while after the undertaker’s men had removed Bill’s body. She had told him the long-buried secret, concerning Bill and Frank and Charlie and Eloise. She had wept, not for herself, but for the things people did, and the consequences they reaped, even thirty years later. Den’s own eyes had filled, as he recognised the truth in what she was saying. He had assumed that his
murder inquiry was complete, and Hannah had quiveringly agreed with him. All he had to do now was unburden himself to Detective Inspector Smith.

The Inspector could see that Den was shaken, and he showed more of the unusual tact that had already come to the surface earlier that morning. He called for a cup of strong coffee and no interruptions. ‘I gather there was a fatality?’ he began. ‘Must have been difficult – having the chap pass away before your very eyes.’

Pass away
jarred on Den. Why speak in euphemisms? But he nodded anyway, and took a large gulp of the coffee.

‘He seemed a harmless old chap,’ he said. ‘Not so old, come to that. But it’s Miss Gratton I feel sorry for.’ He shook his head helplessly. ‘I need to tell you what she told me, sir, even though it’s in confidence. I think it’s important – I think it’s the key to Charlie’s death.’ He looked up, urgency in his eyes. ‘Are they bringing Frank Gratton in? They should be. We can’t let him slip through our fingers now.’

Smith made a soothing motion. ‘Nobody’s going to slip through anything. But you’ll need to persuade me before I send in the troops.’ Den closed his eyes, and took a run at it.
‘Frank Gratton is Charlie’s father, sir. Not his brother. At least—’ he frowned ‘—I suppose he’s his brother as well.
Jesus.
’

Smith caught on so quickly that Den suspected him of having been a step ahead all along. ‘Frank was having sex with his mother? Eloise Gratton? The woman who killed herself in the pond?’ His face was grim.

‘That’s what Hannah told me, sir,’ Den confirmed unhappily. ‘She’s kept it a secret all these years. Of course, she wasn’t in the country at the time. She came home—’

‘Yes, yes, I remember. So who told her, I wonder?’

‘Bill, I assume. He certainly knew about it – which is why he banned Frank from ever coming near him. They hadn’t seen each other for twenty years until today.’

‘Did Miss Gratton give you any clues as to how such a thing ever came to happen?’

‘A few, sir. Eloise was very young – young for her age, I mean. Like a girl. She was in awe of Bill, who made it clear he thought she was a bit empty-headed and silly. Came over the old-fashioned Quaker, I imagine. Frank matured early and took it upon himself to protect her.’

‘But that’s a long way from having it away with her,’ Smith objected. ‘What on earth possessed them? Was it a one-off or did it go
on for years? How old was the boy?’

‘He was almost sixteen when the baby was born. I would guess it happened a few times. She was a bit of a mess, I gather. Depressed, neurotic. Silas Daggs remembers it well. It’s even possible he guessed at the truth, but buried it.’

‘How in the hell does he
live
with himself?’ Smith burst out. ‘It’s sick. Disgusting …’

Den shook his head helplessly. ‘I know, sir. But the way Hannah tells it, you have to feel sorry for him. He was only a boy. And it takes two. He loved the baby, by all accounts.’

‘And did
Charlie
know who his real father was?’

‘No he didn’t. Hannah thinks Hermione Nesbitt might have guessed. She behaved oddly with Charlie after Eloise died. But nobody’s going to voice a thing like that, are they? Not unless they’re forced to.’

Smith snorted his agreement. ‘So give me your theory of what happened to Charlie.’

‘Okay,’ Den said slowly. ‘I think it was because Charlie was getting serious about Alexis, and might end up marrying her. Having kids. Someone might have told Frank about it – Hannah, probably – and he was scared that the product of incest would make a bad prospect as a father. I don’t really understand how the biology of it might work. I assume Frank being a horse
breeder, he would have some idea about that. He paid a visit to Nina earlier this year. My guess is he wanted to find out how big a risk there was of Charlie marrying Alexis. So, hearing what she had to say, he decided to prevent it from happening. He might have seen it as his duty. He selects his biggest, fiercest horse, rides over early one morning, and loiters about waiting for Charlie to show up. He could follow him around until he got his chance. Horse riders all look rather anonymous with hard hats on. There are riders all over the place – nobody would look twice.’

‘Not bad, on the face of it,’ Smith mused, a large hand cupping his craggy chin. ‘Though why wouldn’t Hannah herself feel a duty to stop Charlie making babies with Alexis?’

‘Maybe she got Frank to do it on her behalf?’

Smith was icy calm, arms folded loosely. ‘We’ll have to tread carefully,’ he judged. ‘It’ll be a shame to cause that poor woman any more suffering.’

‘I know, sir,’ said Den miserably. ‘She’s dreading the people at the Meeting hearing about this. I suppose there’s no way we can keep it hushed up, is there, sir?’