Grave Concerns (23 page)

On his way to see Marjorie Hankey, he played a Paul Robeson tape on the temperamental machine in the van. The deep male voice provided a welcome antidote to the embarrassment of females in his life. The songs might be sentimental, but at least they referred to nothing more complicated than manual labour, and simple aspects of existence. Women’s motives and emotional games were getting much too confusing for him. Once he had relished the warm fertility, the absence of competition, consequent on living and working with females. Now he was starting to find it
cloying and confining. He tried to imagine Graham or one of the men from Plant’s getting embroiled as he had done. They wouldn’t have stuck with it for a minute, letting Maggs and Genevieve, Karen and Stephanie ensnare him with their conflicting needs and opinions. And now here he was on his way to see yet another woman, with emotion seeping out of her, no doubt, and a bagful of irrational demands.

He should have had more faith, especially after the phone conversation on Wednesday. Mrs Hankey was as brisk as ever, although he did notice momentary lapses of attention, a film across her eyes as if the truth were lurking at her shoulder, threatening to pounce if she relaxed her vigilance for a moment. Each time it happened, she clenched her fists tightly – an act that looked painful, given her swollen arthritic finger joints.

They sat side by side on a high-backed settee and Drew took notes. ‘I don’t want a lot of trivia,’ she told him. ‘I see your job as steering us down the narrow line between cold anonymity and slushy sentiment. I liked the things you said about death in your speech the other week. There’s something refreshingly robust in your attitude – your
manner
.’

He made an anxious face. ‘I hope I can get it right for you,’ he said.

‘You can’t be any worse than one of those
crematorium ministers,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve been at funerals where they’ve obviously been thinking about something completely different. And I can’t abide those singsong voices they put on. Just speak naturally and keep it simple. My son said he’d stand up and give a little eulogy, too. And we’ll play a bit of music.’

Thank goodness for that
, thought Drew. The prospect of having to fill a full twenty minutes had been one cause of his initial panic. ‘Was his death expected?’ he asked. This had always been one of Daphne Plant’s favourite questions to people coming to arrange a funeral. Drew had assumed it guided her in how much sympathy to manifest, though it had niggled him the first few times he heard her use it. Now, God help him, he was doing the same thing.

Mrs Hankey eyed him narrowly. ‘I’m hoping for better than that of you,’ she said tartly. ‘My husband was seventy-nine and suffered from the normal aches and pains you associate with a man of that age. We expected that he would die one day, but hadn’t quite bargained on it happening this week. Death is all the more extraordinary, don’t you think, for being both utterly predictable in a general way, and frighteningly unforeseen in specific cases. Harold was very ill for a week beforehand, and we had the sense to talk briefly about the possibility that he would die. On his
last day, I could tell that he felt something had changed. A kind of
shift
, if that makes any sense. But we needn’t dwell on that. I don’t want you to go into that sort of detail. Just see us through the ritual aspect of it. He’d probably have wanted something even plainer – no real ceremony at all – but I want to do this for myself. I can’t just let him go without marking the moment in some way.’

Drew knew what she was talking about now, knew he could give her what she wanted. It was just a matter of being in the right frame of mind, and avoiding the usual clichés and euphemisms.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I understand.’ He was in no way surprised when he looked into her face and saw tears like splashes on the powdered cheeks. Violent little tears, which had shaken loose without her consent. Drew took a risk. ‘Don’t try to deny the sadness,’ he advised. ‘There’s no shame in being sad.’

She managed a little laugh of self-reproach. ‘It’s this damned stiff upper lip,’ she said. ‘I can’t help regarding tears as weak. Now listen – I don’t want you to make me cry at the funeral. If you could manage to be genuine without getting too close to the bone, I’d be grateful.’

The phrase lingered in his mind, as he invited her to feed him a few salient facts and they
planned the sequence of events on Tuesday afternoon.
Genuine without getting too close to the bone
. It made him think of Genevieve and the strange contradictory service she was asking of him. She was saying much the same thing.
Find out the truth, but don’t get in too deep – don’t get me into trouble or rock my family’s boat
. It made a bit more sense now, after this encounter with Marjorie Hankey. Hadn’t someone once said that human beings could only bear so much reality?

Aware of Karen’s displeasure at this whole exercise, he did his best to keep the meeting brief. After forty minutes or so, he tried to bring things to a conclusion. ‘You haven’t taken any notes,’ Mrs Hankey observed. ‘Are you sure you’ll remember everything?’

‘I think so,’ he assured her. ‘It’s quite simple, after all. We start with my introduction, then the first piece of music. Then Colin does his piece about his dad. Me again, followed by music and the committal. I’ll jot a few thoughts down when I get home, but I don’t think I’m likely to forget anything.’

‘I was impressed that you did your talk to the Women’s Institute without any notes,’ she said. ‘That suggests confidence – and a degree of sincerity. People find that very appealing.’

He gave a little shrug. ‘I’d be so worried about
losing notes,’ he smiled. ‘I prefer to rely on my head. I’m glad you approve.’

‘I should think a lot of women approve of you, Drew Slocombe,’ she told him. ‘You’re a most personable young man.’

Receiving such a compliment was a lot more difficult than being honest about death, he discovered. The accident of boyish good looks combined with a genuine respect for women was probably all that was needed to account for his appeal. He could take credit for neither of them. A quiet ‘Thank you’ was his only response.

They parted company without ceremony. Marjorie Hankey stood at her door, dispassionately watching Drew climb into his van. If she was surprised or disconcerted by its age and lack of gravitas, she betrayed nothing of this on her face. Still warm from her approbation, he drove directly home, trying to compose Tuesday’s funeral address in his head.

He heard Stephanie crying upstairs before he reached the front door. It was an angry grizzling, suggesting it had been going on for some time. A tired frustrated sound, designed to get on any adult’s nerves. The kind of crying that Stephanie almost never went in for. He hurried into the house, following the sound, impatient to assuage or console. He saw Karen standing oddly in the
living room doorway with the phone to her ear. Her face was white and strained.

‘I keep telling you, it’s nothing to
do
with me,’ she was saying. ‘My husband’s here now – you can speak to him.’

She met his eye, and he read anger, fear and a terrible mistrust. Before he could move, she’d thrust the phone into his hand. It could only be Genevieve. Genevieve who’d called with unguessable betrayals intended to sour things between him and Karen. Stephanie’s wails filled the house like broken glass, jabbing at him, making him desperate to go to her. He held the phone at arm’s length and pointed up the stairs with the other hand.

‘I’ll go to her,’ Karen said tightly.

Tentatively, Drew finally addressed the phone. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Drew here.’

The intonation at the other end was faintly familiar. ‘I seem to have upset your wife,’ came a rich female voice.

‘Who is that?’ Drew demanded, beyond his usual politeness by this time. Stephanie was quieter now, but Karen’s hostile face still hovered before his mind’s eye.

‘Henrietta Fielding. You remember – you told me you were Wendy Forrester’s nephew, or some such nonsense. It’s taken me all this time to find out who you really are. And before you ask, I’ll explain in a minute.’

 
But why is Karen so upset?
Drew wondered, even as a wave of guilt swept through him.
She doesn’t even know who this woman is
.

Being caught out in a lie rendered him speechless. ‘Er–’ he tried.

‘I understand she’s been buried in your field – again.’ She chuckled, a warm sound. ‘It would seem that the body you found – the one in all the papers – was our Wendy. Funny how the whole picture falls so neatly into place when you’ve got all the pieces.’

All the pieces?
Drew made an effort. ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ he managed.

‘Just making sure you know that I know. Look – I was hoping not to get involved in this. The problem – or maybe it’s the solution – is, there’s a man called Trevor just turned up, saying he really has to see Wendy. He’s coming back tomorrow, and quite honestly, I don’t think he’s a very nice character.’

He knew better than to believe her. ‘So this is just a friendly warning? What did you say to my wife?’

‘Well, she kept asking me what my connection with you was – she seems to be a bit on the possessive side, poor darling. I judged that it might be unwise to share the whole story with her, so I prevaricated. Asked her to give you a message. She seemed reluctant to do that.’

‘We have an office telephone line,’ he said briefly. ‘My wife has her own concerns, without being expected to handle messages for me.’

‘But what are you going to do about this Trevor character?’ she reminded him.

‘Nothing, probably,’ said Drew. ‘Unless you’ve given him my name and address, he’s surely never going to connect me with his friend. And since he’s presumably left it nearly a year before looking for her, I don’t get much sense of urgency. I should also point out that the body buried here has not been formally identified. Its identity can only be based on pure supposition.’

Belatedly, he remembered the computer file labelled HenriettaF.
Willard
. That must be her source of information.

‘You’re taking a very big risk, you know,’ she murmured. ‘You should never have become involved. And you should put some hard work into learning how to lie effectively. I knew I’d seen your face before. Did you know your local paper has put all its back issues onto a website – pictures and all? I found you in one from last October, when you got permission for your burial ground. Took me a little while, I admit, but I had plenty of time. So now I know all about you, Drew Slocombe.’

So what good would effective lying have been?
Drew asked himself, strengthened by his
knowledge of her secret link with Willard.

‘So you’ve given Trevor my address,’ he concluded. ‘Otherwise, I can’t see the point of your call.’

‘He seemed so upset, poor fellow. Terribly worried about his elderly girlfriend – especially when I told him she hasn’t been seen since last summer. It would have been cruel to send him away with nothing.’

Drew’s laugh was bitter. ‘Thanks very much,’ he said, and put the phone down.

Upstairs everything had at last gone quiet, and he took a few steps towards the staircase. Before he reached the first step, the phone rang again.

It was Henrietta again. ‘Look—’ she began. ‘I think you should come and see me. Tomorrow, if you can. I can’t say that I’m on your side, exactly, but you seem a nice enough young man, and I’d hate you to end up with a criminal record, just for helping out a soft-headed thing like Genevieve Slater. I’m sure I’ll be able to help you.’

‘You know Genevieve?’ Drew was surprised at the admission.

‘I know
of
her,’ said the woman.

What was there to lose? Quickly he agreed, before remembering his earlier promise to Karen. ‘No,’ he amended hastily, ‘not tomorrow. I can probably manage Monday, quite early. I’ll have to bring my little girl.’

‘I’ll see you on Monday then.’

‘What did she say that made you so cross?’ Drew asked Karen, who was sitting on the bed with Stephanie, playing with a jigsaw.

‘It wasn’t so much what she
said
,’ Karen told him tightly. ‘It was the
fact
of her. You seem to spend most of your time in intimate conversation with strange women, and it’s getting up my nose. When they start phoning here, when I’m in the middle of doing ten things at once, my temper just won’t stand it. I never said I’d be your secretary, and I’m bloody well not going to.’

The Slocombe family did not go out at the weekend. It was wet and windy and they couldn’t think of anywhere to go. Karen embarked on a major appraisal of all the baby clothes and equipment, making a list of new requirements. Drew was shaken at the lack of enthusiasm the process elicited. When Stephanie was on the way, euphoria had been a perpetual condition for both of them. He trembled for his second child, aware that Karen had as little anticipatory pleasure in the idea of it as he had.

He tried to address the issue when he took her a mug of tea halfway through the afternoon. ‘Do you think we’ve used up all our love on Stephanie?’ he ventured. ‘Does that happen?’

She sat back on her heels, several piles of tiny
garments spread out on the floor in front of her. ‘I hope not,’ she sighed. ‘But I knew a girl at school where the parents seemed to have no love for her at all. It was so awful. Her older sister had big birthday parties and lovely new clothes, and poor Anne was like a neglected orphan. One birthday, she invited me and some others to a party – when we got to the house, there was nothing happening. Her parents were furious with her. It was terrible.’

‘We’d never be like that. We’d have the NSPCC after us. There must have been more to it. Maybe she was the result of an affair or something.’

Karen shrugged, and then burst out, ‘It’s just – there isn’t enough
time!
I feel as if I’m trying to run up an escalator that’s going down very fast. And I feel so tired and useless. Look how long it’s taking me to do this simple job. I’m not doing my schoolwork properly, either. The class is behind in number work, and I can’t get myself to do anything about it. I just lose my temper with them. It’s an absolute nightmare.’ She looked up at him, resentment clear on her face. ‘And then you go charging off after some idiotic murder that nobody else is interested in. Taking Stephanie into God knows what danger. OK, so you’re getting paid for it, but you should be earning that money doing what you set out to do. I don’t like getting calls from strange women at weekends, unless
they want you to do a funeral for them. I know it sounds like whining, but I really believe you’re not taking me into consideration at all these days. I feel as if I’m carrying this whole thing all by myself.’