Shadows in the Cotswolds (12 page)

‘We went to the pub yesterday,’ said Thea, daftly. Then she corrected herself. ‘But there’s no food here, so I suppose we’ll have to. We’ll probably be at the Plaisterers Arms at about one, so you don’t have to rush.’ The prospect gave her no pleasure at all. She found herself wishing they would all go away, including her mother.

Conversation was no easier without Jason, although they tried. ‘Nice dog you’ve got,’ said Mo, evidently touched by Hepzie’s unsolicited attention.

‘I gather you don’t really like them,’ Thea said.

‘I don’t mind either way. I like
some
dogs, but there are a lot of horrors out there that’d bite you as soon as look at you.’

‘Your dad had a dog, apparently, last time he came here.’

Mo looked at Fraser with a little frown. ‘Oh – yes! That scruffy little stray. He picked it up on the motorway, the old softie. Could easily have got himself killed in the process.’

‘Really?’ Thea gave Fraser a long appraisal. ‘That sounds quite heroic.’

‘I couldn’t leave it, could I?’ he defended. ‘It was desperate, dashing in and out of traffic. It must have only just been dropped by someone. All I did was stop on the hard shoulder, and open the door. It came right away, as soon as I whistled. Jumped in the car and went right off to sleep.’

‘And where is it now?’

‘I took it to Battersea. They said they’d rehome it in no time, nice little thing like that.’

‘Fraser – you never told me about that,’ Maureen accused. ‘How lovely of you to do such a thing.’

The old man shrugged diffidently. ‘Anybody would have done it, in the same situation. I was just there at the right moment.’

The modest dignity of the story gripped Thea’s heartstrings, and she found herself hoping hard that Fraser Meadows really was who he said he was.

Meanwhile, the question of exactly why Mo and Jason had come in the first place seemed no nearer a credible answer. There was an air of impatience, even in her mother. Something wasn’t happening that ought to be happening, and nobody appeared to know what it was or how to expedite it. Thea resented the feeling that she was the one who was expected to establish Fraser’s credentials; and that she should be finding out whether he was a safe companion for her mother. Gladwin had implied as much, only an hour or two before. Because, presumably, if he was
not
, then a whole lot of very unpleasant things were possible. Things to do with a murdered young woman and a missing memory stick and a mysteriously absent younger brother.

It was Mo who finally got things going, after a slow morning of increasingly desultory conversation and rather too much coffee. ‘We can’t stay cooped up here,’ she announced. ‘Let’s go for a walk. We’ve got an hour or so before we’re due to meet Jason. I know somebody who rented one of the Sudeley Cottages last year, and I’d love to have a look at them. Sounded really nice, they did. Not something Jason would appreciate, of course. They must be just here somewhere – right?’

‘About two minutes’ walk,’ Thea confirmed. ‘We can go the back way.’ Only then did she remember that the back way involved walking past police tape and the scene of a very recent murder. But it was too late to change tack, and she led the group down the path, skirting the clearing with the bird hide, with minimal
comment, and plunging down the barely visible track out into the bottom of Castle Street. ‘It all connects up, you see,’ she said. ‘These ancient towns generally have alleyways and footpaths linking the major buildings and thoroughfares.’

‘Like Tewkesbury,’ said her mother, surprisingly. ‘I love Tewkesbury.’

‘Really?’ Thea said. ‘When have you been there?’

‘We had a holiday there when Damien was a baby. Hired a cottage beside the river and spent a week exploring. It was utterly idyllic.’

‘First I’ve heard of it,’ said Thea uncomfortably. What hope was there of getting any sort of objective view of her mother’s early life, when things like this could happen? Anything was possible back there in those far-off days. Something like ninety-five per cent of it had obviously been forgotten; lost without trace.

‘We can go there again,’ said Fraser to his long-lost girlfriend. ‘Whenever you like.’

‘You can see Tewkesbury from that hill, on the road past the church,’ said Mo, to Thea’s surprise.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘How do you know that?’

‘We were a bit early this morning, so we went out there for a look. There’s a house called Tewkesbury View. It gets very high up there.’

‘I know. I walked it on Saturday afternoon. All I could see was Winchcombe.’

‘You need to look the other way,’ laughed Mo. ‘Tewkesbury’s west of here.’

‘For that, I’d have had to climb another hill, and I didn’t have the energy.’

They found the cottages, which were indeed enchanting, if perhaps somewhat too close together for a truly peaceful and secluded holiday. Ideal, though, for a large family or collection of friends to use, taking all of them together. Thea imagined a variety of scenarios where this might happen, although only one of them fitted her personally. In that one, her brother, daughter, mother and sisters gathered together for a week over Christmas and played old-fashioned games while snow and gales swirled outside. It wouldn’t work, of course – Jocelyn’s five children would never fit into any of these little dwellings. And the strain on the in-laws might be excessive. When all five Johnstones gathered together, there were in-jokes and age-old stories, and childish hilarity that excluded spouses, even of twenty years’ standing.

‘Where now?’ asked Mo, as if Thea had become the leader. Thea glanced at Fraser, wondering how much he knew of the hinterland of Winchcombe. She was still unclear as to just how closely he was connected to his brother and why he visited so infrequently.

‘We could have a look at Silk Mill Lane,’ she suggested hesitantly. ‘There’s not very much to see, but we can make it a circular walk, more or less. That’s always better, don’t you think?’

Mo said nothing, but appeared amenable enough. She did not strike Thea as a person who often went
for walks of any sort. She scarcely looked around her, but talked of unrelated things, such as Jason’s business ambitions and the terrible man her middle daughter had taken up with. She virtually ignored her father, which Thea was increasingly aware of as odd. In her experience, daughters of all ages almost always flirted with their fathers, claiming the man as her special possession. She had certainly done it with her own beloved dad, and had enjoyed seeing Jessica do it with Carl, from the age of about twenty minutes.

Opposite the turning into the lane, Thea looked again at the very handsome old house facing the street, built in the ubiquitous Cotswold stone. It felt like only a few minutes since she had been there with Gladwin, and this second walk struck her as singularly aimless and surplus to requirements. She had no desire to behave as a town guide. Precisely why they had come out at all was obscure to her. But she had little choice except to do her best to remain on good terms with these Meadows, now they seemed inextricably linked to her mother. She stopped her companions a few yards after the turning, and ordered them to look back. ‘Isn’t that fabulous!’ she enthused, quickly persuading herself that there was, after all, something to draw their attention to. ‘I never get tired of these amazing places. It’s as if they’ve always been here, survivors of far-distant centuries. Just think what this one must have seen.’

‘Silk mills, for a start,’ agreed Mo, pointing to the
name of the lane just to their right. ‘Must have been noisier then. And smellier.’

‘It’s certainly quiet now,’ said Thea’s mother. ‘Not a soul to be seen.’

‘It’s always like this,’ said Thea. ‘Some of the smaller villages seem to be completely deserted for most of the day. Even at weekends, there’s hardly anybody about. It’s part of the Cotswolds atmosphere. Everywhere’s beautifully kept, lovely gardens, fresh paint, immaculate roofs – and no sign of the people.’

‘Where are they, then?’ Mo was puzzled.

‘At work, mostly – earning the cash to pay for these places. And a lot of them are second homes. It’s a very affluent area.’

‘Yeah, but that should mean there’s gardeners and cleaners and all that. Somebody must be looking after it all.’

‘True,’ agreed Thea. ‘But I never seem to see them.’

‘Weird,’ concluded Mo, with a little shudder. ‘Me, I like a lot of people around.’

‘Not me,’ said Maureen. ‘I think this is nice. Where are we going, Thea?’ All three women looked at Fraser, as if to check that he had no objection to being escorted rather than deferred to. He showed no sign of caring, either way, so Thea simply carried on walking along Silk Mill Lane for a distance that felt longer than during the walk with Gladwin. She began to worry that they’d gone too far when finally a small opening revealed Murder Alley on the left. ‘Look,
Mum – another alley for you,’ she laughed. ‘You don’t have to go to Tewkesbury to find them. Gladwin and I came down here earlier this morning. I don’t expect anybody’s used it since then.’

They had not seen a single person in the lane, but now they heard a car start up, further along. Automatically they stepped into the alley, to leave space for the vehicle to pass. ‘We go up here, anyway,’ said Thea. ‘It comes out at the end of the high street. We’ll get to the pub in the square just at the right time for lunch.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Thea’s mother, on a note high enough to alert her daughter. ‘Up there, look.’

The alley sloped upwards, the further end in shadow. It was narrow enough for two abreast to be uncomfortable, and for one person to obstruct the view of those behind. ‘What? Where?’ said Thea.

She found out soon enough. ‘It’s a person!’ shrilled Mo. ‘Lying on the ground.’

Something like fifteen yards ahead of them, there was indeed a person on the ground, lying on his back, hands folded peacefully across his chest, eyes closed.

Thea looked down at him, keeping her dog back as she did so. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said with some force. ‘It’s that Reuben.’ She looked at her mother. ‘Remember him from yesterday? It’s Reuben bloody Hardy.’

Quite why she felt so angry was obscure, but she experienced a strong temptation to kick the man’s body as it lay there dead in Murder Alley.

Throughout Monday, Drew thought of Thea, recapturing the images on the TV screen and wondering what trouble she might have got herself into this time. The report had not specifically identified her as being involved in the killing of a young woman, but knowing her as he was beginning to, he could only assume that she would sooner or later become involved, even if only as a helpful spy for the police.

His routines for the day entailed the usual juggling of children and work, heavily reliant on Maggs for continuity with their customers, and clouded with worry for the well-being of Stephanie and Timmy. On some days they seemed quite relaxed and cheerful, secure in the rituals of school and meals; at other times, one or both would be pale and silent and averse to all suggestion of food. This was a relatively good
day. Stephanie’s throat seemed to have settled down, and she got herself and her brother dressed in clean clothes, then they both ate some cereal and toast. Drew had slept through much of the night, despite the reappearance of Thea, and was giving at least half his attention to a rambling story that Timmy was trying to tell him. They were all in the car in good time, and to all appearances, both children went in without reluctance.

Maggs was a bigger challenge. There had been a phone call at four in the morning from a nursing home, requiring immediate removal of a body, before the other inmates woke and realised what had happened. Since Drew could no longer participate in these
call-outs
, having no wife at home to babysit, a standby person had been enlisted to go with Maggs. This was a school-leaver called Jackson, broad in shoulder and narrow in outlook. His employment was strictly unofficial, being paid in cash, with no retainer for being perpetually on call. He had no objection to handling dead bodies, but no ambitions to join the business on a full-time basis, either. ‘It’s just till I get sorted, with a proper job,’ he told Maggs and Drew. From what they could see, this might well take a decade or two to achieve.

‘I had to go and bang on his door,’ Maggs complained. ‘He said he never heard the phone.’

Drew clucked sympathetically.

‘He’s a dead loss, Drew, honestly,’ she went on. ‘I
know I’ll get there one of these days, and he’ll be out somewhere for the night. Then what?’

‘Then we fire him. I dare say there are plenty more where he came from.’

‘Dream on! Anyone else’d want all the perks and paperwork, which we’d never have a hope of affording. It’s hard enough to scrape up the twenty-five quid for Jackson every time we use him.’

‘I know, Maggs. What do you want me to do about it?’

‘Sell the field and house in Broad Campden. Consolidate. It was never going to work out, and now it’s just a weight around your neck. The whole thing’s a lot more trouble than it’s worth.’

Broad Campden was where he had first met Thea, six months earlier. Since then, there had been a protracted and inconclusive attempt to open a second burial ground in the Cotswolds. It could have worked – if Karen had been alive and well and Maggs had been more amenable to the idea. As it was, it had never stood much of a chance. He had been left a house, as well, although the legal ramifications were still some distance from being resolved.

‘Just sell the damn thing,’ Maggs said again.

‘I suppose I will, but it seems a shame,’ he agreed. ‘I’d rather struggle on a bit longer, and see if we can manage. I could put tenants in the house, and bring in some income that way.’

She puffed out her cheeks in a sceptical grimace. ‘Who wants to rent a house in a tiny little village?’

‘Plenty of people, I imagine. It’s convenient for lots of bigger places.’ A week ago, he wouldn’t have had the energy to argue with her, he realised. Was it possible that a flicker of normality was finally returning? Could it be that the story of a murder in the Cotswolds, with a number of intriguing elements, had revived his spirits where daily life had thoroughly failed to do so? A new puzzle to solve might be the very thing to kick him out of his despondency.

‘Well, there’s a funeral to arrange, anyway,’ Maggs said, with some emphasis. ‘They’ll be phoning us any time now. It’s a Mr Orridge, aged ninety-five, who read about Peaceful Repose when it first opened, and put us in his will, there and then. Wouldn’t it be nice if more people did that?’

‘A nice surprise,’ he agreed. ‘Just shows you can never predict what’ll happen.’

‘If the nursing homes would just be a bit more proactive in recommending us, things would be a lot better. Three-quarters of their inmates have no idea we exist. I think it’s a dereliction of duty. They ought to have posters up about us.’

‘That’ll be the day!’ he laughed. ‘When they do all they can to pretend everybody’s going to live for ever. You’re not allowed to even mention funerals.’

There had been several moments during the past six weeks when Drew would have loved to avoid all mention of funerals. He despised himself for it, convinced that other undertakers had no such
difficulties. They would take the disposal of their own relatives in their stride, with calm competence – not floundering and changing their minds as Drew had done. But he had not been born to the work, as most in the business had. It was often a service that passed down the generations for centuries. Originally builders and carpenters, only burying the dead as a sideline, they had gradually become specialists. Drew had been a nurse in his twenties, only moving to funeral work on a whim. There were still several arcane details that he ignored or got wrong. There had always been elements he disliked – particularly those involving money. He had rapidly come to the conclusion that undertakers made too much profit from people in no position to haggle. Not only did he campaign for more ecological burials, but he kept them cheap. And as a result, his family had lived on the poverty line ever since Peaceful Repose had been set up.

The phone interrupted their desultory conversation. It was Fiona, his old friend from the council. ‘Drew, this is your lucky day,’ she began. ‘We’ve got two funerals for you!’

‘Blimey!’ he said.

‘Totally unconnected. One’s an old dipso we’ve had an eye on for months now. She’s been found dead in a doorway, poor thing. We’ll have to go through the motions, but I can safely say she’s got nobody who cares what happens next. And the other’s a migrant, we think. We’ve had him nearly a month, trying to track
down his origins. He died of a brain haemorrhage, in the street, no papers at all. The police have done all they’re willing to, so now it’s down to us.’

Drew felt a wash of sadness at the lonely deaths. ‘They must have an
idea
of where he came from,’ he said.

‘Somalia is the best guess. It’s chaos there, you know. Nobody has proper documentation. It’s impossible to identify somebody like this. He’s black, tall, young, thin, and he died of natural causes. Frankly, Drew, with things as they are, it’s never going to get top priority. All these investigations cost money, you know.’

‘Okay. We’ll give him a decent burial.’

‘Usual rates, then. That should put a bit of bread on your table.’ Fiona knew most of the details of Drew’s life, having been attracted to his way of doing things from the start. It was she who had ensured that his burial ground got all the council funerals, of people homeless and adrift who died in the streets and ditches across Somerset. She justified the decision easily enough to her superiors by pointing out that Drew charged a hundred pounds less than other undertakers.

Even so, the eventual cheque would indeed buy some welcome bread – or shoes. Timmy had been fobbed off with cheap temporary footwear at the start of term, and would need something a lot more substantial before the winter set in.

They established the time frame for the two new burials, and Drew rang off with an unfamiliar sense
of incipient well-being. ‘Busy!’ he said to Maggs, who had been hovering at his shoulder, trying to listen in.

‘Hallalujah!’ she crowed. ‘Maybe we won’t starve after all, then.’

‘They’ll both be on Thursday morning.’

‘Yes, I heard. Is Fiona coming?’

‘Probably. She usually does.’

‘She’s a good woman.’

Drew eyed Maggs thoughtfully. Did she mean anything by that remark? Was she amenable to the idea of Fiona replacing Karen, but not Thea doing so? If so, why? Fiona was forty or thereabouts, divorced, plump, good-hearted. Thea was forty-four, small, slender, impetuous and nosy. Drew was in no doubt as to which of the two would be more fun.

‘She is,’ he said.

When the phone rang again at eleven o’clock, it was to give details of a fourth funeral. Drew could hardly believe it. An inmate of the hospice had just died, leaving clear instructions that she wished to be buried at Peaceful Repose, as her friend had been a year before. Yet again, it was someone Drew had never heard of, a funeral he had been unable to anticipate. It was as if some great oak door had suddenly been opened to admit light and sweet fresh air. As if he had come to the top of a cosmic list and the gods had decided to confer a few small blessings onto him. Because to be busy was a welcome change, a timely test of his powers to concentrate and provide a decent
service. He would have to remember how to behave with the newly bereaved – at least in the case of Mr Orridge and the new hospice lady. He would have to attend to details and not leave everything to Maggs.

Irrationally, with a secret inner smile, he associated the abrupt change of fortune with the glimpse he had had of Thea on the TV the previous night. If the gods had begun to smile, then possibly, just possibly, they would find a way of linking him once more with the woman whose image lurked in his mind, nearly all of the time.