The Burning (20 page)

‘Great,’ I said unenthusiastically. ‘Thanks.’

He started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. ‘You know, she was a good member of my team. She’d have kept her job if she hadn’t begged me to change my mind. Never beg, DC Kerrigan, no matter how tempting it may be.’

I could taste my dislike for him. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’

He nodded, then strutted away, trying and failing to look like a taller man than he was. Anton Ventnor, prize git. I would have dreaded going in to an office he ran; I would have been delighted to get away from him if I’d been in Rebecca’s shoes. But I wasn’t Rebecca; I didn’t even really know what she was like. The highly organised business-woman. The good-time girl you’d never marry. The loyal, scatty friend. The desperate employee. I had no doubt that I would get a different account of Rebecca’s character from her parents, when I spoke to them. She had been whatever people wanted her to be, right up to the moment when what they wanted her to be was dead.

I couldn’t face returning to the marquee immediately – I wanted to let Ventnor get a good head start so I didn’t have to see him again. I wandered in the other direction instead, following the bank of the little stream, my feet slipping on the grass that was still patched with frost in places. I came to a brick wall enclosing a formal garden, its iron gate standing ajar. It was a rose garden, I discovered, and particularly bleak at that time of year when neither leaves nor flowers relieved the greyness of the scene. The bare ashy branches bristled with thorns like an illustration from an old-fashioned edition of
Sleeping Beauty
. The garden was divided into four beds with a cobbled path between each, leading to the centre where a sundial stood, the spherical kind made of a collection of rings speared through with an arrow. It was a lovely thing but useless in the flat winter daylight that wasn’t bright enough to cast proper shadows. Not, it had to be said, that I was very good at reading sundials at the best of times. I walked along the path to get a closer look. The sundial stood on a stone plinth. Around the base there was an inscription chiselled in narrow script and I tilted my head to one side to read it.

• D
O
N
OT
K
ILL
T
IME
•

‘There’s more on this side.’

I hadn’t noticed anyone else in the garden, but when I looked up, Louise North was standing opposite me, her hands buried in the pockets of her coat. She had wrapped a soft grey scarf several times around her neck, muffling her up to the ears. Her nose and eyes were red, which could have been because of the cold or her grief, and a few strands of her hair had come loose, framing her face so that she looked softer, younger, more human, and infinitely more likable.

‘Let’s see.’ I came around to her side of the sundial and read:

• I
T
W
ILL
S
URELY
K
ILL
T
HEE
•

‘Very cheerful.’

‘I wouldn’t think that Avril and Gerald imagined a day like today when they commissioned it. It’s the sort of thing Avril loves. Have you been inside the house?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m talking to the Haworths later on.’

‘You’ll see what I mean then. She never misses an opportunity to share a little wisdom, put it that way.’

I looked back at the sundial and reached out to trace one of the rings with a finger. ‘How does this work, do you know?’

‘It’s called an armillary sphere. The arrow runs through it from north to south. When the sun shines on it, you’re supposed to be able to tell the time from where the arrow’s shadow falls on this band around the outside. If you look closely, you can see it’s marked with the hours.’

I looked at where she was indicating and saw faint indentations in the brass ring that proved to be, on closer inspection, roman numerals. ‘And can you? Tell the time, I mean.’

‘Sort of.’ She smiled. ‘Clocks are easier. But this is Gerald’s pride and joy. This little garden is the reason he bought the house in the first place. It was the vegetable garden originally, but the minute he saw it, he knew what he wanted to do with it. He cleared the whole thing, laid out the beds and planted the roses. They’re wonderful in the summer. He only likes the old-fashioned kind, damask roses, because the scent is so incredible.’ She pointed. ‘They all have names, look.’

I hadn’t noticed it before, but at the base of each bush there was a little plaque. I walked around, reading them.
Pompon des Princes. Comte de Chambord. Madame Hardy. La Ville de Bruxelles. Blanc de Vibert. Rose du Roi. Quatre Saisons
.

‘It’s like heaven when they’re all in bloom. But most of the year, they’re just a hell of a lot of work for not very much reward.’ Her tone was indulgent rather than disapproving.

‘Rebecca didn’t take after her father, did she? She didn’t even have a pot plant in her flat.’

‘She couldn’t see the point. And a plant wouldn’t have lasted long if she had tried to look after one.’ Louise shook her head. ‘She had enough trouble looking after herself. She never even managed to remember to collect her dry cleaning.’

I was only half-listening to Louise. My attention had been caught by something else. In shaking her head, she had loosened the scarf around her neck so that the fine material – cashmere, at a guess – sagged forward, exposing her throat. On the right side of her neck I could see an oval blood bruise, shocking against her pallor, shocking also in its implications. Because her neck had been conspicuously unmarked when I’d seen her earlier in the marquee, which meant that somehow, at some point between then and now, she had been branded with what could only be a love bite.

‘That looks nasty,’ I said mildly, pointing at it. ‘You might want to cover it up before the Haworths see it.’

Her hand flew up instantly to hide it, and colour flooded into her cheeks. Most people would have said something to explain it away, even if it was an obvious lie. Louise North had far more self-possession than that. She settled for giving me a meaningless half-smile as she rearranged her scarf, pulling it more tightly around her neck.

‘Much better.’

If she heard the mockery in my voice, she didn’t acknowledge it. She pulled back her sleeve and checked her watch, revealing a reddish mark that circled her narrow wrist just above the strap. She saw it at the same time as me and shook the material down again in a hurry. ‘I’d better get going.’

‘Of course,’ I said blandly, and moved out of her way so she could get past me. Instead, she stopped and bit her lip, uncertain for once.

‘DC Kerrigan, can I ask you a favour? Could you keep me informed about how the investigation is going? It’s just that – well – I’d like to know what’s happening. If you’re making progress, I mean. I know I’m not part of the family – not formally – but Rebecca was like a sister to me. I just can’t stop thinking about what happened to her and I can’t keep bothering her parents to find out if they’ve heard anything.’ Her voice cracked a little and her eyes were suddenly swimming with tears.

I told her I would, and then watched her walk out of the garden with her head bent, her arms wrapped around herself. If it was acting, it was impressive. If it was for real, it made me even more confused about Louise North than I had been already.

The marquee had emptied out by the time I went back. Only the die-hards remained, an odd collection of elderly people who had nowhere better to be and a clutch of younger types, all mid-twenties, who had a little party of their own going on in one corner. Every so often there was a burst of loud laughter from them. It jarred, considering the nature of the occasion, but I had often noticed that these gatherings brought out the heartiness in mourners. It was as if the life force needed to declare itself again, having looked death full in the face for too long.

‘Rebecca’s friends from university,’ Gerald Haworth observed, coming to stand beside me. ‘It’s something of a reunion for them. I haven’t the heart to send them home. She would have loved bringing people together.’ He sounded wistful, but also very tired.

‘If you don’t want to boot them out, I’m quite happy to direct them to the nearest pub.’

He looked at me like a drowning man spotting a life jacket within arm’s reach. ‘Would you? There’s one about a mile down the road.’

I got the directions from him and sauntered over to the little group, nine of them. ‘I think it’s time you moved on and gave the Haworths a bit of peace. Would you mind taking this little shindig to the pub?’

The man that I had marked down as the troublemaker of the group, tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with the sparse fair hair and high colour of the classic upper-class Englishman, looked me up and down with frank appraisal. ‘And who are you, might I ask?’

I introduced myself, leading with my rank and leaving out my first name. He could bloody well DC Kerrigan me and like it, I found myself thinking.

The girl next to him grabbed his arm. ‘Come on, Leo. She’s right. We’re making too much noise.’

‘I don’t see why we should have to move just because Plod wants us to,’ he objected, staring down at me belligerently with glassy eyes. I could smell alcohol on his breath from where I was standing, and acting on a hunch, I reached out and slipped my hand into his jacket pocket, coming up with a silver hip flask before he had time to react.

‘Classy,’ I said, waggling it at him. ‘Needed a bit of Dutch courage? I hope you’re not driving.’

‘He’s not,’ one of the other men said quickly. ‘I’m taking him back to London and I haven’t been drinking.’

‘No chance, Mike. You’re not driving my car.’ Leo swayed slightly as he spoke. The girl dragged on his arm again and he shook himself free, snapping, ‘For God’s sake, Debs.’

‘I’d like to see you take his keys now, please. And make sure you have insurance that covers you before you take the car on the public road. I’ll be letting my colleagues in Traffic know to keep an eye out for it on the way back to London.’

Mike held out his hand and after a moment Leo dug into his trouser pocket and dropped the keys into his out-stretched palm.

I flicked open the hip flask and tilted it so the remaining contents spattered out onto the carpet-tiled floor of the marquee, which soaked it up quickly. ‘Oh dear. You seem to be out of booze. Time to go, I think.’

The others had already started to drift away, leaving Leo staring down at me like a baffled bull, flanked by the girl and Mike, who had taken his other arm. I kept my expression completely neutral, careful not to suggest any hint of amusement at the man’s expense. Nine-tenths of wielding authority was having the confidence not to make a song and dance of it, I’d always found on the street. You had to leave people a bit of self-respect, and somewhere to go. And in this case, given that the somewhere was a pub, it wasn’t such a tough decision after all.

‘Can I have that back?’ Leo nodded at the hip flask.

‘With pleasure.’ I handed it over and watched his friends wheel him around and point him in the direction of the exit, where Rebecca’s father shook their hands.

It took another half-hour for the remaining mourners to take the hint and say their farewells, leaving only the caterers, who were collecting cups and glasses, stacking chairs and folding away their trestle tables. The empty marquee flapped and billowed in the wind, and a draught I hadn’t noticed earlier whistled around my ankles. Avril Haworth sat down on one of the few chairs that remained and watched them tidying up with a glazed expression on her face, as if she wasn’t really seeing them. Her husband was writing a cheque in the corner. I went across to where she was sitting and, on an impulse, bent down.

‘Mrs Haworth? Can I get you anything – a glass of water, or …’

I trailed off as she shook her head. ‘So kind of you. But really, I’m all right. I just need a little rest. We haven’t been sleeping well since––’ She broke off and put one hand to her head. I took the other one in mine. It was bloodless and chilled.

‘You’re freezing. I think we should get you indoors.’

‘I’ll take her.’ Gerald Haworth bent over his wife and helped her to her feet. ‘Come in, DC Kerrigan. I haven’t forgotten that you’re here to talk to us.’

‘If it’s not a good time …’ I began, inwardly swearing at my complete inability to be forceful. If I had to come all the way back to interview them another time, it would be my own fault.

‘No, no. We’ll talk to you now. We’d rather get it over with.’

He spoke for both of them, I noticed with an automatic jolt of feminist outrage that I instantly suppressed because really, Avril Haworth looked in no condition to make any decisions for herself. Supported by her husband, she walked the short distance across from the marquee to the back door of the house, which he had taken the precaution of locking.

‘I was warned to be careful,’ he said heavily, turning the key and opening it for me to go through. ‘Burglars target houses where there’s been a bereavement, I understand.’

‘Some people have no conscience, Mr Haworth.’

‘Gerald,’ he corrected me. ‘And Avril.’

‘You must call me Maeve, then.’

‘It’s a pretty name,’ Avril said vaguely. ‘The original Maeve was an Irish queen, wasn’t she?’

‘Apparently so.’ In fact, I had been named for my great-grandmother but I didn’t bother to share that with them. And she had been regal enough in her own way, by all accounts.

I stepped into a small tiled room where coats hung on hooks and wellies and outdoor shoes slotted neatly into a bench. A set of shelves was filled with gardening equipment and a range of terracotta pots stood in stacks along one wall. Above them, a little stone plaque read: ‘To garden is to open your heart to the sky’, and I recalled what Louise had said with an inward sigh. There was something fundamentally innocent about the Haworths and their perfect life, something that I didn’t think would survive the experience of losing their daughter, and I wished things could be different.

The Haworths led the way through a big, warm kitchen into a sitting room. Comfortably shabby but indefinably gracious, the room was instantly welcoming as Gerald went around the room turning on lamps. His wife sat down on the edge of a sofa and I sat down opposite her, in an armchair that would be difficult to struggle out of when the time came to go. I was glad of the cushion I tucked in behind me, noticing in passing that it was embroidered with ‘A Happy House is a Home’.
And an unhappy house is hell on earth
.