The Garden Plot (11 page)

She phoned Primrose House in the afternoon, set up an interview for Thursday, and then checked the rail schedule. She’d take the train to Frant, just past Tunbridge Wells—only an hour’s journey—and get a cab from the station to the garden. Staring out a train window would keep her calmer than monitoring an unfamiliar bus route and worrying about the next roundabout and whether she had missed her stop.

In the meantime, she needed to get some real work done, something she could get paid for, but even before that she must take her passport in to the police station, as DCI Pearse had requested. Stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her, she glanced around and thought she saw someone ducking around the corner, but when she looked again, she realized it was a young mother bending down to her child in a pram.
Don’t get carried away, Pru,
she told herself,
no one is after you.

She had phoned Jo that morning, thinking that they could meet later in the day for a glass of wine. Pru wished it could be a more common occurrence;—it was one of the only social engagements she had, and it meant a great deal to her. But Jo had—Pru could think of no other way to describe it—brushed her off. Meetings, showing potential clients their potential office spaces, must finish the contract on so-and-so’s house let. Deserted, Pru walked up toward Fulham Road and the police station.

Preoccupied with her personal woes, she barely noticed the woman waving at her from across the road, until the second or third time she called. “Hello! Sorry, hello?”

Pru came out of her daze to see a woman dressed in tight jeans, spike heels, a purple cardigan, and stylish, small glasses with heavy black frames; she sported cherry-red
lipstick on a kewpie-doll mouth.

She walked across to Pru. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m completely lost. Can you tell me where”—she glanced down at a crumpled scrap of paper in her hand—“Lecky Street is?” She looked up at Pru with a hopeful expression.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know where that would be. Are you trying to find a business?”

“No, I’m trying to find a flat, and I was supposed to view one there.” Her whole manner slumped. “God, this is a disaster. I don’t know anyone in London, and you’re the first person that’s stopped to talk to me.”

The woman didn’t move and continued to look at Pru, who didn’t have a remedy for her problem, although it seemed as if one were expected. “The police station isn’t far. I’m headed that way. Maybe you could ask there.”

“Police?” The woman looked left and right, and her shiny blond hair swirled around her face like a little girl twirling in a full skirt. “No, no, I don’t need that.” She smiled at Pru. “I have a map in my bag. I’ll just sit down somewhere and give it a look, shall I?” She hesitated and then said, “If you had just a moment, maybe you could look, too? I’d be ever so grateful. Could I buy you a coffee?”

Her plight struck a chord with Pru, who had known no one in London herself not long ago. “Sure, I’ve got a few minutes.”

They headed to the next corner and walked into a tiny coffee shop. Her new friend headed for a table in the corner by a large potted palm as she said over her shoulder, “I’ll have a cappuccino.” Pru wondered how the invitation got reversed.

With coffees in front of them, the blonde said, “I’m Romilda. I’m very pleased to meet you.” Romilda stuck out her hand, and Pru saw long, elegant cherry-red nails on the ends of stubby fingers.

“I’m Pru. It’s nice to meet you. You’re just moving to London?” That set Romilda off on a long tale of moving from Birmingham and finding a job inputting data at a local social-services agency. Pru got a little lost with Romilda’s detailed description of just what data she would be inputting—although she had some funny bits to tell about her interview—and she couldn’t quite follow Romilda’s story of looking for a flat. She talked fast and seemed to backtrack a great deal.
She’s quite chatty,
Pru thought.

Romilda segued from her new job into telling Pru a story about some fellow she dated once or twice when she was a teenager because she thought he looked like James Bond and how he seemed to have a great talent for getting “in” places—Romilda waved two fingers of each hand in air quotes—especially the time he pulled the car over and was about to get “in my knickers when a copper stopped, and when I looked up, there was my
dad looking in the window.” They both laughed, Romilda sounding like a machine gun—ha-ha-ha-ha-ha—and then she sighed and said, “I never saw the fellow again, as you can well imagine. He went straight back to Birmingham.”

Pru thought for a moment. “I thought you were from Birmingham,” she said.

Romilda’s eyes got big, and then she said, “No, no, Pru, I didn’t say that. I’m from Cronton, up near Liverpool.”

Pru didn’t think she could confuse Birmingham with Cronton, but Romilda interrupted her thoughts.

“And what kind of work are you in?” Romilda asked, giving Pru her full attention.

Pru explained her gardening. Romilda seemed to find it fascinating and asked all sorts of questions—what kind of flowers could she grow in London, what are those big trees out there, what kind of clients did Pru have, did she ever make a whole new garden for someone? Somehow, she asked so many questions that before she knew it, Pru was explaining about the murder at the Wilsons’.

She was brought up short when Romilda asked, “What kind of evidence do they have against this Wilson character? Did they find his fingerprints? What about a letter? Was there a letter from the victim, or was he able to scratch someone’s initials in the dirt?”

“I … I’m sorry, Romilda,” she stammered. “I really don’t know much about what’s going on there.” As entertaining as Romilda had been, this felt intrusive, and Pru thought she needed to get back to her life. “Look, I’ll have to be going. It was lovely to meet you. Good luck with the flat search.”

“Thanks, Pru, you’ve been such a help—cheers!” Romilda smiled and wiggled her cherry-red fingernails at Pru.

Pru got out on the sidewalk and shook her head to clear it of Romilda’s nattering. It was only as she walked that she realized they hadn’t looked at her map at all.

In the station, after getting her passport details on file, Pru looked up to see Mr. Wilson come in the door. “Mr. Wilson, is everything all right?”

“Pru, Malcolm told us someone tried to take your bag right outside our house on Saturday. You should’ve told us.”

“Oh, no, it was fine, I’m okay, and we’ve filed a description, although they haven’t caught him. That’s not why you’re here?”

“No, the inspector asked if I would come down so that they could take my fingerprints.” Mr. Wilson said in a quiet voice, “Just routine, of course.”

“Your fingerprints? They had no right to ask you that.” Of course, they did have
that right. “It seems … unnecessary.”

“My fingerprints are on the tools in the shed, of course,” he explained. “From that evening a few days ago, but surely before that, too. I must’ve gone in there at some point after we moved in, probably mucked about, thinking that I’d start on the garden. Although Jeremy had advised against that.” Pru was quiet. She didn’t think anyone had gone in the shed before she cleared away the ivy—unless that person knew the mass of vines could be peeled away so easily. But perhaps a year ago the ivy hadn’t been such a forest. Perhaps. “And good thing, too,” Mr. Wilson continued cheerfully, “because that’s your job to make us a garden.”

“Yes.” They hit on a pleasant subject at last. “I’m going over this afternoon. I won’t disturb the … shed … but I want to get a feel for the walls and the sun exposure. Will you be at home?”

“No, I’m back at work this afternoon, and Vernona is spending the day with her old aunt Libby in Wandsworth. But you have your key,” he said encouragingly, “and so you go right ahead and get started. We’ll see you when we arrive home.”

Pru started for the door, then turned and walked to the desk just as Mr. Wilson said to the sergeant, “Harry Wilson, DCI Pearse wanted my fingerprints taken in regards to the … crime at our house.”

“And you need to take my fingerprints, too,” Pru said in solidarity. She wouldn’t let him go through such an ordeal alone.

“Pru, that isn’t necessary, surely,” Mr. Wilson said to her.

“Yes, it is, Mr. Wilson. I’m just as much … I mean, I’m just as involved as you are. I was there in the shed. They need my fingerprints, too.”

“Right,” said the desk sergeant. “Let’s not all crowd up to the front. We’ve plenty of ink.”

Pru cut the grass and edged for the Hightowers as quickly as possible, swept up, put everything away in the tiny tool cupboard at the bottom of their basement stairs—she was grateful it wasn’t a shed—and headed for the Wilsons’, carrying a borrowed short-handled spade. She left a message for Sammy, hoping he could get over there and help her measure and mark some beds out in chalk lines. Through the basement and up into the back, the first thing she saw was the shed, wrapped in blue-and-white tape. It held a repulsive attraction. She wanted to go in and look around—the body, after all, had been cleared out—but knew that she’d already compromised the scene enough.

Her gaze drifted from the shed to the brick wall at the bottom of the garden. It was at least six feet high; when she stood directly in front of it, it was impossible for her to
see over. What did Malcolm perch on so that he could look in anytime he pleased?

She saw no sign of movement from his house—no curtain twitching—and so she slowly walked down to the wall and looked at it closely. There were no footholds or spaces from missing bricks that would make for an easy escape from the Wilsons’ garden.
I wonder what’s on Malcolm’s side,
she thought.

Pru looked back at the terrace to the small table and two bistro chairs.
Ah,
she thought,
just the thing.
She fetched one of the chairs and set it against the wall. The ground underneath held firm enough so that the legs didn’t sink in too far when she stood on it. On her toes, it added just enough height to her five-foot-seven-inch frame.

Keeping a lookout on Malcolm’s curtains and readying her excuse—“Malcolm, didn’t you say that the soil down here was dampish?”—she leaned as far over the top of the wall as she could and peered into his trim, rose-filled garden. The ladder, which she had seen in the photos, did not rest upon the wall; that would be too easy. But on the wall, right at the spot where his head popped up for a chat, were four wrought-iron rungs, painted black and secured like steps up a ladder. That would give Malcolm plenty of boost not only to see, but also to climb over.

But if he had climbed into the Wilsons’ garden and killed Jeremy, how did he get out again? Perhaps his ladder—lightweight aluminum—functioned as the stairway down into the Wilsons’ garden and then back over to his own. He could have hoisted it over from his side and dragged it back when he finished. She looked at the ground on the Wilsons’ side, right where she thought Malcolm might set the ladder, but she saw no indentations in the soil. She did see some of her own footprints, though.
Good move, Pru.
When she picked up the chair, she smoothed over the shallow holes in the soil with the toe of her shoe.

This entirely plausible theory of how Malcolm made his way into and out of the Wilsons’ back garden kept Pru’s mind chugging along as she replaced the bistro chair and began walking out the beds, spade in hand. As she paced off four feet away from the side wall and turned to walk down to the back wall, she heard a sharp voice behind her.

“Ms. Parke?” She whipped around to face DCI Pearse. She put the spade behind her.

“You weren’t thinking of disturbing the garden yet, were you? We have not given the all clear to the Wilsons. Surely they told you that.”

There were no Wilsons at home,
she thought. “I’m not digging. I’m just marking out some new beds with chalk.” She looked past him to a blank house. “How did you get in?”

“When there’s been a murder, and the murderer is still at large, and you yourself
have been attacked on the street outside, and the person who did it has yet to be apprehended, then it’s probably not wise to leave the basement door unlocked when you’re all on your own back here, now is it?”

What had seemed like a convenience to her sounded dangerously foolish when he described it. “I was waiting for Sammy to arrive—he helps me with big jobs in the garden. I didn’t think it would be a problem. He’s supposed to be here by now.”

He cocked his head, as if to look behind her back. “Does chalk come out the end of your spade?”

“Look, I need this job or I’m going to have to move back to the States. I realize that doesn’t make any difference to you. Yes, I have a spade—not from this shed, by the way—but I’m not digging.”
Not yet,
she thought. “And Sammy was only going to help me with my lines …”

Her phone rang; Pru pulled it out of her pocket and looked down. The action reminded her of that odd moment when Malcolm watched her with keen interest as she put away her phone on the bus, the day of the murder. She looked up at Pearse, who studied her.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

Irritation drove out of her mind what she was going to say to him, and she answered the phone instead. Sammy couldn’t make it, he was sorry, but he still had a load to take to the green waste and would never make it back before the end of the day.

“Ms. Parke, did you take your passport by the station?” Pearse asked.

“Yes, I did that today.” Indignation rose up. “And I saw Mr. Wilson there—why did he have his fingerprints taken? He didn’t do anything, and I can’t imagine you believe for a minute that …”

“Did you have your fingerprints taken while you were there?”

Defiant in the face of what she thought sounded like an accusation, she stuck her chin out. “Yes, I did. So, am I a suspect now?”

“Ms. Parke, you did pick up the murder weapon, didn’t you? We need to identify your fingerprints on the handle in order to eliminate them.”

“Oh.”

“Pru, dear,” Mrs. Wilson called from the back door. “Oh, Inspector, how lovely to see you. Is there something I can do? Pru, why don’t you both come in for a cup of tea?”