The Moon Spun Round (49 page)

‘Yeah, well they would express concerns, wouldn’t they? Ready enough to take your money off you, but when it comes to paying out it’s a different matter.’

‘You can see their point, though, can’t you? Very expensive car written off with no cover, court case pending, probably a hefty fine, at the very least—’

‘You don’t think I’ll get a gaol sentence, do you?’

Hobson shrugs. ‘Then there was that coincidental increase in the premium. And now it transpires that your wife has left you. Expensive business, separation, or will it be a divorce? The solicitor’s fees alone…Still, I expect your business is doing well. Lot of money in computers, I understand? Anyway, I mustn’t keep you from your work any longer. The sergeant here will show you out.’

Sergeant Shaw walks with Ayden all the way, grinning as he ushers him through the main entrance. He’s still grinning as he turns and heads back towards the reception desk where a moment ago Constable Farrow was talking to the duty sergeant. Now, though, Farrow’s attention is on the glass swing-door through which Drayton has just left.

‘What’s he doing here? That bloke who was with you?’

‘What? Drayton? Inspector Hobson wanted to see him. Why, do you know him?’

‘Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I saw him in church yesterday and I need to put in a report about it.’

‘What? About you going to church on Sunday? Proper little choirboy, aren’t we?’ Shaw winks at the officer behind the desk. ‘You’ll be telling us you’re in the Boy Scouts next, eh?’

‘Look, it’s all part of community relations, keeping in touch—’

‘Oh, yeah, yeah.’

‘Who was in church yesterday?’ No one had heard Inspector Hobson walk up behind them.

‘I was, sir, and so was that chap who was with you. Drayton, isn’t it? Ayden Drayton. Right pantomime it was, too—big ding-dong between the vicar and his wife.’

‘Sounds better than
Coronation Street.’

‘All right, Shaw, that’ll do. Now, what’s this about Drayton?’

‘Well, this row they were having, it involved him. Mrs Cunningham—she’s the vicar’s wife—she seemed to think there was some sort of incident on New Year’s Eve between Drayton and his wife. But that didn’t tally with what they’d told me.’

‘And why should they be discussing their marital differences with you, Constable?’

‘It was following the Ruth Clifton murder. I did some of the routine interviews with people who were at the disco. Drayton and his wife claimed they both left early, which was confirmed by witnesses. Went home for a bit of New Year’s nooky, or so they said.’

‘But not according to the vicar’s wife?’

‘From what she was on about yesterday, there may have been a serious incident of domestic violence between them. Unreported—I already checked that first thing this morning.’

‘Domestic violence? How serious?’

‘Mrs Cunningham reckoned he nearly killed her.’

‘And this was the same night Ruth Clifton was murdered? They were at the same disco?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right, Constable, you’d better go through to the office and make a full report. Shaw, get onto someone on Rankin’s team. Tell them Constable Farrow might have something for them.’

Late Afternoon

Sally runs towards the shop door, expecting the
Closed
sign to be turned around at any moment. Wrenching the handle, she tumbles through, out of breath and laughing at the startled look on Fran’s face.

‘I was just about to shut up shop. How come you always turn up just as I close the till? I think you do it on purpose.’

‘No, it’s OK, I don’t want anything. Thought I’d see how your first day went. New business and everything.’

‘Been rushed off our feet. Word’s got round the village like radioactive fallout. Naturally they’re more interested in the loss of a husband than the change of ownership. Still, as long as it keeps the turnover turning over I can live with that.’

‘The village is certainly buzzing with it. My phone’s been ringing all day, and on the way round here every other person stopped me on the street. That’s why I’m so late.’ Sally is sorting through some special offers. ‘These any good?’

‘No, they’re rubbish. Old stock. Why do you think we’re practically giving them away?’ Fran points her towards another shelf. ‘And what
are
people saying? All about me, I hope.’

‘Oh, yes. All about you. No mention of Naomi or witchcraft—you were absolutely right about that. I must say, people seem to be very supportive of you. Not much sympathy for Edward, I’m afraid, but that might be because they were talking to me. The way we all left together it must be obvious whose side I’m on. I’ll have some of these tomatoes.’

‘Yes, they’re freshly picked. Help yourself, pay me tomorrow.’

‘Apparently there was one hell of a row between Abbie and George last night.’

‘About yesterday, no doubt? Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘I think she’s very upset, though I’ve hardly managed to speak with her today. Says she’s tied up with some visitors. And how about you? How did you find being on your own last night?’

‘Very strange. First night alone since we came to Hallowfield. What, eighteen years? But I’m very conscious of Ruth—it’s as if she’s watching over me. I think she’d approve.’

‘Of course she would.’ Claire comes in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Hello, Sally.’

‘Hi, you’re not usually here this late.’

‘Full-time now. Got to pull my weight. I’ve had to give up the job at the nursery, too, which is a shame. Still, there’s a bit of garden out the back here,
so I might grow some herbs to sell. Naomi’s quite an expert on that. I’ll get her to help me.’

‘How is Naomi?’

A slight frown clouds Claire’s expression. ‘Well, she’s much happier now she knows I’m not about to leave the country or whatever it was she thought Fran and I were up to. But I’m convinced there’s something else still troubling her, though she won’t talk about it. And it’s starting to get to me too now, a sort of uneasiness. I believe it’s got something to do with what’s happening to Ayden.’

‘According to the village grapevine, he’s been sleeping rough at the shop,’ says Fran. ‘He looked a right mess yesterday, didn’t he? The neighbours seem to think he started going downhill long before the house fire. Coming and going at all hours, drinking heavily. Was that usual, Claire?’

‘The drinking? Oh, he could put it away all right, that’s when he got…when he was…But it would start off as a social thing, like on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Sounds like he’s been drinking steadily.’ Sally frowns. ‘It could be developing into an actual drinking problem.’

‘Like alcoholism, you mean?’

‘Possible.’

Claire looks at her, thoughtful for a moment. ‘You’re not happy about this either, are you, Sally?’

‘No, I don’t think I am. Justice for Ruth, that’s what it was about. I thought it would feel good to see him suffering. And in a way it is, but…but something’s not right.’

‘Well, I think the bastard deserves everything we can throw at him.’ Fran is quite indignant. ‘Sometimes I wish I believed in Hell. I love the thought of him burning in it.’

‘Yes, I agree he deserves everything that’s happened and more,’ says Sally. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m still convinced we did the right thing, including the ritual. But it feels like it’s all getting out of control, somehow.’

‘I’d go along with that,’ says Claire. ‘It’s as if something else is affecting things. That would account for some of us feeling unsettled.’ She closes her eyes for a moment and listens, as if to an inner voice. Whatever it’s saying causes her expression to shift from puzzlement to surprise. ‘In fact,’ she looks directly at Sally, ‘I think there are things we’ve not been telling each other.’

Sally looks away. ‘Yes, you’re right. We need to talk. All of us.’

‘Yes. And the sooner the better. What do you think, Fran?’

Fran shrugs her shoulders. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘How about tonight, then? Could we meet at your place, Sally? It would
be good to be near the pool. Could you contact Abbie? I’ll make sure Naomi’s there.’

Another half an hour goes by before Claire manages to leave. The door is locked, the blind down, so she uses the side gate. It’s almost dark now and the light from the neon strips in the shop flood out across the pavement. She pauses to look at the arrangement in the window. Oh dear, what a mess. A mishmash of unrelated items and bargain offers that looks more like a jumble sale than a retail outlet. Must do something about that tomorrow. Perhaps a theme of some sort? Stocks of Easter eggs are starting to arrive. It might be fun to do some sort of display, get some fluffy bunnies, something to attract the kids. A celebration of Ostara. ‘Only don’t tell Edward Cunningham,’ she giggles quietly to herself. ‘And there are plenty of daffodils—’

A cold knife runs through her. She can feel the finest hairs on the nape of her neck begin to rise. Claire knows she’s being watched.

She turns her head first, slowly, allowing her body to follow, until she’s looking across at the village pond towards the ancient oak tree. She recognizes the van, of course, parked at the kerb on the far side of the green, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone in the driver’s seat. Her eyes are full of the glare of the shop light and so it is another moment before she discerns the dark shadow beneath the lower branches. She doesn’t move; can’t move. And yet the accustomed fear is something that stands slightly apart from her, as if she has stepped aside from it.

It’s that time of day when the street is empty, only the occasional dog walker and a few passing cars. She watches as a bright red spark appears to jump away from him. Taken up smoking again, have you, Ayden? The space between them diminishes as he skirts the edge of the water. She buries her hands in her pockets, tenses her shoulders. He’s now standing on the edge of the pavement with only the roadway between them. His face is grey and stubbled. Another car roars past, momentarily blocking her image of him, as if she has blinked. But she daren’t blink.

‘That’s near enough, Ayden. Don’t come any closer.’

‘How are you?’ His voice cracks with a cough. He looks smaller, somehow, shrunken into himself.

‘Say whatever you came to say.’

‘We need to talk. It’s about the house, the insurance.’

‘That’s nothing to do with me. I want no part of any insurance claim.’

‘The police have been on to me again, hanging round the shop, asking about the stock and how much money I’ve been taking. They called me into the station this morning. It’s all a bloody conspiracy with the insurance company. They’re trying to find a way of not paying out.’

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘That bastard Hobson’s going to have me in gaol over this. You’ve got to help me.’

‘What do you expect me to do about it?’

‘You’ve got to come back, put everything right between us. Convince them it’s all been a mistake. They might believe you. For fuck’s sake, Claire, it’s your home as well as mine.’

‘No. It was never mine. Nothing was ever mine.’ Something’s stirring within her, like a tiny creature, barely aware of itself.