The Sting of Death (17 page)

‘Right,’ agreed Justine flatly.

By eleven on Thursday morning, DI Hemsley had called DS Cooper back to the station, leaving a forensics team to examine the Metro. ‘We need to have another think about all this,’ he said. ‘We still have no direct evidence that there’s been any violence against the youngster and only Mr Renton’s word that she was last seen in the company of the Pereira girl. Now she’s turned up without the kiddie, we have obvious cause for serious concern. That’s why I fed it to the media last night. They’ll always co-operate when there’s a little one involved. We now have only one obvious line of investigation before we start a no-holds-barred, full scale search for her.’ He looked at Den. ‘This Strabinski woman. Is there a chance she had the child in the house when you visited her?’

Den shrugged. ‘I didn’t search the place,’ he said. ‘It’s obviously possible.’

‘So first thing to do is go back there. Don’t give her any warning – just turn up quickly and quietly and give the place a good going-over. My hunch is the kid’ll be there, safe and sound, and we can forget the whole thing by lunchtime.’

Den blinked. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Timms with me, shall I?’

‘Good idea. Now, one or two more things, while I’ve got you here …’ and he launched into an entirely unnecessary spiel about the difference between hearsay and hard fact, suspicion and actual evidence.

‘There’s nobody in,’ Bennie Timms repeated, as Den hammered on the door of Penn’s Crediton house.

‘So what do we do now?’ he demanded.

‘Report back and then go on to North Staverton. It isn’t too far from here, through the lanes. An hour, at most.’

‘We’re not breaking in here, then?’ he said, a trifle wistfully.

‘I don’t think so. On what grounds? Weren’t you listening to Danny Boy this morning?’

‘I thought he’d been told personally by God that little Georgia was here in this house. Give the place a good going-over, he said.’

‘Not enough direct evidence to warrant breaking and entering,’ she insisted. ‘Not by a
long way. But we can check with him, if you like.’ Den nodded and she made the call. Reluctantly, the DI told them to leave it for the moment, providing they could be completely certain the house was empty.

‘How do we do that?’ Den wondered.

They drove a short distance, parked the car, and walked back, one on each side of the street, examining the house from all angles and watching the windows for movement. Then Den went round the back while Bennie knocked vigorously on the front door. They waited five more minutes, listening hard. Not a sign of life could they detect.

‘Okay, then,’ he said, rejoining her at the car. ‘North Staverton it is.’

Unfortunately, they quickly realised that they’d chosen the worst possible moment. Several cars were parked inside and outside the main gate to the Peaceful Repose Cemetery. As they cruised past, trying to find a space, Bennie drew Den’s attention to a group of people walking slowly across the field, four of them carrying an unmistakable cardboard coffin.

‘Bloody hell!’ Den cursed.

‘Well he
is
an undertaker,’ Bennie chuckled. ‘He must have to do this sort of thing fairly often.’

‘He said he had two funerals today,’ Den suddenly remembered. ‘Damn it – we can’t interrupt him now.’

‘No,’ Bennie agreed. ‘So let’s have a rethink. I’ll call in and see if there’s been any developments and we’ll take it from there.’

Den didn’t reply. She followed his direction of gaze and found its object: a sturdy young woman, dark-skinned and black hair neatly coiled at the back of her neck. She was working with Drew, standing on opposite sides of the grave, slowly lowering the coffin into it. There was something oddly ambiguous about the tableau: the dark clothes and sombre nature of the event clashed with the birdsong and fluffy clouds. Nobody appeared to be weeping, and yet everyone’s movements looked slow and heavy. There didn’t appear to be any minister of religion present, which gave the proceedings an ad hoc aspect, harking back to simpler times. ‘Nice,’ she murmured. ‘Lucky it’s not raining, though.’

‘Or snowing,’ Cooper added, with a short laugh.

Bennie made the call back to the station, asking for any news update on the Renton child, while Den turned the car and headed back towards home ground. A squawk of surprise came from his colleague.

‘What?’ he demanded.

She finished the call and turned towards him. ‘We’ve missed some excitement at the farm. While everyone was busy outside, somebody new turned up and picked a fight with the Renton man.’ She glanced at the note she’d automatically scribbled. ‘A Mr Carlos Francisco Pereira.’ She grinned. ‘No prizes for guessing who he must be.’

Den got there in seconds. ‘Father of Justine? First husband of Mrs Roma Millan?’

‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised,’ she said.

At the last minute, the nasty daughter couldn’t hold her tongue, the power of her dream apparently losing in the struggle with her lifelong prejudices. Watching her father’s cardboard coffin being lowered into the shallow grave, she jabbed her elbow into her sister’s ribs and said loudly, ‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied. This is a disgrace. It’s indecent.’ Drew and Maggs, holding tightly to the webbing that supported the coffin, hesitated. It was only just feasible for the two of them to lower a body into a grave, and it took all their concentration. Normally, it was a job for four men, but he and Maggs had become adept at doing it between them. Using cardboard, willow or even linen wrappings, instead of traditional heavy wooden coffins, made it a much lighter job. Generally, two or three relatives would assist. Mr
French’s daughters, however, had turned up with only two young children, and showed no sign of getting involved.

‘Carry on,’ Drew muttered, and they slowly let the box drop.

‘Shut up!’ the nice daughter hissed. ‘It’s done now.’

‘Mum!’ chirped one of the children. ‘I’m cold.’

The day was far from chilly, and the child well wrapped up, but Drew knew all too well that the emotion and trauma of a funeral affected the body much as a sharp east wind might do. All the more reason to get on with it, Drew decided.

The top of the unadorned brown of the cardboard seemed uncomfortably close to ground level when they’d finished. Drew always experienced a pang of anxiety at this point. He knew that a foot and a half of well-packed soil on top would protect the contents of the grave from any unpleasant consequences, short of an earthquake or major flood, and it certainly fitted with ecological considerations – but it looked alarming to people accustomed to the six feet of conventional burials.

Clearly, the nasty daughter was very well aware of this. Her lip was curled in disgust, her brows drawn together in a vicious frown. Drew quailed. She was going to make them bring him
up again; insist on a cremation, cause all kinds of havoc.

‘Jennifer,’ the nice daughter said firmly. ‘We’ve talked it all through, and you know full well that this is what Dad wanted. It’s beautiful here – exactly the sort of thing he loved. Be glad for him, why can’t you? And don’t forget that dream you had.’

Her sister tossed her head. ‘Well …’ she said. ‘I suppose it’s done now.’ The tension level fell instantly, as everyone exhaled together. Even the children seemed relieved. Drew reached for his spade, and nodded to Maggs to remove her lowering equipment.

‘Would you like to scatter a handful?’ he asked the sisters, carefully addressing them equally. Somewhat to his surprise, the disgruntled Jennifer grabbed the spade, and hefted a large clod of soil onto the coffin.

‘Don’t want to get my hands dirty,’ she said. Her sister made a show of scooping up a double handful, and letting it trickle into the grave. Both children imitated her with some eagerness.

‘Thank you,’ said Drew swiftly. ‘Maggs will take you back to the office, while I finish here.’

Roma had lied about the need to go to the shops. Justine’s short-lived urge to do something had been infectious and Roma had been suddenly
gripped by the compulsion to see for herself just what was going on at Gladcombe Farm. If the Renton man had lied, as Justine claimed and the wife was uncaring and irresponsible, Roma wanted first-hand demonstration of it.

She had no very clear idea of precisely where the farm was, but having accumulated Ordnance Survey maps of the South-West over several years, she was confident that she could find it. The triangle formed between Bridgwater, Tiverton and Minehead was an area she knew reasonably well. Small rural settlements like her own village of Pitcombe, and Drew’s of North Staverton, abounded, connected by a mesh of small lanes clustering like a swarm of bees to the south of Bridgwater, thinning out as they approached the heights of Exmoor. Methodically, she examined the map, using clues dropped by Penn and Justine, until she located the farm. It was about twenty-five miles distant, and she paused to reflect on the realisation that her daughter had been living so close by for years and she had never known.

Pushing through her more immediate thoughts, as she drove, was the knowledge that it couldn’t be much longer now before the central issue between her and Justine was confronted. The mere thought was terrifying and sent Roma’s insides churning. She wasn’t at all sure she could
do it, however urgent the obligation might be. Perhaps what she was now doing was a kind of alternative, a way of letting her daughter know that she owed her something. By tackling the Rentons and establishing exactly what the truth of the matter was, she might at least find she’d taken that arduous first step in the long process of reconciliation.

She took a number of wrong turns, despite the map, cursing the inadequate road signs and the narrow lanes; so it was over an hour before she finally reached the farm. Not having an idea what to expect, she parked on the road at the end of the approach drive and continued on foot.

There was no sign of a police presence, which she found both a surprise and a relief. She had assumed that there would be an officer with the distraught parents, but that she would be allowed to speak to them in her capacity as Justine’s mother. She even had a few placatory lines rehearsed in advance.

A newish Saab stood in the cobbled yard, but she could neither see nor hear anyone. The front door, with a yellow climbing rose growing in profusion over the porch, was firmly closed. She rapped the brass knocker vigorously.

Three long minutes later, the door opened. As unshaven man was standing there, the bright August light clearly causing him some difficulty.
He seemed to have just woken up, until Roma looked again and decided he had been recently punched in the face. Through slitted eyes and thickened lips he grunted, ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Renton? I’m Roma Millan, Justine’s mother. I think I need to talk to you.’

‘Erghhh,’ said the man, rubbing his dark hair confusedly. ‘Why would that be?’

‘I want to know why you think my daughter would do anything to harm your child.’

He laid a square hand against his stubbly cheek in a gesture of weary annoyance. ‘Because I let her take Georgia …’ his voice quivered on the child’s name and he closed his eyes, moving the hand to his sternum. ‘I can only hope she’s kept her safe somewhere. It’s sending us crazy, not knowing … and now this madman turns up out of nowhere and starts a fight.’ He began to close the door, obviously intent on keeping her out. A sudden idea had apparently entered his head. ‘Your husband, he must be,’ he accused. ‘He says he’s Justine’s father.’

‘What?’ Roma was stunned. ‘Carlos? He’s been here?’

‘Too right he has. Shouting and screaming. Says I must have harmed his precious daughter, calling me names.’

‘But … how did he know?’

Renton shook his head tiredly. ‘The police
contacted him when that friend of yours reported Justine missing. Routine enquiries, they said, but it seemed to annoy him.’

Roma could not repress a sudden smirk. ‘It never did take much to do that,’ she said, almost fondly. ‘Where is he now? And why aren’t there any police here?’

‘They’ve taken him into custody,’ said Renton with satisfaction. ‘The place was crawling with cops a few minutes ago.’ He looked around the yard in surprise. ‘They were searching the barns and shippons. I expect they’ll soon be back again. They don’t seem to stick at anything for long, before changing their minds.’ He frowned, as if trying to remember something. Roma thought he might be in need of medical attention.

‘Shouldn’t you see a doctor?’ she asked, amazing herself at this lapse.

‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I’m not leaving here. They said they might send someone to have a look at me.’

‘Meanwhile, there’s still no sign of your daughter, I suppose?’

He shook his head quickly. ‘Now, I don’t want to be rude, but …’

Roma didn’t flinch. ‘Right you are,’ she said to the closing door.

Renton’s dismissal suited Roma perfectly. She was free now to carry out the search of the farm that she’d been itching to undertake. She had always enjoyed looking for things, missing pens, magazines, equipment of all sorts. There was a meticulousness to her character that made her habitually note where she left things, where she observed them lying as she went about her work. She had an excellent sense of direction, and a nose for people’s means of concealment. What’s more, she admitted to herself, a child who’d been missing and possibly dead for over a week would be locatable by the olfactory sense, if nothing else.

All of which suggested that the police search
would surely have found Georgia if she’d been anywhere near the farmhouse or Justine’s cottage. Not knowing the layout, or the extent of the property, she let instinct take over. To her left was a small orchard, containing ten or twelve mature apple trees, not the modern stunted
user-friendly
mutations, but good-sized tree-shaped specimens. She paused to admire the yellowish fruit on many of them. Automatically she swept her gaze around the edges in search of beehives. No orchard should be allowed to exist without bees; it was a criminal waste.

There were none, but the rapidly warming day – by this time almost noon – had brought other insects out, most notably wasps. Only a handful of apples had fallen off the boughs, but those that had were being hollowed out by sugar-seeking insects, their predations leaving brown ragged edges around the cavities they’d made. Roma kicked at one, hoping to kill a wasp in the process.

Beyond the orchard a stile led into a grass field, and she climbed nimbly over it. A path was worn diagonally across the field, ending in a small copse of trees in the far corner. Buttercups grew densely amongst the grass, as well as a scattering of meadowsweet. Roma wondered whether the Rentons were deliberately encouraging it to become a wild flower meadow. This and the
orchard seemed out of harmony with her initial picture of them as busy professionals playing at being country dwellers. Perhaps they had more feeling for the environment than she’d given them credit for. Perhaps, she thought suddenly, they’d been victims of foot and mouth disease.

The ground was knobbly beneath the long grass, poached presumably by the feet of cattle walking on it in damp conditions. It all had an abandoned air, as if an abrupt change had been wrought. That would be it, she decided. All the animals slaughtered in one holocaustic day, and the man she’d just seen too flattened to risk restocking his land.

She admitted to herself that she knew nothing about the Rentons. The man had looked a lot more like a farmer than she’d expected, although with his face all battered he could just as easily have been a professional boxer. She grinned ruefully to herself at the thought that Carlos had done that. Renton must have said or done something to provoke him to violence, but Roma knew only too well that it need not have been much. Sometimes the mere angle of an eyebrow could set him off.

The grass was long and the path narrow. Roma found herself thinking how it would be for a small child to walk through this field, the grass up to her shoulder, and the flowers vivid to
the clear young eyes. There’d be butterflies and birds, seed heads on many of the grasses, a world of colour and movement that would enchant a little girl. Letting her thoughts wander and her instincts flow free, Roma convinced herself that Georgia would have come to this field, perhaps with Justine, several times through the summer, to enjoy its animal-free glories. Roma knew, albeit vaguely, that farm animals did not always have a beneficial effect on pastureland. Without them, the truly wild flora and fauna could proliferate amazingly.

The copse was obviously an ancient one, boasting big woodland trees that might well have been deliberately planted in the first instance. A beech spread protectively, two oaks and a handsome holly had all grown to impressive size. Between them were younger saplings, a tangle of brambles, bracken, ivy. The field was being encroached, without fencing to mark any division between it and the copse. Instead, there were signs of a shallow ditch and above it a low bank, full of gaps and burrows made by animals, perhaps even badgers. Brambles ran riot along much of the ditch, forming a natural barrier that most people would hesitate to tackle.

The smell only gradually forced itself onto her attention. It might even have first wafted into her nostrils as she emerged from the orchard, but
in the country you got smells, and learnt not to over-react to them. It wasn’t until she reached the copse that she labelled it for what it was. Standing very still, she reminded herself of what she was looking for, why she was there. She had even been expecting to encounter this very stink. Of course, it was sure to be a sheep, trapped in the brambles somewhere, and dead of hunger and exhaustion. It happened all the time.

But her senses were operating independently of her mind. Closely examining the stretch of bank, and the hedges to her right and left, she noticed activity at a spot low down in one of the intact sections of bank. Darting in and out, there were wasps, hundreds of them, far more than Roma had ever seen in one place before. Cautiously, she moved closer. Despite knowing that wasps never attacked in force, it took strong nerves to approach such a mass of them. Without warning, the face of her own little brother, killed by bee stings, flashed into her mind. She hadn’t given him a thought for years, had never felt any conscious grief or guilt or anxiety about what had happened to him. She’d been stalwart in her refusal to pretend to care, causing adults to draw back from her, disconcerted by her coldness.

‘No escape,’ she muttered to herself now. ‘Everything connects.’ It had taken her a long time to accept that a person’s innermost
processes operated on a level beyond conscious control, and that it was all right for this to be true. It was more than all right: it was instructive and reassuring. If her little brother’s face was in her mind now, there must be a good reason for it, if only that the conjunction of a child and insects brought a rather obvious memory to the surface.

The smell, though, needed investigation, regardless of the wasps. It did seem to emanate from the same general direction as the boiling mass of insects, and a very nasty suspicion was rapidly forming. Was it true, she asked herself, that sugar-loving insects would be attracted to a dead body? The dead lion in the Bible which contained a bees’ nest, was surely just a convenient space, the ribcage offering an ideal cavity for a swarm to set up home in? Surely the flesh wasn’t used for food?

Below the wasps was a depression in the ground, part of the original ditch, filled with long grass. As Roma approached, the smell became appalling. It flowed into her stomach and made her involuntarily retch. Before she had seen anything, before the reality was lodged in her mind, her stomach had reacted.

The body was clothed in a skimpy summer outfit, leaving plenty of greenish flesh visible. It had been placed face down, as far as she could
ascertain. Light brown hair covered most of the visible portion of the head. Crazily, the wasps were clustered on a point about a foot away. Something else had been dumped, alongside Georgia, and it was this that attracted the insects in such numbers. With her hand tightly over her nose and mouth, trying not to breathe, Roma bent closer to see what the wasps were eating. A sticky glistening mass was visible, streaked and splashed with various colours – red, yellow, green, purple. At the farthest edge Roma found a clue – a melted shape lying apart from the rest, which she gingerly prodded, oblivious of the buzzing wasps. It was like semi-solid jelly. She picked it up, slippery in her fingers, and held it in the palm of her hand.

It was a green jelly baby, melted after days in the sun and rain, so the shape was distorted, but still recognisable. There had been a great many more, tipped in a heap beside little Georgia’s head, as if to offer her some consolation for being dumped lifeless in a dry ditch. The sweets had stuck together, blending their colours and sugary selves into one mass – a mass that would be irresistible to wasps, and other sugar-loving insects.

Roma backed away, without any further examination of the child. She looked around her worriedly. Had anybody seen her coming
in this direction? What should she do now? No way could she go back to the house and tell the child’s parents what she’d found. She would have to locate a telephone and call the police. Or somebody.

Anybody else would have had a mobile phone, she chided herself. They’d have made the call and then waited in the field for emergency services to congregate. Helicopter, police doctor, social workers, undertakers – and then stood modestly to one side. She felt reluctantly relieved that she did not have the gadget with her. Now she at least had time to think, as she cut across the field in the direction of the farm drive, climbing over a wooden gate and hurrying back to her car.

The child is dead
, she repeated to herself.
There’s nothing to be done for her. No need to panic
. And yet she was on the brink of panic. She looked around her anxiously, not wanting to be seen, especially by the Renton man. Not by any returning police officers, either – although she knew she must quickly inform them of her find.

She drove away jerkily, rubbing frequently at her nose, trying to expel the lingering stink that had somehow lodged inside it. Her hand was sticky from the melted jelly baby, which she had carried back with her and wrapped in a scrap of paper she found on the floor of the car. It was now on the top of the dashboard, an odd
irrelevant piece of evidence. She was thinking; thinking almost to the exclusion of doing. Her head was full of the sight and smell of what she’d found, the extreme oddness of the pile of sweets; the incompetence of the police who obviously hadn’t bothered to search beyond the farmyard and its buildings; if they’d done even that much. That was surely because they were so convinced that either Justine or Penn was responsible for the lost child, and still held her, alive and well, somewhere.

But behind and through and over all these impressions and suppositions was one big idea; so big and loud that it made everything else seem shadowy and evanescent. This idea was the reason she had turned and run, as if away from a piece of knowledge that could be left undisturbed. This idea arose inescapably from a memory of how Justine had always loved jelly babies far beyond any other kind of sweet. The idea was that Justine had, after all, quite obviously killed Georgia Renton.

She didn’t phone the police when she got home forty-five minutes later and found Justine fast asleep in the spare room; she phoned Drew Slocombe. His second funeral of the day was barely over and he’d been indulging in a cup of tea and a bucketful of self-congratulation. He was entirely unprepared for what Roma had to say.

‘Drew, I’m going to ask something terrible of you,’ she began. ‘Something I have absolutely no right to even suggest. But I can’t carry it by myself, and there’s nobody else but you who’d even hear me out.’

‘Go on,’ he invited warily.

‘The little girl’s dead. Been dead for days. Past any help from anybody. I found her an hour ago.’

She could hear him gulp, and try the find something to say. All he managed was a croak of astonishment.

‘I’ve implicated myself dreadfully, leaving footprints and fibres and God knows what, so if the police are called out, they’ll soon know I was there.’

‘But they’ll know your traces are more recent than when she died,’ he said, having got his voice back with difficulty.

‘Will they? Actually, that’s not my main worry. The thing is, Drew – I’m convinced that Justine is going to be even more under suspicion than she is already. There’s nothing about the body that would exonerate her, as far as I can see. And, Drew, I don’t think I can be the one to make the phone call that might incriminate my own daughter. I realise it’s stupid – that it’s not going to make any difference in the long run. Not unless I’m planning to move the child and make
a better job of hiding her once and for all. The thought did occur to me, I don’t mind admitting, but I can’t face it. She’s very decomposed.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Call the police.’

‘Not the Rentons?’

‘Would you be able to cope with that?’ she wondered, before remembering his profession. ‘I suppose you would. It doesn’t matter which. That’s up to you. I do understand what I’m asking of you – that you’re sure to get much more deeply involved than you’d like. The police won’t understand why it’s you making the call, when up to now you’ve had no link with the missing child. I have absolutely no right to make such a demand on you.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I understand. You’d better tell me where she is, then leave it with me and I’ll try and work out the best way of informing them.’ When she’d described the location, he snorted. ‘Why on earth haven’t they already searched all the fields? Wouldn’t you think that’d be the first thing they’d do? How far is it from the house?’

‘I would guess about a quarter of a mile.’

‘Could Georgia just have wandered off on her own, and got lost? She might have died of exposure.’

Roma thought of the wasps, and the path
through the long grass, the stile and the orchard. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget, the parents thought they knew where she was. The father waved her off with Justine. The mother cheerfully assumed she was with her granny on the Isle of Wight.’

‘And nobody knows when Penn last saw her,’ Drew said darkly. ‘It’s only looking so bad for Justine because nobody believes what she says about Penn.’

‘Do you believe her?’ Roma demanded.

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied carefully. ‘Do you?’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘Until this happened.’

Detective Sergeant Den Cooper knew he was making a hash of the whole case. He was going through the motions, but not according it his full and undivided efforts. When he thought about the small girl, missing now for a week, he should have been wrung out with concern for her. He should be meeting with the DI every few hours, pressing for assistance from other forces, or else handing the whole thing over to Exeter. He felt a strong disinclination to take it any further, wishing Drew Slocombe had never chosen Okehampton to report the missing Justine in the first place.