A Deadly Thaw (7 page)

Connie was in the part of Bampton that made her heart sink. During the Second World War, there had been a revival of the town’s fortunes due to the need for textiles. Soldiers returning from the fighting, buoyed from victory and wanting to start a family or add to their existing ones, were seeking new housing for their expanding broods. The properties that had sprung up must, once upon a time, have seemed appealing. However, years of wear and tear and a haphazard approach to maintenance in this largely working-class area had given the street a hotchpotch look. It was an estate ‘known to the police’, that catch-all phrase used in these politically correct times to indicate trouble.

She made her way towards one of the nondescript houses that ringed the cul-de-sac. The woman who answered the door looked like she was eagerly expecting her visitor. Connie wondered if it had been a good idea to call ahead, but turning up without warning and asking someone to remember an incident four years earlier was hardly playing fair.

Jane Reynolds was styled perfection. The money she had clearly went on her own upkeep. She had coiffed blonde hair in curls that licked her face. Her face was heavily made-up, and Connie could smell her face powder, which she found repellent. Her living room was frozen in the 1950s. It presumably had been furnished when she had bought the house and had never been updated. The sofa was comfortable but the springs worn, and Connie felt her small frame sink so low that her bottom was almost touching the floor.

Over a cup of hot tea and bourbon biscuits, she confided to Connie what she had seen. ‘I was on the coach tour to the North Yorkshire coast with my neighbour. You know, Robin Hood’s Bay and the moors. Anyway, one of the days, we stopped off at Whitby to see the abbey and have fish and chips in the town. It was while we were having lunch in one of those chip shops that I saw him.’

‘The man who looked like Andrew Fisher?’

Jane Reynolds took on a hurt expression. ‘Looked like Andrew Fisher? It was definitely him. His mum went to Women’s Institute with me. I’ve known him since he was a little lad. It was definitely him.’

‘But if you were so sure, why didn’t you make more of a fuss when reporting it to the police? The officer I spoke to thought you weren’t at all sure.’

Jane Reynolds smoothed down her skirt. ‘Have you ever tried to report something? Of course you haven’t. You’re police yourself. It’s different for you. The man who answered the phone treated me like I was an idiot.’

‘In what way?’ Connie made a mental note to have a word with him.

‘It was a case of “There, there dear. We’ve all got a lookalike somewhere.” And I said to him, “It didn’t just look like him. It
was
him.” But it didn’t make any difference, and by the end of the call it was just easier to agree with him. He treated me like I was a daft old bat. It’s what happens when you reach a certain age. You’ve got that to look forward to.’

Connie laughed. ‘You should see the way my colleague treats me. I think I’ve reached it already.’

Jane Reynolds narrowed her eyes. ‘You haven’t.’ And then smiled.

Connie changed tack. ‘How did he look? Andrew Fisher. Did he look well? Or like he’d been sleeping rough?’

The woman considered the question with the tip of the bourbon biscuit between her teeth. ‘He looked well. Relaxed. I was surprised at how well he looked. Considering he was supposed to be dead.’

Connie laughed again, and Jane Reynolds laughed too and then stopped abruptly. ‘I’ve heard about the body at Hale’s End. Is that why you’re asking me all these things? And I know it’s him. The boss in your place went round to see Andrew’s mum yesterday. We all know.’

Nothing stays secret around here
, thought Connie, and then realised how completely untrue that was. ‘Any idea why he would be in Whitby? There’s not much of a connection to the area. It’s a good three-hour drive from here.’

The woman shrugged. ‘No idea. He was always a funny one, Andrew. A real mummy’s boy. You wouldn’t have thought it to look at him. Big chunky lad that he was but he adored his mum. What did she say about Andrew being alive all these years?’

She was looking at Connie with a sharp expression. Should she tell her that Andrew’s mother had been kept in the dark too? Connie wondered what this must have cost a man who was so close to his parent.

Jane Reynolds was good at reading other people’s expressions. ‘You don’t think she knew?’ Jane Reynolds sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you. We’re good at keeping secrets round here. That’s as much as I’m going to say. But you won’t get far taking what everyone says at face value.’

Kat managed to get through most of the morning harnessed to adrenalin and caffeine. The fruit she’d brought for a snack lay in her bag untouched, but she’d made serious inroads into the packet of coffee she kept in the small kitchen fridge. Her head was buzzing in anger at the infliction she had put on her body, but the loud thud of her heart had as much to do with what was nestled in her handbag, wrapped in her scarf.

She sat in her therapy room and waited for Mark’s knock. The thought of his solid presence was both comforting and thrilling. Underneath that was a profound fear when she thought of what she had been given.

He was, as usual, exactly on time. She opened the door, and he smiled down at her, his scarred cheek puckering lopsidedly. ‘Come in.’ The relief washed over her. She let him enter the room first, and he strolled over to the seat at the far side of the room and settled himself in.

‘How are you?’ It was always him first. Asking after her welfare.

‘Fine. How are you?’ Her stock answer. Fine was all her clients ever got from her.

‘Not bad. I’ve been thinking about some of the things you spoke about in our last session. I’m sorry for texting you, by the way. I just wanted to thank you for giving me something to think about.’

He didn’t look sorry at all. Kat smiled, pleased, but said nothing.

‘When you said that not everything deserves a response. I appreciate you telling me about that. I’ve been thinking about it all week and I’ve decided not to reply. I’ve been mulling it over, and I think you’re right.
She’s
the one who chose the time to get in touch with me. Then suddenly I’m expected to drop everything and reply. I don’t have to do that, do I?’

Kat shifted in her seat. ‘Not if you don’t want to but, then again, if you wanted to reply, I would also encourage you to do so. It’s about taking control of your life.’

‘I don’t want to reply. It’s what I’ve decided. Thank you for supporting me in this.’ He looked closely at her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course, I’m fine. How have you been sleeping?’ As he talked, Kat watched as his foot, crossed over his leg, jigged up and down. His repressed energy both repelled and fascinated her. He noticed her looking and stilled his foot for a moment. Then carried on with his narrative, his foot resuming its syncopated rhythm.

She forced herself to focus on his words and not on the object that lay in her bag. It was pointless. Mark, for all his dysfunctional childhood, or perhaps because of it, was an expert at reading people’s moods. He was also adept at carrying the blame for other people’s problems. ‘I’m sorry. I feel that I’m boring you. I know you’ve heard it all before.’

Kat had hardly been listening, but her professional training kicked in. ‘I’m so sorry, Mark. It’s not you at all. Would you excuse me a minute while I get myself a glass of water?’ She wanted to burst into tears, hold on to him and cry like she’d once seen him do when he’d talked about his childhood. Instead, she escaped to the kitchen and laid her hot forehead against the cool wall tiles for a moment. Then she poured some water from the tap into a mug and swallowed the tepid liquid in one gulp.

When she returned to the counselling room, Mark was standing. ‘Are you sick? We can do this another time, if you want.’

She should have lied and said that she was ill. Professionally, it would have been the best thing to do. But the turmoil of her thoughts meant that all she could focus on was the package she had been handed earlier. ‘I’ve got a few problems that I need to sort out. It’s completely unprofessional of me. I think we should stop this session and rearrange it. As soon as possible, of course. These things do occasionally happen but it’s the first time for me.’ Kat felt tears prickle at the back of her eyes and stood up to hide them from him.

But Mark’s instincts were on full alert, and he crossed the room towards her. ‘I’ve heard about the body. There’s a rumour going around Bampton that it’s Andrew Fisher. Is that true? His wife is your sister, isn’t she?’

He was standing in front of her. She could smell soap – a citrus tang. Kat took a step back. ‘The Bampton rumour mill. I should’ve guessed it’d be in full swing by now.’ There was no chance of anonymity in this small town.

‘I thought you might cancel our session, what with everything that’s happened. I wouldn’t blame you but I was hoping you wouldn’t. Because I wanted to see you.’ He reached out a hand, and Kat braced herself. There was no further step away that she could make in this small room. Now was the time to tell him to go. That she’d call him to rearrange the session. He’d given her an opt-out by mentioning Andrew Fisher, but the monstrosity that she’d been given this morning needed, in its horror, normalising in some way. And here was a man who would recognise its significance. She took a deep breath. ‘Mark. Will you help me?’ As she uttered the words, she felt the walls of her professional training crumble around her.

He dropped his hand. ‘What’s the matter?’

She reached behind her chair and gently lifted her orange handbag. She pulled from its depths the object that had dominated her thoughts all day. She gingerly unwrapped it from its woollen covering and presented it to him, like a child offering a gift. He didn’t take it from her. ‘Who gave you this?’

‘A boy. This morning. He knocked on my door and said that he was a friend of Lena, my sister. Is it loaded?’

They both looked down at the gun. It didn’t look like the weapons you saw in the old cowboy films. Those were shiny with snub barrels. This one was long and sleek. Its wooden handle jutted out at a forty-five-degree angle with a long black barrel that resembled more a deadly fountain pen. ‘Have you touched it? With your hands, I mean?’ Mark’s voice was harsh.

‘I was scared to. It might be loaded. It fell out of the parcel it came in and then I picked it up with my scarf. I kept the end away from me.’

He was looking at her. His expression unreadable. He moved back and went to the small coffee table separating the two chairs and grabbed a handful of tissues. He then picked up the gun and examined it. ‘You needn’t have worried anyway. Here.’ He was pointing at something at the top of the gun. ‘This is the lock. It stops the gun from accidentally firing if you drop it. It’s engaged. In any case it wouldn’t have mattered. There’s no ammunition. Look.’ He angled the barrel towards her, and she could see the empty chamber. ‘The bullets slot in here.’

Kat let out a big sigh.

He looked at her. Gone was the nervy client she saw on a weekly basis. Instead he looked calm and determined. ‘Do you know what gun this is?’

‘Of course I don’t know. I don’t know anything about guns.’

‘Is anyone in your family German?’

‘German? Of course not. Why do you ask?’

‘What about the military? Did any of your family serve in the wars?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Dad was too young to fight Hitler. He was born in 1940. I don’t remember talk of either of my grandfathers serving in the First World War. What’s this about?’

Mark was examining the gun intently. ‘It’s a Luger. A German gun. They gave them to the troops. It’s a beautiful weapon and pretty collectible. Can your sister shoot?’

Kat repressed the desire to laugh. Because how much did she in fact know about her sister? The woman who had shocked everyone to the core by pleading guilty to the murder of her husband and who was clearly embroiled in a new subterfuge. ‘I don’t think she can. We never went hunting or anything. We weren’t a family into country pursuits. More reading and card games. I don’t
think
Lena can shoot.’

Mark wrapped the gun back in its woollen covering. ‘But the boy who gave it to you said he knew Lena.’

‘Yes. What do you think I should do?’

‘Do? You need to give it to the police. Have you any idea what the penalties are for illegal firearm possession in this country? You need to get rid of it as soon as possible.’

‘But what shall I say?’ She looked up at him, and, for the first time, the relationship shifted. Mark was no longer the man trying to come to terms with his fifteen-year-old self, making a decision to cleave himself from his parent and start afresh. What she saw instead was the person he’d become. Capable and calm.

‘You tell them the truth. Andrew Fisher was shot. You really don’t want to be found with it.’ He picked her bag up from the table and put the gun into it.

She took it from him. ‘I’m so sorry about dragging you into this.’

He was looking at her impassively. ‘Why did you show it to me?’

A wave of nausea washed over her. ‘I couldn’t bear it. When I saw it. It seemed so shocking, here in these rooms that I’ve tried to make a sanctuary for my clients.’

‘And?’

‘I had no intention of telling you. I was going to wait until I’d finished my sessions for today and then have a think but even when you arrived today, I felt a bit better. I knew you were someone who had at least seen a gun.’

Mark looked grim. ‘I’ve done more than see them. You were right to show me, but now you need to give it to the police. Do you want me to come to the station with you?’

Kat shook her head. ‘You’d better not. I’ve already breached client and therapist codes of conduct. I need to think about our future sessions.’

‘But we will still see each other?’

‘I need to think what’s best for you. I’m so sorry.’ She felt near tears again.

He stepped away from her. Surprising her, once more. ‘It’ll be fine. Everything in my life, I’ve done on instinct. It’s worked for me.’ He looked at her. ‘I have your mobile number. I’ll be in touch.’