A Dirty Death (12 page)

Sylvia laughed aloud. ‘Miranda’s wicked, isn’t she. Quite the wrong person to be involved in all this.’

‘All this? Being widowed, you mean?’
Widow
. Now there was another strange word. Black cloth covering your head and a fairytale son off to sell the cow …

‘And the rest. Coping with the paperwork, making decisions. I imagine you’re taking on most of that, as well?’

‘We’re managing. Most of it’s common sense, when it comes down to it.’

Sylvia looked at her, probing, as Cappy and Den had been, openly curious as to her state of mind.

‘Don’t stare at me,’ Lilah said, itchy with irritation. ‘People keep doing it, and it’s awful.’

‘Oh, Li, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about Miranda, and how you’re getting to look like her. Your hair grows exactly the same as hers does – I never noticed before.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s a widow’s peak.’ The joke seemed to come from somewhere else – Guy’s spirit possessing her, never missing a chance to make a wordplay.

‘Oh, my love. You’ll be all right, you will. She’s bloody lucky to have you, and I hope she knows it.’

Lilah couldn’t think of an appropriate answer to that.

‘Tell her I’ll be round in a day or two, will you?’

Lilah nodded, still wordless, and the woman turned towards Sarah, who was making a commotion about a small cloud of midges dancing above her head.

The sun sank gloriously over Jonathan’s nicely-framed horizon, and plates of steak and salad were passed around. Lilah tried to be sociable, but as Miranda had predicted, everyone but the Mabberleys seemed uneasy with her. She concentrated on the food, although an odd swollen sensation in her stomach meant that she could manage little of it. She felt vaguely uneasy, as if tears could well up at any moment.

Father Edmund came over to her, somehow
giving the impression that duty was forcing him against his will. ‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ he said unctuously. ‘I do hope you’re feeling a little better now, after your terrible shock.’

‘Not much,’ she said, with a little smile of apology.

He gave her a desultory pat on the shoulder before drifting over to the punch bowl. He seemed dispirited, even mildly depressed, and Lilah recalled with some amusement Jonathan’s assertion that the vicar could be entertaining in his cups. Either that point was still to be reached, or tonight was an exception. Anyone less entertaining would be hard to imagine.

Next, the Wing Commander finally found some nerve, and huffed and growled an acknowledgement of her presence, but made no reference to Guy; his embarrassment was tangible, and Lilah released them both from the discomfort by suddenly deciding she should go to the loo. She spent ten minutes in the small downstairs lavatory, trying desperately to remember how it felt to be normal and relaxed among people she knew. Only the fear of attracting further unwelcome attention gave her the strength to go back to the patio.

When she resumed her place, Father Edmund seemed to be trying to act as self-elected marriage guidance counsellor to Tim and Sarah. He glided between them across the flagstones, carrying his plate awkwardly, offering to fetch a drink for
Sarah, or suggesting to Tim that he might be working too hard. Lilah wondered whether he really cared about them, or whether it was all an act, part of the role he saw himself in as village priest. Tim seemed impatient with him, barely replying to the softly-voiced questions. He shot furious glances at Sarah now and then, which she made a poor show of failing to notice. Lilah could think of only one occasion on which Tim and Sarah had not been angry with each other, and that had been before they were married. Since the big village wedding complete with marquee and orange blossom, they had generated a mutual fury which alternately amused and frightened anyone in contact with them.

Jonathan sent small friendly smiles across at Lilah whenever he was turned her way. The Wing Commander had him pinioned against a granite horse trough full of nasturtiums and begonias, haranguing him about the depredations of tourists. ‘Grockles’, he called them, apparently thinking he was being rather daringly original by so doing. ‘Why they bother to come, I can’t imagine,’ he boomed. ‘When all they do is clutter up the village shops and make a noise at night.’

Jonathan nodded and frowned, conveying perfect sympathy and commiseration. Silky-smooth, he let the older man believe that he was in perfect accord. Not by so much as a glint in his eye did
he betray what he really felt. Lilah knew he liked the visitors – why else would he let them use his woods? She had seen him pretending to be the local Squire, chatting to Americans and city-dwellers as they got out of their cars in the village to photograph the pub or the War Memorial.

‘They seem to gravitate here more all the time,’ pursued the Wing Commander. ‘We must be in some infernal guidebook or something. And the season starts earlier each year. Did you hear about that minibus, full of French housewives, on Easter Monday? Demanding teas at the Post Office, for some unknown reason.’

Jonathan laughed nastily, perfectly expressing his profound contempt for stupid French housewives.

‘And that Irishman – I told you about him, did I? Tramping across my garden with binoculars. I’d have taken him for a spy not so long ago. Said he’d heard we’d got some lesser spotted something-or-other and had come for a look. Obviously tommy rot. I still wish I knew what he was up to.’

‘A bit obvious, if he
was
a spy,’ suggested Jonathan gently.

‘Maybe so. I didn’t say he
was
a spy. Just up to something. Or a damned fool, most likely. Thought he’d get a close view of Dartmoor from here, I shouldn’t wonder. He had a backpack, sleeping bag, the whole shooting match. Hiked
from Ballymajiggery by the look of him.’

Jonathan had done his bit to be sociable and stepped back. ‘Please have another glass of the punch. It’ll all be gone soon. I’ll fetch you some.’

‘No, no, my boy. I must be off. Doreen worries – well, no need to go into that.’ He didn’t move for a moment, while a lost look crossed his face. Then he made a big show of not breaking up the party, and thanking Cappy for her hospitality with elaborately old-fashioned formality.

Lilah took her chance. ‘
I’ll
have that punch, then,’ she said, bouncing up beside Jonathan. ‘Gosh, doesn’t he go on!’

‘Sshh.’ He glanced around to be sure the Wing Commander hadn’t heard. ‘Poor old chap – you have to pity him.’

‘Maybe, but mostly he’s just a pain in the neck. How could you be such a
creep
with him? You don’t agree with all that stuff about grockles.’

‘How do
you
know?’ He pulled a childish face at her, a kid in the playground. ‘Anyway, how’s the detective work going? Last time I saw you, you were knee-deep in clues.’

This was dangerous territory. ‘I was just being stupid. I decided to leave it all to the police.’

‘Oh? What does that mean? Either that you’ve decided to get on with your life, or that I’m now one of the suspects. Trust nobody – that’s what they say, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t think I want to talk about it, if that’s all right.’

‘If that’s what you want,’ he said submissively, before striding across the patio to where Tim and Sarah were standing at arm’s length, preparing to leave. ‘Going so soon? And I hoped we were going to make a night of it!’

Cappy was beside Lilah again. ‘Don’t feel you have to go,’ she said. ‘It’s early yet.’ But it was almost dark and Lilah knew she must get home soon. Any later and Jonathan would insist on driving her the half-mile home, which she realised she didn’t want.
Trust nobody
he had said, presumably in fun. Suddenly she felt cold. What would that be like – having nobody she could trust? Never accepting lifts or favours, never taking words at face value. Sam, Roddy, her mother, Sylvia, Jonathan himself … which of them could genuinely be trusted? Already Father Edmund caused her to question his motives, and everyone knew the Wing Commander had ample reason to abhor her father and his family. So who did that leave?

One person only, apart from friends who were all at college. One pillar of reliability seemed to stand out in a landscape of deception: Police Constable Den Cooper.

The walk back was cool and the light faded fast. White daisies stood out luminously at the edge of the field, and a near-full moon appeared above the horizon. After a few minutes, away from the lights on Jonathan’s patio, Lilah’s eyes adjusted, and she could see her way quite easily. The choice to return by the way she had come had been greeted with mild concern by Cappy, but she had insisted, sturdily claiming to be able to get home blindfolded if necessary.

Nobody had said anything about the likelihood of a savage maniac hiding in the hedge, ready to jump out at her, and she hadn’t given it a thought herself, despite Den’s assertions the day before. She had wandered the fields since she was six or
seven, a small pagan creature, finding birds’ nests, digging for the elusive nut at the end of the sorrel root, scanning the ground for four-leaved clovers. The idea that there might be something to fear was unreal to her – it was the stuff of myths or nightmares, something that bore no relation to how things were in
her
fields, in
her
home village. This was a sparsely inhabited area, at best; if she were to meet anyone, it would be someone she knew. Later that night, she was forced to admit that she had been an idiot, that murder was something terrible and serious and not to be so easily brushed out of mind. But on this evening, after the reassuring session at the Mabberleys’, she stepped lightly and fearlessly.

Her route did not lie through woodland, but through open fields. Even so, the hedges between the fields were high, and even Lilah’s fearless heart beat a little faster as she crossed a small, neglected area which Guy had never bothered to cultivate. An old oak grew alone, close to the corner of the field; the twenty feet or so between it and the hedge was long grass, with docks and cow parsley in it.

A grunting sound was the first indication that the long grass concealed something alive. Lilah’s stomach gave a little lurch of apprehension, mainly because she was unable to identify the source of the sound. Peering into the shadow thrown by the
tree, she detected movement, and a sizeable shape, almost as big as a cow. But slowly the grunting became human, its rhythm connecting with her own bloodstream, until she knew with a flash of shock that it came from a man in the process of copulation. How she could be sure was beyond rational explanation. It was something a person just
knew
.

Torn between wanting to look away, pretend that nothing was happening, and a curiosity as to who these shameless individuals could be, she hovered, her heart thumping with the strangeness of the situation. The shape, as she glanced again, resolved into a woman on all fours, with the man behind her, gripping her hips, knees slightly bent, moving only a little. No violent thrusting, but a much gentler action, feeling his way, the grunts purely of pleasure. Lilah had no idea who they could be, after an initial wild assumption that the man must be Sam. Pondering this later, she wondered why she should think such a thing. This man had a frizz of curly hair, and narrow shoulders, and he was much taller than Sam. The woman was so hidden by the grass and the shadow, her head dropped forward, face hidden by a curtain of long black hair; it was impossible to recognise her. She was naked from the waist down. There was nothing to suggest coercion, no reason to storm in and create a fuss, or cry rape.

Still hesitant, Lilah concluded they must be a pair of grockles, enjoying the country air. It was the only explanation that made any sense. Gradually she edged away, anxious not to be seen, the potential embarrassment unbearable to contemplate. She was sweating, she realised, and the throb of her heart had spread through her body, in sympathy with the sensual pleasure going on so close by. Sex was no mystery to her; for the two years in the sixth form she’d had a boyfriend, to whom she had lost her virginity, and she had had a sporadic physical relationship with another boy since then. And nobody could possess a television set and not have a detailed knowledge of the process in a good many of its guises. But she couldn’t avoid a stirring of excitement at this encounter; even her nipples were tingling, as she moved further away.

At last she dared to run, not caring whether she made a noise. It was close to ten o’clock and really dark as she reached the yard, and flung in through the back door. Roddy would be in bed, but avoiding Miranda might prove difficult. She was sure to want to know how the barbecue had gone, and who had been there.

Better face it, then
, she thought, and went through into the sitting room. Her mother was knitting, all alone in front of the telly, cosy and domestic and middle-aged. ‘You look like
someone’s Granny,’ said Lilah, still breathless.

‘And you look like you’ve run all the way back. What’s the matter?’ Miranda spoke lazily, as if half asleep, and only mildly interested. Lilah realised she need not have worried about explanations. Her mother was so detached these days, she hardly noticed anything.

‘I was late. I thought you might be worried.’

Miranda shrugged. ‘Was it fun?’ she asked.

‘Not bad. Sylvia was there. Says she’ll be round in a day or two. Everyone was wary of me, as if I might have something catching. Cappy was nice, though.’ As she spoke, the decision made itself not to mention the couple in the long grass. It wasn’t something that was easy to talk about.

Miranda looked regretful. ‘I might have gone if I’d known Sylvia was going.’

‘Yes. That’s what I thought. But you probably wouldn’t have liked it much. It was quite dull, on the whole. Tim and Sarah didn’t help.’

‘They need their heads knocking together,’ Miranda commented flatly. It had been Guy’s line, and Lilah was irritated to hear her mother quoting him so unthinkingly.

‘At least it was good to get out,’ she said.

Miranda sighed dramatically, and tossed the knitting into a basket beside her. ‘I can’t stand much more of this,’ she exploded, coming to life without any warning. ‘It’s no bloody way to live.’

‘What on earth do you mean? What’s happened?’

‘Oh, nothing. That’s the problem. It’s as if everything’s frozen. I’m supposed to believe that Guy’s been murdered by someone who hated his guts, but for all I know the police have given up any hope of catching the person, or finding out why it happened. What a mess. I just keep thinking, if only Guy could see all this, how he’d laugh about it. Typical, he’d say. Typical British incompetence. I can
hear
him saying it.’

‘I think they’re doing quite a lot behind the scenes. They took all those papers and stuff from his office. And that’s probably all they’ve got to go on, seeing as how they didn’t find anything by the pit, apart from that shoe.’

‘Well, how could they? Sam washed all the evidence away.’

‘Did
you
think he’d been murdered, then? On the day it happened? Because I certainly didn’t.’

Miranda said nothing for a long moment. ‘I heard something,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think anything of it at the time. And then I decided I should keep quiet.’

Lilah’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What was it? When?’

‘Guy shouting at somebody. Nothing unusual in that, though it was very early. I’ve no idea what he was saying – probably just yelling at one of the cows.’

‘No. The cows weren’t in the yard when it happened. Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Think about it, darling. Who does Guy shout at, more than anyone else?’

‘Well – Sam, I suppose … Christ Almighty, Mum – you don’t think Sam killed him. Do you?’

‘I’m trying not to, but you must admit—’

Lilah hugged herself tightly, trying to think. Had she been a complete fool not to come to the same conclusion? Had she somehow put her mind on hold, refusing to allow it to see the obvious? She shuddered, and stared unseeing at the television.

‘No. He couldn’t have done that. Not just couldn’t because of who he is, but
he
couldn’t. I saw him, coming out of the privy. There was no muck on him. He was as shocked as I was. There wouldn’t have been time.’

Miranda spread her hands. ‘I expect you’re right,’ she said, meekly. ‘Though if I’m forced to choose, I think I’d prefer it to have been Sam, someone we know, who wouldn’t harm either of us, than some crazed outsider who might decide to pick us all off. And I suppose it would be possible to have done it without actually getting into the slurry. With a long pole or something.’

‘What about that shoe? That wasn’t Sam’s.’

‘Apparently not,’ Miranda narrowed her eyes. ‘Though I can’t say I take much notice of his shoes.’

‘But Mum. It’s a
terrible
thing to think.’

‘Well, maybe it is to you. I find it the lesser evil. I’m not scared exactly, but the thought has crossed my mind that we might be more vulnerable than we think.’

‘Don’t you think they’d have done it by now, if they were going to attack us? Everyone keeps saying we should be frightened, but if they really thought we were at risk, they’d protect us.’

‘How? Billet a policeman on us, every night? No. If you ask me, I’d say they’re fairly sure it’s Sam or someone who knows us well. They’re just stuck for evidence.’

‘So what about the Grimms? Where do they fit into your theory?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ sighed Miranda. ‘I suppose it might just be a coincidence. It’s not as if it was the same sort of killing. There wasn’t a mark on Guy. If he was killed deliberately, the killer must simply have held him down until he drowned. Not a bit like smashing a person’s head in with a blunt instrument. So maybe it was a tramp or a thief that attacked the Grimms, as people seem to be assuming.’

‘Well, I’m going to bed. We’re just going round in circles.’ Lilah went to draw the curtains across the window, staring out warily onto the dark yard first. ‘You know, Mum, it’s a big relief to talk about it.’

‘Is it? Just stirs everything up, if you ask me. Night, night, anyway. See you in the morning.’

Lilah still missed the goodnight kiss which Guy had always given her. Miranda had been dismissive of the sentimental ritual, never even noticing who was going to bed or when. Her recital now was unusual, and Lilah had a strange impression that her mother was, perhaps consciously, adopting some of Guy’s persona, rather as she herself was doing. Perhaps it had to do with needing some of his strength, in order to cope.

‘Night night, Mum. Make sure all the doors are locked, okay?’

‘I just wish we still had a dog. Make a lot of difference, a dog would.’

Lilah didn’t answer, but carried on to bed. The dark landing at the top of the stairs was suddenly full of man-shaped shadows, tucked in beside the big wardrobe that had overflowed from the bedrooms, or lurking in the space between Roddy’s room and the old mullioned window that was the farmhouse’s most interesting architectural feature. The bulb in the landing light had expired weeks ago, and nobody had replaced it. They seldom switched that one on anyway. Illumination filtered very faintly from downstairs, but until she could reach her own room, she was effectively in darkness. It annoyed her that she was frightened by this for the first time since she
and Roddy had played Murder in the Dark as children, deliberately scaring themselves half to death.

Outside, amongst the farm buildings, not a single light was on. Guy had deplored the modern habit of keeping them on all night, and part of his nightly ritual was to ensure that everything was switched off. It struck Lilah for the first time that this meant that anything could be going on unobserved, since there was no dog to bark. With considerable force, a new fear flooded through her. As if waking from a coma, the emotion came like a dam bursting. They were all in real danger. Somebody had murdered Guy, and escaped free, his identity probably not even suspected. There were people in places where there should not be – the couple this evening had proved that.

She had argued with Den when he had tried to warn her. She still believed, in her rational mind, that she was not going to be murdered in her bed. But the encounter that evening had shaken her severely, and opened her up to a terror that made her weak.

Hurriedly she undressed, spent two minutes in the bathroom, and jumped into bed, pulling the blankets over her head. Before falling asleep she concluded that the only hope of safety was to discover her father’s killer quickly and produce evidence enough to convict him. Until then, surely
it wouldn’t be possible to feel easy. But – what if it
was
Sam? How would she feel if she discovered evidence that proved that Sam had killed Guy? Without Sam, the farm would collapse around them …

When she did finally fall asleep, she dreamt vividly of the copulating couple in the field. The man was the vicar and the woman was Sylvia, and they were grinning horribly as they made love, joined by a grossly elongated penis. His grey suit was covered in grass seeds, and his hair had slurry over it, like a cap. Sylvia had hitched up her skirt and her wide white thighs enveloped the man. Creeping up behind them was a kind of yeti, carrying a caveman’s club, ready to bring it down on their heads. Lilah, as she watched, felt a thrill of anticipation, wanting them to be smashed to the ground, broken to pieces for their wickedness, destroyed for their sin.