Death of a Friend (30 page)

And so Silas knelt stiffly on the good Persian carpet and rubbed a damp rag over it, hoping to remove the stains and smells left by the dog.
What a life
, he thought grimly as he worked.
It all goes for nothing in the end
. Bill and Charlie both dead and Hannah losing her wits in Dorothy’s upstairs room. It was all due to Frank, of course. Everything had always been due to Frank, right from the very start. Old Sarah Beamish had called him a changeling child, a reject from the fairies, and even stolid Silas could see what she meant. Frank Gratton was from a place of darkness, and Silas had come to fear him in the same confused and awestruck way Hannah and Bill had feared him. For Silas had guessed the secret, long, long ago.

Dorothy Mansfield watched the disintegration of the Quaker Meeting membership with horrified disbelief. Throughout Saturday afternoon her telephone kept ringing as messages of disaster mounted up. Mandy Aspen told her she couldn’t take any more responsibility for the Meeting House because Clive had been questioned by the police and had just announced he was no longer a Quaker.

‘What is he then?’ asked Dorothy in exasperation.

‘He’s an Anglican,’ said Mandy, in such a hollow tone that Dorothy couldn’t help but laugh.

Silas Daggs had rambled incoherently about 
Hannah’s nephew Frank. One or two of the things he said caused Dorothy’s spine to prickle. She cut him short, afraid of the revelation she was already coming close to guessing.

Miriam Snow rang, so full of burbling good cheer that the contrast with everyone else’s gloom was grotesque. When Dorothy told her there would probably not be anybody at Meeting next day, Miriam refused to listen. ‘Barty and I will be there,’ she said happily. ‘We want to share our joy with everyone.’ Dorothy gave up.

Which left only Val and Polly. Dorothy decided to pre-empt the inevitable by phoning Val. ‘I’m just warning you that Meeting tomorrow will be very sparse,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure how much you know of what’s been happening?’

Val’s voice was strained. ‘I know Bill died,’ she said. ‘And … has Clive been arrested?’

‘No! Why ever would he be?’

‘I thought perhaps …’ Dorothy could hear the long, shaky intake of breath. ‘I think he’s been abusing little boys,’ Val said in a rush. ‘I’ve turned a blind eye for a long time. I know what it does to a person’s reputation to be under that sort of suspicion, but it’s bound to come out now.’

Dorothy did not want to hear any more. ‘Don’t
tell me about it,’ she said crossly. ‘You of all people know where your duty lies. Just do it, and leave me out of it.’

And with that she unplugged the phone from its socket and returned to the task of consoling the heartbroken Hannah Gratton.

Val mustered all her courage and phoned the Meeting House. Mandy answered and listened in silence as Val poured out all her suspicions, breaking all guidelines about inappropriate disclosures. When she petered to a halt, Mandy spoke. ‘Rubbish! It was Clive himself who made the report about the Nesbitt boy. He knows now he was wrong.
Wrong
, do you hear? Leave me alone, Val. The whole truth will come out soon enough. I can’t take any more for now.’

Clive was standing in the doorway between their bedroom and the living room. She turned away from him, gritting her teeth against further tears. A vision of her marriage as a heavy object, suspended over an abyss by the slenderest of threads, came to her mind’s eye. One more episode like last night and this morning, one more unkind word like those he had just spoken, and she would go. She could already see herself, carrying a single suitcase, catching the bus to Exeter, the train to London, or – even better – Birmingham, where she
would start a new life without him. The feeling of freedom and lightness that went with this fantasy was in itself a sure sign that it was the right thing to do. Clive wasn’t going to get any better. She’d never be able to convince him that the only source of disturbance in her life was Clive himself.

Well, she wasn’t going to play the game any longer. It would destroy her if she didn’t get out. She looked at him, where he had started noisily tidying up a small pile of newspapers and letters, as he did every day; he could never go to bed until everything was completely clear. All the surfaces empty and clean; the cushions straight; the curtains tightly closed. Mandy often felt as if she lived in a sort of limbo, where every personal possession was removed from her at nightfall. In the morning, she had to begin over again, searching through drawers and cupboards for the book or needlework of the day before. Part of her rapidly-strengthening vision of the future was a blessedly cluttered home, where she could put a thing down one day and find it undisturbed the next.

‘I mean what I say,’ she told him. ‘I’m not staying here any longer. I’m going to pack a bag and take the car and go to my mother’s.’

‘You’d desert me, would you?’ She could see fear in his eyes, although his voice gave no hint
of it. ‘So much for wifely duty. “In sickness and in health” you promised. But there’s nothing the matter with me now. I keep telling you – what happened before was a result of trying to force myself to live a dishonest life. I was keeping the lid on so much that it had to fly off in the end. You know that.’

‘And now you’re living truthfully?’ The sarcasm was like a blow in the face. She saw him wince.

‘Now I’ve seen my mistake, of course I am. Can you doubt it?’

‘Your truth is not the same as mine,’ she said, more gently. ‘From here it looks as if you’ve built up a whole mountain of nonsense with not a
grain
of truth in it. I wonder whether you’re even capable of recognising truth any more.’

It felt wonderful, as if her feet were no longer in contact with the ground. The heady exhilaration of finally saying what she really felt, telling him her own true thoughts, was immensely liberating. It didn’t matter now if he hit her, if he ran screaming down the street, if he called her the most terrible names he could find. She was free.

He narrowed his eyes and rested two white-knuckled hands on the edge of the table he’d been clearing. Mandy almost giggled; he looked so much like a pantomime villain. She
stared at him in fascination. Clive was
exactly
the sort of figure people must imagine when they wanted to scare themselves. Tall, dressed in black, bearded, unsmiling. The giggle died away. She took a step back, fearing for her own battered mental stability.

‘Goodbye, Clive. I’ll be gone in ten minutes.’

Den sat beside Phil as they drove over the Moor to Ashburton, the sun sinking in the sky already. He leant his head on the rest behind him and closed his eyes. Thinking of Clem Nesbitt, he remembered a dream from the night before, about his own biological father and his mother’s second husband and young Gary. The dream had been painful. Den and Gary had been playing football in a park when their two fathers appeared and started shouting. At first Den had thought they were merely shouting instructions on how to tackle, and he had been intent on earning their approval as Gary dodged and grinned and sneaked the ball from between Den’s long legs, but gradually he understood that his own father was fighting with Gary’s. They were wrestling, arms locked together, trying to throw each other to the ground. Den forgot the football and ran to the men. His mother appeared, screaming at Den to stop the fight.

The two faces were red with exertion and anger. They were fighting over
him
and he was supposed to choose one over the other. ‘Dad!’ he shouted. ‘I choose Dad!’ knowing the name applied to both contenders. His mother sank to the ground in tears.

Children are lousy judges of character
, Den reminded himself now.

Phil broke a long silence with a comment about the heavy workload the day had brought them. ‘What time are we meant to get home this evening?’ he grumbled.

‘It’s all right for you – I’ve got to see the Nesbitt woman after this. It’ll be dark before I even reach her at this rate.’

A forensics team met them at Frank Gratton’s stables, with little of importance to report thus far. Den and Phil were expecting to don the protective clothing and help with a search of the house. Den was not eager; rummaging through the contents of a suspect’s home always felt like a gross invasion of privacy. The exertion of legal force over the wishes of the individual was a violence that bothered him. In at least half the occasions on which he had searched a private home, the suspect turned out to be innocent, or at least not proven guilty. Twice he had been part of a team that literally ripped a place apart. They cut the seats from dining
chairs, pulled up fitted carpets, took every book down from the shelves, shaking each one in turn. In both cases, not a thing had been found. The guilt he felt at the destruction still remained with him.

In Frank Gratton’s case, there was mercifully little need for such brutality. Bloodstains on clothes; horseshoes fitting Charlie’s scars: these were the only kinds of evidence they could feasibly hope to discover.

The stables had a deserted air. No dogs came running to challenge them. Nothing stirred in the house. Frank, forewarned of the invasion, had opted to make himself scarce, it seemed. Den could hardly blame him, despite the theoretical requirement that the homeowner be present during a police search.

And then a vehicle came up the lane leading to the farm, driven by a young woman. She braked hard beside a woodpile and jumped out of the pickup. She was tall with broad shoulders and a long ponytail, and looked about twenty-five. She wore a sleeveless singlet under an unbuttoned man’s check shirt. Phil made the wordless sound of approval that men everywhere made at such a sight.

‘Frank’s stable hand,’ muttered Den.

‘This is more like it,’ said Phil laddishly.

‘Hello!’ called the girl. ‘Frank asked me to
be here, instead of him. I hope that’s all right? Is there some trouble?’

‘You probably know that his brother died nearly two weeks ago,’ said Phil, trotting towards her. ‘Charlie Gratton? Kicked to death by a horse.’

The girl frowned. ‘But he lives
miles
away. What’s it got to do with Frank? He never goes to see any of his family.’

‘Could we all go into the house now? We have to conduct a search.’

‘Well, I have to feed the horses. I thought you just wanted—’

Two white-clad forensics men emerged from a far building, beyond the stable block. They strolled towards Den, looking like aliens. ‘We need to examine the horses,’ said one. ‘Are they all out in the fields?’

The girl hesitated. ‘All but two. You might already have seen them? A Shetland mare and her new foal. I think you can safely assume they didn’t trample anybody.’

‘Making how many in total?’

‘Eight, including the foal.’

‘Could you fetch the other six in, please? We have to look at their feet.’

Den discreetly detached himself. One of the forensic men was experienced with horses and knew what he was doing. They would have to
take plaster casts of each hoof in turn – a task that was not going to be simple.

‘Give me five minutes,’ said the girl, with a resigned sigh. ‘I’ll get them into that stable there, look. After that, it’s up to you. They’re all perfectly quiet, so you should be okay.’

‘We need to ask you some questions,’ said Den.

She paused. ‘Which comes first? Horses or questions?’ She looked from one pair of men to the other.

‘If we walk down to the paddock together, maybe we can combine the two,’ Den suggested, still reluctant to embark on the search of the house.

‘Okay,’ she shrugged. ‘You’re the boss.’

‘Are you here every day?’ he began.

‘Yes. I’m here every afternoon, to exercise the hunters and get them ready for the classes. Frank teaches adults to ride. I do some feeding and grooming, but Frank does most of it. He drives himself too hard.’

‘Can you remember whether you were here on Sunday and Monday, 28th and 29th of March?’

‘I would have been, yes.’

‘Was Mr Gratton here as well?’

‘I don’t remember for sure, but there’s a diary that’ll have the lessons in. If he needs an
alibi, I can check the exact times for you.’

‘Did he never have any visitors from the Okehampton or Tavistock area, to your knowledge?’

‘Only Mrs Nesbitt,’ she said carelessly.

‘What? Nina, you mean?’

‘No. Her name’s Hermione. Quite a grand lady.’

‘How often did she come?’

‘Not that often. Once a month, at most. Usually on a Monday or a Tuesday. I think she goes to Buckfastleigh afterwards. She’s keen on bees and goes there to talk to the monks. I went with her once. She’s very well-informed.’

‘Sounds as if you like her.’ Sadly, it occurred to him that the visits might well cease from then on. Routines assumed to be permanent were another casualty of violent events. Everything for Frank Gratton was about to change.

Phil was struggling to keep up. ‘The old girl from the Tamar Valley? Mother of Charlie’s best mate? Am I getting this right?’ He looked to Den for confirmation.

Den nodded curtly. This was no way to conduct an interview with a possible witness. Before he could form another question, there was a sudden shout, followed by the clip-clop of a cantering horse.

‘Bloody hell! What do they think they’re
doing?’ the girl cried. ‘They’ve let Jasper escape.’ The forensics men had gone ahead of the threesome, and opened the paddock gate. Six horses had crowded eagerly towards them, looking for their beloved master. They had jostled the men in good-natured impatience, and before order could be restored, one large black individual had got himself through the gate. Sensing a change of routine and an intoxicating chance of freedom, he began to head determinedly up the lane towards the road.

The girl ran for her truck, in great distress. ‘He’ll get killed!’ she gasped. ‘If he gets onto the road, something’ll hit him.’

And he will get onto the road,
thought Den coolly.
He’ll be there already, at that speed.
He remembered seeing a dead horse in a road, years before. The huge body, with the elegant neck twisted and the lips drawn back in agony, was something he never wanted to see again.

With amazing speed and dexterity, the girl turned her vehicle and sped after the horse. Den wondered how she thought she could save it, and realised she was relying on him and the others to help. ‘Come on!’ he ordered the three others. ‘We’ll have to go up there and stop the traffic.’

It turned out to be much easier than he
feared. The horse had not chosen to run along the road, but had charged straight across it and into the grounds of a large house opposite. The girl jumped out of her truck and ran after the absconder. Den and Phil, emerging from the end of the lane, were unsure of what to do. ‘Hope she doesn’t want us to round it up,’ said Phil. ‘I’m not very good with horses.’