The Crow Trap (27 page)

Today, though, she wouldn’t have the nerve to carry it off.

These thoughts, and others, had kept her awake for most of the night and when she parked by his office she still wasn’t sure what she would do.

It was mid morning. The mist had cleared and it was already very hot.

Godfrey had his offices in a functional concrete block which had been built in the 1970s, close to the river on the outskirts of the town, an attempt by the council to attract employment. Anne waited, and watched the cormorants standing on the staithes in the river.

At twelve o’clock a stream of women came out of the building to eat their sandwiches by the river. The Borders Building Society had their headquarters there and the women wore identical navy skirts and patterned polyester blouses. They lay on the grass and pulled up their skirts as far as was decent to expose their legs to the sun.

Still Anne waited. She had parked so she could watch the main entrance, and though the car was like a greenhouse she didn’t go outside to sit with the others on the grass. Here she felt hidden. She hadn’t committed herself to anything. She could still pull back from confronting him, from saying, “Tell me, Godfrey, what did happen out there on the hill between you and Grace Fulwell?”

Then he was there, standing on the step just outside the big swing doors as if the bright sunlight was a surprise. He walked, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back, along the road towards the town centre.

She slid out of the car and followed, not stopping even to lock the door. He would be going into Kimmerston to buy lunch. There would be a cafe or sandwich shop which he used regularly. She would go in after him, as if by chance, and she’d say, “I didn’t know you came here too.”

Instead he stopped before he reached the shopping area. In the angle formed by two main streets was the parish church, St. Bartholomew’s.

The churchyard was separated from the roads by low stone walls and where they met at the corner was a wooden lych-gate; sheltered by its wooden roof was a drift of pink confetti. Godfrey went through the gate, scuffing the confetti with his feet.

Even then Anne assumed he was looking for food because that was still in her mind. The church at Langholme occasionally held open house, provided soup, bread and cheese and sent the proceeds to a third world charity. She thought something like that was happening here, though there were no posters inviting passers-by to lunch and nobody else was about. The sun and the chase down the noisy road had confused her.

But she followed him in, expecting to find bosomy ladies in flowery aprons, stalls set out at the back of the church with a tea urn and thick white china cups. The buzz of parish gossip. Instead there was silence.

She had hesitated for a moment in the deep shadow of the porch. It was cool there. In the corners more confetti had been blown. A big wedding had apparently taken place the weekend before. Then she pushed open the studded door. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass above the altar, down the aisle into her eyes. The church was still decorated by the wedding flowers huge white and gold blooms on each window in crystal vases, and the crystal reflected the coloured light too.

At first she stood, embarrassed, thinking that she’d interrupted a service and that people were staring at her as they’d all stared at Vera Stanhope when she crashed into the crem chapel in the middle of Bella’s funeral. Then her eyes adjusted to the light. She saw that she and Godfrey were the only people in the building and Godfrey hadn’t even noticed her coming in.

He was sitting near the front of the church in a pew close to the aisle but he didn’t seem to be praying. They had never discussed religion.

She wondered if perhaps that was an explanation for his jumpiness, his change of moods towards her he had moral qualms about adultery. But now he looked more like someone waiting for a bus than facing a spiritual crisis. He glanced nervously at his watch. Perhaps he had arranged to meet someone but then surely he would have turned occasionally to check the door and still he hadn’t seen her. Even when she walked down the aisle towards him and her shoes must have made a sound on the stone floor he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the front of the church.

She slipped into the pew behind him and said conversationally, “I never took you for the religious type, Godfrey.”

“Anne.” He spoke before turning to face her and when he did, she couldn’t tell whether or not he was pleased to see her.

“Or perhaps you’ve got something to confess.”

“What do you mean?” “Four days,” she said lightly. “And you’ve not been in touch. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’ve been busy.”

He didn’t reply.

“Why did you rush off like that when you’d been on the hill?” She couldn’t keep up this jokey tone any longer. “Why didn’t you come into Baikie’s to say goodbye?”

“I was upset,” he said at last.

“What about? Being caught with your pants down? Or had something else happened to upset you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to know what happened on the hill that afternoon.”

He twisted his watch face so he could see it. The strap was loose.

This was a nervous gesture she hadn’t noticed before. That and his continued silence got under her skin so she shouted, “For Christ’s sake, I’m asking you if you killed Grace Fulwell!”

She sensed her voice fill the church, become muffled by echo in its corners, in the high boat-shaped roof.

“No,” he said. “Of course I didn’t kill her.” There was a trace of irritation in his voice which reassured her more than the words.

“Have the police been to see you yet?” she asked.

“Why would they?”

“Because of the quarry. They think Grace might have been killed because she’d discovered something which would stop the development going ahead.”

“God, who dreamed up that theory?”

“The inspector in charge, a woman called Stanhope.” “You told her it was ridiculous?”

“I haven’t told her anything.” She spoke slowly, giving the words extra weight.

He looked up from his watch. “So she doesn’t know I was there that day?”

“No.”

“I wasn’t sure what to do. There’ve been television appeals asking people to come forward, anyone who was near Black Law. I was going to go. I could say I was doing a site visit. Then I thought if you hadn’t told them I was there it might look strange. I suppose I could say I didn’t go into the house. I could say I went straight onto the hill. What do you think?”

“For Christ’s sake, Godfrey, I’m not your mother.”

“No, no, I’m sorry.”

“Did you see Grace?”

“Only in the distance. She walked too fast for me to catch her up.”

“Did you see anyone else?” “No.” She thought she had sensed a slight hesitation, then decided she had imagined it. His panic was making her rattled too.

“There doesn’t seem much point then.”

“But my car was parked in your yard. I drove down the track. Anyone might have seen it. What will the police think if someone else reports it before I do?”

“How should I fucking know!”

He looked as shocked as if she had hit him. He had never liked her swearing. Memories of the other times calmed her a bit.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But it is your decision, you know, it has to be!”

“I’ve been worried about it.”

“So have I.”

“I mean how would it look?”

Keep your cool, girl, she thought. “You mean if Barbara found out that you’d been sneaking away for illicit picnics in the hills?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “Not that. The press hasn’t got hold of the quarry angle yet but it’s only time. You can image the headlines.

Conservationist killed on site of proposed new development. The planning process is slow enough. I need this project to go ahead.” He paused. “If only I could be sure the police won’t find out.” “Well, I’ve told no one. Grace can’t. I suppose there’s an outside chance that the murderer saw you but he’s hardly likely to go blabbing to the police that he was on the hill. So unless you’ve told anyone, how will Inspector Stanhope ever know?”

There was a moment’s silence and she added, “You haven’t talked to anyone, have you, Godfrey?” “No,” he said. “Of course not.”

She looked at him closely but didn’t push it.

“So?” she asked. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“It’s quiet. I come here sometimes when I need to get out of the office.”

“Not religious then? No hang-ups about adultery? I wondered.”

“No hang-ups at all about you.”

He stood up, straightened his tie, looked again at his watch. “I suppose I should get back.”

“Should I slip out through the vestry door so we’re not seen together?” He smiled. “I don’t think there’s any need for that.”

But outside the church, standing in the shadow of the lych-gate, he hesitated. “I suppose you’re parked in town.”

“No. By your office. I was waiting for you. How else could I know you were here?” “Perhaps,” he said awkwardly, ‘ all, we shouldn’t be seen there together.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Neville Furness is in today.”

“So?” “I told you he saw us coming out of the restaurant together. I can’t afford talk at this stage.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “You didn’t tell him about coming out to Baikie’s on the afternoon Grace died?”

“No,” he said. “Of course not.” But Anne didn’t believe him. He’d felt the need to confide in someone and Neville was his right-hand man, his guru, if Barbara was to be believed. “You walk on,” he continued.

“I’ll follow in a few minutes.”

“I thought you were in a hurry to get back to the office.” She felt like a spurned adolescent, ridiculous, desperate. She put her hands on his shoulders. “When will I see you again?”

He disentangled himself gently. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

Her head spun in disbelief. “What do you mean? For fuck’s sake, not very long ago you were talking about marriage.”

“Nothing’s changed,” he said earnestly. “Not in the way I feel about you.”

“But?”

“Until they’ve caught this murderer, until things are more settled, perhaps we shouldn’t meet.” The words came out in a rush, and when he saw her face he added, “For your sake, Annie. I don’t want you implicated.”

She turned and started off down the street. She couldn’t bear to break down and plead with him. But after a moment she stopped and shouted back, “Tell me, Godfrey, is that you talking or Neville Furness?”

He didn’t answer and she continued to walk away, expecting him to follow, to catch hold of her, or at least to call after her. When there was no response, hating herself for being so spineless, she stopped again. He wasn’t even looking at her. He had gone back through the lych-gate and through the gap she saw him standing in the churchyard and staring down at one of the graves where a bunch of white lilies had been laid.

Chapter Thirty-Four.

Vera Stanhope kept the women in Baikie’s informed about the progress of the investigation in a way Rachael couldn’t believe was usual in a murder inquiry. At first she was grateful for the stream of information. She was reassured by the bulky form of Vera, sitting in Constance’s old chair, legs wide apart, hands cupped around a mug of coffee, talking. If the inspector didn’t trust them she wouldn’t pass on all these details, would she?

They learnt, for example, that Grace had died within a couple of hours of leaving Baikie’s at lunchtime. It wasn’t only the absence of afternoon counts in the notebook. The pathologist had come to the same decision.

And in one short session Vera told them more about Grace than they had gleaned in weeks of sharing a house with her. The melodramatic story of abandonment, the string of foster parents and Edmund’s alcoholism seemed at odds with the pale and silent woman they remembered.

“Poor girl,” said Edie, because Edie too was allowed into the discussions. She and Vera Stanhope got on surprisingly well. She spoke regretfully, as if Grace’s death had denied her the opportunity of working with a subject ripe for counselling. That, at least, was how Rachael saw it.

Vera seemed surprised that Anne didn’t know more about the Fulwell family secrets. It was evening, still warm. The door into the garden had been left open and as bats dipped and clicked outside she probed the subject.

“Didn’t you know there was a younger son at Holme Park? Even I know that. You must have heard. There must have been talk in the village.

A wayward alcoholic whose wife committed suicide. God, the gossips would have had a field day.”

“If she killed herself when Grace was a baby it must have happened at least twenty-five years ago.” Anne seemed detached, un bothered “I hadn’t even met Jeremy then.”

“Was he here?”

“Oh, Jem’s been in Langholme for ever.”

“But I know what these villages are like,” Vera insisted. “People still talk about the war as if it ended last week. Even if Edmund never came back to Langholme they would still have remembered he existed, speculated about what had become of him.” “Not in my hearing,” Anne said lightly. “It’s not as if the Fulwells mixed socially with the rest of us. Robert didn’t come into the Ridley Arms for a pint on Friday nights. Lily never joined the women’s darts team. She made a thing about her kids going to the village play group but I bet she never took a turn on the rota to wash out the paint pots or muck out the sand pit There was always a nanny to do that. The Fulwells live in splendid isolation in the Hall. Nothing has really changed for generations. The villagers are involved as employees tenant farmers, estate workers but the private lives of the family don’t really have any impact. It’s still very feudal. You must know that. We all have our proper place.”