The Nine Bright Shiners (4 page)

‘Merry Christmas, Roger,' she said steadily. ‘Would you like to speak to the children?'

‘I'd like to speak to you first. Why didn't you tell me you were going?'

‘Can't you guess?'

‘But I've got all your presents. I called at the house with them last night.'

‘I was going to write –'

‘Hell, you knew I'd want to see you all over the holiday.'

‘Exactly,' she said.

There was a pause. Then he said flatly, ‘So it was just to thwart me. Is that what you're saying?'

‘Not really. I – needed some moral support, and Edward wrote inviting us.'

‘How long are you staying?'

‘Till the children go back to school.'

‘Another six weeks? I won't see you for six weeks?'

She said tightly, ‘If you'd wanted to see us –' and broke off.

‘Yes,' he said, and his voice was tired, ‘I get your point. But I need to talk to you, Jan. There's been no contact between us since I left – that's not the way I wanted it.' He paused, waiting for her comment, but she was incapable of making one. She heard him sigh. ‘OK, I appreciate this is neither the time nor place – Are the kids there, then?'

She looked up and, as she'd expected, saw them hanging over the banister. She nodded to them, thinking that, as in the past when Roger phoned, they'd come hurtling downstairs, fighting to be first to reach the phone. Now, however, they hesitated, and she put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Hurry up – it's Daddy. Heavens knows what this call is costing.'

They came down slowly, and Ben took the receiver. ‘Hello, Dad.' He stood listening gravely to his father's voice, giving monosyllabic answers to a series of questions. After two or three minutes, he silently handed the phone to Julie. She took it, said tremulously, ‘I miss you, Daddy,' and burst into tears. Jan retrieved the instrument, her other arm pressing the child against her.

‘I'm sorry, Roger. Perhaps this isn't such a good idea.'

‘But I had to ring, Jan. Damn it, you're still my family.'

She said unsteadily, ‘We must go. It's time for church, and Lady Peel's waiting. Goodbye, and – happy Christmas.' And, sadly, she put down the phone.

On their return from church, Edward and Rowena, who had not accompanied them, were waiting in the drawing-room. A tinsel tree had been set up near the window, and beneath it was a pile of gaily coloured packages. Jan, trying to put Roger's phone-call out of her mind, brought down her own parcels, and soon everyone was exclaiming over their presents. Edward, she was glad to note, seemed genuinely pleased with the seventeenth-century print. Rowena had given him, as well as a cashmere sweater, a luxurious wallet bearing his initials in gold.

‘Just what I need,' he said, kissing her, and turned to Jan.

‘My last one was stolen a few weeks ago, and I hadn't got round to replacing it.'

‘I hope there wasn't much in it,' Jan said.

Her half-brother shrugged. ‘Enough. Fifty quid or so, and all my credit cards. It was they that caused the most bother. Pinched from the squash club, if you please, along with several others. As I said, Janis, you can't trust anyone these days.'

‘And as
I
said,' Rowena reminded him severely, ‘you should have taken your valuables into the court with you. Oh, Janis – how kind! What a pretty vase! Thank you so much.'

Julie, having torn open all the parcels addressed to her, was playing with the cat, laughing as it pounced on the crumpled balls of wrapping paper and patted them adroitly under a chair. ‘What time are we eating?' she asked as, tiring of the game, the animal sat down and started to wash itself.

‘It's ready any time,' Rowena said. ‘We're not having the turkey till this evening.'

‘This
evening
?' Ben repeated, and Julie added anxiously, ‘We can stay up for it, can't we?'

‘Of course,' Rowena said smoothly. ‘And as I was saying, there's salmon and salad in the dining-room.'

‘But we
always
have the turkey at lunch-time,' Ben said rebelliously. ‘Everyone does – that's the proper time for it. At home, we eat on the verandah, and Dad puts on a paper hat to carve, and we're not allowed to swim for two hours after we've finished.'

‘If you ask me,' Rowena countered, ‘it's the height of lunacy to eat an enormous lunch in temperatures like that. How you can –'

‘It isn't lunacy at all!' Ben flared. ‘And Australia's a lot better than your beastly cold, wet country!'

‘Ben!' Jan murmured helplessly.

‘
My
country?' Rowena raised her eyebrows. ‘My dear child, don't forget you're British too, despite that distressing Australian twang.'

Ben stared at her for a moment, his face suffused with colour. Then he turned and hurled himself out of the room. Jan, fighting down her instinct to follow him, turned instead to her hostess. ‘I'm sorry, Rowena.' It seemed she was always apologizing for the children.

‘He's very insolent, isn't he?' Rowena remarked icily. ‘A good smacking wouldn't go amiss, in my opinion.'

‘He's missing his father, dear,' Lady Peel put in peaceably. ‘We must make allowances.'

‘It doesn't excuse rudeness, Mother. However, I refuse to let it spoil my Christmas. And as I was saying, lunch is ready as soon as you are.'

As the others started to move towards the dining-room, Lady Peel patted Jan's hand. ‘Don't worry, my dear. Rowena wasn't very tactful, but she's unused to children. And in Ben's defence, I think he felt it was an oblique criticism of his father.'

‘But when Roger phoned, Ben would hardly speak to him,' Jan said shakily.

‘Wasn't that out of loyalty to you?'

Jan stared at her. ‘You mean if I'd left them to it, not stood listening –? I never thought of that.' Her eyes filled. ‘Poor Roger, he must have felt awful. I didn't realize it was my fault.'

Lady Peel said quietly, ‘You're missing him too, aren't you, despite putting a brave face on it. I understand only too well – I've lost my husband as well, you know.' And Jan, her control precarious, could only squeeze her hand in reply.

Ben appeared at lunch somewhat chastened, but his outburst wasn't referred to again and gradually his normal exuberance returned. However, that night, having escaped from the soporific atmosphere in the drawing-room, Jan, on her way to bed, heard muffled sobbing coming from his room. She pushed the door open and went in, sitting on his bed and smoothing the damp hair off his forehead. And, as he had as a small child, he came up into her arms, sobbing against her chest. Jan sat cradling him in silence until his breathing quietened, and, with a shaky and embarrassed smile, he lay back again. She bent and kissed him and, still without a word passing between them – for what was there to say? – she quietly went out again.

The following afternoon, presumably to offer escape from the fatuous holiday programmes, BBC2 screened a recorded interview with Edward on his proposed trip to Peru. He and Rowena, setting out glasses and drinks for the evening's party, professed no interest, but Jan sat down with Lady Peel and the children to watch it. There were several clips of film taken on previous trips, and the children were enthralled as their fairy-tale land came alive.

‘Of course, Mr Langley, it was your father who discovered the lost city of Cajabamba, back in the 'fifties. Are you hoping to come across another major Inca ruin?'

Edward shrugged. ‘Peru's been pretty exhaustively covered over the last few decades. Still, with all that virtually impenetrable jungle, there's always a chance. We explorers are an optimistic bunch.'

‘One last question, then. Having seen some of Peru's most priceless treasures, which do you consider the most valuable?'

Edward hesitated, his face large in close-up, and for a moment Jan fancied she saw wariness in his eyes. Then he laughed. ‘Without "doubt, the potato! That's where it originated, and I assure you the annual world harvest is many times more valuable than all the treasures stolen by the Spanish.'

Across the room, Edward had paused to watch the final exchange, and smiled at his mother-in-law's rueful laugh.

Jan turned to him. ‘That was dodging the issue, wasn't it? Which
treasure
is the most valuable?'

His eyes held hers for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘Impossible to answer. The most priceless were melted down, as you know. At Cajamarca alone, over eleven tons of gold went into the furnaces – vases, figures, jewellery – God knows what.'

Jan smiled, abandoning her questions. ‘All this talk of Peru is making me restless. For two pins I'd come with you on Monday!'

Jan did not enjoy that evening. Rowena had primed her guests well, and not one, when introduced, made any mention of Roger or her solitary state. Nevertheless, she was permanently braced to answer such questions, and her face ached from the obligatory smile. Even Miles, the only guest whom she knew, made little attempt to talk to her. He took his place at Lady Peel's side, and only when the old lady called Jan across did he direct one or two comments to her. He seemed on edge, but that might have been his usual manner, especially in a house where he knew he wasn't welcome.

All in all, the atmosphere of determined gaiety and bonhomie was too much for Jan and as early as she could, she pleaded a headache and escaped to bed. At last, she thought thankfully, Christmas was over, and after Monday she and the children would have the house to themselves. Edward and Rowena had been kind in their way, but the continual watching that the children didn't annoy them had been a strain, and she acknowledged guiltily that she'd be glad to see them off.

At the back of the cupboard were a few overlooked scraps of newspaper and a painted football. But the tramp-like figure had disappeared.

Of all Mondays in the year, Detective Chief Inspector Webb thought gloomily, that after the Christmas and New Year break was undoubtedly the worst. Admittedly, Shillingham CID had not been favoured with the extended holiday enjoyed by the rest of the country, but the feeling of anti-climax was nevertheless strong.

Nor was it only post-holiday lethargy that made him jaded. Alan Crombie had departed on a three-month course at Bramshill, and in his absence DI Stanley Bates from ‘C' Division was sitting in for him. Sitting in, what was more, in Webb's own office. And Stanley Bates, while no doubt a competent enough police officer, was not someone in whose company Webb took any pleasure.

He glanced across the room, his eyes moving sourly over the man at Crombie's desk. The dark hair, parted down the centre, was plastered against his head – whether by grease or haircream Webb had refrained from ascertaining, but he looked like a fugitive from the 'thirties. He also had a long nose, thin lips and a habit of nodding vigorously while being addressed, giving the impression that he already knew what he was being told and was hurrying the speaker along. Worst of all – the final straw, in fact, to Webb's way of thinking – he was teetotal. Who the hell was he going to moan to over a pint in the Brown Bear for the next three months?

Webb sighed deeply. He'd the feeling he was going to miss Alan Crombie every bit as much as his wife did. Dispiritedly, he pulled a pile of papers towards him, running a jaundiced eye over the list of suspicious deaths which had taken place over the weekend. Ken Jackson was attending a post mortem at the moment – chap found under a tree at the back of a lay-by. The tree had blown down in the pre-Christmas gales, and because of the long holiday, the council workmen had only gone along this morning to remove it. And found more than they bargained for.

Webb's attention wandered again. Hannah would be back this evening, thank God. She'd been spending New Year with her aunt in Oxford, and since he himself went to his sister's for Christmas, he hadn't seen her for nearly two weeks. Perhaps they could –

The phone on his desk shrilled, making him jump.

‘Webb.'

‘Ken here, Guv. I'm at the mortuary.'

‘Yes?'

‘We've found something a bit fishy. Stapleton's not happy, so I've asked him to hold it till you get here.'

‘Right, I'm on my way.' He was coming to his feet as he spoke, and Bates looked up from his desk.

‘Anything I can do, Skipper?'

‘Not a thing, thanks. If anyone wants me, I'm at the morgue.'

That was another thing about Bates, Webb reflected as he ran down the stairs, his persistent use of the word ‘Skipper' or ‘Skip' instead of the familiar ‘Governor'. Nothing wrong with it, but for some reason it grated. Impatiently, he pushed the man and his idiosyncrasies from his mind.

The wind, which had dropped over the last week or so, was rising again, blowing its cold breath down the back of his collar as he hurried, head down, to the General Hospital next to the police station. A group of young nurses ahead of him giggled and shrieked as their capes billowed out about them, and he moved to one side as an ambulance, siren sounding, turned into the gateway and drove up to the main entrance. In the midst of life ... he thought morosely.

Jackson was waiting for him outside the post mortem room. ‘Several odd things on this one, Guv. I'll let Stapleton tell you his side, and fill in the details later.'

They went together into the bleak, sterile room, where gowned men were gathered round the slab. The stench of decomposing flesh mingling with strong disinfectant seared the back of Webb's throat. It was the familiar smell of death. He nodded to the SOCOs and photographer, and glanced as briefly as possible at the body on the slab. It was of a man, with reddish fair hair growing low on his forehead. He turned to the pathologist.

‘Trouble, Dr Stapleton?'

‘Queries, Chief Inspector. The deceased was found under a tree, on the lay-by just short of Chedbury.'