The Sting of Death (15 page)

‘So what do we think?’ he asked her, as they drove out of Pitcombe. ‘Someone’s telling blatant lies here. Complete fabrication from start to finish.’

‘Hmm,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’ll answer that when I’ve seen the parents.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll rephrase my question. What did you think of Justine Pereira?’

‘I think she’s on something,’ came the surprising response. ‘Not necessarily Class A – more like Valium or Prozac. Maybe antidepressants. She’s got that cloudy look about her, as if she doesn’t dare look the world full in the face.’

Den whistled. ‘I didn’t notice that at all. Would that make her more likely to lie to us?’

Bennie shrugged. ‘Possibly not. And I think she really does care about the kid. Something was hurting in that department. And did you catch the messages between her and her mother?
Giant-size
can of worms there, or I’m a cucumber.’

‘I’m with you on that,’ he confirmed. ‘Actually, I can cheat a bit there. I happen to know they haven’t set eyes on each other for five years, until now. Some big bust-up that made them hate the sight of each other. Drew Slocombe mentioned it.’

‘We ought to find out what it is,’ she said. ‘I’d guess it has to do with children in some way.’

‘Drew might know. Or his wife.’ Den remembered Hemsley’s injunction not to involve the undertaker any further, and sighed. ‘I bet Drew could give us several pointers if we asked him.’

‘Then why don’t we?’

Den explained briefly, concluding, ‘the DI has a thing about amateur detectives. Must have had a nasty experience with them.’

Bennie laughed. ‘Oh, yes he did. When he first started as a DC we had a murder, out in the sticks towards Hatherleigh. Danny was convinced a local recluse had done it. To be fair, there was a lot of incriminating stuff. But there was this young lad, bright sixth form kid, went ferreting about on his own and came up with the weapon, motive and perfect forensic evidence. Walked in, dumped it all on the front desk with a rude note for Danny, and walked out again.’

‘Embarrassing.’

‘Very. So you’d best advise your undertaker friend to use a bit of tact if he’s going to try and help. Personally, I think we need all the support we can get. I quite like the public to get involved, so long as they don’t take risks.’

‘Me too. At least they know the background better than we ever do.’

‘So what d’you say we ignore Danny and start tomorrow bright and early with a visit to North Staverton?’ she suggested.

‘Great idea!’ he agreed, not least because it would mean another chance to spend some time with Maggs.

‘Meanwhile, where do we go from here?’ she asked. ‘It’s nearly four already. Hasn’t the DI ordered a full search of the farm for the kid? It all seems very
pedestrian
. As if nobody seriously thinks she’s come to any harm.’

‘He’ll have sent a couple of lads to search the outbuildings, probably. And there’ll be some high-powered efforts going on in the office – computer searches for known paedophiles around here, contacting anyone whose name’s come up in the past few days.’

‘What if it’s a kidnapping? Is there someone in the house with the parents? There might be a call if she’s been taken for ransom. How well off are they?’

‘Reasonably. Hemsley’s probably put a tap on their line. It’s not all down to me, you know.’

She tapped his arm. ‘No, Den, I know it isn’t. But I still don’t get it. Why isn’t there more of a hoo-ha about it? Normally there’d be all hell breaking loose over a little girl going missing.’

He thought hard. ‘I guess because we can’t believe she’s in genuine danger. They’re all lying; that’s how it feels. There’s some game going on, with the kid being passed around like a parcel. We thought Justine Pereira must have her. Wrong. So now it’s got to be the Strabinski woman, or her mother, or even Justine’s father, who’s around somewhere. Maybe the granny on the Isle of Wight, who’s got something against Sheena Renton and wants to give her a fright. They all have to be interviewed.’

‘I don’t like it, Den. I think you’ve got it horribly wrong and I’m going to tell Hemsley so.’

‘Fine,’ he nodded, uneasily aware of how little he actually cared.

Karen made a special effort over the evening meal, feeling unaccountably guilty towards Drew.

‘Something smells nice,’ he commented, coming into the kitchen.

‘My chicken thing,’ she smiled. ‘We haven’t had it for ages.’

‘Can I do anything?’

‘You could slice the beans if you like. If your stung finger’s up to it, of course. Steph helped me pick them. And go and get some mint for the spuds.’

‘Mint,’ he said worriedly. ‘Do I know which is mint?’

‘Take Steph with you. She’s pretty good at herbs.’

‘She’s a genius.’

‘Not a bit. She just has a good teacher.’

The banter came as a relief to them both. As if responding to the lightening of the atmosphere, Timmy began humming tunelessly, rocking in his high chair, chest stuck out comically.

Everyone made short work of the meal and sat back contentedly. ‘I phoned Penn,’ Karen said idly. ‘I thought I should keep in touch.’

‘Oh?’ Drew felt little immediate interest. ‘How was she?’

‘A bit strange, actually. She’s a funny creature, not at all as I remember her as a child. Everything anybody says seems to set her off.’

‘Why? What did you say?’ A flicker of anxiety disturbed his contentment.

‘When I told her Justine had turned up she got very agitated.’

‘Oh, God.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I didn’t tell you, did I?’

‘What?’

‘That Justine particularly didn’t want Penn to know where she was. I never got round to giving you the story.’ He stared at her, unable to believe how much he’d withheld from her. ‘There was much more to it than the little bit I managed to tell you.’

‘I fell asleep,’ she laughed, determined to sustain the harmonious mood. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘No, but it matters. Justine says that Penn  …’ he glanced at the children, ‘… that she coerced her into something. More or less accusing her of abduction.’

‘Good grief. How bizarre. You don’t believe her, do you? After all, it was Penn who first raised the alarm about Justine being missing.’

‘Somebody’s certainly not being straight,’ he agreed. ‘But Justine did seem to have been badly treated. She’s got bruises to prove it.’

‘It can’t possibly have been Penn,’ Karen said with certainty.

‘You could be right, but it’s a bit unfortunate that Penn now knows where Justine is. I should probably phone them and let them know.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Karen’s voice had acquired an edge. ‘They’re
friends
, for heaven’s sake. What are you afraid will happen?’

He hesitated, reluctant to annoy his wife. It
made such a pleasant change to have her full attention, combined with such a good mood. It wasn’t that she had grown sour or complaining since having the children; it was simply that she’d been distracted away from the partnership they’d once enjoyed. It was nothing more than the natural normal progression from newlyweds to parenthood, and he never for a moment wished he could change anything. But once in a while he thought wistfully of the early years, when they’d talked far into the night and Karen had been so full of energy and humour and enthusiasm. She’d worked as a teacher until Stephanie was born and then returned for a term before realising that Timmy was on the way. Somewhere in those turbulent few months she’d lost the bloom of youth. A bounce had gone out of her that he feared would never return.

Now she was doing her best to share in his latest adventure, which did after all involve her cousin. She had her own ideas as to what could be going on and he owed it to her to listen.

‘You’re probably right,’ he said. ‘The whole thing’s a storm in a teacup. Except for the missing child,’ he added, with a worried grimace.

‘Child?’ she echoed.

‘That’s right. The police seem to think Justine’s got her landlord’s child with her. But there was
no sign of it yesterday when she turned up at Roma’s, and she made no mention of it.’

‘What sort of child? How old is it?’

‘A girl. Three and a bit.’

‘So where is the poor little thing? What do the police think? I assume Maggs told you that the tall handsome policeman came looking for her yesterday when you were over at Pitcombe? I only worked out who he was much later. He wasn’t in uniform, but if he’s CID, he wouldn’t be, would he.’

‘You’re joking! She never said a word.’

‘She’s shy about it, probably. They went off together.’

Drew was surprised at his own reaction: annoyance and a sense of betrayal. Why on earth hadn’t she said something? She’d had every opportunity. ‘Well, well,’ he puffed, lost for words.

‘But they do know about Justine turning up, don’t they?’

‘Maggs phoned this afternoon, yes. Den was a bit short with her, apparently. But we’ve done our duty.’ He chewed his upper lip. ‘I phoned Roma as well and warned her that the police will want to see Justine. They’ve probably been by now.’

‘So where on earth can the child be?’ Karen broke out, with real trepidation. ‘Don’t you think it’s worrying?’

‘I suppose I do,’ he agreed. ‘Although … well, somehow I can’t help feeling the kid’s okay. She might be with Penn.’ He snatched at the suggestion, finding it rather compelling as he thought about it.

‘She isn’t with Penn,’ Karen asserted energetically. ‘That makes no sense at all.’

‘Well she must be somewhere,’ Drew yawned. ‘And I’ve done all I can for the time being.’

Drew woke at six thirty next morning to the sound of Timmy’s chirruping. Like any dawn chorus, it managed to be both enchanting and annoying at the same time. Drew groaned softly.

‘Never mind, the mornings are getting darker now,’ came Karen’s comforting whisper. ‘By October, he’ll be sleeping till eight.’

‘Roll on October, then,’ sighed Drew. ‘My finger’s still stiff, you know.’ He held it up for inspection, showing her where the joint was swollen and red.

‘It’s better than yesterday,’ she judged. ‘I’ve been thinking about this business with Justine and Penn,’ she went on, nestling comfortably against his ribs. ‘And I suddenly wondered if my
Mum knows what’s going on. She’s awfully out of it, in her Welsh mountains.’

‘Would she be interested? Justine’s nothing to do with her.’

‘She might. She keeps up with Uncle Sebastian and Auntie Helen, and she always seemed to like Penn.’

‘Families,’ sighed Drew. ‘You know, Roma accused me of having romantic ideas about the family.’

‘Oh? Does that mean she’s cynical about them?’

‘I think it probably does. She’s too
self-sufficient
to care much about distant relatives.’

‘Then why does Penn keep visiting her? What’s the attraction?’

Drew smiled. ‘I forgot you still haven’t met her. She’s a very magnetic personality. Charismatic, even. She stomps round, doing whatever she likes, telling people just what she thinks, but she’s funny, as well. She’s one of those people who are much more complicated than they first appear. I think, deep down, she’s got a good heart.’

‘As your granny used to say,’ Karen supplied automatically.

‘But there’s a darker side as well, which she tries to ignore. From what I saw on Tuesday, I guess Justine’s expert at rubbing her nose in all the things she’s trying to avoid.’

‘Nasty. I knew I didn’t like Justine, even though I only saw her once.’

‘I quite liked her,’ he murmured. ‘After a while, not at first. She grew on me.’

‘Has Maggs met Roma yet?’

He had to think for a moment. ‘No, I suppose not. Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. They sound as if they might have things in common.’

‘D’you think so?’ He gave the idea some thought. ‘Can’t really see it myself. But they would probably like each other.’ He listened to his baby son for a few moments, before going on, ‘Justine’s a potter. When this is all settled we should go and have a look at her stuff.’

‘What if she’s put in prison for kidnapping? Would she be allowed to sell her pots then?’

He angled his head awkwardly to look at her. ‘Is that what you think? That she kidnapped little Georgia?’

‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘But if it’s a choice between her and Penn having done it, I’m pretty sure I’d opt for Justine. Penn was always so
straight
when she was little. She had a huge sense of fair play. I know I hardly met Justine, but I find it easy to believe she’s devious and sly.’

‘You can’t judge people by one glimpse of them as a child,’ he reproached her. ‘Even if she was sly then, that doesn’t prove anything now. I
was a little monster when I was six or seven. I bit my teacher in kindergarten. I stole my mother’s engagement ring and wouldn’t tell her where I’d put it for six whole months, just to torment her.’

‘Stop, stop!’ she protested. ‘Let me keep some of my illusions.’

‘But you see the point.’

‘Sort of, but I don’t really agree with it.’

‘Circumstances force people to change. There’s so much we don’t know about Penn as she is now. Has she got a man, for example? What was all that stuff about runes?’

‘What?’

‘Oh, you missed that. As she was leaving here on Sunday she gave me some nonsense about drawing Justine’s runes and getting an ominous reading.’

‘Like the Tarot, you mean?’

‘Search me. But it didn’t sound particularly rational.’

‘I never said she was rational. But then Justine doesn’t sound any better. I just think that if you have to believe one over the other, I’d go for Penn. That’s all.’

Timmy’s burblings were acquiring a note of urgency, impossible to ignore.

‘Here we go then,’ muttered Karen, pulling away from Drew and getting lightly out of bed. ‘Don’t forget you’ve got a busy day today.’

Maggs was obviously on good form as she slewed her bike to a halt beside the Peaceful Repose signboard and wheeled it jauntily up the front path. The prospect of two funerals in one day was cheering. It made her and Drew feel needed, as if their services were being welcomed by the world at large.

‘Hiya!’ she greeted him. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Certainly is,’ he nodded, still warm from the cosy chat he’d enjoyed with Karen.

‘I had a thought just now,’ she went on. ‘Did you hear any more from the wind chime people?’

Drew groaned melodramatically. ‘No, thank goodness, and I don’t want to. They seem to have accepted the inevitable, at last.’

‘You’d never have thought they could be such a pain, would you?’

Drew nodded a rueful agreement. The strife over the wind chimes had been one of his few real conflicts with a purchaser of one of his graves. Unthinkingly, he’d readily agreed that they could hang a set of tubular chimes from a tree close to the grave. Almost instantly, he regretted it, when he and Karen were kept awake throughout the next night, which happened to be particularly breezy. ‘Who’d have thought it could be so maddening?’ he’d said wonderingly.

First thing next morning, Karen had marched out and removed it. ‘You’ll have to tell them it won’t do,’ she said. ‘It’s disturbing the peace.’

‘I will,’ he’d promised.

But the customers were very unhappy about it. They called him a philistine and a dictator. They insisted that no sane person could possibly object to the charming sounds the thing made; that their dead sister had loved them, and always had one outside her window. She wouldn’t rest in her grave without it.

Drew had tried a compromise – offering them the option of putting the chimes up when they visited, and taking it down again when they left. This wouldn’t do at all, they said. It was for
Barbara
, not for them. Fortunately, Drew was supported by three other families, who maintained that wind chimes would interrupt the serenity of the field, and they didn’t want to hear them clanging away when they came to visit. What’s more, in two cases, the deceased person in the cemetery had nursed lifelong antipathies to the things. ‘Granddad always said they bore no relation whatsoever to genuine music,’ insisted one family.

Drew had been bruised by the argument, and amazed at the surprises that could creep up on you when you least expected them.

‘The French daughters seem to have settled
their differences,’ Maggs went on comfortably. ‘Did I tell you?’

‘Did you tell me what?’

‘The nasty one phoned yesterday while you were digging the graves. She said she’d had a dream, where her Dad came to her and told her he was really happy to be buried here and she should be pleased for him.’

‘I don’t believe it. She’s making it up.’

Maggs widened her eyes. ‘What a thing to say! She sounded as if it was true. I thought it was nice,’ she said sentimentally. ‘Anyway, it should mean they won’t start fighting this afternoon. It’s going to be a good one. I can feel it in my bones.’

‘What if she had another dream last night where he changed his mind and wanted to be cremated instead?’

‘He wouldn’t do that.’

‘Maggs,’ Drew said slowly. ‘You don’t actually believe the dead come back in dreams, do you?’

‘Oh! Surely you’re not trying to tell me it’s all wishful thinking?’ she cried, in mock distress. ‘But it happens so
often
. Remember little Mrs Finch? And that sweet woman whose mother told her what hymns she wanted? Oh Drew, don’t spoil it.’

‘Softie,’ he accused teasingly. ‘You’d better just hope I’m not right about the nasty daughter.’

‘It’ll be fine, Drew. Things always go right for you,’ she assured him.

He’d heard it before, and had long ago abandoned any efforts to dispute the underlying assumption. But he didn’t think it was fair, all the same. Just because his children were both alive and well, his marriage in reasonable shape, and his business thriving, he didn’t think it justifiable to snipe at him. Maggs herself, after a shaky start, had forced life to work for, rather than against her. But Drew had glimpsed the pocket of resentment that she harboured against people who never even paused to realise how easy their lives were. And he knew that in her book, he came into that category himself.

‘Well this isn’t going to get us anywhere,’ he said briskly. ‘Mrs Stacey at ten thirty; Mr French at one. Things to do, partner. No time for idle gossip.’

The ringing of the telephone seemed to confirm his words and Maggs reached to answer it with a cheeky smirk.

Sheena had felt a powerful need to escape after that morning’s visit from the police. She’d found it so unendurable at the farm that she’d gone into town, to her office, smiling bravely at her colleagues and then plunging into sales figures, finding to her relief that it was perfectly possible
to forget what had happened so long as there was something else to focus on. She knew that most people would find this inhuman, even insane – that they could never understand how rows of dry figures could in any way oust the horrors of her own child being lost, but so it was. Somebody, she told herself, would be looking after Georgia. Somebody always did, after all. If not Justine, then somebody else.

She worked until mid-afternoon and then went out into the street looking for something to eat. There was a teashop on the corner, but at the door she stopped, seeing clusters of people at the tables who might have read the reports of the missing child in the morning paper, or seen it on television. They might recognise her and whisper, which would be intolerable. So she crossed the street and went into a small newsagent’s, where she bought a packet of crisps.

She did not go back to work, but instead climbed into her car, her mobile firmly switched off, and just drove aimlessly for over an hour. Finally, aware that she could no longer avoid the many grim realities at Gladcombe, she turned for home. If she drove slowly, it would be nearly six when she got there. The sun would be sinking on the second day since everything began to unravel. All she had to do was to take it one minute at a time and eventually there’d be answers, things
would come right, Georgia would be found safe and well and Philip would beg her forgiveness.

Driving through the sunlit countryside, she tentatively permitted her thoughts to return to recent bewildering events. It had, of course, absolutely served her right. She’d been a lousy mother. She didn’t deserve little Georgia who’d been so good and quiet and neglected and unprotected. She’d seen the looks the child had occasionally given her: wary and bewildered as if she couldn’t understand why there was always such a distance between them. Why her mother never seemed to keep still long enough for a long lazy cuddle. Why she never had a story read to her or a game played with her. Sheena couldn’t pretend to herself that she’d been anything like an adequate parent. She hadn’t liked the role, had chafed under the responsibility and the constant nagging knowledge that Georgia needed and expected much more from her than she was ever going to get.

Justine had been a godsend. Although refusing to act as full-time childminder, she’d been taking on more and more evening and weekend babysitting. She and the little girl had obviously established a rapport, laughing together, wandering off hand in hand to pick flowers or watch birds. Sheena had felt nothing but relief as she heard the laughter. Georgia came in tired and went to bed unprotesting on the light
summer evenings of the past few months. Several times Justine had put the child to bed, even if Sheena had been at home and perfectly capable of doing it herself. Justine had read a bedtime story, tucked her in and kissed her.

The idea that somehow this same Justine had kidnapped the child was very hard to swallow. Now it seemed there was some other explanation – some other person had gone off with her child. This was unaccountable, but nonetheless true. She wasn’t even particularly angry about it. It seemed too strange for that. She was numb, shocked. She’d become a victim and she did not like that at all. Inside her was a dark mass, composed of tangled feelings that were better unacknowledged. It wasn’t so difficult to act the part of the panic-stricken mother, tinged with rage at the person responsible, plus a dash of the guilt that all mothers are supposed to feel. Even Philip seemed to be convinced. But Sheena couldn’t pretend to herself that this was anything close to the reality.

Penn woke late and for a moment had no idea where she was. The room was featureless: pale cream walls, sunlight flickering through light blue curtains; a television attached to the wall in a strange unfamiliar way.
Hotel
she remembered.
I’m in a hotel
.

She hadn’t brought a watch or clock with her, and had no idea of the time. It had to be nine or later, judging by the strength of the sunlight. The only way to find out was to switch on the TV and she fumbled with the remote control that was lying on the bedside cabinet.

Her guess had been spot on. The channel she selected at random informed her that it was nine o’clock and therefore time for a news summary. Before she could properly concentrate the smiling announcer had begun to read the headlines. ‘Police are increasingly concerned for the wellbeing of three-year-old Georgia Renton, apparently missing since last Thursday from her home near Exeter. There is growing evidence that Georgia has been abducted. Her parents are unable to account for her movements since Thursday, due to a misunderstanding as to who was taking care of her. The police are urgently requesting any information concerning the child.’ A photo showing Georgia in blue dungarees was briefly flashed up, as the woman finished the item.