The Stranger House (30 page)

When Mrs Appledore protested at being ordered around in her own home, the constable said in the stilted tone of a newly conned part, “We need to keep the crime scene uncontaminated till SOCO get here, ma’am.”

The mystery of this new authority was solved when Madero asked Winander, “Who is that old man? Is he too a policeman?”

“Was. Noddy Melton, Head of CID, retired. At least he knows the ropes, which is just as well as this bugger doesn’t seem to know his whistle from his whatsit.”

Now there was a further diversion as a handful of
early drinkers came into the bar only to be told the pub wasn’t open and probably wouldn’t be for some time.

During the debate which ensued, Madero noticed the old man slip out. He followed and found him in the kitchen, examining the skull.

“What are you doing?” asked Madero, “I thought this place was to be kept clear.”

“Not of me,” said the old man mildly, “Nice to meet you, Mr Madero. I would say this is pretty old, wouldn’t you? A man. Pre-dentist, by the look of it. There is a story that some relicts of St Ylf were kept at the Priory. Didn’t find a silver bullet, did you?”

“I am sorry?”

“The legend says he turned into a wolf to show travellers the way, which makes him a werewolf, and the best way to kill them was a silver bullet.”

“Mr Melton, are you OK?”

Sam Flood, smelling of scented soap and changed into low-cut jeans and a sweat-shirt, came in. She shot Madero what he felt was a quite undeserved admonitory glance.

“Hello again, Miss Flood,” said the old man, “Yes, I’m fine. I happened to have my radio tuned to the police frequency and when I heard them put this shout out …”

“And they mentioned bones, did they?” said Sam anxiously, “But I think you’ll find these are pretty old, isn’t that right, Mr Madero?”

“I think we’ve established that,” said Mig, wondering why she felt it necessary to reassure the old man who looked perfectly in control of himself and the situation.

“Great,” said Sam, taking the skull out of Melton’s hands and laying it on the table, “Why don’t we head outside and see if Mrs Appledore can rustle you up a drink?”

She led the old man into the hallway where they saw the landlady coming out of the barroom, which still sounded a scene of lively protest. She looked hot and flustered.

“There you are, Noddy,” she said, “I’d appreciate it if you could have another word with young Starsky back there before he starts a riot.”

“Mr Melton was looking at the bones we found under the kitchen,” said Sam significantly, “I think a drink might help.”

“Do you now? All right, but not before you get that lot sorted. They see you getting a drink, they’ll all want one.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Melton. Then to Sam he added, “You have been most kind. I hope I can return the favour.”

There was a surge of noise from the bar. He smiled and went through the door.

“I think he thought they might be his Mary’s,” said Sam.

“Told you about that, did he?” said Mrs Appledore, “Looks spry enough to me. See what a hornet’s nest you two have stirred up! And I’m losing money because of it.”

Sam realized that Madero had made another of his silent sorties and was standing beside her. He looked ready to be contrite in the face of the landlady’s remonstrance, but Sam retorted, “Tell you what, Mrs Appledore. I’ll give you a night’s takings for your share of whatever the loot back there brings in. Could be nothing, of course …”

A slow grin spread across Mrs Appledore’s face.

“Think I’ll take my chances, dear. Sounds like things are quietening down.”

She turned and re-entered the bar.

“So what was that all about with the old man?” asked Madero.

Quickly Sam filled him in on Melton’s background.

“You seem to have learnt a great deal about the locals in a short time,” he said.

“A trick I picked up at uni,” said Sam, “It’s called listening. You should try it.”

They stood in the shady hallway and looked at each other.

He thought, when she is being kind and thoughtful instead of brash and boisterous, she is not unattractive.

She thought, when he is being natural and unguarded instead of pompous and priestly, he’s a bit of a spunk.

Then the bar door opened and the thwarted drinkers spilled out, still protesting in colourful terms about this breach of their native rights, and the moment was past.

Early next morning Sam finally left Illthwaite.

There’d been no question of her leaving the previous evening. It took nearly an hour for the first CID officer to turn up. Unimpressed by assertions that the bones were too ancient for this to be a crime scene, he called in a forensic team to do a full appraisal.

By the time they’d finished and Sam had given her statement for the third time, it was too late to contemplate driving to Newcastle.

Somehow she and Madero hadn’t bumped into each other again that night. From the fact that she didn’t see him being led away by men in white coats, she assumed he’d omitted from his statement any reference to communion with the spirits. Before she went to bed she’d scribbled out the key to the Mary Queen of Scots cipher and pushed it under his door.

The following morning as she started up her car he came out of the pub with a long black sweater pulled hastily over his pyjamas, which she was entertained to see weren’t black but striped red and yellow. She bet his mother had bought them.

“You were going without saying goodbye,” he said accusingly.

“Don’t expect we’ll ever meet again,” she said.

“All the more reason to say goodbye,” he protested.

“Nah,” she said with the certainty of one who understands the difference between real and apparent logic, “All the less.”

He shook his head slightly as though to clear his mind and said, “Thank you for writing out the code.”

“Nomenclator,” she said, “No problem.”

She put the car in gear and began to pull away.

“Good luck in your quest,” he called.

“And you. Love the jarmies. If you’re going to buzz around like a bee, you might as well look like one. Ciao!’

And that had been that. Last sight of Madero, followed very shortly by last sight of Illthwaite.

No reason why she should be troubled by either the place or the man again.

The journey to Newcastle took her through lovely countryside, but she was driving eastward into the morning sunlight and, even with her Ray-Bans on, she needed to keep all her attention on the road. On the fringes of the city, she stopped at a service area, bought a street map and checked out the address Betty McKillop had given her in a northern suburb called Gosforth. It was her mother’s flat, the woman had said, sheltered accommodation which was why she had to vacate it so soon after the funeral.

It took another forty minutes to reach what turned out to be a cul-de-sac consisting of four two-storey blocks of flats, purpose built for the elderly. They could have looked barrack-like, but the use of a warm red brick with a variety of pastel colours for doors and windows gave them an attractive air, and the lawned areas between
them were generously planted with ornamental shrubs. On the whole, not too bad a place to attend death.

She was well ahead of her appointed time so she drove on till she reached the edge of the urban area and found a pub with a beer garden. Here she sat, letting the autumn sun fill her hair with colours to match the changing trees. On impulse she took out her mobile and rang home. It would be late evening there, her parents if not already in bed would be thinking about it, but the desire to hear their familiar voices was strong.

Lu answered.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Sammy! Hi, hon. How’re you doing? Everything OK?”

“Fine. Just felt like a chat. Sorry it’s so late.”

“It’s not late. What do you think we are? Pair of clapped-out geriatrics? So how’s it going? You in Cambridge yet, or are you still rubber-necking?”

“Still touring around, getting the feel of the country.”

She felt uncomfortable not being straight with her mother. Eventually she’d come clean with her, but not before hearing what Betty McKillop had to say. Then and only then would she take a decision about what, if anything, to tell her father. Or more likely she’d off-load the decision on to Lu.

“Yeah? And how does it feel?”

“Fine, but not like home.”

“Hope it never feels like that, hon, but give it time and I’m sure you’ll find plenty to like. Hang on. Here’s your pa.”

A pause, then that quiet voice which packed more authority into monosyllables than most politicos and preachers got into a sixty-minute harangue.

“How’s tricks, girl?”

“Fine, Pa. I’m doing fine.”

“Not ready for home yet?”

“Pa, I just got here last week!”

“Yeah? Seems longer. Missing you, girl. Here’s your ma.”

Missing you, girl.
The simple statement provoked a longing for home more powerful than any she’d experienced since her departure.

She spoke with her mother a few minutes more, keeping it light and chatty. When they said goodbye and she’d switched off her phone, for a few moments the autumn sun seemed to have lost all its heat and the trees and buildings and people around her faded to a ghostly tableau into which she had somehow strayed.

Then a girl appeared with the sandwich she’d ordered and as she set it down she said, “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but is that hair colour natural, ‘cos if it’s not, I want to know where I can buy some!”

“Sorry,” said Sam, laughing, “That’s the way it came.”

“Oh well. Just have to get a wig then, won’t I?”

In fact the girl’s hair was a pleasant shade of brown and so fine that the light breeze drifted it across her face in a manner Sam guessed young men would not find unattractive. But she knew from experience that persuading yourself that what you had was in fact OK was not the easiest task a young woman faced.

But the exchange had served to bring her back to where she functioned best, in the here and now. She ate her sandwich, followed it up with a coffee, then killed time strolling along a nearby river bank and making conversation with the anglers before she headed south once more to Gosforth.

The flat was on the ground floor. She rang the bell and waited. After a moment she saw a figure behind the frosted-glass panel. Then the door was opened by a woman in her fifties, broad in the bust and beam, with henna’d hair and a full fleshy face fraught with enough make-up to launch an amateur production of
The Mikado.
She looked at Sam, nodded, and said in a strong Australian accent, “I’m Betty McKillop. No need to ask who you are. You got the build, and of course the hair. Lucky girl. Come on in.”

“It’s good of you to see me at a time like this, Mrs McKillop,” said Sam, following the woman into a sitting room still containing a three-piece suite and a low table but denuded of pictures and ornaments, “I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Call me Betty. Yeah, well at least I knew her for a few years. Those bastards told me she was dead, you know. If it hadn’t been for the Trust … angels them people are, angels. I’m surprised they haven’t been able to help you more.”

“To tell the truth, I haven’t really bothered them, Betty,” said Sam, sitting down, “It was just the coincidence of Gracie being the aunt of a friend of mine that got me wondering. And when she mentioned you, and I was coming over here anyway …”

“To Cambridge Uni, you say? Bright girl. Good onya. World needs bright girls. Sorry I can’t offer you a cuppa. Everything’s packed up or junked. Just the furniture to go, and someone’s coming round to clear that out later on. So let’s enjoy the comfort while we can. It’s your show, Sam. What do you want to ask me?”

“That’s easy,” said Sam, “What I want to hear is anything you can tell me about my grandmother, that’s Sam
Flood, who sailed to Australia with you. Gracie said you and her were pretty friendly.”

“Yeah, we got that way, as far as it was possible with little Sam.” She hesitated then went on, “You want the lot? Some of it won’t be pleasant, you appreciate that?”

“From what little I know, I’ll be surprised if any of it is,” said Sam.

“Then you won’t be very surprised. OK, where shall I start? The beginning, why not? The journey out.”

She settled back on the sofa, lit a cigarette and began to talk.

All told, the voyage out wasn’t so bad, though there were plenty of bad times. Like being sick. And realizing after a while that we’d gone too far ever to turn round and go back.

But I made new friends, and most of the sailors were kind. And, looking back, and knowing now what was waiting for us after we arrived, those days seem like a pleasure cruise.

For years I could never remember much of this stuff, you know, not even the voyage. Not because I’d properly forgotten but because I reckon I made myself forget. It was like looking back into a dark pit you were trying to climb out of. There were faces in there and little hands clutching and voices calling out in fear and pain, and all that any looking back did was start you sliding down into the pit, and you knew it had no bottom because wherever you’d been before or whoever you’d been before was out of your reach for ever …

Sorry. I’ll be all right in a minute. But it’s been hard. I brought up a daughter and she was always asking questions about the way things were when I was a little girl, the way kids do, and that got me looking back into the pit even when I was laughing with her and telling my
made-up stories. Then she grew up and got married and gave me a granddaughter and I thought it’s going to be the same again, her curious, me telling stories, but always skirting round the truth because I couldn’t talk about it, not even to my husband, not even to my own child …