Thicker Than Water (27 page)

She opened the door immediately I rang, a tall, thin woman in her fifties, formally dressed in navy suit and white blouse.

‘Gary Payne,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘It’s good of you to see me.’

‘I really don’t see how I can help.’

It was becoming a familiar refrain. However, she led me into a drawing room – no other word would do it justice – and as she didn’t invite me to sit, we stood facing each other.

‘I’ve already told you I never met the Sheridans.’

‘I was wondering, though, if there was talk of them when you bought the house – gossip, if you like. Whether people talked about the crash, and what might have happened?’

‘What happened was clear enough,’ she answered crisply. ‘They were murdered by their gardener, in retaliation for sacking him.’

I held myself in check, saying merely, ‘An extreme reaction, surely?’

She shrugged. ‘He must have been unbalanced.’

‘Did you have any contact with the relatives?’

‘No, they weren’t from round here. Lived in Surrey, I believe.’

Clue number one.

‘Could you tell me their name?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I ever heard it.’

I tried another tack. ‘Was any of the Sheridans’ property left in the house or garden? Any old books or furniture, children’s toys?’

‘Actually, we’d come from abroad, so we bought it fully furnished. There were no books or toys, though, unless you count the swing and slide in the garden.’ She paused. ‘I did tell you I couldn’t help, and I’m sorry, but I really—’

Might as well cut my losses, I thought resignedly. ‘All right, Mrs Harrison, I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for seeing me.’

She walked quickly ahead of me out of the house, locked the door behind us, and hurried to her car. I glanced to my left, to the lawn leading down to the shrubbery in the corner.

‘Would you mind if I had a quick look at the garden?’ I asked on impulse, and, as she turned in surprise, added, ‘I used to play here as a boy.’

‘I really have to go,’ she said.

‘I could look by myself, if that’s OK? Just a quick one, for old times’ sake?’

If she’d not been in a rush, I doubt if she’d have left a strange man in her grounds, but she’d clearly no time to argue. With a vague wave of her hand, she started the ignition and drove quickly down the drive.

I stood looking after her, letting the flood of memories engulf me. The sun on my back as I helped Dad polish the car; the kids, down there in the shrubbery. The kids.

I started to walk slowly down the grass, accompanied by the ghost of my younger self, but almost immediately came to a halt. On my right, freshly creosoted but otherwise as I remembered it, stood the fatal shed. I reached out and tried the door. Locked. Still. Probably, now, to protect garden implements from theft, rather than dangerous substances from the reach of children. I wondered if there was still a sack on the floor, full of the particular kind of shale that, according to the
Post
, had been required for the rockery, and later been positively identified in the wrecked car.

I peered through the small window, but it was too dark to make anything out. For that matter, it was growing darker outside as clouds banked, threatening rain. I examined the fastening of the window, but there’d been no report of its being forced, and I doubted anyway if anyone could have fitted through the small aperture. I walked round it until the thickness of the bushes blocked my way, then inspected the other side. There was no other means of access, that was clear. Whoever had taken the shale must have used the door. But how, when it was locked, and Dad had the key?

I resumed my walk, seeming to see him everywhere – pruning the roses, planting dahlias, tilling the rich soil – happy to be out in the open. Oh, Dad, how could they do that to you?

As I approached the shrubbery in the bottom corner, memories came thicker and faster. It enclosed the old playground, containing the swing and slide Mrs Harrison had mentioned. The kids, all older than I was, had abandoned it long since, and I used to play there for hours, constructing space ships, dens and forts. Then, unaccountably, that last week or two, they’d reclaimed it, chasing me off with a flea in my ear.

I’d reached the entrance, now overgrown with brambles, but the way in was still passable, and I pushed my way through. With a catch in my throat, I saw that the slide and swing were still there. Perhaps the Harrison boys, in their youth, had also made use of them.

I stared at the slide – Health and Safety would do their nut if they could see it! – and remembered my alarm when I’d been caught underneath it. Remembered, too, complaining bitterly to Pete in the playground.
Why not spy on them
? he’d suggested.
Get your own back
.

And I had, I remembered, suddenly uncomfortably hot. I’d hidden among the bushes, and though I couldn’t see them from my hide, I could hear their voices quite clearly. Pete had suggested they might be terrorists, then laughed at me when I believed him. So I’d listened, hoping to justify myself.

Twenty-three years on, I stood in the clearing with fists clenched and eyes squeezed tight, forcing myself to remember, convinced I might have heard something vital, and gradually, piecemeal, scraps of their conversation floated up to my consciousness.

Sack of gravel, so I took a handful
. That had been the boy. Gravel? My heart was almost choking me.
The car’s never locked when it’s in the garage.
And at that crucial moment, a twig had snapped under my foot, and as I froze with fear, they’d all stopped talking. But it was all right – I hadn’t been rumbled, and I breathed again.

The blood thundering in my ears, I opened my eyes, expecting, almost, to see the three guilty children facing me.
Guilty children
! It
had
to be them! Yes, the shed was kept locked, and yes, Dad had the key;
but it wasn’t locked when he was actually in the garden
. And that’s when the boy had seized his chance.

Alternating waves of heat and cold broke over me as the first, heavy drops of rain began to fall. My immediate thought was to go to the police station, tell them what I’d remembered, and insist they reopen the case. But what proof did I have? A childhood memory, totally unsubstantiated.

No, I thought, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths, this was up to me. It was my task to hunt down the Sheridans’ murderers – who’d also killed my father – and force them to confess the truth. And nothing, I swore there in the darkening playground, absolutely nothing would be allowed to stand in my way.

Nineteen

Looking back, that was the day that changed everything, when a cold, implacable hatred began to build inside me.

I remember nothing of my drive back to town, parking the car, or making my way to a pub. The first thing I registered was sitting at a small, round table with a double whisky in front of me. I promptly downed it in one, and went back for another. The barman eyed me askance, suspecting I’d already had enough, but he refilled the glass and I returned to my table, resolving to take this one more slowly.

Was it really possible I’d stumbled on the solution to the crime, the solution that the police, following Dad’s death, hadn’t even bothered looking for? In that stuffy pub, with the rain beating against the window above me, I tried to marshal my thoughts into some semblance of order, examining the shreds of memory in closer detail.

I’d heard those words, yes, but they hadn’t meant anything. I’d assumed they were part of some game the kids were playing, and, having been hiding for a while, had begun to lose interest. And though the words had lodged in my unconscious, I never heard details of the crash, still less of the accusations levelled at Dad, so there’d been no trigger to bring them to mind.

But those kids had
known
Dad! That’s what stuck in my craw. They’d spoken to him, asked his help, sometimes, when their bikes had punctures. How could they not have come forward when he was arrested? It was likely they hadn’t intended serious injury, and they’d probably have got off fairly lightly. Whereas Dad had forfeited his life, dying because three spoilt and stuck-up children resented their stepfather, who’d dared to discipline them.

The banality of it was stupefying, but the upshot was that in addition to mourning Dad, our own lives had been torn apart. And while we existed cramped together in that poky room, and Mum worked double shifts to support us all, they were being pampered and cosseted over the death of their parents –
which they had engineered
– no doubt living a life of luxury, holidays abroad and God knows what.
It wasn’t fair
!

Light-headed after the combination of my discovery and two double whiskies, I was in need of ballast, and, though not remotely hungry, ordered a steak pie and chips, eating mechanically while my thoughts spun in eddies and my anger built up. And when the meal was finished, I went out into the wet, prematurely dark evening and made my way to the B and B.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay listening to the rain and watching shadows on the ceiling, my mind and stomach churning; and as the room lightened with dawn, realized I couldn’t spend another day in Scarthorpe, where even his friends thought Dad was guilty.

In my diary was the address of Liza Jenkins, who’d escaped the trauma by moving to France. And France no longer seemed a step too far to go for her story. It was now Tuesday, and school didn’t restart till the following week. I’d pack my bag, drive home to collect my passport, and, if possible, fly out that evening.

It wasn’t enough, now, to hunt down the three of them as I’d intended, and force them to confess. They merited a death sentence, not only for killing their parents, but, by default, for letting Dad die when they could have saved him. And since the state could no longer impose such punishment, it was up to me to do so.

Lying on the rumpled bed, I resolved to find each of them in turn, record their confessions, kill them, and, after death, string them up, in revenge for Dad. And when I’d dispatched all three, I’d submit the recordings anonymously, either to the press or the police, and demand a posthumous pardon.

Making the excuse of a family emergency – true enough – I was on my way before ten.

The overnight rain had given way to a morning bright with sunshine, the lake glinting like sapphire under a cloudless sky. It still tugged at my heart – it always would – but Scarthorpe had given up its secrets, and I’d never come back.

The flat, shut up for days, was warm and stuffy, and I threw open the windows, regretting the open spaces of the Lake District as the sound of traffic drifted up from the street. Then, sitting down at the computer, I went online to check the nearest airport to Liza’s village – Fontaine-les-deux-églises. I’d established it was a few miles from Caen, and was gratified to find Caen itself had an airport, with, moreover, direct flights from Manchester. Minutes later, I’d not only booked myself on an evening flight, but secured a room for the night at a nearby hotel.

I tipped the contents of the grip on to the bed and repacked it with a fresh set of clothes; after which, since I’d emptied the fridge before going up north, I heated a tin of baked beans.

There was no more I could do for the moment, and the afternoon stretched emptily ahead. Knowing that my sleepless night was catching up with me, I set the alarm and retired to bed, sleeping dreamlessly for four hours, and waking much the better for it. A shower and shave completed the recovery, and I set off for nearby Manchester Airport in good time for the flight, the recorder in my pocket. I was hoping for great things from Liza Jenkins.

The brief flight was uneventful and landed on time, the hotel room was modest and clean, and despite my earlier nap, I managed several hours’ sound sleep. After a breakfast of coffee and croissants – very different from Mrs Bunting’s full English – I acquired some euros, hired a car, and, with a Michelin map on the seat beside me, set off on the next stage of my hunt for the Sheridans.

Patty and I had spent a motoring holiday in France a couple of years earlier, so I was prepared for the roundabouts, which cars approached rapidly from all directions, and able to recognize the various road signs along the way. Once clear of the town, lush countryside spread on either side, interspersed with apple orchards and fields of contented-looking cows, but I was in no mood to appreciate it, my mind concentrated on the meeting ahead.

While anxious to hear the story from her own lips, I was somewhat ambivalent about Miss Jenkins; she had, after all, reported the exchange between Dad and Mr Sheridan which helped to nail him. But perhaps, since she’d been employed by the victim, she could have done little else. I’d reserve judgment until I saw her. I remembered her as a comfortable woman with her hair in a bun, seeming old as the hills, though she was probably in her late forties, making her about seventy now.

She was also the one person from the past who might recognize me, and my interest in the case could nudge her memory. I hoped fervently I’d be able to deflect it. There was certainly no danger of that from the Sheridans when I caught up with them; they’d never given a thought to the small, sandy-haired boy who sometimes accompanied the gardener – except, when they found him in their playground, to send him packing.

I came upon the village sooner than I’d expected, and, seeing a large square in the centre with several cars parked on it, drove in beside them, switched off the engine, and got out of the car, breathing in the unmistakably French air.

To my right was a plane tree with a bench running round it, on which sat three rather large ladies, chatting volubly, shopping baskets at their feet. Along one side of the square, a parade of shops lined the cobbled street, the signs above them advertising their wares – Boulangerie, Bureau de Tabac, Charcuterie – which their windows helped me to translate. Farther along, a group of women were clustered round some stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables, pinching and prodding at the produce. It’d be frowned on at Tesco’s, I thought.

Turning, I surveyed the far side of the square, where a café, French fashion, had spilled on to the street. I walked across and sat down, hoping someone spoke English.

They didn’t, but a request for coffee was understood and complied with, and when I’d finished it and was paying the bill, I showed the waitress the note I’d made of Liza’s address. A flood of French followed, with much gesticulating, from which I gathered that the restaurant was just around the corner.

It was approaching noon, and some of the shops were already pulling down their blinds, reminding me of the obligatory two-hour lunch break we’d experienced on my last visit. But lunch was as good a time as any to brave Le Bon Gout.

My heart now beating uncomfortably fast, I rounded the corner and at once saw the cheerfully striped awning of the restaurant. It was smaller than I’d expected, not more than a dozen tables, but it was attractively furnished, and pictures of local views hung on the walls.

I seemed to be just in time; several tables were already occupied and others were filling up. I was surprised to hear English voices, and assumed there must be
pensions
, as Patty called them, round about, or even that some of the customers owned houses in or near the village.

Ignoring the comprehensive menu handed me, I ordered a modest
omelette aux fines herbes
and a glass of
vin ordinaire
to validate my presence. Suppose Liza Jenkins wasn’t in? Suppose she was on holiday herself, and this was a wasted journey? I closed my mind to such doubts while I enjoyed the excellent omelette, served with a crusty baguette and pats of golden butter.

Incredible to think that less than three days ago I’d been in the rain-darkened garden of The Lodge. I finished my lunch with a cup of bitter black coffee, then, my heart in my mouth, asked the waitress if it were possible to speak to Miss Jenkins.

She looked surprised, as well she might, but nodded, said, ‘
Un moment, s’il vous plaît
,’ and disappeared round the back of the premises. Had she understood? Or would someone completely different come to enquire my business?

But no; the woman approaching was unmistakably an older version of the Liza Jenkins I remembered, and I released my held breath. The first hurdle was over, but by no means the last.

I stood up and held out my hand, which, after a slight hesitation, she took. ‘Miss Jenkins, I’m sorry to intrude on you, but I’m hoping you can help me.’ I launched into my well-rehearsed speech. ‘My name is Gary Payne, and I’m engaged in writing a book about the effects of crime on those left behind.’

Her brows drew together. ‘Then I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. I—’

‘I believe you were housekeeper to the Sheridan family in Scarthorpe twenty-odd years ago?’

She drew in her breath sharply. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Your name was given to me by Mrs Eileen Morgan, of the Willow Pattern café.’

Liza put out a hand and gently lowered herself on to the chair opposite.

‘You’ve been there? To the Willow Pattern?’

‘Yes, earlier this week, actually. The Sheridan case is of particular interest, because three children were orphaned as a result. I’m hoping to find out how their lives were affected by what happened.’

‘I’m not in touch with them,’ she said.

That was a blow. ‘Then I wonder if you’d mind filling in the background for me? I believe Mr Sheridan wasn’t their natural father?’

She stared at me for a long minute, and I steeled myself to hold her gaze, praying I wouldn’t see recognition dawn.

‘I’ve come quite a way to speak to you, Miss Jenkins,’ I went on carefully. ‘I’d be very grateful for your help.’

She lifted her shoulders. ‘I can’t tell you anything new; it was all in the papers at the time.’

‘But you were almost part of the family, weren’t you? Since before the second marriage?’

She frowned. ‘You seem to know a lot about me, Mr Payne.’

‘Mrs Morgan was very helpful. You see, the case interests me for two reasons; firstly, as I said, because of the children, and secondly, because no one was ever charged.’

‘Only because the murderer killed himself.’

‘The police didn’t look for anyone else?’

‘What was the point? That more or less proved it, though I have to say I was knocked sideways at the time – couldn’t get it to sink in at all. I’d known Jack Spencer for years, and would have sworn he was a decent man.’

‘Tell me about him,’ I said from a dry mouth.

She glanced around her. A couple at the next table were speaking English, and she seemed to think discretion was called for.

‘You’d best come with me,’ she said, and I followed her to the back of the restaurant and out on to a small patio behind the building, where she motioned me towards an iron chair.

I took out my recorder and, with a questioning eyebrow, put it on the table between us. She nodded permission, and I said again, ‘Tell me about Jack Spencer.’