Still the same hands

Rain pattered in trickling waves on the window as he woke and reached for the painkillers. The inevitable headache had become routine, but he felt invigorated this morning. With the special quality of the outside night air still close, as though he could reach out and hold it to him, he got up early, feeling more himself than he had for ages. There was some way still to go, but it was a green lane he was travelling instead of sitting staring at a map without his glasses.

After a shower, he made his way downstairs. As he sat at the table with a mug of coffee and bowl of muesli, he picked up his glasses from next to the phone and told himself to stop feeling relieved whenever things were as they should be. To feel such relief was to acknowledge that things still weren’t truly normal, and he wanted the crutch of normality. He reached for the note Elin left last night. Her writing tugged at his heart – Love, Elin – but he breathed deeply and put it to one side, face down. He unfolded the other paper she’d given him, the one with the details, and set it out in front of him, noting that the writing was the same as the Return to Sender on Niall’s birthday card envelope.

A glance at his watch, quarter to seven, told him it was too early. He put the paper and the phone next to each other in readiness and grabbed the crutches. A twinge of wrongness nagged him at the feel of cold metal and plastic, but they were to hand and he had things on his mind other than trying to remember where he’d left his walking stick. He crossed the rain-soaked yard to spend an hour or two in the workshop.

At half past eight he considered it reasonable to make the call. Without putting the kettle on, without washing up his breakfast things, without doing anything that would dilute his resolve, he sat down at the kitchen table, picked the phone up and dialled.

A self-assured woman’s voice answered.

‘Suzanne?’ He introduced himself.

‘I’d almost given up on you,’ she said coldly. ‘I was thinking of trying again myself. Didn’t your wife pass the message on?’

‘Not straight away. Anyway, she has now and there are things I’d like to talk to you about.’ He hesitated.

‘Sure. Would you like to meet later this week? Tomorrow, even?’

‘No, no. I mean now. On the phone.’

‘I’d prefer to meet,’ she insisted. ‘I want to see the papers before agreeing to anything.’

‘What papers?’

‘Joe’s will, for a start.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Yeah, all right. We can meet up about that. Though it’s been…a difficult time. We haven’t had much chance to think about it or consult anyone. I’ve also got something else I should let you have. A bit late,’ he laughed drily, ‘but better late than never, hey? An eighteenth birthday card for Niall. From Dad. I was going to put it on the fire, but…I didn’t. So you might as well have it to pass on to him.’

‘What do you know about him?’ She sounded worried, the first hint of emotion he’d detected in her voice. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘Never clapped eyes on him. I know sweet FA about him, sorry. But I thought you might like the card. I’ve had enough of burning stuff. Overrated. Now, there are things I’d like to ask you, too. And, unlike me, I think you do know the answers.’

He tensed, steeling himself.

‘I can guess what you’re referring to. I’m sorry, I said more than I should have to your wife. I’d rather talk to you in person – with her, maybe? It’s not the kind of thing I’d be comfortable telling you over the phone.’

Not this woman as well. Silence, lies, conspiracy. His hand tightened into a fist. ‘Why not?’

‘I’m only thinking it might be better for you—’

‘Listen!’ He banged his fist down on the table. ‘You don’t know me, you don’t know what my feelings are or how to fucking spare them!’

‘Don’t you shout at me.’

‘I’m not f— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… Will you just tell me why Joe left?’

‘Nothing like getting straight to the point.’

‘Please. Suzanne. Aunt Suzanne!’

There was a long silence. His index finger was entangled in a strand of hair, winding it round and round, like the old-fashioned telephone cord the first time he’d phoned Joe. And later, Elin. A nervous wreck then, too.

‘Oh, what the heck. Don’t blame me if you don’t like what you hear. Very well, I told your uncle, my husband, never to darken our door again because I couldn’t trust him. Because he confessed to me that he…he’d murdered a man. And from the state of him, he was obviously telling the truth.’

‘Murdered?’ He blinked at the unexpected.

‘Yes, murdered. Thinking about it later I understood he was seriously provoked – but he had a temper, as you probably know, and I couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t resort to violence again.’

‘What happened?’ Bede stared at the hair wound round his finger like a hangman’s noose.

‘He…he must have been really close to his sister. Your mother. Though you’d probably find that hard to believe. I don’t think they saw each other after—’

‘Not that I knew of.’ He tapped the phone handset impatiently. ‘Go on.’

‘She…she was raped when she was seventeen. After a disco, party, whatever. It seems she knew the bastard by sight. So did Joe. When he found out, he lost it. Tracked him down, and… Maybe he only intended to beat him up, teach him a lesson, who knows? When the lad’s body was found in the river – drowned, bloated, barely identifiable – they put it down to a mugging, never found the culprit. Joe said that Lydia knew, of course, but whatever else, she wasn’t going to see her brother tried and banged up for murder.’

Bede closed his eyes, enveloping himself in the swirling, mottled semi-darkness of his eyelids.

‘And before you ask, no, Joe didn’t tell me who it was. It wasn’t important to me. I’d never even met his sister. What mattered to me was I didn’t want that man near me. Didn’t want him having anything to do with my kids. He’d been a good enough father, though he was prone to the occasional outburst, but after he confessed, I was scared. What might provoke him to do it again? He wasn’t the man I’d known. Can you understand that?’

He nodded, opening his eyes. He yanked his finger roughly from the tangle of hair to make himself feel.

‘Hello? Are you still there? I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell you like that. You’re right, I don’t know you, but no one deserves—’

‘It’s OK.’

‘I’m sure you could find out about your father properly if you wanted. It would have been in the local paper at the time, you can search the archives. He might turn out to have been a decent enough young man in other respects. Made a mistake, may have regretted it. Then again—’

‘I said it’s OK!’

He imagined her taking a step back, relieved she hadn’t done this face-to-face after all.

‘Yes, well. I know it must be hard. I’ll leave you in peace. Just…can you remember Joe saying anything about Niall? Our son?’

‘Nothing. Only the stupid card.’

‘I haven’t heard from him for over three years. Reported him missing, but there’s been no trace. I was worried about our Niall before, but… If Joe contacted him…’

‘He obviously didn’t. The envelope was with it. Returned unopened. As you know.’

‘That wasn’t the only time he tried. Please let me know if you hear anything.’

He heard himself saying he was sure there was nothing to worry about, coming out with some platitude about unpredictable young lads. After he put the phone down without properly thanking her, without properly saying goodbye, he realised they’d never arranged to meet up after all.

His hands lay in front of him on the table. Rapist. Murderer. They were still the same hands. Why were people so afraid of telling? Why the secrets and lies? Still the same hands. A huge wave of love washed over him for his mum, who’d kept him with her – let him live, if he thought about it – and loved him despite who he was, what he represented.

He got up to go to the workshop, immerse himself in activity. Remembering the drenching he’d got earlier, merely crossing the yard, he grabbed his coat. It smelled strongly of smoke. He paused with it half-on, and realised it wasn’t his usual jacket. This one was irredeemably worn out, saved to wear for the dirtiest of jobs; he’d forgotten it was still there. One pocket felt slightly heavy; he thrust his hand in and felt something metallic. He frowned and replaced the key on its designated hook, then hung the tattered old coat back on its proper peg. As he tugged on his summer-weight waterproof, hood up against the rain, he hoped fervently that he’d soon conquer this fog of absent-mindedness.

Carole came into the shop, flapping her umbrella open and shut in the doorway to shake off the raindrops. Elin was glad of the way the rota had fallen. It was hard to keep a cheerful face on things, and it would be good to have her friend around. She might even steel herself to talk things through.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Carole walked briskly to the counter. ‘Isn’t it awful?’

‘What?’ Elin wasn’t sure if she could face more bad news.

‘Haven’t you heard? Oh, I forgot you’re still staying at Foxover Fields.’ A mixture of pity and reproach flitted across her face. ‘You wouldn’t have come in past Bridge Farm, would you? There’s been a fire. Pretty bad, as far as I could see. It’s cordoned off of course, but I spoke to one of the fire crew.’

‘Oh.’ Elin gripped the edge of the counter. ‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘I’m afraid Marjorie’s been taken to hospital. The effects of smoke. I heard she may have had a stroke. Philip wasn’t there, lucky bastard – he was at Kate’s last night, as far as I know.’ She smiled grimly. ‘The village’s worst-kept secret definitely a secret no more. Though I doubt they’ll mind under the circumstances. God, Elin, the place looks awful.’

‘I can’t believe it. You know, I think I saw something in the middle of the night. I was half-asleep.’

‘They’re not committing themselves yet, but I heard it started with an explosion in an old central heating boiler.’

‘We’ve been trying for ages to get her to replace it.’

‘There’s a rumour it was tampered with. Arson. It’s amazing how they know. Mind you, the firemen and police have been combing the place since the small hours.’

The bell over the door went.

‘You go and put the kettle on,’ Carole said quietly, as if sensing that Elin couldn’t face talking to anyone.

She made their coffees in a daze, vaguely aware of a number of people coming and going. Nothing like a crisis to create a hum of activity.

‘Here she is now,’ she heard Carole saying as she took the mugs through.

Elin recognised the detective who’d led the investigation into Bede’s accident. Hughes, wasn’t it? He shook her hand. She beckoned him through to the staff room, throwing Carole an apologetic glance as she went.

‘I understand Mrs Denman’s told you about the fire,’ he began.

Elin asked him about Marjorie. He knew no more than Carole had told her, but said he’d keep this as brief as possible so she could phone the hospital and find out. He asked if she’d seen anything and she mentioned the glimpse she’d had when she woke briefly.

‘You weren’t at home last night?’

She felt he was watching her intently as she muttered something about having work to catch up on at the Foxover Fields office and staying over as it got so late.

‘How’s your husband doing after that accident? Last time I saw you, you were worried about leaving him. He must be recovering well.’

‘Oh yes, he’s been quite capable of looking after himself for a while now. He’s still using crutches, though.’ She stopped short of as far as I know; the distance between them was still something she hated to admit. ‘But the cast’s off his leg and he’s more mobile every day.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He sat back with a frown. ‘Mr Northcote tells me your husband was at his mother’s house a few weeks ago. Repairing the boiler where it’s believed the fire started. Mr Northcote also believes you hold a key to her house.’

There was no denying either claim. ‘We… Marjorie gave us a spare key long before Philip came back to live in Foxover. In case anything happened…’

She was beginning to wish they’d given it back.

The knocking was loud, almost hammering.

‘Come in.’

Bede remembered he’d locked the door. Cursing the interruption, he reached for the crutches and went to open up. He vaguely recognised the man in the doorway.

Detective Inspector Hughes introduced himself. Ah yes, the guy who’d got nowhere tracing the cause of his accident. Hughes peered into the workshop, but Bede stayed resolutely on the threshold, his weight on his right leg, stepping back only enough to allow the man to shelter from the worst of the rain. Never let it be said he was entirely inconsiderate.

‘I’m investigating the fire at Bridge Farm, Mr Sherwell. Can I ask you a few questions?’

Bede frowned. ‘Bridge Farm? What kind of fire?’ The detective looked at him as if to say, the hot kind, with flames and smoke. ‘I mean, what’s happened?’

Hughes glanced at the crutches. ‘Would you like to go somewhere a bit more comfortable to talk?’

‘I’m fine, but if it suits you.’

After a quick look round to make sure everything was safe to leave, he secured the workshop and led the way across the yard. He felt under scrutiny as he unlocked the kitchen door, then waved a hand at a chair by the table.

‘It’s good to see you’re security conscious,’ the detective remarked as he sat down. ‘A lot of people who live in the country can be a bit careless.’

Bede shrugged. ‘Tell me about this fire at Bridge Farm.’

‘It was quite a blaze, around midnight.’ He looked at him intently. ‘You hadn’t heard?’

‘Haven’t been anywhere or seen anyone this morning. How bad is it? Is Marjorie OK? Marjorie Northcote?’

As he listened to the news that his old friend was in hospital, he stared at his feet, full of regret for the anger he’d been feeling. It wasn’t her fault that she’d kept Joe’s secrets for him.

‘Mr Sherwell?’

He looked up.

‘I asked where you were, what you were doing, last night.’

‘What? Me? I was here.’

‘At home? All evening?’

Bede sighed, ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yes. No. What can I say? I went for a walk. I like going for walks. Especially when I’m stressed. I haven’t been able to get out much recently. It did me good.’

He turned away, looked out of the window, watching the raindrops patterning a puddle on the yard.

‘Did you see anything?’

He shook his head.

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘Not that I know of.’

Bede sat forward as he realised where this was heading. Apart from the circumstantial evidence of his ongoing feud with Philip, culminating in his upset about the death of his dog, there was the question of Marjorie’s spare key and his knowledge of the ancient central heating boiler. Wet footsteps in the boiler room between the two houses had been interspersed with singular prints made by the rubber tips of a set of crutches; Inspector Hughes found that the boot prints matched an old pair here in the Alderleat utility room. Bede’s protests as he gestured towards the ones on his feet and insisted that he hadn’t been wearing them were less compelling than the bald fact that they were damp.

As was the smoke-smelling jacket. ‘I suppose you weren’t wearing this, either?’

He shook his head again in silence. Hughes indicated his mobile, lying in its usual place on the windowsill.

‘What’s your number?’

Mystified, Bede recited it. The detective consulted his notebook.

‘Can I have a look?’

‘Be my guest. I haven’t touched it for a couple of days, though.’

The detective pulled on a pair of latex gloves and unplugged it from the charger. After a few taps, he showed Bede a text, sent to Northcote P at 00:26 that morning.

Now you know what it feels like to have a place that matters to you destroyed.

A rising panic threatened to engulf him. ‘I don’t even know Northcote’s number! What’s it doing on my phone?’

There was a sense of inevitability, of events spiralling out of control, as he agreed – as if he had any choice – to go to the police station to give a statement. A statement he knew would not be believed.

The news from the hospital was better than Elin had feared. It seemed that Marjorie was stable, though the chances of her going home any time soon were slim. That would leave plenty of time to repair the house, Elin thought grimly. The detective would have spoken to Bede by now and she wanted to be with him. She went through to the shop and was about to ask Carole if she could spare her for a few minutes, when she heard Silvan’s voice. Her heart sank.

‘It seems we’re honoured to have the company of the hero of the hour,’ Carole announced.

‘Hardly,’ he protested. ‘I only did what anyone would’ve done.’

‘Which is?’ Elin said.

‘First things first,’ Carole said. ‘What did they tell you at the hospital?’

Elin gave them her news and asked his.

‘I fell asleep in front of the telly last night. I was on my way to bed when I looked out the window and noticed the fire. I called 999 then dashed out. So I rocked up and saw a blaze coming from the lobby between the two houses – you know, the old lady’s place, Mrs Northcote’s, and Philip’s. The smoke was choking me before I could get near to see more.’ He scratched his nose as if the acrid fumes were still irritating his nostrils. ‘I saw Philip’s car wasn’t there. I couldn’t have got closer if I’d wanted to but I assumed he was safe. Then, shit, I only saw smoke drifting out from Mrs Northcote’s kitchen, didn’t I? I was working my way round, trying to find a way in to see if she was OK, when the firemen arrived and broke the door down to rescue her.’ He glanced at Carole. ‘Hardly heroic but I tried. I don’t mind telling you I was terrified.’

Elin felt guilty that she’d not seen the blaze, but consoled herself that it would have been the fire engine or police that had woken her and so there was nothing useful she could have done.

‘So I haven’t slept a wink since. There’s nothing doing at the shoot today, of course, so I’m just on my way back to catch up on some kip. I’m only being nosy really, forgive me, but I thought I saw Bede just now, heading somewhere in the back of a car.’

‘What car?’ Elin said sharply.

‘Blue one. The driver might have been someone I recognised from last night. Couldn’t tell. It was all blurry with the rain.’

‘Inspector Hughes had a blue car,’ Carole said helpfully.

‘So what d’you think that’s about?’

Something inside Elin snapped. ‘I’ve been here all morning, Silvan. Bede’s been at Alderleat. So I really have no idea.’