Chapter Twenty

It was a long, narrow garden, confined by an old red brick wall on both sides. There was a heavy wooden gate at the end which was painted pale green and secured by a bolt and a large padlock. It appeared to lead nowhere more interesting than the yard of the adjacent tractor hire company. The wall on the right-hand side was covered in a profusion of old English roses. That on the left-hand side was bare, save for a few gooseberry bushes that straggled against its lower reaches. The wall itself was streaked with the silver of phosphorus; about ten feet in height, and at least four inches thick, it had been topped at some time in the past with pieces of broken bottle.

Inspector Tim Yates pointed to the jagged shards of glass.

“Not very neighbourly, is it? How long has that been there?”

Ronald Atkins fiddled nervously with his watch-strap.

“Oh, a long time – ever since I can remember, and I grew up here, you know. I think my uncle had it done because at one point there was a very large and rowdy family living next door. The Needhams. My uncle couldn’t abide them.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure that it’s legal – it may have to be removed – but that’s not why we’re here today, as you know. Do you want someone to walk through the garden with you and take an inventory of the plants? You are entitled to have it restored to its original state as far as we can manage, after we’ve finished.”

“I’ll leave that to Doreen. She’s more interested in it than I am.”

Tim looked back towards the house. A tall, untidy-looking woman in her seventies was standing at the sash window, her arms folded across a beige-clad bosom. He could not read the look on her face.

“As you wish. Please tell her that if she wants to take the inventory, she needs to arrange it with one of my officers in the next hour. After that the digging team will arrive.”

For all his deference, Ronald Atkins flushed deeply, evidently angry.

“Is this whole thing really necessary? Could you tell me exactly what you think you might find?”

Inspector Yates regarded him levelly.

“I don’t know, Mr. Atkins. Perhaps you have more idea than I do.”

“Why would I know? I have only just inherited the property.”

“Yes. Why is that? I understand that it is many years since your uncle died.”

Ronald Atkins shrugged. “There was a dispute about who had rightful ownership. My uncle’s will was badly-phrased and ambiguous. I did not prove my case until early this year. Doreen and I only moved in a few months ago.”

“You lived here as a child, though.”

“Yes. But the house belonged to my uncle – and my grandmother. My mother and I lived here on sufferance. She acted as their skivvy, in return for a roof over our heads.”

“You sound very bitter.”

“Bitter? Not really. A little resentful, maybe, of the opportunities that were lost to me because of circumstances. But we were fortunate, really. At the time, many unmarried mothers were sent to mental institutions and their children put out for adoption. I think that my grandmother was unprepared to go that far: after all, my mother was her only daughter. But at the same time she wanted to make the point – in perpetuity, as it were – that my mother had forfeited her rights to equal treatment. My mother was trapped in a life of everlasting penance. My grandmother was a Methodist and had very black and white ideas about morals. Ironically, my mother only found out after her death that she had herself been almost four months pregnant at the time of her marriage. But of course the difference was that my grandfather had married her.”

“It was your mother who looked after the garden?”

“She looked after most things. But she liked the garden. I think it gave her some kind of creative outlet – or maybe just the opportunity to get out of the house. The atmosphere in there could be very oppressive; and even when it wasn’t, my grandmother and Uncle Colin would sit on either side of the fireplace, gazing into each other’s eyes like two spaniels. It must have been galling for my mother, to have been so conspicuously the odd one out.”

“I know I have asked you this before: but why would your first wife have commented that your mother had to die ‘because she was too fond of gardening’?”

Ronald Atkins shrugged. His moment of expansiveness evaporated, and he was clearly on guard again.

“Who knows why Tirzah said or did things? I know you have read all the case-notes, Inspector, so you must be aware by now that I could neither influence her nor understand her. I had no control over her whatsoever. It was like being married to an alien.”

“Did you think that she was insane?”

“The judge decided that the best place for her was in a secure mental unit.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I realise that; and I hardly know how to answer it. I’ve thought about it, of course; and I’ve come to the conclusion that it depends on your definition of insane. My wife was examined by several psychiatrists and they each said that she had ‘borderline’ something – narcissism, psychosis, depression. I don’t quite understand that term ‘borderline’ – does it mean she was almost normal, or almost mad? One thing of which I am certain is that she was not ‘normal’ in the sense that most people would understand the word. I’m not sure that that means she was insane, however.”

Tim Yates nodded. Ronald’s comments were unhelpful, except in so far as they confirmed the conclusions that he had himself drawn from the case notes, and from talking to the psychiatrists. Once again he determined to gain an opportunity to interview Tirzah properly himself. Her manipulative powers appeared to be very highly developed. He was sure that talking to her at length would be interesting, as well as perhaps leading to the crucial information that was eluding him.

Ronald Atkins shivered.

“I am sorry, Mr. Atkins, I am keeping you out in the cold. Do go back to the house: I will come and find you if I need you again. And please mention the inventory to your wife.”

Ronald Atkins gave him the lop-sided smirk which passed for his smile, and turned his back. He walked swiftly back up the path, a quick, neat figure despite his age.

Tim carried on walking to the end of the garden. He examined the padlock on the gate. The padlock was rusted to the chain, and the small metal sleeve that protected the keyhole had corroded so much that it was immoveable. Clearly no-one had passed through this gate for a long time. He wondered why it had been kept locked. Answering his own question, he supposed that it had been to allow Ronald to play safely when he was a child; or perhaps to prevent snatch-thieves breaking into the shop via the back way. He made a mental note to have the chain removed, so that he could walk through the gate as Doris Atkins might have done when she was out tending her garden.

He turned and glanced up at the house next door – once the residence of the pestilential Needhams – and thought that he saw someone step quickly back from one of the bedroom windows.

He had intended to interview Doreen Atkins while he was waiting for the SOCOs to arrive, but upon reflection decided that he would leave the two Atkinses to stew for the time being. He was convinced that Ronald, at least, was keeping something secret that could have helped the police. Doreen was more of a known quantity. Not bright and prone to hysteria; he doubted if it would take long to persuade her to reveal everything that she knew under strict questioning and in due course he would put this to the test. He doubted that she knew very much, however. Even if Ronald trusted her, she was an outsider, not part of the unholy charmed circle that had been his original family. Doreen might even turn into an ally.