THE TENT WAS still in place and SOCOs still swarmed about its edges like scarabs around a dung ball – very much as it was yesterday. Only now the stench was gone, replaced once more by the heady scents of wild flowers and meadow weeds.
Mia was thankful for the change. It was bad enough having to endure Nick’s constant complaining, without having to hold one’s breath at the same time.
They were at the fence, watching the action from a distance. Not that there was much to watch. Actually, their entire visit had been a waste of time. They’d learned nothing of any use, had found no leads with which to further the investigation, and wouldn’t either until the post mortem results became available. That was the trouble with this stage in the game. They were all walking blind.
‘What was that old lady’s problem?’ Mia pondered aloud.
‘Dementia, I should think,’ said Nick.
She nodded agreement. ‘What now then?’
‘Fancy a chat with your mum?’
‘No, I’ll wait till the headstone’s ready. Have a bit of a ceremony then.’
Nick stared into the distance, at the snaking river and a large copse of beech and ash trees towering beyond it. ‘She’s better off, you know.’
‘Of course she is,’ said Mia, her tone dripping with derision.
‘And so are you.’
‘You think?’
‘You are, Mia. You can get on with your life now.’
‘I haven’t got a life.’
‘That’s your fault,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Decide what you want to do and get on with it.’
‘Like you, you mean?’ Nick failed to respond; simply lowered his gaze. ‘See, that’s shut you up.’ She hitched her bag on to her shoulder, took one last glance at the SOCOs and headed for the gate in the fence. ‘Let’s get back to the office. I’m gagging for a coffee.’
The graveyard was huge, with burial plots dating back to the early seventeenth century. Many of the very ancient ones had fallen into disrepair and – nearer to the church – council workers were toiling hard to save as many as they could. Mia regarded them with a wry smile because the verger was amongst them, pointing and gesticulating and offering his pearls of wisdom, no doubt.
The cemetery was a beautiful spot, with huge oak and hawthorn trees offering shade and shelter at various points, well-worn paths meandering, and birdsong filling the perfumed air. It was lovely; so utterly peaceful. Mia felt her cares falling away as they negotiated the path towards the headstones. Even Nick had lowered his shoulders, looking less like a boxer psyching himself up for a fight.
The graves started about a metre from the fence and Mia moved slowly, studied the crumbling inscriptions as they edged further away from the crime scene.
‘Oh, my God … look,’ she suddenly cried out.
Nick turned to find her pointing towards a modern headstone in shiny black marble. He trudged back, read the gold lettering with a heavy heart.
ANNA CHAMBERLAIN
Born and Died – 15 July 2006
Beloved Daughter of THOMAS and GRACE
Rest Well, Darling
Our Love Will Be With You Always
There was a large oval cut into the marble to the left of the inscription which showed the red and wrinkled face of a newborn child, her eyes shut tight, her mouth open in a mewl of undisguised fury. Fresh rosebuds in pink, yellow and white filled four bulbous containers at each corner of the gravelled plot. And a number of bedraggled soft toys – two teddy bears, a pink elephant, and a small penguin – were shackled to the base of the headstone by thin unobtrusive wires.
‘Born and died on the same day,’ Mia murmured. ‘How awful.’
Nick said nothing. He didn’t dare open his mouth for fear of divulging the secret of his own daughter. And the truth of it was he felt jealous of Thomas and Grace because they’d at least glimpsed their child. They’d held her and kissed her and told her how much she was loved. He hadn’t been fortunate enough to experience even that small blessing. His daughter hadn’t even managed to be born.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, turning sharply on his heel. ‘I thought you wanted a coffee.’
Mia watched him tramp away, his head down, shoulders hunched again. ‘Heartless git,’ she muttered.
‘Thought I’d find you here. Checking up on me, are you?’
‘Now, Frank, what have I told you about that attitude of yours?’
‘You’re the only one who thinks I’ve got an attitude.’
Kate Fisher let out an exaggerated huff as she slammed shut the file she’d been studying and fixed the verger with a superior look. ‘If you must know I’ve come to help Charlie. He’s not had a good night.’
They were in the office, the overhead light bulb casting ominous shadows upon Kate’s features, showing up dark lines beneath her eyes and a pinched appearance to her mouth. As a rule she scrubbed up well for fifty-two; could pass for ten years younger. Not today though.
‘I hope it’s not catching,’ said Frank as he leant against the filing cabinet, keeping a fair distance between them.
‘Catching?’
‘What Charlie’s got. You look a bit under the weather yourself.’
‘He hasn’t got anything, Frank. He’s perfectly well.’
‘You’ve just said he had a bad night.’
Kate glared at him. ‘Charlie’s fine. OK?’
Frank held up his hands. ‘Don’t want the congregation coming down with flu, that’s all.’
‘They won’t.’
‘That’s all right then.’ He turned away from her, started rummaging in the filing cabinet. ‘Can’t praise your hubby enough, Kate. One in a million, he is.’
Isn’t he just? she thought, staring at the verger’s broad back. To everyone else. Not to her though. Never to her.
Charlie couldn’t do enough for acquaintances, for strangers. Charlie would put himself out, go that extra mile, with hardly a thought. Why then couldn’t he see that she was suffering so badly? Why couldn’t he help her?
Kate’s thoughts went back to the previous night. She saw again the loathing and recrimination in his eyes; heard again the door slamming as he stormed out in the early hours.
What had she done to deserve such rancour?
Still, they’d made up after he’d eventually returned. They’d managed a few hours sleep. Things could be worse.
‘The police are still busy at the crime scene,’ said Frank, his words pulling her back to the present.
Kate opened up the file again. ‘Are they?’
‘They’ll be—’
‘I don’t want to know.’
Frank shrugged. ‘Rehearsing tonight?’
‘Hopefully. If everyone’s available.’
‘Let me know if you want me to set up.’ He turned to face her, a number of papers in his hand. ‘If you can bear my presence, that is.’
After he’d gone Kate stared at the closed door for a long time. Frank Lessing was a thoroughly decent soul, solid and reliable to a fault. Every one of their congregation saw him as an extension of her husband, used him as a dumping ground for their troubles. And the old man seemed to thrive on it.
Trouble was he’d sided with Charlie from the outset. They’d never get along now. She was the enemy, the one to avoid. Kate sighed. If only she could tell Frank her troubles. If only she could confide in him.
‘Bruises? How the hell can he be covered in bruises?’
Nick baulked at the DCI’s vicious tone. ‘That’s what Jim Levers said, sir.’
‘The doctor was called,’ Mia added gingerly. ‘Perry was complaining about the pain.’
They’d arrived back at CID to find Paul Wells in a quarrelsome mood. He’d been genuinely shocked by the sight of Jack’s injuries and was ready to lash out. Jason Perry was the one he really wanted to batter, but as such a move was out of the question Nick and Mia were getting the backlash.
Wells hurled them a scurrilous glance and snatched up his telephone receiver, punched out the numbers with heavy disgust. ‘Jim, it’s Paul. What’s all this about Perry?’
‘He collapsed in the cell, Paul. We had to call the quack.’
‘Bollocks,’ Wells barked. ‘He’s putting it on.’
‘That was my first thought, but the doc says he’s got heavy bruising to the stomach and kidneys.’
‘How? Jack reckons he never landed a punch.’
‘Dunno, but Perry’s solicitor’s doing a photo shoot as we speak. On his second role of film apparently.’
Wells’s furious breath drenched the telephone receiver while his long jowls trembled with suppressed fury. Jason Perry was a nogood waste of space with cardboard for brains, but put him in a custodial situation and he could win Mastermind with his knowledge of beating the system. Wells had met his type before: clued-up toe rags who knew every loophole, every crack through which to wriggle free. Not this time though. Not if he could help it. Jack had sworn that he hadn’t landed so much as a slap on the arsehole and Wells believed him.
‘Jim, let me know when the solicitor’s buggered off. I want a look at Perry’s so-called injuries.’
Wells slammed down the receiver without so much as a goodbye. He sat back, stared at the steaming mug of coffee that Mia had wordlessly positioned before him.
‘Thanks,’ he grunted, nodding towards the drink. ‘Nick, did you get any impression that Perry was hurt?’
‘None, sir. There was blood everywhere, Jack could hardly stand, but Perry hadn’t got a mark on him.’
Wells narrowed his eyes. ‘Were you a bit rough with him?’
‘No way, sir. I’ll admit I could’ve been gentler with the cuffs, but I’ve got more sense than to beat up a collar in front of a crowd.’
‘All right, mate, I had to ask.’
Mia was sipping her coffee, only half-listening to their dialogue. Her thoughts were following an altogether different route.
‘Nick,’ she said, carefully replacing the mug, ‘didn’t you say Joey and Syed answered the call?’ He nodded. ‘Then I’ll bet you anything they had a bit of fun in the car.’
Nick let out a derisive snort. ‘They’d maybe give him a hard time, but they wouldn’t go that far.’
‘They’ve done it before. That bloke who raped and set fire to little Phoebe Wilcox. Remember?’
‘Shit,’ said Wells. ‘OK, I’ll take a look at the damage and then I’ll have a word with them.’ He sat back, let out a heavy breath. ‘Christ, this is looking bloody bad for Jack.’
‘They couldn’t know Perry would press charges,’ said Mia. ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t have done it otherwise.’
‘But he has and they did,’ Wells fired back. ‘And this could cost Jack his job.’
Nick jumped in. ‘Why cite Jack though? Why not them? Anyway, we don’t know they did anything yet. Innocent till proven guilty – isn’t that the way it’s supposed to go?’
‘Somebody did something,’ Wells snarled. ‘His solicitor’s used up a roll of film already.’
It was then that his phone buzzed. Wells snatched it up, heard John Lloyd’s ponderous tone. ‘You’d better have something I can use, mate.’
And it would seem that he had quite a bit. They watched Wells scribble away for many moments, the ensuing silence punctuated by the occasional grunt and murmur, even a raucous laugh now and again.
‘OK, kiddies, listen up, John’s given us some good stuff,’ he said, replacing the phone. ‘First off, he reckons Mommy Dearest’s been dead for about two years. She was white, approximately five-foot-six. He’s put her age around late twenties. She wasn’t hard up. She was wearing expensive designer gear and she’s got a mouthful of veneers. Expensive veneers, according to John.’
‘They can cost thousands,’ Mia interjected.
‘These were top of the range, apparently. That’ll make it easier to track the dentist.’
‘What killed her?’ asked Nick.
‘Intracranial bleeding caused by blunt force head trauma,’ said Wells, reading the words verbatim. He glanced up. ‘A crack on the skull to you and me.’
‘Could he tell what was used?’
‘You know what it’s like, mate, they can make a guess but that’s all. John says the wound – at the back of the head – was quite small. It was bleeding in the brain that finished her off. Could have been caused by a heavy ornament or such like. He found traces of resin and gilt, said he’ll get back to us when they’ve been tested further.’ He gave them an intense look. ‘Also, the woman had a healed fracture in her left shin bone – something else to help identify her. And her hair was dyed. Brown to dark blonde, John reckons. She was right-handed, and would have had a slim build before the pregnancy.’
‘What about the foetus?’ asked Mia.
Wells consulted his jottings. ‘It was a girl. In the third trimester, so the woman was over six months gone, although John reckons she was nearer to eight.’
Mia glanced over her own notes. ‘Sir, there’s the grave of a newborn girl very near the crime scene.’
‘So?’ said Wells, shrugging.
‘It’s really immaculate … fresh flowers … toys … the grass around it well-trodden. And the baby died nearly three years ago. If the family keep such a keen eye on it they might have seen something fishy around the time of our murder.’ She made a face. ‘Worth a thought, don’t you think?’
Wells raised a dubious eyebrow, but nodded nonetheless. ‘Track down the parents. Let’s see what they’ve got to say.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Wells took another call. It was Jim Levers. Jason Perry’s solicitor had just left the building, grinning like a hyena on crack. The DCI left Levers in no doubt as to his feelings about the over-confident brief before cutting the connection. After which Wells took a moment to slow his breathing and focus his thoughts.
‘OK, let’s get organized,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘We’ll need a list of all females reported missing between … let’s say June 2006 and June 2007. If that brings nothing, we’ll go further back.’
‘I’ve got that,’ said Nick.
‘And we’ll need a list of cosmetic dentists. John’s promised his report by tomorrow lunch at the latest, so we’ll have photos and X-rays by then. I’ll leave that with you as well, Nick.’ He suddenly hissed out a snarl. ‘Christ, we could really do with Jack here. There’s gonna be a load of bloody computer work.’
‘I’m planning on seeing him tonight,’ said Mia.
‘Don’t mention Perry’s bruises.’
‘Of course not, sir.’
Wells glanced at his watch. ‘Listen, let’s call it a day and start early tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp.’ He shot Mia a probing look. ‘Bearing up, are we?’
She nodded. ‘Thanks for letting me come in, sir. I’d be climbing the walls at home.’
He gave her a hasty smile and rustled together his notes. ‘Right, I’ll transfer all this to the whiteboard. Then I’m off downstairs to give poorly Perry a dollop of my particular blend of TLC.’
Mia didn’t stay long at the hospital. She’d arrived to find Michelle and Jack’s mother huddled around his bed, fussing and tearing his nerves to shreds – if his waspish expression was anything to go by. As each patient was allowed only two visitors at a time – and she’d have felt guilty should either of the women have had to drag their heels outside – Mia dumped a bag of Jack’s favourite sweeties and the latest Snow Patrol CD on his bed, gave him a swift peck between the bruises, and hotfooted it out of there.
Back at the car park, pulling in a lungful of clean air, Mia swallowed a curse. Merely stepping through the hospital doors had her hurtling back to the moment of her mother’s death, leaving her trembling and hating herself for such weakness. Mia liked to be in control. What she didn’t like – what she couldn’t stand – was that sense of emptiness that kept hitting her in waves, unexpected and unremitting.
What to do now. She was loath to go home. Her mother’s belongings were there, waiting to be sorted.
Just two small boxes and a bag of clothes.
Not much to show for a life.
She’d put everything in the spare bedroom. Out of sight, but not out of mind. They goaded her constantly; she felt accused and vilified each time she passed the door.
No, she couldn’t go home.
She’d head back to St Matthew’s, see if anyone was around. She could ask about the parents of Anna Chamberlain. Save herself a job in the morning.
Yes, it was a plan.
‘God,’ she muttered, approaching her car. ‘Maybe Nick’s right. Maybe I should get a life.’
‘Mr Perry, we meet at last,’ said Wells as the custody sergeant pulled open the cell door.
Jason Perry, hunched on the low bed, lifted his shaved head. ‘Who the fuck’re you?’
‘DCI Wells, sir.’ He nodded to the sergeant, left his briefcase in the doorway. ‘I’m the boss of that copper you thrashed to a pulp.’
‘He done the thrashin’, bruv.’
Wells leant against the wall, hands in his trouser pockets, a contemptuous look on his jowls. ‘Let’s have a shufti then.’
Perry left the bed, lifted his grubby T-shirt, wincing dramatically as he did so.
Wells’s stomach fell as he stared at the stretch of bruised flesh around Perry’s middle; made his pocketed hands into fists as the boy turned to show a matching patch at the small of his back.
Trying valiantly to keep the shock from his face, Wells said, ‘Who did that to you, son?’
‘Your g’rilla, bruv.’
Wells forced a laugh. ‘Come on, we both know that’s not true.’
‘You callin’ me a liar?’ said Perry, easing himself back on to the bed. ‘S’licitor says I’ll get money outta this … compensation.’
Wells lifted his brows. ‘That’s a big word, son. If nothing else your vocabulary’s improved.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Language,’ Wells scolded. He took his hands from his pockets, folded his arms. ‘So you’re the victim here, Mr Perry. Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’
Wells nodded towards the boy’s grazed knuckles. ‘Looks to me like you got a few in yourself.’
Perry shrugged. ‘Protectin’ meself, wern I?’
He was sweating heavily. Large stains showed at the neck of his T-shirt, across his scrawny chest, beneath both armpits. His left leg jigged constantly. A full plate of food sat beside him on the bed.
‘You haven’t touched your dinner, mate.’
‘Ain’t hungry,’ he said, his gaze fixed to the floor.
Wells’s grin was vicious. ‘Missing the drugs?’
‘Ain’t into that shit,’ said Perry, flinching momentarily.
‘Glad to hear it. You’ve a new baby, I’m told. Got to be a role model now – teach him right from wrong.’
‘I will,’ he said, eyes still on the floor.
‘Shame really. You stuck in here. Not being able to see him. Must be hard.’
Perry looked up then, gave the DCI a cocky grin. ‘Got the magistrates in the mornin’. S’licitor says I’ll get bail.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, no problem. ’Specially with me injuries.’
Wells’s expression was hugely sceptical, but he let it go. ‘What did the doctor say?’
‘Wants me to have a blood test,’ said Perry, a hand going to his stomach. ‘Says things ain’t right inside.’
‘Oh dear.’
Perry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your slave’s gonna fuckin’ pay for this. S’licitor says so.’
‘He’s paying already. In a hospital bed.’
Perry lifted a shoulder. ‘Had to retaliate, bruv.’
‘Your solicitor teach you that word an’ all, did he?’ Wells pushed himself away from the wall, shook his head. ‘What’s the world coming to, eh? Can’t even shoplift in peace now.’
Perry adopted an indignant pose. ‘I was buyin’ them DVDs for me partner. A present, like, for havin’ the kid.’
‘Fifty-odd?’ said Wells, smirking. ‘She must really enjoy her films.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘OK.’ Wells reached for his briefcase, took his time. Straightening up, he said, ‘By the way, Mr Perry, who’s your witness?’
The boy grinned. ‘One o’ God’s angels, I’d say.’
‘You haven’t got a name?’
Perry shook his head. ‘She saw everythin’ though. She must’ve gone to Specsavers – you reckon?’
‘You know it was a woman then?’
Wariness showed momentarily in the boy’s sunken eyes. ‘S’licitor told me … yeah … yeah, that’s it.’
‘Strange,’ said Wells. ‘He tells you her gender – sorry, her sex – but doesn’t give a name.’
The jittery Perry started rubbing his thighs, gave the DCI an angry frown. ‘I forget, all right? S’licitor says she’s legit. S’all that matters.’
Wells made for the door. ‘Good night, then, son. Sleep tight.’
‘Wait. I ain’t gonna get no sleep. I’m in agony. Can you get me some tablets, bruv? Somethin’ to knock me out?’
Wells smiled. ‘As a slippery arsehole once said … fuck off.’
The small church car park was almost packed when Mia eased her Fiat through the gates. She grabbed her bag, activated her locking device, and was heading for the main doors when Frank Lessing came into view, an empty lunchbox and crumpled newspaper in his chubby hands.
A smile of recognition lifted his leathery features when he spied her. ‘Hello again,’ he said.
‘I was worried the place might be empty,’ she told him, motioning towards the cars. ‘Seems like I was wrong.’
‘Play rehearsal,’ said Frank, a caustic look in his eyes. ‘The place’ll be a tip come morning.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Charlie’s missus … the dreaded Kate.’
Mia glanced towards the church. ‘Is the vicar in there?’
‘Didn’t see him. Then again, I just set everything up and get out quick. I keep out of her way as much as I can.’
‘OK, thank you,’ said Mia, already approaching the doors.
‘Before you go …’ She turned back, and Frank gave her a thrilled type of look. ‘Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry film was the first to be inspired by the Zodiac serial killer. Yes?’
‘If you say so,’ said Mia, itching to get away.
The old man was almost hugging himself. He loved his daily quiz. ‘But what was the title of the latest one in 2007, and who starred in it?’
Mia, swallowing a sigh, thought for a moment. ‘OK … it was called Zodiac … funnily enough. And it starred …’ She was hooked now, desperate to remember. She snapped her fingers. ‘Jake Gyllenhaal and Robert Downey Junior. Am I right or am I right?’
‘Oh, you’re good,’ he said, pointing a finger, a slow grin stretching his features. He backed away, the finger still pointing. ‘You’ve set me a challenge, you have. I’ll have to put my thinking cap on for you.’
‘Do your worst,’ she responded with a laugh.
Feeling ridiculously buoyed by that small triumph Mia pushed through the heavy doors to find the foyer-type entrance area transformed into a small stage. A row of three hard-backed chairs were positioned at an angle. And more chairs and boxes were scattered at various points. To signify pieces of furniture? Or doorways?
She was turning her attention to the pews – their backs to the stage – where a number of people sat in groups, a few of them poring over battered scripts, when a woman rushed up to Mia, her gaze accusatory.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Kate Fisher?’
‘Yes. Who are you?’
Mia brandished her warrant card. ‘DS Harvey. Larchborough CID.’
As Kate studied the card Mia studied her. And she had to admit that Mrs Fisher was something of a surprise. After listening to Frank Lessing’s hardly complimentary assessment of the woman Mia had expected to find a gargantuan-schoolmarm-dragon type; an assumption which couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Kate Fisher was tiny, trim-figured, and her flowing ankle-length skirt accentuated her youthful femininity beautifully. Her skin was almost flawless; the few lines that did show around the eyes only added interest to her attractive features. Standing there, towering over the woman, Mia felt ever so slightly jealous. And fat.
‘Have you come about … about the body?’ Kate stuttered.
‘In a way,’ said Mia, pocketing her warrant card. ‘I was hoping for a word with your husband.’
‘He’s not here. Not yet. He’s …’
Kate appeared to be flustered. And Mia wondered why.
‘Is it OK if I wait for a bit?’
‘Shall I get him to call you? Wouldn’t that be better?’ said Kate, attempting to herd Mia towards the doors. ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your evening.’
She hadn’t. Unfortunately.
‘Absolutely. But you know how it is – no peace for the wicked.’ Mia moved towards the pews, turned to face the stage. ‘Which play are you doing?’
‘The Ghost Train,’ said Kate, stifling a sigh. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea as you’re staying?’
‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘We can’t start yet anyway. Still a few stragglers to come.’
A large tea urn stood on a table to the side of the stage, stacks of polystyrene cups beside it. Kate filled one of the cups – added the milk to which Mia had nodded acceptance – and then led the detective to a quiet pew well away from the murmuring group.
‘Sorry if I seemed a bit, well, eager to get rid of you just then,’ said Kate. ‘But we’re so behind with rehearsals. We’re on in four weeks and haven’t finished blocking the moves yet. Personally, I don’t think we’ll be ready, but Charlie says I should trust in God, so I am.’
Mia took a tentative sip of the tea. It was rather good. ‘I used to do amateur dramatics,’ she told the woman.
‘Really? Then you should join us. We’re always in need of experienced helpers.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Mia said, hurriedly. ‘I don’t have much spare time.’
‘Oh well.’ Kate started to fidget, was clearly desperate to keep their flagging conversation alive. ‘My husband was a professional actor years ago. He played Steve Webber in Temple’s Crest. Did you ever watch it?’
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Mia, resting a hand on Kate’s shoulder. ‘I thought he was familiar. It’s been driving me mad. Temple’s Crest … of course. I watched it all the time when I was growing up.’
‘You’ve met Charlie?’
Mia gave a sombre nod. ‘We buried my mother yesterday.’
‘Ah, you were here when the body was found. He mentioned you.’
A gloomy silence followed. Eventually Kate said, ‘You’re lucky to have found a plot.’
‘Mum went in with Dad. He’s been here since the mid-nineties.’
Kate flushed. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. Talk about making things worse.’
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ said Mia, with a smile. ‘Your husband did a brilliant job.’
Just then the doors opened and a taller, more delicate version of Kate Fisher burst in. She was conducting a hushed conversation with a very handsome young man, their hands linked, eyes oblivious to anything but each other.
‘Oh good, here’s Grace,’ smiled Kate. ‘Only Charlie and Alison to come now.’ She rose from the pew. ‘DS Harvey, come and meet my daughter.’
Kate introduced the two women. ‘And this is my son-in-law, Tom. Isn’t he a dish, Detective Sergeant?’
Isn’t he just. She shook his strong warm hand. ‘It’s Mia, by the way. I’m not actually on duty at the moment.’
‘Mia … what a lovely name,’ said Tom, staring straight into her eyes. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘I’ve already got one, thanks.’ Then, realizing that her hand was still in his, Mia sprang away. ‘I’m waiting for Reverend Fisher.’
‘Let’s wait together,’ he said, his smile teasing. ‘I want a word with him myself.’
‘Darling,’ said Kate, taking her daughter’s arm, ‘come and see the gorgeous costume I’ve found for you.’
Grace allowed herself to be led away, but kept her eyes firmly on her husband. ‘Hands off, Tom. I’ll be watching, don’t forget.’
Mia was puzzled. The girl had said the words lightly, had giggled almost uncontrollably as they left her mouth; and yet Mia had the distinct impression that the sentiment behind them was heartfelt. God, how awful … If a handsome husband can make you that paranoid, maybe she should look for somebody a bit more frayed around the edges.
She went back to the pew, retrieved her drink. Tom followed; a little too closely for Mia’s liking. Sidling along the bench, leaving a gap between them, she said, ‘What business are you in, Tom?’
‘I’m an actor,’ he said, the words spoken with much conceit. Then he laughed. ‘Well, I will be when somebody gives me a job. Haven’t had one in ages.’
Mia sipped her tea. ‘Difficult, is it?’
‘Virtually impossible. We should be living in London, right in the thick of it, but Grace will insist on staying here.’
Tom was lounging on the pew. He was wearing dark blue denim jeans, a blue-and-white-striped polo shirt and brown brogues. The outfit looked carefully casual, shabby even, but Mia knew designer gear when she saw it; she’d worked with Jack for long enough. Here was one out-of-work actor not short of a bob or two.
‘What do you do while you’re waiting for work?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, with actual pride in his voice. ‘The theatre’s my life, Mia. Well, TV and movies, hopefully. I haven’t got time for anything else.’
She frowned. ‘But you’ve just said you can’t get any jobs.’
‘True, but it won’t last for ever.’ He pointed to his face. ‘Wouldn’t I make a brilliant Bond? Come on, be honest.’
‘It must be a struggle financially,’ she said, deliberately ignoring his question.
‘Not at all. My wife’s a doctor. A GP, actually. She earns enough.’
So, you’re a kept man. I’m going off you, sweetie.
Mia drained her tea, put down the cup. ‘Your father-in-law used to be an actor, I’m told.’
Tom shot forward, suddenly impassioned. ‘That’s why I’m here. Charlie said he’d get on to some of his mates, put in a good word. He was meant to call me, but the old sod’s making me sweat.’
‘Are you in this play?’
Tom laughed. ‘Be serious, Mia. I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
No, you haven’t.
‘It’s for a good cause though, isn’t it – the flood barrier?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
He turned to look at the assembled cast. Mia followed his gaze and found that a number of the women were staring back and blushing pink – even the grannies – as he threw kisses and generally played to his audience. If arrogance and self-love were equal to acting talent then this man was a future Oscar-winner.
Mia glanced at her watch. It was 7.30 p.m. Kate and her daughter had returned to the set. Kate was organizing everyone – they might as well block the bits they could do – her tone efficient yet nicely ingratiating. The whole group seemed to love her. Grace was making herself comfortable on the set, all the while flicking quick glances at her husband. Mia was beginning to feel very uncomfortable under the woman’s scrutinizing glare.
‘Any idea when Reverend Fisher’s due back?’ she asked Tom.
‘He should be here by now. He’s bringing their … leading lady.’ He said the last two words with a sarcastic smirk.
Mia narrowed her eyes. Patronizing prick. ‘Think she’s any good … as you’re the expert?’
‘Alison?’ He let out a howl of undisguised pleasure; then fell back, pretended to mop tears from his eyes. ‘She’s a clinical psychologist at the hospital and about as creative as this piece of wood,’ he said, rapping his knuckles on the arm of the pew. ‘She’s Kate’s little sister, and as nobody else wanted the part she got roped into doing it, poor cow.’
‘At least she’s having a go.’ That’s more than you’re doing.
Mia rummaged in her bag for notebook and pen. She’d leave the vicar her mobile number and a message to call her in the morning. No point in wasting more time listening to God’s Gift twittering on. Even sorting out her mother’s stuff was preferable to that. She was flicking through the notebook, searching for the next clean page, when there it was.
ANNA’S PARENTS = THOMAS & GRACE CHAMBERLAIN. FIND THEM.
Tom and Grace.
God, she was slipping; she should have made the connection immediately.
She stole a look at Tom. He was buffing up his fingernails on his jeans, grinning as his wife mouthed ‘I love you’.
‘You’re Anna’s father,’ Mia blurted.
His head jerked around, all signs of cockiness now gone. ‘What?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, a hand to her mouth. ‘It’s just … I’m trying to find the parents of a baby named Anna Chamberlain and … Are you her father, Tom?’
‘Yes.’ He sat up straight, brushed back his glossy fringe. ‘What of it?’
Mia explained her reasons for being there. ‘… and it would help a lot if you could remember seeing anything suspicious.’
Tom’s effervescent charm was suddenly a thing of the past. He had half-turned on the pew, was fixing her with a virulent lour. Mia recoiled slightly. He probably would make a good James Bond – for all she knew he might be brilliant – but at that moment Tom bore more than a passing resemblance to one of the repulsive baddies.
‘Leave it … OK?’ he said, annoyance darkening the blue of his eyes. ‘I don’t visit the grave, so … just leave it.’
He was on his feet and racing towards the main doors before Mia could draw breath. She rushed after him, noting Grace’s puzzlement. She just hoped the woman didn’t think she was planning to ravage him in the car park.
Mia left the church to find him heading for a nifty red hard-topped sports car, the keys already in his hand.
‘Tom, please stop. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.’
He came to a halt, his back still towards her. The only sounds were from a helicopter circling overhead and the tinny tune of an ice cream van in an adjacent street.
Mia mentally chastised herself. How could she have been so thoughtless? Wasn’t she hurting now? Her mother’s death was tearing her apart. But at least her mother had had a life, a good one too until the final years.
How much worse it must be to lose a baby, to nurture and look forward with such tingling anticipation for nine whole months – only for the precious gift to be snatched away at the final hurdle. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain, the mental torture involved. There could be nothing more horrific, surely.
Tom’s arrogance – his terribly narcissistic attitude – must be a cover; a means of hiding his crippling anguish. Mia could see that now. And what of his wife’s chronic possessiveness? After already losing her child, she must be terrified of losing him too. Poor Grace – effortless beauty and a good career were just meaningless trappings in the greater scheme of things. Not for the first time Mia gave silent thanks for her single status. Better to have nothing to begin with. Saves a lot of heartache in the long run.
Mia approached Tom carefully, rested a hand on his arm. ‘I’m so sorry. It must be awful.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s awful,’ he said, spinning round to face her. ‘Having to live in this dump because your wife won’t leave the fucking grave.’
Mia’s mouth dropped. ‘What?’
‘I wanted to have Anna cremated, take her to London with us. But, no, Grace wouldn’t hear of it. And Kate’s just as bad.’ He straightened his back, showed his teeth. ‘If they’d given half as much thought to my career as they do to those fucking bones, I’d be a major star by now.’
While Mia stood in shocked silence Tom got into the car, wound down the window. ‘That woman you’ve found … I hope she’s rotting in hell. And you know what? – I hope my daughter’s with her.’
Frank Lessing was planning a bonfire. The evening was perfect for the task, with a nice south-easterly breeze to send any smoke scuttling towards the fields and well away from the houses. He wouldn’t want to get Mrs Marshall’s back up, again.
Frank’s old stone cottage stood at the end of a short terrace in Barrack Street off Simpson’s Landing – so-called because the fifteen-acre site had been used as an important landing point for surveillance aircraft during the last war, and was owned at the time by a farmer called Harry Simpson. Or so the story went.
The area, now council-owned, had become a favoured venue for fly-tippers. And Frank took it upon himself to clear away the smaller items regularly, so he had plenty to burn. His little shed was chock-full with heavy-duty sacks. It was time to make some space.
His narrow garden was over a hundred feet long, and Frank had constructed a large concrete square towards the end of it especially for fires.
When the rubbish was piled high and the flames had taken hold Frank hurried back to the cottage. And should Mrs Marshall have been spying from behind her immaculate net curtains, she would have noticed that Frank’s expression – so genial, as a rule – was now tight and apprehensive.
Inside his kitchen Frank made for the table, on which lay his crumpled newspaper. He unfurled it slowly – his breathing ragged – and took from its pages the three sheets of paper he’d stolen from the filing cabinet in Charlie Fisher’s office. Frank’s heart beat rapidly as he tore the sheets into tiny pieces. Then he returned to the bonfire and threw them into the licking flames.
Feeling the weighty wrath of God on his sagging shoulders, Frank turned his face to the Heavens, tears clouding his eyes. ‘Needs must, dear Lord … when the devil drives.’