Wednesday morning came as a relief. Despite the broken night and minimal sleep, Thea was awake and getting dressed well before seven o’clock. The sky was blue for once, and there were birds chorusing energetically outside her window. You did not waste a June morning, any more than you wasted an evening. All that lavish daylight was there to be enjoyed. So had said her father, first husband and now Drew. It was obviously a cast-iron axiom.
The first hour or so proceeded as the day before had done. Contented dogs, undisturbed house, nothing much going on outside. ‘Only three more days,’ said Thea. ‘We can probably manage that, don’t you think?’ Her spaniel blinked at her non-committally.
The gate buzzer went off at a quarter to eight, and Thea assumed it would be Gladwin, Higgins or Barkley. It crossed her mind that she might be taking their attentions for granted in making this assumption, but could see nothing wrong in that.
A man’s voice came through the intercom. ‘Hello? Is that the house-sitter? I’m a neighbour. Can I come in?’
Everything about this idiotic gate arrangement hit her at once. If this person had simply come to the door, knocked, been seen in the flesh and either invited in or not, that would have been a normal human interaction. Being forced to judge on the basis of a disembodied voice was ludicrous. He could easily be the murdering figure from her night-time fantasies. Or a friendly old codger offering a sympathetic ear to a traumatised female. How was she supposed to know?
‘I’ll come down to the gate,’ she said.
And of course, as soon as she was out of the front door, she could see through the bars of the gate well enough to assess the acceptability of her visitor. The distance between door and gate was roughly twenty yards – just enough space for Umberto’s van and a small car, although not enough for them to turn around. Approaching, the man’s features came into better focus, and first impressions were cautiously favourable if only because of the colour of the hair.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Thea Slocombe. I assume you know Umberto?’
The gate was still between them. A young woman passed, wheeling a toddler in a buggy. A large truck came from the eastern end of the village and turned up the road to the old church, presumably heading for the building work up there. There were still birds singing here and there.
‘I’m Clifford Savage. People call me Cliff. I live a few houses along – that way.’ He pointed towards Upper Oddington. ‘I would have called by yesterday, but everything seemed a bit … raw, if you see what I mean. At least they’ve opened the road again – that was a bit unnerving.’ He had a strong Birmingham accent, stressing the final g of his last word.
‘You didn’t see it happen, did you?’ Sudden hope flared at the prospect of somebody to share the trauma. ‘On Monday.’
He shook his colourful head. ‘Sorry.’
He was early thirties, shorter than average by two or three inches, slim, very pale-skinned and blue-eyed. But his hair was by far the most distinctive thing about him. It was dark ginger or red in common parlance. In reality, it was starkly and unarguably orange. The colour of Christmas satsumas, or Sevilles waiting to be turned into marmalade. And there was plenty of it – wavy and thick, it sprang from his head in a glowing tumult. The thought flashed through Thea’s mind that this man could not have been driving the killer car on Monday – because surely there would have been some flash of memorable colour somehow perceived in a reflection or vanishing down the street?
He was certainly not at all typical of a Cotswolds-dweller. ‘Pity,’ she said. She wanted to ask his business, still unsure about opening the gate to him. It began to seem slightly odd that he should even want her to. ‘These gates are an abomination,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think?’
He laughed, not so much amused as contemptuous. ‘I do, absolutely. It’s a sort of contagion – one person gets them and everyone else just follows. A status symbol, in fact. You can’t afford to be the only property without them.’
‘So you’ve got them as well, have you?’
‘The house has, but it’s not mine. I’m here on a two-year let, and there’s only a few months still to go. I’m from the east Midlands, where this sort of thing hasn’t yet arrived. We’re hoping it never does.’
‘It is very weird,’ she said distractedly. ‘Can you tell me how I can help you? I mean …’
He gave her a direct look, somehow implying that she was at risk of being rude. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said slowly. ‘Okay. Yes. I can see it must seem a bit funny, me turning up like this. The fact is, I had a visit from one of the police people yesterday, and it turned out I know her slightly, by coincidence. Caz Barkley? She was at college with my sister, and they were pretty good mates for a while. Anyway, she told me about you and how you saw the whole horrible thing, and said you might be glad of a friendly face. The trouble is, I’ve got to be off by nine, to get to work.’
‘What a coincidence about Barkley,’ said Thea, thinking that life was full of such connections. ‘Is your sister in the police, then?’
‘Actually, no. She was for a bit, and then she dropped out and took up truck-driving instead. Says it’s the best decision she ever made.’
‘I can see why Caz would like her, then.’ Caz Barkley would have made a good truck-driver too, in Thea’s estimation. ‘Well, come in for a bit. You’ve got nearly an hour to spare, from the sound of it.’ Somewhere in her chest was a small flicker of unease. The words friendly face repeated themselves, and carried a degree of reassurance. The man had Barkley’s endorsement, after all, and Thea Slocombe never rejected the chance of a useful chat with a neighbour when she was looking after someone’s house.
‘If you’re sure. Thanks.’
She operated the annoying gate mechanism and took him into the kitchen. ‘Have you met the dogs?’ she asked. ‘They’re out in the garden. And this one’s mine.’ Hepzie was at her side, having been with her down to the gate and back. The newcomer was only of marginal interest to her.
‘I used to come in, before Mrs Kingly died. I never got to know Umberto very well, though, or his dogs.’ He was standing in the hallway, looking around. ‘It’s changed a lot since then.’
‘Oh? How?’
‘You sound surprised. It was full of a whole lot of stuff. She was one of those hoarders, especially upstairs. Old magazines, knitting patterns, ancient toys, boxes, scrapbooks of cuttings – the list is endless. All gone now.’
‘Oh,’ said Thea again. ‘I had no idea.’
‘They couldn’t wait to clear it all out. Umberto’s sister – Penny, I think she’s called – came with a rented van and took it all to the tip. I helped her to load it up. And there was a bonfire out at the back that went on for weeks. They only kept the furniture, and not all of that.’
‘That seems a bit odd. Although I suppose Umberto wanted the space for his own things.’
‘Probably,’ said Savage carelessly. ‘He wasn’t really involved in the decisions. He just sat in there,’ he indicated the living room, ‘and stared into space. The sisters came and went and worked around him. There were the nieces as well. They were relentless – and there were a few disagreements along the way. Umberto tried to grab a few things to save, and I nabbed some books and old postcards, but almost everything just went. Their poor old mum would have been distraught.’
‘Turning in her grave,’ said Thea, still not thinking very clearly. ‘Although there are books and pictures that must have been hers.’
‘They weren’t all as keen as the big sister was to chuck it all away. She was the real sergeant-major.’
‘Penny,’ Thea nodded, to show that she was keeping up. ‘Did you know Gabriella, then?’
He pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Awful thing,’ he mumbled. ‘I did meet her a time or two, that’s all.’ He gave her a close look. ‘And you? Are you all right? Did you say your name was Thea?’
They were both still standing in the hallway, as visitors tended to do. ‘Do you want coffee or something?’ she asked. His reason for being there was still not entirely clear. She found herself wishing he would go.
‘No, thanks. Better not. I’ll have to go soon.’
‘What sort of work do you do?’
‘I’m teaching at the University of Gloucester, for my sins. It’s an offshoot of the main university. History. I’m officially an archaeologist, but I’m between operations, as you might say. Everything’s very hand-to-mouth these days, and it suits me to fill in with some teaching now and then. I’m not very good at sticking at just one thing.’
Thea looked at him more closely, wondering about the vibes that she was picking up. He was glancing around with sharp eyes, looking into the living room, one hand scratching at the opposite wrist in suppressed agitation. There was a sense that he knew very much more than he was saying. His revelations about Umberto’s mother felt like the tiniest tip of a substantial iceberg.
‘Isn’t it rather a long way from here to Gloucester?’ she said.
‘I’m based in Cheltenham, actually – which is an easy drive most days.’
The conversation was superficial and unemotional. Perhaps that was deliberate, Thea thought, but she also wondered whether there was something else going on. There were questions hanging in the air, which she was waiting for him to ask. It made her feel chafed and off-balance. It was still a few minutes before nine. He would soon go of his own accord. Meanwhile she could not miss the opportunity to learn a bit more. In a clumsy attempt to keep the conversation going, she said, ‘History was always my favourite subject, and there’s a lot of it in this area. My stepchildren find it all very interesting, but we’ve never gone into anything in much depth.’
He was looking towards the back of the house, as if able to see through the solid wall into the garden. ‘Are the dogs out in the garden? It’s funny the way he never takes them out where we can see them.’
‘They’re too precious, apparently. They can have a good run in the field, which seems to keep them happy.’
He answered with a sudden glint on his eye. ‘They’re extremely ancient, you know. We found skeletons in Iraq when I was on a dig there. The original feral dogs in that region are almost exactly like present-day salukis. They’re supposed to have amazing stamina and speed. I very much doubt that one small field is enough for them.’ He frowned his disapproval. Thea felt helpless. ‘But I don’t imagine many dogs in this country get to express their essential natures any more, do they?’ he concluded.
‘Lapdogs do, I suppose. And collies – unless some fool tries to make them live in a city.’
‘Right.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I miss her, you know. Umberto’s mother. She never should have died when she did.’
‘Oh. What was she like? Apart from being a hoarder.’
‘Incredibly old-fashioned. She was brought up by nuns, apparently, and never lost that strict moral code. Her mother was Italian, which probably explains some of it. But she was fun to talk to. She used to go for long walks, all the way over to Bledington, and I went with her now and then.’
‘She wasn’t very old when she died, was she?’
‘Late seventies, as it turned out, but perfectly fit and healthy. It was a stroke while she was here by herself. Umberto was away. Kirsty found her, by pure luck, and got her into hospital. By the time Umberto got home it was all over.’
Thea struggled to unravel this new tale. ‘I thought he was living here with her at the time.’
Savage shook his head regretfully. ‘He was, in theory, but he’d gone off on one of his buying trips for a day or two. She was on her own here – which she always hated. I actually came round the evening before she died, to keep her company. I might have been the last person to see her alive.’ He gave her a careful look. ‘Which makes me think we might be deliberately avoiding the subject of the girl who died?’
Thea heaved a sigh. ‘I think we are. But I suppose we shouldn’t. I shouldn’t, anyway. But I can’t see very much hope of them ever finding who did it. There’s so little to go on.’ Almost too late, she stopped herself from revealing any details of the police investigation. Again, she looked at the vibrant hair and wondered about its implications for its owner being a potential killer. Anyone seeing him in his car might recall such an unusual head. But then, she realised, he might have been wearing a hat. Or a wig. If the murder had been carefully planned in advance, that would be a detail to take into consideration.
He spread his hands in a gesture of ignorance. ‘I have nothing helpful to contribute, sorry to say. The fact is, I’m only here because Caz suggested it. I can’t honestly say I know very much about the family. Mrs Kingly was a character and quite lonely, I think. Even though all her children were still nearby, it was obvious that they only took their turns staying with her out of duty. Basically, they slept here, but went their own ways during the day. It was a crackpot set-up, to my mind. She didn’t belong to any clubs or anything, as far as I know. Her father was disgracefully rich and that bothered her, I think. She had a thing about money and the obligations that went with it. She said it could blight a family if you let it.’
‘Have you seen the photos of her in the living room?’
‘Are they still there? I thought the sisters would have chucked them out as well.’
‘Come and see. You might know who some of them are. Have you got time?’
‘Only a minute.’ He glanced at his watch with a little frown.
She took him to the wall of framed portraits, and he lingered over the last one of Jocasta. ‘This captures her exactly. Everything so prim and proper, but that look in her eye. Do you see? She’s got a whole lot of feeling behind those eyes. From what I’ve seen of them, the whole family has a special spark. They’re all of them real characters.’ He walked slowly along the wall, examining the earlier photographs. ‘Here she is at about my age. She must have had four children in their late teens or thereabouts by then. A busy life, with all those worries and responsibilities, and she looks impossibly serene.’
Thea was intrigued. ‘Where was her husband?’ she asked.
‘Oh, he was there. They lived together in this house until only a few years before she died. He was a bit older, and he got septicaemia from a bite – something like that. Nobody realised how serious it was until too late.’
‘Which one’s him, then?’ She indicated the pictures.
‘She took him down. Said it made her cry to see him.’
Thea felt a sliver of mistrust. How did this man know so much? Could it all be gleaned from a few country walks? How could she be sure he was who he said he was? Had he perhaps invented the whole connection with Barkley, in order to win her confidence? If so, it could easily be checked, and if she discovered he’d been lying, then what? Wouldn’t it throw suspicion onto him for the killing of Gabriella? Wouldn’t any rational person living so close to a murder go out of his way to be scrupulously honest? ‘That’s sad,’ she said, with a pointed glance at the mantelpiece clock.
He quickly caught her drift. ‘Oops – time to go. I’m late already. It was great to meet you. Sorry if I’ve wasted your time. Maybe I can see you again before you go?’
‘Maybe,’ she said, with another flicker of unease. The moment he was gone, she was going to call Barkley and ask her if the man could be believed. She let him out of the gate, firmly clicking it closed behind him, disgusted with herself for the sense of security it gave her. The very word ‘security’ annoyed her, as a rule. It was all too easy to persuade human beings to crouch securely in their little nests like timid field mice, shunning the terrifying world outside. No way was she ever going to be like that, she vowed to herself at regular intervals.
Barkley did not answer her phone, so Thea left a short message. ‘A man called Clifford Savage showed up at eight o’clock this morning, saying you know his sister. I’m not sure I should thank you for that. I hope I’ll see you soon.’ She had exaggerated the time – it had been twenty past eight, at the earliest.
The man had left her in a discordant state, with his inconsistencies and subtle air of knowing more than he was prepared to tell. She went back to the wall of family pictures, wondering whether she was using them to avoid confronting the harsh reality of murder, or whether she believed there could be a clue to the killer. The latter seemed foolishly unlikely. As far as she had been able to judge, the whole clan was close-knit and harmonious. Imogen had criticised the book about them, but in a tone of mild irritation rather than genuine anger. Kirsty had looked gaunt and shocked, as would be expected after that terrible death of her cousin. Jacob likewise had been all over the place. And – she now remembered – Imogen had called him an idiot, apparently in all seriousness. Was Imogen the odd one out, then? Perhaps even the black sheep, with her two oddly absent sons called Christian and Stefan? There was a photograph of the whole Kingly family as it must have been thirty years ago or so; six of them arranged on a lawn, the children holding toys – a Barbie doll and a big plastic object that Thea recognised as a Transformer. She had owned one herself at the age of about ten. There were the three sisters, with their brother in their midst, sitting on the grass, the parents standing behind them. Penny was obviously the eldest of the children, probably about sixteen, dark and thin. Then Imogen, recognisable from her thick unruly hair, perhaps three years younger. Umberto looked to be nine or ten, wearing short trousers, his hair neatly parted. And then came Theresa, mother of Jacob and Gabriella, the baby of the family, with a collection of Care Bears on her lap.
Thea performed the rapid calculations which came naturally to her when working out family connections. Coming from a large tribe herself, with a dozen cousins and eight nieces and nephews, she kept track without undue effort. Drew’s funeral business also demanded a firm grasp of the way relatives were linked to the deceased, and who took precedence. That was Thea’s favourite part of the enterprise by far. She would encourage him to recount all the ramifications of first wives and resentful in-laws, relishing it all.
It was after ten when the gate buzzer went for a second time that morning. Again, the palaver with the intercom and the necessity of walking down to look at the person before letting them in. Because this time it was two persons, man and woman, husband and wife. ‘I’m Penny Rider, Umberto’s sister, and I’ve come with my husband,’ she said succinctly into the grille at the gate.