It was a quarter to eleven when Thea started the drive back to Lower Oddington, which felt impossibly early, given how much she had done already that day. The rain was easing off as she drove, with patches of blue visible in the western sky. She decided to vary the route by going back via the B4077, which was a road she knew quite well. It passed through areas where she had done a lot of house-sitting before she met Drew. The Cotswolds were gradually dividing into smaller regions, representing many different experiences and periods of her life. Over less than five years she had progressed from tormented recent widow, via girlfriend of a senior police officer, to wife of an undertaker. Throughout it all she had been accompanied by the spaniel and dogged by sudden violent deaths. She had become friendly with Gladwin, Barkley and Higgins, and had evolved an increasingly critical opinion of the whole area. Its beauty was obvious, but beneath it lay something much darker, based mainly on material wealth. And yet it took no more than a cursory glance at history to see that this had been true for centuries – and that the beauty relied quite heavily on the affluence.
Drew’s ideological business of offering ‘authentic’ funerals that did no harm to the environment was a precious antidote to much that was wrong. The theory behind it all was beyond reproach and Thea embraced it without a single reservation. Only when it came to the actual in-your-face detail did she wince at times. She had intended to work at his side, arranging the burials and dealing with the bereaved families – only to discover that she was not very good at it. After one agonising incident, where the business was taken elsewhere, thanks to Thea’s clumsy handling, she had lost her nerve completely and refused to try again. Despite Drew’s insistence that such things happened even to him, and it was no reason to give up, she kept herself as clear of the undertaking as she could.
Now Stephanie was growing up so rapidly, it was becoming increasingly credible that she would take on much of the role that Thea had rejected. Already she was allowed to take the initial call from the family, in busy times. She had spent much of her preschool years in Drew’s office, listening to the stories about death and loss and grief as she played quietly in a corner. She had seen her own mother die, and mused unflinchingly on the immense implications of death in all its forms.
Which left Timmy, Drew’s younger child, bewildered and unsatisfied. For him death had been a perpetual disaster, a mystery and a frustration. Thea was nice to him, encouraging his interests, listening to his lesser worries, but she could do nothing to assuage his monumental loss. Timmy would never become an undertaker – more likely, said Drew, he would be an actor or an aeroplane pilot. Something that took you away from yourself. Thea had to agree.
She passed the turning to Temple Guiting, and carried on towards the Swells, which were close to Lower Slaughter. She had walked from one to the other, a time or two. She knew how the footpaths worked, linking the ancient settlements together in ways that were not always obvious from the map.
It was odd being alone in the car. Hepzibah was almost always on the passenger seat, patiently curled up, showing no curiosity about where they were going. It made her feel guilty at abandoning her pet, but also free to go into places where dogs were not allowed. And it reminded her that in a few more hours she would be driving them both back to Broad Campden, where normal life would be resumed and murder might be pushed to one side.
Which, she admitted to herself, as she came closer to Upper Swell and its twisty little bridge, was what she was doing already. She was resisting the nagging knowledge that Penny Rider had been trying to tell her something without putting it into incriminating words. The family was full of rage, hurt feelings, resentments and perhaps jealousies. That a young member of it had been viciously killed had somehow arisen from all these horrible emotions. It could have been Stefan, just as it could have been Ramon or even Jake, but none of them carried any real conviction in Thea’s mind. Why would any of them do it?
There was a dawning answer to that question, which Penny had almost supplied. In fact, Thea had seen it sitting at the back of her eyes, too awful to be spoken. Nothing more than an idea, born of illogical leaps with no evidence whatever behind them. Nothing had been said to give the idea substance. Any hints were too remote and misty to grasp.
Imogen was accused of being a ‘bad apple’, which felt deeply unfair. The woman had struggled all her life, with much of it going wrong, repeatedly. Thea felt more and more sorry for her as she reran the story.
Upper Swell was right on the road, causing traffic to slow down for the much-photographed old bridge. Thea had a feeling that nobody objected to this impediment, since it gave drivers and passengers a chance to admire the glory of their surroundings. Gorgeous Cotswold stone houses, a well-behaved river, trees – all perfectly arranged to please the human eye. But as Thea slowed down behind a big blue van, she observed a tableau half-hidden by the large tree growing on the right-hand side of the road, adjacent to the bridge.
A woman was sitting on the ground, with another woman leaning over her apparently shouting. There was no overt sign of serious distress; no necessity for anybody to stop and offer help, apart from the odd place they had chosen to occupy in very damp conditions, and yet Thea could see there was trouble of some kind. Her special insight was due to the fact that she knew both the people.
She had to drive another hundred yards or more before she could get the car off the road. Then she walked back to where Imogen and Kirsty Peake had not changed position. Walking along the road was hazardous, and Thea was glad the bridge and the subsequent bends forced everything to slow down. She trotted the final yards and jumped onto the slight bank under the tree. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’
Kirsty gave her a look that plainly said Mind your own business. She looked down at her mother with exasperation. ‘For God’s sake get up, will you? This is ridiculous.’
‘Not until you stop shouting at me,’ said Imogen. ‘I can’t take any more of it.’
‘But it’s all for your own good, you fool. Don’t go dotty on me now. Just come back to the house before more people start interfering.’
‘Is she ill?’ asked Thea.
‘You may well ask. She’s not eating or sleeping. Won’t talk to anybody. It’s driving me mad.’
The tone was impatient, but worried. There was no anger directed towards Imogen that Thea could detect. The consistent impression she had formed of these two was of a genuinely devoted daughter, wanting whatever was best for her parent. ‘Where’s the house?’ she asked.
‘Over there.’ Kirsty waved vaguely to the west, on the further side of the bridge. ‘I don’t know where she thought she was going. She’s soaking wet, look.’
At some point, Thea had been grudgingly accepted, despite the rude remark about interference. ‘I can’t leave my car where it is for long,’ she said. ‘It’s in somebody’s gateway.’
‘Who’s asking you to?’
‘I don’t think you can get her back on your own, if she doesn’t want to go. How about getting her into the car? It’s only just down there, look.’
‘How? We’ll have to stop the traffic.’
‘So what? Listen – I’ll turn round and bring it up here, and we can bundle her in and drive you home. It’ll only take a minute.’
‘Bundle?’ said Imogen. ‘Now I’m a bundle, am I?’ She laughed. ‘Might as well be that as anything else, I suppose.’
‘Will you do it, Ma? Get out of the wet and talk everything through. I still don’t know where you thought you were going.’
‘I was looking for a place to drown myself,’ said Imogen flatly.
Thea’s plan worked reasonably well. Imogen seemed to be close to hysteria, finding everything impossibly funny, whilst at the same time insisting she’d be better off dead. Traffic waited with a fair degree of patience as the three of them scrambled into Thea’s car. ‘Where now?’ she asked.
‘Next left. Then about a quarter of a mile,’ Kirsty instructed.
There were puddles along the small road they drove down, but the sky had become much lighter in the past half-hour. ‘Didn’t it rain!’ said Thea. ‘Look at how wet everything is.’
‘Including me,’ said Imogen. She and her daughter were both in the back. ‘That’s what gave me the idea, you see. I thought the river would be nice and deep.’
‘Stupid,’ muttered Kirsty. ‘First thing I do when I’ve got you dry is to book us a holiday. You’ll go completely round the bend if you stay here any longer. Somewhere hot like Turkey.’
‘Pish!’ said Imogen. ‘We can’t go anywhere, can we? We’ll miss Gabriella’s funeral if we do. And we haven’t got any money, remember.’
‘Here. It’s here,’ said Kirsty, to Thea. She leant over the seat and pointed to a small track on the right. ‘Go in there. We’re on the left.’
The property she was pointing to was a low single-storey building that made Thea think of little houses on American prairies. It was only one or two steps up from a wartime prefab, as far as she could see. ‘An ill-favoured thing, but our own,’ said Imogen with a snort of laughter. ‘It was all I could afford when Peake Esquire walked off with all the cash.’
‘It’s only temporary,’ said Kirsty quickly. ‘I’m going to get a mortgage on a proper house, when I’ve finished my course.’
‘Tell that to the marines,’ scoffed Imogen, causing Thea to seriously wonder about her mental state. Hysteria seemed too mild a word for it. She wondered whether she ought to offer to call somebody, although she had no idea who. The only person she wanted to talk to was Gladwin.
‘Course?’ she echoed.
‘Operating drones,’ came the terse reply. ‘It’s going to be very lucrative.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Thea faintly.
They were all out of the car and walking up a weedy path to the house. ‘There’s two acres of land with it, you know,’ Imogen informed Thea. ‘All that scrubby stuff over there is ours.’
The land in question had two vehicles sitting on it. One was a sturdy Volvo of considerable age, and the other was a medium-sized red saloon, with a registration plate clearly reading CV55 GNU.
‘Whose car is that?’ Thea asked.
‘Which one?’
‘The red one. I’ve seen it before.’ She frowned in puzzlement. It could not have been Kirsty driving it at the garden centre when it almost hit Thea, because she had already arrived, and was in her mother’s office. So how had she got there if not in the car? Or … her thought processes moved slowly … perhaps there had been a second person with her, who for some odd reason was driving the car around the lanes and car park. That was possible, if bizarre.
‘Mine of course,’ said Kirsty with an exaggerated sigh. ‘And before you ask, yes the police have checked it out, the same as Ma’s Volvo and every vehicle belonging to every member of the family.’
‘Right,’ said Thea, bracing herself. ‘The thing is – I saw it yesterday at the garden centre. It nearly crashed into me. But you were in the office, so it can’t have been you driving it.’
‘That’d be Cliff,’ said Kirsty with a glance at her mother. ‘It’s all perfectly simple. I don’t know why you think it matters. Everyone’s so suspicious these days. Eh, Ma?’
Imogen met her daughter’s eyes. ‘With good reason, if you ask me.’
Kirsty flushed and opened the front door. It had not been locked. Thea lingered on the threshold. ‘You don’t need me any more,’ she said.
‘We’re in no fit state for company,’ Imogen agreed. ‘It looks as if I’m to be stripped naked and plunged into a hot bath.’
‘That’s right,’ said Kirsty. ‘But just for the record – when I went to the garden centre yesterday, it was because one of the staff had phoned me and said they thought my mother ought to be taken home. That meant there would be two cars, and I thought she would probably need me to drive her. She’s fairly erratic at the best of times when it comes to driving. So I asked Cliff to come with me, and drive one of the cars back here. My guess is that he forgot something, which is when you saw him. Does all that make sense to you?’ Her expression was of challenge and annoyance.
‘Of course,’ said Thea, thinking it very strange – and probably significant – that she had failed to notice Cliff Savage’s orange hair as he drove towards her.
‘So – thanks for the lift. We’ll be fine now,’ said Kirsty.
Thea looked at Imogen who was leaning against the wall inside the front door. From what she could see of the interior, it was drab, dark and dingy. About as far from stereotypical Cotswolds as it was possible to be. Also, a very long way from the affluent comfort of the Riders, or the cheerful carelessness of Umberto. ‘She does look ill,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should call a doctor.’
‘She is ill. She’s got leukaemia, if you must know,’ said Kirsty. ‘Which some of us think was made a lot worse by what happened last year.’ And she took hold of her mother’s arm and started propelling her further into the house. Thea departed with a very great deal to think about.
Gladwin answered only slightly less promptly than Thea would have wished. ‘We’re gearing up to arrest Stefan Woltzer and get him extradited,’ was the opening remark. ‘Unless you can provide cast-iron reasons why we shouldn’t.’
‘Yet again you’re putting too much onto me,’ Thea objected. ‘But I have learnt a lot this morning. It just needs to be laid out logically—’
‘There’s no time for that,’ Gladwin interrupted. ‘This is just about the most high-profile murder I’ve had to deal with, and everything’s got to be done yesterday. If we get it wrong we’re in trouble, but at least it’d show we’d been making an effort. We can’t go dithering about with vague stories about the grandmother’s inheritance, or whatever it is.’
‘I think it is that, actually. In some sort of a way. But I can’t work out why it was Gabriella who was killed. Which I can see is fairly basic to the whole business.’
‘Did you ask them about Stefan?’
‘He was barely even mentioned, except for the stuff we already know. Listen, Sonya. I think it might well have been Stefan, but there are some things that don’t fit. Kirsty’s mother has got leukaemia. Kirsty’s very pally with Cliff Savage. He drives her car. Or he did yesterday. That phone call I heard. And the message left on my mobile about the house. Penny Rider told me a whole lot about the history – which all came to a head last year. It’s all in a horrible jumble in my head, but I think everything’s there if I can just sort it out. And I also think that Penny Rider knows who did it and why. She was trying to tell me without involving herself too deeply. Everything was in code and I haven’t deciphered it yet.’
‘Okay, but as I said …’ Gladwin tailed off as another voice came down the phone, distracting her. ‘Right. Yes … All right,’ she said to the other person. To Thea she said, ‘You heard that? I’ve got to go. Sorry. We’re fighting a losing battle with the bureaucracy here. Why don’t you sit down with some paper and pencil and figure out the logic? But don’t forget I need hard evidence. We’re past the point of examining theories and speculating about motives. We’ve got the car, remember. And the car is ninety-nine per cent of the whole case.’
‘I know,’ said Thea.
‘So, short of a very persuasive confession from someone else, I’m sticking with Stefan Woltzer. Damaged car the size and colour you witnessed, in the country on the day in question, its owner closely linked to the deceased – that’s more than enough in itself. You can go home in the knowledge that your work is done. Have a think about motive, if you like, but the rest is pretty much sorted.’
‘I know,’ said Thea again. ‘But it’s wrong.’