Suspicion Points Read online

  He picked up the cafetière. ‘I’ll make some more coffee.’

  I went into the kitchen with him. He filled the kettle, rinsed out the cafetière and poured more milk into the jug. His fridge was behind a false door. Was he being affected or had he wanted the kitchen to look ancient, which, apart from the microwave and electric kettle, it did. The oven and hob were black and looked old, but I knew they were brand new because I’d heard him telling someone when it was going to be delivered. He had a ceramic sink which added to the old-fashioned appearance. The units were an odd shade of blue, and distressed was the decorating term, if I remember rightly from the brochures I’d got when I’d been doing up my kitchen.

  Apart from butter, eggs and cheese his fridge was almost empty. I wondered if, like me, he lived on microwave meals. He had tea caddies on the shelf over the sink, labelled Assam, Darjeeling, Earl Grey, and English Breakfast. There were two teapots, one large the other small. Another cafetière, larger than the one on the table, was on the window ledge. His mugs and the crockery in the sink were that blue and white striped Cornish stuff. I liked it, but thought it overpriced. Six shining stainless steel saucepans were stacked on a black cast-iron stand. It was too cluttered for me. There was a bread-bin and glass jars full of pasta, sugar, wholemeal flour and brown rice. Even if his fridge was almost empty it looked as if he had lots of visitors. I wanted to be one of them.

  Shut-up, I told myself. You don’t want anything to do with him outside work.

  ‘Interesting kitchen,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t like it.’ He didn’t sound offended. Knowing him he’d probably be insulted if I had liked it.

  ‘It’s just that I can’t understand why people spend loads of money on getting a new kitchen and then bashing it about to make it look old.’

  He smiled. ‘The worktops and appliances are new, but the doors of the units are reclaimed. When the chaps painted them I told them to leave the cracks and bumps and be careless with the painting.’

  I grinned. ‘So the paintwork’s not distressed it’s careless.’

  When we went back to the dining room Robert poured more coffee.

  ‘The case you solved by instinct?’ I prompted.

  ‘I was a detective constable. An eight year old boy was missing. Parents were separated. According to his mother he hadn’t arrived home from school. At first she thought he might have gone to one of his friends’ houses and either he’d told her and she hadn’t heard or he’d forgotten to tell her. When it began to get dark she rang around, but he wasn’t with any of his friends. Then she rang his father. He wasn’t there either. That’s when she rang us.

  ‘When we arrived she was distraught. She looked ill. As it was only my second case I didn’t have a lot of confidence about questioning, so I was free to listen and observe. My reaction to her was the same as my reaction to Bridget’s mother. I disliked her immediately. She lived in a large Victorian house in East Twickenham, but she was a ferocious snob. She had one of those accents that are so ‘upper’ they sound fake.

  ‘While we were getting the addresses and names of her son’s friends she made comments about them. She said one family was terrible because the father owned a shop and people like him shouldn’t live in nice houses.’

  ‘I’m glad I wasn’t on that case,’ I said. ‘I would have wanted to slap her. How can people still think like that?’

  He shrugged. ‘When the boy’s father arrived there was such enmity between them. Neither of them made any effort to hide their animosity toward each other. I mentioned earlier that she was distraught, and that to me was not quite right. Do you know why?’

  ‘No. Her son was missing. Why wouldn’t she be distraught? Oh, wait. You mean she was putting it on?’

  ‘No. It was genuine.’

  ‘Then I haven’t a clue what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll come back to that in a minute. When we went to see one of his friends the boy, who was his best friend, wasn’t worried or upset. That was wrong. His parents were concerned, his sisters were too, but he wasn’t. He was stubborn, but I kept on at him. The next day, under our questioning, he said, ‘I promised not to tell.’ Between us, his mother and I persuaded him to break his promise. He told us his friend was going to go and live with his father. The boy didn’t know if the father knew, and then a few interesting things were revealed. I kept a note book and wrote down my thoughts.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I can give it to you if you’re interested. It’s getting late, we’d better get going.’

  ‘What did you want to show me?’

  ‘Come up to my study.’

  He led the way upstairs. He had two desks in his study. Both looked like antiques. There was a large diary, a fountain pen, a bottle of black ink, exercise books and a mug holding pencils, biros and highlighters on the desk facing the window. A computer stood on the other desk.

  He moved the mouse and the screen lit up. ‘Read that and tell me what you think.’ He sat at the other desk and began opening drawers. If he’d gone back downstairs I’d have been tempted to sneak a look at his favourites. He probably knew it and that’s why he stayed.

  I read the article twice before turning to him and saying, ‘You think Bridget’s son might have been a hermaphrodite?’

  ‘Margaret’s description made me wonder . . . do you think it’s worth checking?’

  ‘Yes, I said,’ pleased he’d asked my opinion. ‘Would Bridget have known about it from when he was born or find out later?’

  ‘It depends. Sometimes the male organs are unusually small.’

  ‘The post mortem’s being done today. I’ll ask them to check.’

  He handed me a large note book. ‘My notes about the case I solved by instinct.’

  ‘Do you always keep notes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you making notes about this one?’

  ‘Only in my head.’

  We met a member of the forensic team at Bridget’s house. The material used to light the fire may have come from an old sheet, but it had been so badly burnt it was difficult to tell. The thread found in the flap of the letterbox was being tested for DNA. If we were lucky the murderer wouldn’t have washed the sheet, shirt or article of clothing. Would they have even though about DNA? I hoped that they had assumed the fabric would all be burnt. If the thread had come from an unwashed sheet, it would certainly contain DNA.

  Forensics had opened the back door and all the upstairs windows, so the smell of smoke was bearable. The interior was much as we expected. Among the smoke and water damage was cheap furniture, a huge television, neutral walls and carpets. There were only two photos and they were in the main bedroom. One was of Bridget and Declan on their wedding day. Even then, Bridget had been painfully thin in her long strapless dress. I thought it would have been better to wear something that covered her skeletal shoulders and arms, but perhaps she was proud of being so thin. Declan looked at least forty, but that may have been because he was bald. The other was of their son, which must have been taken a few weeks before the fire.

  Only the baby’s room looked as if any imagination had gone into it. The walls were blue, the cot and chest of drawers were white and the curtains were yellow with a pattern of red trains on them. I gently pulled out a drawer in the chest. It was full of clean baby clothes in bright colours. A ruined mobile hung over the cot. A teddy bear, stained with water, lay on the floor. Around its neck was a red ribbon. It was here, that the sense of loss was acute.

  Robert was staring at the teddy bear. He looked anguished.

  ‘Tragic, isn’t it?’ I said softly.

  He nodded and left the room.

  We went downstairs to the basement. Unlike the rest of the house it was undamaged. To our surprise it was a separate flat, with a small kitchen and a bathroom, both of which looked as if they had been installed in the seventies. The bathroom suite was brown and there were worn cork tiles on the floor. There was a bedroom and a lounge with basic furniture. The bed h
ad no quilt or pillows and all the drawers of the chest were empty, as was the wardrobe. We were about to leave when I saw an A4 sheet of paper on which FLAT TO LET was written in biro.

  ‘Looks as if they were planning to get a lodger,’ said Robert.

  The post-mortem showed a normal, healthy, well nourished toddler with no bruising or signs of abuse. I crossed Bridget off my list of suspects. Phoebe, because she had the most motives, was top of my list. Yves was next. Bridget’s mother was third. I didn’t know where to rank the people Bridget worked with, or her other neighbours. When I got home that evening I sat at my desk trying to work out who had the most to lose. All the motives and losses were different.

  I gave up, went downstairs and opened the fridge. I had a choice of three microwave meals – curry, lasagne or shepherd’s pie. I wondered what Robert was having. Was he alone or with the blonde who’d slammed the door in my face? Perhaps he was with a man. I heated the lasagne, poured a glass of red wine and sat in the lounge. There was nothing I wanted to watch on the TV, so I decided to be civilized and eat in the dining room at the white melamine table I’d bought for my flat in London. This house was bigger and I’d bought furniture to fill it at a place a neighbour had told me about. Trago Mills was near Liskeard, and from the outside it looked like a tourist attraction.

  The first time I went there I must have looked like an idiot. Every time I saw the price of something my jaw dropped. Whenever I had a day off I haunted the place. I bought a desk and chair, new pillows, duvets and towels. The carpet and lino I chose were offcuts. I bought things I’d wanted for the kitchen, but hadn’t been able to afford in London – a six piece cutlery set in a wooden box, being the most extravagant. So far I was the only person to use it. My mum and dad had only been to visit once, and that was just after I moved in.

  Friends from London had promised to visit at weekends, but gradually the e-mails stopped. In London I’d had lots of friends. Now my rank was an obstacle to friendship. The neighbours were pleasant, but they were either elderly or had children. I’d never been so aware of my single status.

  Lonely and discontented I looked around the room at the white walls and woodwork, beige carpet and upholstery. Once I’d thought it chic, now it looked boring and sterile. The only things it had in common with Dolphin Cottage were lack of curtains and the bathroom, which, like Robert’s, was white. I’d bought white shutters, preferring the added security and their clean lines.

  His cottage said something about him. That he liked colour, books, music, and the photos showed his family was important to him. What did my house say about me? That I was tidy, clean, organized and – boring and sterile. What I’d rejected as clutter gave Dolphin Cottage character. I hadn’t attended either of my brother’s weddings, which were in Australia. The photos were sent as e-mail attachments otherwise I might have framed them, and given my place some atmosphere.

  Early the next morning I went into the town near Farrier Way. It was too small to be a proper town, but too large to be a village. In spite of being off the tourist route it looked prosperous and probably served the farming, hunting, shooting and fishing community. I found Craig and Yves shop down a cobbled pedestrian lane with specialist food shops, a jewellers, an antique shop, two cafes, an estate agent, a pub and a wine bar. I didn’t have to go inside. The prices were on all the clothes in the window display.

  They were so expensive I wondered how they stayed in business what with the credit crunch. Even if Stuart sold a lot of his paintings, would he make enough for Phoebe to buy such expensive clothes? Robert would go through the possibilities. Phoebe or Stuart may have inherited a lot of money. Phoebe had big advance from the publisher? A lottery win?

  The way the investigation was limping along was driving me mad. The only progress we’d made was being able to eliminate the man who’d raised the alarm from our enquiries. He had come forward. His story that he was taking his wife, who was in labour, to the hospital was confirmed by the hospital admittance records. He hadn’t phoned the fire brigade because he’d left his mobile phone behind. It also told us that Yves was telling the truth.

  9

  ROBERT

  Being in the baby’s room had been disturbing. For the first time since meeting Bridget I felt pity. She had married, despite her dreadful mother’s objections. Notwithstanding her poor education and lack of intelligence, she had been promoted. She and Declan had managed to afford to buy a house far removed from the council estate where they had grown up. She had played in the jungle that was life and won. Now her dreams and ambitions had been doused and she was back to where she had been before her marriage. I doubted that she would ever escape from her mother.

  There are few things worse than going into a baby’s room where the furnishings and toys had been chosen with love and joy, knowing that the baby will never be there again. I remembered standing in Hannah’s room. Unable to bear it, I had only stayed a few moments, before going out and shutting the door. I had never gone in there again. It was Vanessa who had organized the donation of Hannah’s clothes, toys and furniture to charity. The day they came to collect them I had gone out.

  Vanessa and I had keys to each other’s houses and she was in Dolphin Cottage setting the table when I arrived home on Wednesday evening. There was a bottle of Merlot on the sideboard. A saucepan of potatoes was boiling on the Aga, and I could smell mint. I immediately saw that she was troubled, but she denied anything was wrong when I asked her.

  ‘I’ve just thought of something else that makes Phoebe or Stuart the intended victims,’ I said as I put lamb chops under the grill. ‘Bridget and Declan had a car, but Bridget drove it to Bodmin to see her mother, so there was no car in their drive. Anyone who knew Phoebe and Stuart would be sure to know they didn’t have a car.’

  Vanessa thought for a moment. ‘Depends how well he or she knew them. And quite a few of the houses didn’t have cars parked in front – Farrier Way is so close to the town they don’t really need a car for just day to day stuff.’

  After dinner Vanessa asked me to draw a plan of who lived where in Farrier Way.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Two families are on holiday and two houses are empty – I don’t know which ones.’

  ‘Fill in what you do know. I went back and checked a few things today. Six and nine are the one with For Sale boards.’

  We studied our finished list. I had also written the number the houses would have been if they had been numbered odds and evens.

  1

  Kate and Yves (Suspects)

  2

  (3)

  Bridget and Declan (Victims)

  3

  (5)

  Phoebe and Stuart (Suspects)

  4

  (7)

  Owners on Holiday?

  5

  (9)

  Craig and Fleur? (Suspects)

  6

  (11)

  Empty. For sale

  7

  (13)

  Elderly lady?

  8

  (15)

  Owners on holiday?

  9

  (17)

  Empty. For sale

  10

  (19)

  Alice (Where the neighbours went when the fire was being put out)

  ‘Listen, I’ve had an idea,’ Vanessa said. ‘I don’t know what you think, but how are you going to find out if Phoebe or Stuart had enemies?’

  ‘I’m going to have to tell Sharon and we can start investigating.’

  ‘What if she scoffs?’

  ‘I don’t know. What’s your idea?’

  ‘Phoebe runs a writers’ group, right?’

  I nodded. ‘She’s the president. It’s the same one Ethel goes to. We’ll have to ask her if she knows anything.’

  Vanessa looked smug. ‘I rang her while I was waiting for you. She thinks Phoebe’s terrific. This is my idea – Ethel said there’s a flyer for the writers’ group in the library, so after I’d been to Farrier Way to check things out
, I went to the library. New members are welcome. I could go along.’

  ‘Slight problem – what are you going to write?’

  ‘Let’s see if they’ve got a website.’

  They did. A good one with plenty of information. They met weekly and they encouraged novelists, poets, playwrights and journalists to attend.

  ‘Constructive criticism,’ Vanessa read. ‘New writers are welcome to come and listen and see if the group suits them. No obligation to read or comment.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  She laughed. ‘But I am going to read. A poem.’

  ‘It’s got to be original,’ I said.

  ‘It will be. It’ll look more in character if I do.’

  ‘Vanessa, your poetry is . . . it makes ‘the cat sat on the mat’ look like the work of a genius.’

  ‘I’m not going to read anything I wrote, you idiot. I’m going to read one of grandma’s poems.’

  ‘Ah. Which one?’

  ‘The one about the professional funeral goer.’

  Vanessa and I had been twenty when our grandfather died. After his funeral the parishioners of the church held afternoon tea in the hall for the mourners. A woman came up to my grandmother and said, ‘He was such a great man. I was so fond of him.’

  To my horror my grandmother had replied, ‘Well he detested you, so stop snivelling and get out of my sight, you hypocrite.’

  Vanessa’s face had turned scarlet with embarrassment.

  I said to a woman next to me, ‘I’m so sorry, my grandmother’s not herself today. This is too much for her.’

  The woman had chuckled. ‘She’s very much herself, my dear young man. What’s more, she right. That woman adores funerals. She’s a ghoul. She knew your grandfather and when he was alive she didn’t have a good word to say about him.’

  A few months later my grandmother wrote a poem titled The Professional Funeral Goer.