Blood-Tied (2 page)

2

Elizabeth’s condition stabilised overnight and Helen sent them home to get some rest. There were no obvious signs of Elizabeth regaining consciousness but at least, Esme reassured herself, she was off the critical list. That was an important step.

Esme told Gemma of her conversation with the police and the need to establish whether Elizabeth had arranged to meet someone in the park. She hadn’t, though, mentioned the argument, only that the police had spoken of a witness. Esme was herself struggling with the idea of Elizabeth being involved in a violent dispute and felt that at this stage it was premature to involve Gemma. She didn’t need further complications. If Elizabeth regained consciousness in the next few hours, it might all be explained away soon enough.

Although they hadn’t implied it, Esme wondered whether the police secretly suspected Elizabeth of being involved in something underhand. Wasn’t that customary? If you spent your working life dealing with criminals did you eventually come to assume that everyone had something to hide? It must be an occupational hazard, surely? With both her and Gemma admitting to the police that they had no idea why Elizabeth had been in the park, and a witness’s report of an argument, it was inevitable that suspicions would be aroused. After all, she had questions of her own. Not least, whose pictures were in the locket.

She had handed the necklace to Gemma afterwards wondering whether, like Esme, she would open it and find the same enigma inside, but Gemma nodded her thanks and slipped it into her pocket without giving it a second glance. Esme hadn’t felt able to say anything further. Her head was still in turmoil. If it hadn’t been for the distinctive damage which identified it as Elizabeth’s she would have convinced herself that it belonged to someone else.

Esme offered to go alone to Elizabeth’s house but Gemma seemed keen to accompany her. Perhaps Gemma felt the visit would offer some comfort, being in touch with familiar possessions which she associated with Elizabeth. Or maybe she simply felt it gave her something constructive to do. They set out together, Esme envisaging that the trip would involve no more than a quick scan of the calendar, the picking up of the post and that they would be back at Elizabeth’s bedside by late afternoon.

It took an hour to drive to Elizabeth’s house. The windscreen wipers droned rhythmically most of the way, but there was a break in the weather as they arrived and a patch of blue appeared between the intimidating clouds. They’d said little on the journey apart from discussing Elizabeth’s continuing unconsciousness. The medics were at pains to stress that there were no definitive answers as to how long her recovery would take. Patience, along with hope, was what was needed. Esme revisited her thoughts on having an early explanation of everything from Elizabeth. Keeping Gemma in the dark about the argument in the park might not be an option she could stick with. Perhaps the opportunity to tell her would present itself shortly.

Esme tried to assess the facts rationally. It seemed possible that the argument was merely the figment of someone’s vivid imagination. Elizabeth could simply have been reprimanding someone for dropping litter. That was more Elizabeth’s style. The witness could have misinterpreted what she saw and embellished it. That seemed a reasonable assumption.

But that didn’t explain the locket.

As they pulled into the drive of Elizabeth’s house and got out of the car, Elizabeth’s friend and neighbour, Brenda, called to them, waving from her doorstep. She had obviously seen their arrival from the kitchen sink because she was peeling off a pair of pink rubber gloves as she tottered across her driveway to speak to them over the hedge.

‘Gemma, dear, we were so shocked to hear about your mum,’ said Brenda, shaking her head, her grey, permed hair remaining rigid despite the breeze. Gemma updated her on Elizabeth’s condition.

‘We’ve come to sort out a few things,’ she explained. ‘Deal with Mum’s post and stuff.’

‘Of course,’ said Brenda, nodding gravely. ‘But I ought to tell you about the man who called round a few days ago.’

‘What man?’ said Esme abruptly.

‘Tony saw him while he was in the garden.’ Brenda eagerly turned her attention to Esme as Gemma appeared uninterested. ‘He was at the front door and Tony called across to him, you know, could he help, sort of thing?’

‘So what happened?’ Esme threw a glance at Gemma, wondering why she was being so offhand.

‘Well, it was a bit odd, really,’ continued Brenda, getting into her stride. ‘ ’Cause, like an idiot – he cursed himself afterwards – Tony said, “were you looking for Mrs Holland?” and the man immediately jumped on it, as if he hadn’t known it before. You know what I mean, he said, “ah yes, that’s it, Mrs Holland”. Well, of course Tony then felt really stupid. I mean he could have been anyone. Casing the place, sort of thing. I feel a right fool, he said to me. Tony that is, not the man. He left then. Wouldn’t give his name. Said he’d come another time.’

Esme frowned. ‘When was this?’

Brenda shook her head. ‘That’s just what I was saying this morning to Tony. I really can’t remember which day it was. We were trying to think.’

‘So before Elizabeth’s…’ Esme found it difficult to know what word to use. Attack? Mugging? Accident? ‘Before what happened to Elizabeth?’ she said, at last.

‘Oh yes, before then, definitely.’

Esme immediately thought of the argument. Was there a connection?

‘Oh don’t worry, Brenda,’ Gemma said, dismissively. ‘It’s probably nothing.’

But then Gemma knew nothing about that information. Esme realised that she must tell Gemma about the quarrel as soon as she got the chance.

‘I’m really sorry, dear,’ Brenda was saying. ‘We do come over of an evening and draw the curtains, put lights on and that, so it looks like there’s someone in, you know.’

Gemma thanked her and Brenda went back indoors.

‘What do you make of that?’ asked Esme, as soon as Brenda was out of earshot.

‘Tony’s over-active imagination,’ said Gemma decisively. ‘He reads too many crime novels. He’d see a conspiracy in the milk delivery.’

‘Except there was one thing the police said,’ began Esme.

‘Yes, I know, that she was meeting someone,’ snapped Gemma. ‘Isn’t that what we’re here for?’

Esme looked at Gemma’s dark expression. ‘You sound as though you don’t approve?’

‘I don’t.’

‘But it might help catch them.’

‘I don’t see how poking about in my Mum’s house is going to catch a mugger in a town forty miles away.’ She turned towards the car. ‘You go ahead. I’ll be there in a sec.’

Esme watched her walk away. With Gemma so prickly, perhaps now wasn’t the time to mention the argument, but how would she take seriously what Brenda had told them if she remained in ignorance? Esme turned and went over to the house.

She unlocked the front door and picked up the post from the mat. She stepped inside and stood for a moment in the hall. Elizabeth’s house was a large Victorian semi-detached property, brick built with a steep roof. Brenda and Tony’s was the mirror image. Esme had never liked the high ceilings but Elizabeth had told her it gave the property elegance. There was never a snug feeling in the house, as far as Esme was concerned. It was too reserved, with too much space for cosiness. Esme preferred the full, almost cluttered, feel of her low-beamed cottage, with packed bookshelves and the eclectic mix of well-worn furniture. Elizabeth’s tastes were unfussy and functional, and in Esme’s eyes, clinical. Elizabeth would argue they had style.

Gemma joined her, a bottle of milk in her hand. She held it up.

‘Cup of tea?’

‘Good thinking.’ Esme smiled. Gemma seemed to have got over whatever irritation she’d expressed a moment ago, at least for now, though Esme guessed that mentioning the confrontation might provoke its return. But Esme felt they shouldn’t dismiss this latest information out of hand and Gemma could only appreciate its significance if she knew the full facts.

She trailed Gemma into the kitchen. ‘Joking apart, you don’t think Tony’s mysterious caller might be connected?’

Gemma huffed, as if to consider another unknown curiosity was the last thing she wanted right now. Esme hesitated. If they did discover that Elizabeth had been meeting someone it would create an opening to mention the episode with the unknown man. She decided to defer the matter for the moment.

Gemma slammed down the teapot on the worktop with such a thump that the lid clattered and threatened to jump off.

‘You look tired,’ said Esme with concern. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

Gemma sighed. ‘Fits and starts.’ She placed her hands flat down on the counter, on either side of the teapot, and leant towards Esme. ‘Is this weird for you, too? Doesn’t it seem odd to you to be standing here, making tea in Mum’s house, the two of us, without her being here?’ Her forehead was furrowed, her mouth turned down at the corners.

‘Of course it does,’ said Esme. ‘It’s bound to. The whole thing does. It will work itself out.’

‘You sound like me in my nursing role, talking to distressed relatives.’

‘Then take some of your own advice.’ Esme turned away. ‘Come on. Get on with that tea, then let’s see if we can solve the mystery of who your mother was meeting…’

‘If anyone.’

‘If anyone,’ echoed Esme. She scanned the kitchen. ‘Let’s start with the obvious.’ She walked over to the notice board on the wall and inspected it. A business card for a window cleaner, a shopping list pad with a single word ‘matches’ written on the top sheet and a flyer for a forthcoming event at the local library. They were all neatly and geometrically arranged next to the calendar. Esme took the calendar off its hook. She stared at it for a second and then flicked back through the pages.

Gemma came and looked over her shoulder. ‘What is it? Have you found a name?’

‘Nothing so specific, only the initials, W.H.’ Esme prodded a finger on the page. ‘But on the very day.’ She turned back to the previous month. ‘And there, and again there.’ She looked up at Gemma. ‘So who’s W.H.?’

‘Address book.’ Gemma hurried into the living room. The telephone was on a small table by an armchair. Elizabeth’s address book was neatly stored in a small shelf underneath. Gemma pulled it out and began scanning through the entries.

‘I’ll finish making the tea,’ said Esme, turning back to the kitchen. She flipped the switch to re-boil the kettle.

While it did its magic she speculated about the initials. So, who was W.H.? Friend? Lover? Why only put their initials? Surely you’d write the person’s first name? Was this the person she was quarrelling with? On the other hand it could be an
aide-mémoir
of some sort. But for what?

The kettle boiled and she warmed the pot, swilling the hot water around and tipping it down the sink. Water the Hostas, Hyacinths, Heathers? She dropped the teabag into the pot and poured on the water, racking her brain to think what other things came to mind. Women’s…something? Something Holiday?

She sighed. It was pointless to try and guess what it might be. They needed more to go on. She picked up a tray from behind the bread bin and put the teapot down on it. Two mugs followed into which she slopped some milk and then she took the tray into the living room. The room was spotless and smelt of gardenias or something equally cloying.

She looked around for somewhere to put the tray. Unlike in her own home, there were plenty of empty surfaces. There were no discarded newspapers and magazines on table tops, piles of reference books with markers sticking out of them or half-read paperbacks face down on the arms of the sofa. She walked over to the middle of the room and placed the tray on the vacant coffee table.

Gemma sat in the armchair, her nose buried in Elizabeth’s address book.

‘Any luck?’ asked Esme.

‘Nothing under W or H, or anywhere else that I can see.’

Esme nodded towards the bureau. ‘There might be a clue in there somewhere.’

Gemma made to get up. ‘Hang on,’ said Esme. ‘Let’s have a think while we have our tea.’

‘What sort of a think? We haven’t learnt anything yet.’

‘That’s what I mean. We don’t even know if W.H. is a person. It might be a reminder to do something.’ Esme stirred the pot. ‘You know, like –’

‘William Hill!’ interrupted Gemma. ‘She was going to place a bet.’

They both laughed out loud at the absurdity of the image of Elizabeth walking into a betting-shop. The emotional strain they had both been feeling for the past few days dissipated in a burst of uncontrollable giggling.

It was Gemma who recovered first. She rubbed her hand across her face and sighed. ‘You don’t realise how much our faces must have been in a constant frown for the past few days. These muscles had almost forgotten how to work. Should we be laughing at a time like this?’

‘Don’t knock it. It’s good therapy.’ There was a few moments silence while they both reflected on Esme’s comment.

Gemma took a deep breath. ‘So, where were we?’

Esme considered. ‘W.H. is on the calendar regularly and she’s not been attacked before, so perhaps that means that W.H. is completely irrelevant.’

‘Or if she does have a friend with the initials W.H. he or she isn’t usually aggressive.’

Esme gave Gemma a wry grin. ‘Thank you, Gemma, for that pearl of wisdom.’ She gave the teapot a last stir and replaced the lid. ‘If W.H. is a friend she was meeting we still need to find out who it was though.’

‘Do we?’

Esme gave Gemma a wary glance. She poured the tea and passed Gemma a mug. When Gemma made no further comment Esme continued: ‘Telling the police that W.H was written on the calendar won’t be any use to them unless we do find out, will it?’ She reasoned.

‘No,’ said Gemma with emphasis. Esme looked at her. Now what?

Suddenly Gemma slammed down her mug on the tray and stood up. The hot tea splashed over the rim and Esme instinctively recoiled.

‘This is stupid. We should be sitting with Mum, not poking around in her house. How’s this going to solve anything?’

‘Because we don’t know what she was doing in Shropton,’ said Esme gently. ‘Because if she was meeting someone, he or she might have seen something.’