Telling Tales (15 page)

“You sound as if you’re talking about beasts at a market.” Veronica was unusually tetchy. She wasn’t given to feminism. The conversation had made her uncomfortable for other reasons. Michael thought she wasn’t as easily taken in by his conversion to the Keith Mantel fan club as Barry.

“How long has he been knocking around with this Debs?” Michael asked.

Barry looked at his wife for confirmation. “Six months? Something like that. She’s been hanging round the village all summer anyway. She must have been bored when Keith was at work. She spent a lot of time in here.”

“Is he in the same line of business?”

“I never knew what line of business that was. It’s not something you can pin him down on. Property. Leisure. That’s what he tells you. Could mean anything. We own the Anchor. So we’re in property and leisure too, when you come to think about it.” It seemed to be a point he’d made before. He thought it was clever, expected that to be acknowledged.

“You’re right.” Michael gave a little smile. “So you are.”

“Can I get you another pint?” Veronica asked. She had her back to him, returning some glasses, and spoke over her shoulder. The bra strap at the back was very thin. Only one catch, he reckoned. When he was young he’d have had that undone in seconds.

The third pint was tempting, but he shook his head. He had things to do. It struck him again how things had changed. He was walking away from a drink, and for the first time since Peg had died he had things to do.

“Best get back,” he said. “Don’t want to overdo things first time out.” He grinned to show he was joking, that there was nothing of the invalid about him. He pulled out his wallet from his jacket pocket. “Now, how much are these tickets for the lifeboat going to set me back?”

Barry slid off his stool and mooched into the back room to find the tickets. Veronica leaned right across the bar so he could smell the shampoo on her hair. She whispered, “You know what you’re doing, don’t you, love? You won’t make a scene?”

Before he could stop himself he reached out and patted the back of her hand, just as the little chaplain had done in the crematorium.

“Don’t worry about me. I know just what I’m doing.”

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning Michael woke very early again. The darkness was still thick and there was no traffic moving on the road outside. Today, he realized, he didn’t have to force himself to stay in bed. He could get up. He repeated the comforting mantra which he’d started in the pub. He had things to do. The things he had to do were still vague in his head, but that didn’t matter.

The clothes he’d taken off the night before were still folded on a chair at the end of his bed. Peg hadn’t been a house-proud woman, but she’d liked him neatly turned out. Her last couple of months, when she’d not been able to get out of bed, she’d worried about that. She’d pulled him close to her, made him listen to the rasping whisper. He’d thought it would be something important, significant, a declaration of love, and perhaps it had been in a way. Are you managing? With the washing and ironing? He’d taught himself to do it so she’d have less to fret about.

Now the memory made him think he might be running short of underpants. He gathered up the dirty washing from the basket in the bathroom and stuck it in the washing machine. A week ago the laundry would have been a full day’s occupation. He’d plan it in advance, sit in the kitchen watching his Y-fronts tumble around in the suddy water, feeling he was doing something useful. Today it was a chore to get out of the way. He had things to do.

He was hungry. Had he eaten the day before when he’d arrived back from the Anchor? He couldn’t remember. His head had been full of plans, his excitement fuelled by the whisky he’d finished off. Now he raided the fridge like a kid ravenous after a day at school, and fried up eggs, bacon, a few leftover cooked potatoes. He left the plate in the sink, already fidgety to be out, with no real idea of where he’d go. As he left the bungalow the church clock struck the three quarter hour. Seven forty-five. Still too early for all the things he’d planned the night before, but he couldn’t face going back inside.

The rain had stopped. He took the lane which led towards the estuary. The path was lit by widely spaced street lamps and the wet road underneath looked black and shiny like melted tar. On one side there was a row of brick cottages. Lights were on now and an occasional sound a door slamming, a burst of the radio -escaped to be tossed away by the wind. On the other side were fields with rough grazing and a few sheep. He couldn’t see the sheep but he knew they were there. He could hear them moving. The fields were separated from the lane by a stone wall and he walked briskly against the wind until he came to a break in it. There were no more houses now. He’d reached the edge of the village.

The gap in the wall was blocked by a gate and he thought for a moment that it might be locked and that he’d be forced to scramble over it. He’d been here before but only in daylight. Late afternoon, usually,

when the sun slanted through the big sycamores. Not recently though. Recently he’d neglected even to get here. Sycamores always held their leaves well into the autumn and some of the trees were still in leaf even now. The wind made a sound in them, so he was fooled briefly into thinking he could hear the tide ebbing in the estuary.

The gate was on a latch and opened easily. He was inside. Surrounded on four sides by the trees. He didn’t stop to read the notice on the gate. He knew it read Elvet parish cemetery. Established 1853. In the east the sky was starting to lighten and he could make out the pale slabs of the headstones. He could have found Peg’s even if it had still been pitch dark. She had wanted to be buried. It had been one of the instructions she’d given him, forced it out through dry lips in the same way as she’d told him how to use the washing machine.

He’d come to make his peace with Peg. He’d been putting together the words as he walked along the lane. I went to pieces after you died. You know what I’m like. No good without you. Thingsil be different now.

But instead of talking to her he found himself remembering the first time he’d realized she was ill. It had been a couple of weeks after the Mantel girl had died. The murder had upset her. Really upset her, as if she’d been Abigail’s mother. She’d said that was what it felt like, like she’d lost a daughter. It had been a dreadful time. Jeanie mooning around the house, trying to phone Mantel though he’d made it clear he didn’t want to speak to her. Peg grieving for a girl she’d hardly known. That morning the two of them had been in the kitchen. Peg had been baking for some do at the church. The autumn fay re She’d rolled out the dough for scones and had started cutting them out with an upturned wine glass. Suddenly she’d seemed to crumple and the glass had rolled out of her hand. She’d stood there, bent double with the pain. He’d just come in from a shift and was drinking tea at the table. He’d caught the glass just before it rolled onto the floor, but when he’d got up to help her she’d waved him away as if she knew what to do, and he knew that this hadn’t been the first time it had happened. Then the doorbell had rung and Peg had said, “Go and get it, will you?” All impatient. He’d understood that the pain had made her fractious, but also that she’d needed time to pull herself together.

Two police officers had been standing on the doorstep. Not in uniform, but he’d recognized them. One was the woman, the inspector, the other her sergeant, the big bloke. Greenwood. Michael could picture them now, standing there. It had been snowing and the big soft flakes were sticking to their coats, melting slowly, keeping the shape of the crystal. The woman had smiled. It hadn’t been a false smile. It had been as if she’d been really pleased to see Michael, and he’d loved that feeling. He’d always been a fool around women. Always taken in by their flattery.

“Mind if we come in for a few minutes?” she’d said. She’d stamped her boots on the step to shake off the snow. The boots had narrow heels, almost pointed, and although she’d been otherwise soberly dressed, he’d thought there’d been something frivolous about them, tarty even. The man, Dan Greenwood, had seemed uncomfortable, edgy. Later, when he moved to the village, he’d been followed by rumours. Michael had heard he’d had a breakdown. Perhaps he’d been on the verge of illness even then. Michael had felt it had taken an effort of will for him to follow his boss into the house.

“Is Jeanie around?” Fletcher had asked, not as if she were desperate to speak to the girl. More as if she’d been passing anyway so she might as well have a word. Through the open kitchen door Peg had caught Michael’s eye. He’d thought she was trying to tell him something, but he hadn’t worked out what it could be. He hadn’t sensed the danger.

“She’s upstairs,” he’d said and had yelled up at Jeanie to come down. Peg had turned away in despair. She’d always been smarter than him. She must have known, even then, what the police were there for.

Jeanie hadn’t come out of her room immediately, and they’d stood in the hall looking up to the landing, necks cricked in anticipation. There had been no response to Michael’s shout of command, no sound or movement and he had felt the tension stretch, saw it like a piece of elastic about to snap. Had he realized even then what the police were really there for? Or had he still been too dumb?

There had been the soft click of the door being opened and Jeanie had appeared at the top of the stairs. She’d been wearing blue jeans and a green sweater with a big cowl neck. No shoes but thick woollen socks which made no sound when she walked. It had been the socks they’d seen first through the banisters as she’d approached them down the stairs. She’d lost weight since Abigail’s murder. Michael had noticed that looking up at her from the unusual angle. He’d thought uncharitably that she’d not stopped eating through grief for the girl. It had been a pathetic love sickness. She’d wasted away because Mantel had refused to have anything more to do with her.

At that point Peg had come out of the kitchen, her body held rigid as if she’d been scared the pain would return, but fighting all the same.

“What do you want with her now?” Spitting out the words towards the inspector.

Fletcher had turned towards Peg. Her hair had swung like the hair in shampoo advertisements, polished, falling obediently back into place. She’d looked at Peg for a moment, considering if an answer was necessary.

“We’d like to ask Jeanie a few more questions. At the police station. We need her to help us with our enquiries.”

“You’ll not talk to her without a solicitor!”

“Yes,” the inspector had said, giving a quick nod of approval, as if Peg had been the only other person present bright enough to realize the gravity of the situation. “I think you should arrange for her lawyer to be there as soon as possible.” She’d paused and then added, “And you might like to pack a small bag for Jeanie. Essentials. It’s very likely that we’ll be charging her.” Her voice had been measured, melodious, but looking back Michael understood that this had been her moment of triumph.

i She’d looked at them both in turn. “You do understand what I’m saying? If we arrest your daughter, she’ll be held in custody until we can get her to court. She won’t get bail. No chance of that when the charge is murder. It’s only fair that you understand that’s a possibility.” She’d smiled at them as if she was doing a favour by taking them into her confidence.

“What happens if she refuses to go with you?” Peg had demanded.

“Then we’ll arrest her now.”

Peg had looked as if she’d been punched, but Michael hadn’t taken in the implication of the scene which was being played out in front of him. He’d seen the inspector’s mouth move, but his attention had been held by the man, by Dan Greenwood standing just behind her. Greenwood had stepped forward, had even, Michael thought now, remembering the event for the first time in years, spoken to intervene. “Ma’am A hand upraised. A mouth open. A single word. “Ma’am.” The snow had all melted on his jacket now. Water like dewdrops had clung to the fibres.

Inspector Fletcher had glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Yes, Greenwood?” As glacial as the weather outside. And Michael had thought there must be something personal between these two, something more than professional rivalry. A failed love affair? Perhaps that had been it. There’d been that sort of tension. Michael had been thinking all that, while Peg had been coming to terms with the fact that her only child might be arrested for murder. And what had Jeanie been thinking? At the time he hadn’t considered Jeanie’s feelings at all.

The sergeant hadn’t answered immediately and the inspector had sensed her advantage and demanded more sharply, “Well, Greenwood? What is it?”

And for some reason the sergeant’s courage had suddenly left him. He’d crumbled. “Nothing, ma’am.” And then had hated himself for his cowardice. Michael had recognized how he was feeling. Hadn’t he once sat down for a meal with Keith Mantel? That had been a betrayal too.

At that point Michael had realized that something more was expected of him. The focus had shifted and he’d seen the whole picture instead of the detail: Peg in tears, Jeanie as pale as a corpse. He’d had a part to play as head of the household and he’d played it in the only way he knew, blustering and raging.

“What right do you have to come into my house and accuse my daughter of murder?”

But his heart hadn’t been in it and they’d been able to tell. Jeanie had walked out to the car between the two officers, looking back once with that blank and empty stare which had always shut them out. She’d seemed to wince as a snowflake fell on her cheek.

Now, staring down at Peg’s grave, Michael shivered. From the corner of his eye he caught a movement on the other side of the cemetery. Another mourner. He realized how strange he must look, standing in the half light, bedraggled and tearful. Some lunatic let loose from the madhouse. But the figure who had just come in through the wrought-iron gate seemed equally distraught and it was clear that he hadn’t noticed Michael. They were two of a kind. Though the newcomer was younger, tall and stringy, it seemed that he too was passing through an emotional crisis. He was wearing a long anorak, unfastened. He had his hands thrust deep in the pockets and walked jerkily, moving his arms at the same time, so the front of the coat flapped like wings. He stopped once with his back to Michael and stood with one hand to his ear. He seemed to be muttering to himself. Then he moved on past the line of graves. Any respectable passer-by would conclude,