The Moon Spun Round (35 page)

‘If they ask, say you came with Naomi.’

‘Oh hell, the car,’ Naomi gasped. ‘They’re trained to spot things like that. We’ve got to make it look like we’ve just arrived.’ She ran through the trees and around the stable. Thankfully, the engine started first go and she left it running to warm the inside and the engine while she cleared ice from the windows, then drove it around to Wicker Lane and positioned it outside Stonewater Cottage.

Sally laughed when she answered Naomi’s knock. ‘Anyone would think you’ve done this sort of thing before.’

Naomi had hardly sat down with Claire, her own coat and bag tossed on a chair, woollen scarf draped around her neck, when there was a knock at the door.

There were two of them, Detective Inspector Rankin and Detective Sergeant Thorp. Sally showed them into the sitting room, and explained that Naomi and Claire were visiting and who they were.

Rankin was a big, broad-shouldered man, whose presence seemed to fill the low-ceilinged room. Sally, desperate to appear to be acting naturally, found it difficult not to stare at him. It was his hair that caught her attention: sweeping back from his forehead, it was thick and dark except for a broad band of white above his left eye. ‘Ah yes, I see the officer spoke with you yesterday, Miss Walker. And Mrs Drayton? You and your husband are on our list as being at the disco. Also friends of Ruth Clifton, I understand?’

‘Well,
I
am—was. My husband hardly knew her.’

‘I see. Well, as you’re here perhaps you won’t mind answering a few questions.’ He moved slowly and spoke purposefully.

It was much the same as before, only this time the questions came faster and harder, mostly from the sergeant, while Inspector Rankin make meticulous notes. How long have you known her? What was her relationship with her husband like? When was the last time you saw her? What did she say? What sort of mood was she in? They asked the same things over and over, rephrasing the questions to trip them up. Sally and Naomi kept to the same story, told the exact truth right up until they all reached home and went to bed.

‘And you didn’t see or hear from her again after you left her at the shop?’ The inspector turned from one to the other, looking them both directly in the eyes. Naomi answered just as directly, not missing a beat. Sally shook her head.

‘And what about you, Mrs Drayton? We understand both you and your husband left early New Year’s Eve. Is that right?’

God, they don’t miss a thing, thought Sally.

‘Yes, that’s right. Bit embarrassing really.’ Claire looked away, smiling sweetly. ‘We had a sort of a row. Nothing important. He’d had a little too much to drink, that’s all.’

‘And did you both go straight home?’

‘Yes. We’d made it up by the time we got there.’

‘And then what did you do?’

‘What did we do? It was New Year’s Eve, Inspector. We were celebrating. What do you think we did?’

They were both too hardened to be embarrassed by Claire’s mischievous grin, but at least it put a stop to that line of questioning.

‘And none of you have any idea what might have happened?’ asked Rankin. ‘Why Mrs Clifton went out again?’

The questions went on and on, going over the same ground again and again.

Sally looked at Claire, holding Cat tightly on her lap, as if drawing energy from her small body. She thought of that morning when she had sat in the
rocking chair, clinging to the grey fur, wet with her own tears, and how she had felt the rhythmic purring as if the whole room shuddered with it. Something about car wheels. And someone was singing…

‘We’ll need to talk to your husband, Mrs Drayton. Is he at home?’

‘No, he went back to work this morning.’

The inspector consulted his notes. ‘Computer Net in Newmarket. I believe he’s the owner?’

‘That’s right. He’ll probably be there all day.’

‘Right. We’ll send someone out.’

‘Oh, Inspector. Could I ask you…Well, it’s just that I’m supposed to be at work, too; the charity shop in the village. Whoever interviews him, could they not mention that you’ve seen me here? He says I spend all my time gossiping, and well…’

‘I understand.’ He actually smiled, well almost. ‘Don’t worry. Our officers are there to collect information, not pass it around. Right, ladies, that will be all. At least for now. You may be required to come in to the station and make a formal statement. We’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, if you think of anything…’

The house is quiet again. Claire is sleeping. The events of the morning have taken a lot out of her, although she does seems to be moving a little more easily and there is some colour in her face. Abbie has remembered that she is supposed to be giving a riding lesson after lunch and hopes that Daniel had thought to cancel it. She left in a hurry, expecting to find the police waiting on her doorstep. Fran left soon after, knowing they would be hunting her down also. Edward would have told them she was at the charity shop, so she’d need to think of a reason for not being there.

Sally is standing at her bedroom window, cradling Cat in her arms. Cat doesn’t often allow herself to be treated as a pet, but this afternoon she seems tired and gives in easily. They watch Naomi cross the lawn to the pool. The garden is still, except for a few birds darting among the trees and raking the earth for grubs and insects. So far it has been a cold winter and there’s promise of worse to come. The wildlife must be desperate for food, and for their sakes Sally is thankful that Cat is indoors and not out hunting.

There’s movement at the corner of the field. The gate opens and Abbie leads a horse through, stopping to close the latch behind her before she mounts. It’s the big toffee-coloured mare, Abbie’s own Lottie. They move around the edge of the field, gently at first, Lottie lifting her feet and placing them carefully as
if sensing a fragility in her rider. Then Abbie straightens her back and shifts in the saddle and Lottie begins to trot, working up to a canter. Sally remembers something Abbie said about this being the time when she’s on her own. There’s only her and the horse and they move as one. It takes that union of woman and animal for her to be fully aware of herself.

‘And what about you, Cat?’ Sally rubs her cheek on Cat’s head. ‘Do you know who I am? Because I’m damned if I do.’

But if Cat knows, she’s not telling. She closes her eyes and turns her head to one side, the way cats do. Sally thinks it’s her way of saying: I’m comfortable with you and that’s all that matters.

This is the first moment she’s had to catch her thoughts since New Year’s Eve. She’s glad Claire came to her. She was really trying to reach the pool, Sally knows that, but even so she wants to take care of her, protect her. She’s beginning to feel some sort of personal responsibility for the group. It’s she who must keep them safe. She’s sure she knows these women, has known them for a long time, and has only recently found them again.

A full moon rises over the fields, hazing the edges of scattered clouds with gold and blue. They leave the house together and form a sad little procession across the frosting grass, carrying gifts, flowers, fruit and candles. Claire has insisted on coming, too, even though her muscles ache and each step shoots a pain through her ribs. As they enter the stand of trees, Cat pads through the icy dew to join them. They have come to bid their sister farewell and commit her to the protection of the Goddess.

The moon is almost full now, a pale and misty circle of light haloed in a blue haze. The Goddess herself looks down on them, wearing the face of Demeter. She is there to welcome Her daughter and take her home.

I
T IS A WEEK
before the police will allow Jack to take his wife away and bury her. But, for all their forensic violations, they have found nothing. Oh, the cause of death is clear enough—a violent blow to the head; but who caused it, or why, remains a mystery.

So it is the eleventh of January before they are finally allowed to lay Ruth to rest. On a grey day, the biting north wind slices through the graveyard, finding its way through every crevice of the ancient stone building. The moon, up there somewhere behind the clouds, is now entering its last quarter. An appropriate time for endings.

The doors of the hearse are already open as, one by one, the cars pull up alongside the church wall. Abbie is next to George, who is driving, with Naomi, Sally and Claire in the back. It’s supposed to be a private affair, with only family and close friends at the service and by the graveside, but it seems like half the village is gathered outside the gate. Well, everyone in Hallowfield knew Ruth, but that doesn’t excuse the members of the local and national press who are hanging about on the opposite side of the road. No doubt it’s their presence that necessitates the attendance of the two uniformed police officers to maintain public order. So much for privacy. There’s also an official police presence inside the church. Detective Inspector Rankin is standing at the back, next to the font, a good position from which to view everyone as they enter the building.

‘He’ll be on the lookout, you know, for signs of a guilty conscience,’ Fran explains. ‘He thinks the murderer will be among the mourners, or hanging
around outside. Some sort of morbid fascination with seeing their victim laid to rest, as if that would make an end to it.’

Abbie tells her not to talk such rubbish, but there’s something about Detective Inspector Rankin, something hard to define, that makes Abbie sensitive to his presence. She glances over her shoulder and looks at him again. He seems to fill more than his allotted space; perhaps it’s as simple as that. He commands respect from the other officers, and George certainly speaks very highly of him. But, whatever the cause, he has managed to unnerve all of the women during the past week. Little attention has been paid to Claire and Ayden, who are just another village couple who attended the disco, but Abbie, Sally, Fran and Naomi have all been summoned to the interview room to face the inspector and talk their way through that night yet again. They all kept to the same story, and George and Jack, who told nothing but the truth, confirmed the women’s version of it. As Rankin sat opposite her, Abbie found herself mesmerized by the wide streak of pure white hair. She kept thinking of a badger, although they weren’t usually creatures to be feared. Rankin hadn’t bullied them; no, he had been very calm and objective. Despite the typed and signed statements, he always wrote certain things down, slowly and carefully, as if everything could be reduced to a list. Abbie had watched his pen move over the paper, and each time she left the interview room she had felt sick.

As they take their places behind Ruth’s family, George squeezes Abbie’s hand. He’s been fantastic through all of this, looking after Jack and steering the family through all the legal stuff, not only as a lawyer, but also as a friend. And he has still found time to be there for her. In return, she’s lied to him, deceived her own husband. In the pain of the death of one of her closest friends, she’d almost lost sight of that.

The vestry door opens and Fran walks out, making her way across the nave to join them. Her appearance, as always, signals the imminent manifestation of the Reverend Edward Cunningham. The already hushed congregation falls into silence. As she takes her place at the end of the second pew, Fran reaches across to place a hand on Jack’s shoulder. He looks older and smaller, somehow, as if he has withdrawn into himself. His daughters sit either side of him with the son up from London. They press up close to their father, holding him together. Further along the seat are the daughters’ families; husbands uncomfortable in formal suits, the younger children with no understanding of why they are here. Fran recognizes Ruth’s granddaughter, with her spiked hair and metal eyebrow ring. She looks astonished, as if reality has suddenly slapped her in the face.

Edward leads them painfully through the service while his wife recalls the morning spent with the family, brewing endless cups of tea and trying to keep
the young ones amused. Her husband knew nothing of that. What right had he to give thanks for a life of which he had no understanding, to mourn a death in which he played no part?