The deception, p.8
The Deception, page 8
‘Are we in the way?’ she asked, it appeared he had a long way to go.
‘Never, but you can grab a bucket and help if you like?’
Rosie was only too happy to do so, and balanced an empty bucket on the buggy and began to pick ripe tomatoes. Noah chuckled at the new game.
‘That’s right, get him started early on,’ Mike joked and for half an hour they worked happily together, a reminder of the life she loved and the future they’d planned.
This life was worth fighting for; she was Rosie Cantrell now, not Samantha Ashby.
When it became too hot in the greenhouse for Noah, she pushed him outside and went into the brick shed to get them all some water. Mike came to join her, in need of a break.
‘I suppose I should be getting back.’ Rosie sounded reluctant and felt guilty at escaping the house for no good reason, a feeling she confessed to her husband.
‘You don’t need a reason to come and visit, especially when the weather’s as glorious as today. It’s good for Noah to see me at work too. He’ll be wanting to help as soon as he can walk.’
‘And he’ll want to stop as soon as he gets to an age where he’ll be useful!’ Rosie added. ‘Say goodbye to Lisa for me, it’s too hot to hang around.’ She kissed her husband and set off on the walk home, deciding to buy something nice for tea in the village on the way. They deserved a treat after the strange goings-on of late.
Chapter Sixteen
In all her fifty-eight years, Florence Smith had never seen a dead body and it was worse than she could have imagined. Sandy found it first. The inquisitive golden Labrador ran into the trees sniffing around as usual but failed to come back after a few minutes when generally he rarely wandered out of her sight. Initially the dog didn’t respond to her calls and then the urgent barking began.
Florence followed the sound into the wooded area to discover her much-loved pet excitedly digging at something she first mistook to be a bundle of rags. It was only on closer inspection that Florence noticed the flesh, hardly recognisable as such, not flesh coloured at all but a dull grey. Leaves and soil partially obscured the man’s head, but a head it was, and Florence immediately hoped Sandy hadn’t been responsible for covering it. The body too was partly covered, as if someone had made a half-hearted attempt to conceal it and either failed or given up.
Florence wished she’d not indulged in that extra slice of toast for breakfast as her stomach churned and she turned away to be sick. Such a hideous sight marred the beauty of the spot she loved so much; it was doubtful she’d ever wish to walk Sandy there again.
‘Sandy, Sandy here boy!’ Florence called out and the reluctant dog eventually left his new plaything to return to his mistress, tail wagging and tongue lolling, waiting for praise for being a good boy. His trembling mistress clipped him on his lead, propped herself up against a sturdy tree trunk for support, called the police and in a very shaky voice told them of the body in the woods.
‘Are you sure the patient isn’t breathing?’ The voice on the other end asked. Florence reluctantly glanced again at the heap of a man and noted blood on the body parts Sandy had uncovered – dried up pools of blood which again had her retching. She could see the man’s eyes too, open and staring, eyes she knew would haunt her dreams for a long time to come. She almost laughed – he could hardly be called a patient; it was far too late for that. After giving her considered opinion that the man was way beyond help, and her location, Florence stepped well back, outside of the woods and back on the track, keeping Sandy from returning to his find as the woman had asked. The whole scene was an incongruous sight for such a beautiful day and Florence knew she’d never think of the woods again without seeing the man’s body.
It seemed an age until sirens could be heard in the distance. Florence assumed they’d be coming from Bedale, the nearest police station and felt a rush of relief to be able to pass on the responsibility of the body – for that was how it felt – her responsibility. After all it was her dog who’d found the poor soul.
Three police cars bounced along the track beside the wood coming to a halt when they saw Florence waving wildly at them. A female PC approached her first, gently asking what she’d found while her colleagues dashed into the trees to discover the body for themselves.
‘Is it anyone you recognise?’ the PC asked after establishing that Florence lived locally in the village of Thursdale.
‘No. At least I don’t think so although I didn’t get a good look.’ She’d not considered it would be someone local, but then all she’d seen of his face were those eyes. Florence comforted herself with the thought that nothing like this happened in a sleepy little village like theirs so it must be a stranger, a tourist perhaps – although she most certainly wasn’t going to offer to take another peek. An unmarked car joined the others and two detectives jumped out and hurried off into the woods.
‘Will you be all right to talk to the detectives now or would you rather we take you home and call for a statement later?’ The young officer was very considerate, Florence thought for a moment before choosing the latter option; she needed to sit down and ring her husband at work, and then perhaps have a cup of tea or maybe a glass of something stronger…
Rosie hadn’t been home above five minutes when she heard the sound of sirens at the bottom of the hill. Her heart leapt, initially assuming the police were about to return to ask more questions. Yet why the sirens, the urgency?
From the window she watched, open-mouthed as three cars pulled up on the edge of the woods at the bottom of the meadow, with stick people getting out and rushing around. Within minutes another vehicle arrived with more people and finally a black van. Although the view was uninterrupted, it was some distance and Rosie couldn’t make out any details or recognise the figures.
Instinctively she knew the commotion was somehow connected to Frank Stokes – it had to be – and by association, to her. Once again the man had brought mayhem to her ordered, peaceful life and very soon the police would be back at her door with more of their prying questions.
Noah, who’d slept during the walk home, was now awake and demanding food, so Rosie put his bottle in to warm and began to mix a tiny portion of baby food in a plastic bowl, rice and apple, his favourite. She wouldn’t ring Mike again. He’d been disturbed enough today and there was nothing she could tell him for sure, just a feeling, an unwelcome foreboding. It would wait until the police came which they most certainly would. Spooning tiny portions of the sloppy mixture into her son’s mouth, a strange sensation of resignation came over her. Trouble seemed to follow her around. How, Rosie wondered, would this latest dilemma end?
With Noah fed and settled in his cot Rosie dared to look out of the window again, inexplicably drawn to the scene. The circus was still in progress; yellow tape fluttered in the breeze cordoning off the woods from the path and more cars were in attendance. The familiar view was tarnished somehow, leached of all colour except the flapping yellow tape which screamed ‘crime scene’. How long would it take them to come up the hill to knock on her door?
Making a coffee and a sandwich she didn’t want, Rosie took them into the lounge. It was only then that she noticed the open window. Rosie was sure it was closed when she’d gone out in the morning yet now the curtains were blowing gently, silently and for the first time ever Rosie was afraid to be in her own home. It was no longer her place of safety, her sanctuary, and that awful feeling of losing control washed over her. Had someone been in the cottage while she was out? Almost falling onto the sofa and with her head swimming she gave way to the hot tears which had been ever present since the awful letter from Frank Stokes.
There was still a police presence on the edge of the woodland when Mike came home from work six hours later.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, a frown etched on his sweat streaked brow. ‘There’s one of those police mobile incident rooms in the village. Whatever it is must be serious.’
‘I don’t know. I wondered if it was anything to do with Stokes but the police haven’t been again.’ Rosie looked at her husband expectantly. He appeared to know even less than her.
‘It might not be connected.’
‘Mike, the man’s been missing since he came here and now something serious is going on close to our home. It has to be Stokes. Look at the tape and the police guard. Do you think Stokes is dead?’ The words came out as a whisper as if saying them quietly would make them less real.
‘We’ll soon find out, look!’ Mike’s eyes fixed on the window and as Rosie followed his line of sight, she saw the car climbing the track to their cottage.
Chapter Seventeen
These visitors were not uniformed officers, but detectives. They stood on the doorstep, warrant cards in hands and solemn expressions fixed on their faces. The man introduced himself as DI Tom Harris and his colleague as DS Emma Russell.
‘May we come in?’ Harris asked.
‘Of course.’ Mike stood aside to allow them to enter and led them into the lounge where Rosie waited, chewing on her fingernails. The DI was a tall thin man with a long face and a mass of grey wiry hair clipped short at the sides and too long on top. A grey jacket which had seen better days hung off his spare frame, the sleeves too short for his long arms. His sergeant was impossibly young and very pretty, petite with dark hair tied neatly into a ponytail and huge brown eyes in an oval face. She offered a quick, tight smile. The DI maintained a poker face, his pale blue eyes taking in his surroundings.
‘What’s happened?’ Mike asked. Rosie thought he spoke too quickly although they both wanted confirmation of what had occurred.
‘A man’s body has been found in the woods. We believe it to be Frank Stokes, a gentleman who visited you on Wednesday?’ The DI raised one eyebrow, clearly expecting an answer.
Rosie gasped. In her heart she’d known it must be Stokes yet hearing the words still shocked her.
Mike replied. ‘Yes. We spoke to two of your colleagues this morning which I’m sure you already know.’
Is it true that the police only ever ask questions to which they knew the answers, or was it a myth?
The inspector simply nodded.
‘How did he die?’ Mike asked.
‘I can’t give out any details except to say we’re treating it as murder.’
Rosie’s eyes widened. She’d assumed perhaps he’d suffered a heart attack or something – he didn’t look the picture of health – but murder. Who would want to kill him?
‘Mrs Cantrell, can you tell me about your relationship with Mr Stokes?’
‘There is no relationship!’ She was suddenly irritated. Why wouldn’t they leave her alone? ‘I told your officers this morning that we saw Stokes on Wednesday and he left before lunchtime. We haven’t seen him since.’
‘And can you tell me the purpose of his visit?’ DI Harris asked.
Rosie clasped her hands together to stop them shaking. ‘He was planning to write a book or an article about certain events which happened in the past and wanted me to give him an interview. I told him I wasn’t interested and asked him to leave and not to contact me again.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘Around eleven or eleven thirty, I’m not entirely sure.’ Her eyes flicked from one officer to the other, convinced they didn’t believe her although they didn’t pursue the matter.
‘Thank you, Mrs Cantrell. If you think of anything else which might be helpful, please ring me.’ He offered a card and Rosie absently thought that maybe she could start a collection as she took it and put it on the mantelpiece next to the one from that morning.
The detective continued. ‘As you appear to be the last people to have seen Mr Stokes alive, we may need to speak to you again, perhaps tomorrow?’
Mike jumped into the conversation. ‘But why? I don’t see what else we can tell you.’
‘New information comes to light all the time in a murder investigation. It’s a matter of asking questions and collating information as we receive it. You’re not the only ones we’ll be speaking to; officers are conducting house-to-house enquiries in the village as we speak.’ His words stung Rosie who felt churlish at her reluctance to help. Stokes was dead and although she didn’t like the man, she wouldn’t wish a violent death on anyone. The question as to whether he was married or had any children suddenly popped into her mind.
‘It must be terrible for his family. How are they taking it?’ she asked.
‘I believe he was divorced and estranged from his daughter,’ Harris told Rosie.
‘Still, it must be a shock for them. If we can help, I’ll be here all day tomorrow and Mike will be at work – the market garden at the other end of the village?’ Rosie glanced at Mike who appeared annoyed at her co-operation.
‘Thank you. We’ll leave you in peace now.’ DI Harris gave a perfunctory smile and the officers left.
Rosie was grateful to have Noah to focus on as she bathed him, after which Mike gave him his bottle while she cooked pasta. Nothing was said of the visit and the grotesque reason for it, their baby may have been only four months old but neither wished to discuss a murdered man in front of him. When Noah was asleep in his cot and the meal’s debris cleared, Mike poured two glasses of wine and they sat by the open window.
‘I thought perhaps Stokes might have suffered a heart attack. He didn’t look the healthiest of souls, did he?’ Rosie remarked.
‘No but then who around here would want to murder him?’
Her eyes filled with tears, ‘I think that’s going to be our problem. I’m the only person with a motive.’
Mike drew her towards him and kissed her gently. ‘Darling, no one’s going to believe you killed him over a stupid book or whatever it was he was planning. You’ve nothing to worry about.’
Mike’s words didn’t quite reassure her and no matter from which angle they looked at the events, Rosie wasn’t comforted. It had been a long and stressful day. She’d had enough of it.
‘I think I’m ready for bed now,’ she said, ‘though goodness knows if I’ll sleep.’
Surprisingly, Rosie did manage to sleep and only woke on hearing Noah at about 6am. Her first thought was that it was another glorious morning but as consciousness dawned, the shocking events of the previous day flooded her mind and the day was spoiled. Mike was in the bathroom so Rosie climbed wearily from bed and went to lift her son, taking him downstairs to warm his bottle.
Although it was Sunday it would be another working day for Mike. When her husband came downstairs, showered and ready for work, Rosie remembered to tell him about the open window the day before. It had gone completely out of her head.
‘You probably left it open, love. You’ve had a lot on your mind of late, don’t worry about it.’ And with those words he kissed her and Noah, grabbed a slice of toast and headed off to work.
Rosie could concentrate on nothing other than Frank Stokes and the visit from the police. It was difficult to believe that the man who’d stood in her home so recently was now gone, murdered, and for what reason?
In his line of work, Stokes was bound to have made enemies but to be murdered seemed extreme. And why here, in Thursdale? Perhaps, Rosie reasoned, she should have been more open with the police – explained her past more fully and why Stokes had suddenly sought her out. It was hardly relevant, yet it would probably be better to tell them herself before they found out from somewhere else and assumed she had something to hide. Rosie decided to ring DI Harris but not until after nine, he’d been working late last night and she was unsure what time he’d be available, especially as it was Sunday. But before the chance to do so presented itself her phone rang.
‘Rosie? It’s Lisa.’ She sounded breathless. ‘Mike asked me to let you know the police have been here and taken him back to the station to question him. What the hell’s going on? Is it about the man who was murdered yesterday?’
Lisa’s call completely threw Rosie. She realised everyone in the village would know about Stokes but why would the police want to take Mike away for questioning? ‘When did they come?’ she asked in a daze.
‘A few minutes ago, they’ve only just left. He didn’t have chance to ring you.’
‘Do you know where they’ve taken him?’
‘Bedale, I think. Did you know the dead man?’ Lisa was bound to have questions; everyone would have questions but Rosie didn’t want to answer them.
‘A long time ago, yes. Did the police say what they wanted with Mike?’
‘Just to ask a few more questions. They stressed it was voluntary and said he wasn’t under arrest.’
Thoughts crowded in on Rosie – why did they want to speak to her husband and not her – should she get a solicitor, or go to Bedale to see what was going on?
‘Lisa, what shall I do?’ She was panicking, unsure of her next move. ‘Do you think I should go to Bedale?’ There was a moment or two of silence before her friend replied.
‘If they only want to ask Mike questions he probably won’t be very long and I’m sure he’ll ring you as soon as he gets the chance. You can hardly go chasing after him with a baby in tow, can you? Unless you want me to come and mind Noah?’
‘No, you’re right, Mike will probably be back soon,’ Rosie mumbled. Even level-headed Lisa sounded uncertain. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Rosie ended the call and paced the kitchen anxiously. Why would they want to speak to Mike? He’d only met Stokes for the first time on Wednesday. With no chance of settling to anything constructive she decided to go ahead with her plan to ring DI Harris. Perhaps he would enlighten her as to why they needed to speak to Mike.
Tapping in the number from the DI’s card, Rosie’s fingers trembled. Why did that awful little man, Stokes, have to seek her out, to throw her back into a life of worry and confusion when things were going so well?
‘DI Harris.’ The voice was clipped, hurried.
