The companion, p.16
The Companion, page 16
‘Was what me?’ Timothy demanded.
‘You let Molly out.’ Bunty thrust her face up at Timothy.
‘Who might Molly be?’ Timothy was haughty.
‘Has Molly escaped?’ To Freddy’s mind, Timothy’s snooty expression suggested he was innocent. Although, why be so calm in the face of a wrongful accusation?
‘She has been let out.’ Bunty shook with noticeable distress. ‘It’s murder.’
‘That’s awful.’ Freddy knew about Molly. While the baby owl might have preferred dead mice, her diet included lemon sole.
‘Why would I let her out?’ Timothy was cross now. ‘It’s the peacock who stops me sleeping.’
‘Why should someone open her cage?’ Trying to soothe Bunty, Freddy saw she’d annoyed Timothy by undermining his point.
‘He hates me.’ Bunty’s lips worked busily.
‘You’d better stop right there,’ Timothy said coldly.
‘Bunty is upset, she doesn’t mean it.’ Freddy stepped in.
‘When I find him, he will be prime for the butcher’s.’ Bunty flapped back around the house to where Freddy knew she had hung Molly’s cage.
‘Molly means the world to Bunty—’ Freddy began.
‘That was libel, you heard,’ Timothy said.
‘No, actually…’ Freddy was saved from falsely claiming to have heard nothing by the arrival of other residents. Or from telling Timothy that, despite living with a top-notch lawyer, he’d used the wrong charge. It was slander.
Gradually, as she fulfilled each of their requests, Freddy became aware that there was no unpleasantness. She tracked the reason. No Garry Haslem. The barbs and insults indiscriminately issued over scallops and prawns began with Garry and, like a Mexican wave, spread through the group. Now Barbara Major struck up a conversation with Timothy about favourite smart hotels, on which he appeared to be knowledgeable. Patrick Bell and the two doctors were amicably exchanging impressions of last night’s storm, which had disrupted the residents’ meeting. They could almost have been mistaken for friends. Had he been there, Garry would have launched his accusations: Martyn Burnett was a drug addict and Sylvia Burnett his supplier; and Barbara, the crime writer’s researcher, had blood on her hands. After this morning, Timothy would be a bird-killer and be told, ‘Just banter.’
Bunty would have accused Garry of murdering Molly the owl.
‘Did your friend Martha get home all right last night?’ Barbara Major asked Timothy. ‘Terrible to think of her driving in that weather.’
‘I offered her a bed,’ Patrick mumbled.
‘I thought Martha stayed with you.’ Timothy looked surprised. ‘Did you get her car going after all?’
‘Yes.’ Patrick examined his shoes. Freddy wondered if Martha leaving was because she didn’t want to sleep with him. She felt distantly surprised – Timothy had suggested he hadn’t seen Martha since his first day at Blacklock House, but she’d been at the house last night. Freddy remembered Bunty and the owl.
‘Molly has escaped. Bunty thinks someone let her out.’
‘She accused me,’ Timothy said.
‘Did you let her out?’ Barbara rounded on him.
‘No.’ Timothy sounded livid.
‘Martha told us last night.’ Patrick nodded at Timothy. The companion was mixing with the residents. ‘Not much we can do.’
‘You already knew her owl was missing?’ Freddy couldn’t help herself.
‘What with the serial killer and the meeting, funnily enough it didn’t stick.’ Timothy glared at her.
‘I have to go.’ Patrick peeled off from the group and got into the Mini. The unexpected low purr of the car made Freddy uneasy. Or did Patrick make her uneasy?
‘He left his fishcakes,’ she said.
‘I’ll give them to him,’ Martyn said.
‘What’s that? Quiet, ssssh.’ Barbara put a hand to her ear. ‘Can you hear that?’
Against the parched hills stretching into the distance, Freddy imagined the sound of running water was an aural mirage.
‘A pipe has burst.’ Martyn, who unconvincingly posed as a practical guy, was scouring the roof. ‘Don’t tell Haslem, he’ll make us pay through the nose. The little oik.’
‘He did say the roof needs mending,’ Sylvia said.
‘Sshhh.’ Barbara put a finger to her mouth.
‘It’s coming from the back,’ Freddy said.
‘This way.’ Leaving Rex’s bag of bass fillets on the balustrade, Timothy set off at a trot towards the gate in the yew hedge.
Later, trying to describe the scene to Toni, Freddy couldn’t remember who found Garry. Her initial impression was the fountain. It had been a familiar grumble that the fountain didn’t work. It had worked twice in the last few weeks, the last time being the Sunday evening. Haslem had told her he planned to fix it. So, when she saw plumes of water shooting upwards, the first thing Freddy had said was, ‘Garry’s fixed the fountain.’
Water spouted from three stone dolphins high up into the air. Catching the sunlight, rainbow-tinted drops spattered down into the basin and onto the surrounding lawn. Freddy recalled a moist mist cooling her face.
Perhaps spellbound by the intrinsic beauty of the scene, the three women – Freddy, Sylvia and Barbara – stood before the fountain as before an altar. They had been interrupted from their reverie by more peacock screeching.
‘Murder. Murder.’ As if enacting a crude déjà vu, Bunty skirmished from the stable side of the house.
Garry was stuffed in a wheelbarrow, legs and arms dangling. Beside him was a newly planted bed of pinks and marigolds. Garry’s suede loafers had GH engraved on the buckles. Whatever colour his shirt and trousers had been, they were now streaked crimson. Blood had oozed from a wound above Haslem’s heart.
Freddy tore over the lawn, past the stables, and the empty owl cage, and grabbed her phone from the van. Faced with a dead body, most might dial 999 – Freddy called her best friend.
‘Toni, it’s me. There’s been another murder.’
26
Martha
Martha was sorting through her hair-styling bag when Patrick walked in. She had opened the door to give the shoe menders next door a delivery and forgotten to lock it.
‘Hey, Martha.’ He thrust a bunch of roses at her. ‘This is for putting you through that terrible meeting last night. I should just have driven you home.’
‘You shouldn’t have messed with my car is what you mean,’ pushing the flowers back against Patrick’s chest, ‘or stalked me.’ Martha kept Patrick the other side of the counter in reception. The café across the street was open, she could shout for help. ‘Exactly what kind of a creep are you?’ The sort she should not be alone with.
‘I was desperate.’ Patrick flushed. ‘OK, it was stupid to follow you, all of it. But the thing is, Martha, I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. We are meant to be together for ever.’
‘We are not.’ Revolted, Martha backed away.
‘You feel the same.’ Patrick came closer.
‘I hate you.’ Martha remembered Patrick’s text sent in the night. ‘What did you tell Garry?’
‘I was cross you left me. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘What did you tell Garry?’ Martha said.
‘“Garry”, now?’ Patrick looked angry. ‘I saw you on Sunday, in the car park. I followed you there and saw you vandalise that dead family’s car.’
‘You couldn’t have.’ Martha went to jelly. ‘I wasn’t there.’ I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there.
‘Did you love him?’ Patrick’s face hardened, while his smile remained. ‘I wasn’t a decoy to make Robinson jealous, was I? You’d never do that. You gouged every panel of his car. Did you hate him very much?’
‘What are you taking about?’ Martha couldn’t marshal herself. He was bluffing. There had been no one in the car park, no cameras, no other cars. No witnesses.
‘For Haslem it was pure gold.’ Patrick reached for her hand. ‘Martha, do not worry, I’ve handled Garry. I’m here for you.’
‘I don’t want you to be here.’ Martha’s voice had no power. There had been another car. The old Fiesta. ‘What car do you drive?’
‘A Skoda, you know you’ve been in it.’ Patrick sounded irritated by the apparent irrelevance.
Her phone rang. Timothy. Martha stepped away from Patrick. She listened to him and then, her voice trembling said, ‘Patrick is here. Now. In the salon.’
‘I’ll call the police,’ Timothy said.
‘Do it. Now.’ Martha had cut the line before it occurred to her to keep it open until the police arrived. Seeing Patrick’s expectant expression she said, ‘Garry Haslem has been murdered.’
‘Problem solved, wouldn’t you say?’ Patrick purred like a cat.
27
Toni
‘How long have you been coming here?’ Toni stopped outside a summer house that, she supposed, was mandatory in a country house.
‘About a year. Bunty Erskine was my first customer, then the others joined in.’
The summer house resembled a run-down bus shelter, slatted seats and windows coated with mould. Forensics had been over it and hadn’t found so much as the murderer’s proverbial cigarette butt. Whoever murdered Garry Haslem had not staked out the house from here. Judging by the floor, the most recent visitor was the peacock.
As they walked along a cinder path, through a virtual tunnel of rhododendrons, laurels and dog rose, Freddy told Toni what she knew.
‘The oldest resident is Lady Dorothy Erskine. Her nickname is Bunty, but she’ll prefer you to use her title.’
‘Good tip.’ Toni pulled a Snickers bar from her pocket and waved it at Freddy. ‘Share?’
‘Nope, thanks.’
How very dare you. Toni knew Freddy believed the chocolate shoplifted. ‘This pile is Lady Dorothy Erskine’s family seat, does everyone rent from her?’
‘No, Bunty was born here and her father was the last earl but male primogeniture meant Blacklock House went to a cousin in America. Before his death, the cousin drew up a covenant that allows Bunty – as the last surviving member of the family – to live here until she dies. Garry Haslem hated that, he kept asking Bunty when she was going to die.’
‘Whoa.’ Toni nodded. ‘Guessing Bunty didn’t get on with Haslem?’
Toni and Freddy had reached the iron fence that separated the garden from Dedmans Wood.
‘She called him the butcher’s boy and ironically, considering where we found his body, the barrow boy, and that in her day Garry would have used the tradesman’s entrance and been fed scraps by the cook.’ Freddy leaned on the fence. ‘Bunty’s covenant means she has her flat for life but Garry would threaten to have her sectioned. He boasted he could get Sylvia to certify her.’
‘Phooeey.’ Toni had been feeling vaguely sorry for the victim.
‘I forgot.’ Freddy pushed off the fence. ‘This morning at the van, Bunty accused Timothy of murdering her owl.’
‘Say what?’ This stately home murder was spiralling into a special kind of craziness.
‘Molly is a baby owl that Bunty is rearing. Bunty accused Timothy of releasing her from her cage, she was too young so it’s doubtful she’s survived.’ Freddy looked stricken. Toni got it, she found watching David Attenborough more traumatic than combing an autopsy report. Unless she counted Ben Robinson and Wilbur Ritchie.
‘Why did she think Timothy Mew did it?’
‘I don’t think she did, Bunty was just lashing out. All the same, Timothy said he’d sue her for libel.’
‘What did Bunty say to that?’
‘She’d gone off to the carriage house where she keeps Molly’s cage.’ Freddy paused. ‘Bunty said something along the lines that when she found him “he’d be ready for the butcher’s”.’
‘Found who?’
‘She didn’t say, at the time I assumed Garry Haslem.’
‘Why?’
‘Garry was the resident most likely to have released Molly, he had a cruel streak.’ Freddy opened a gate in the fence and led them into Dedmans Wood. ‘It can’t have been Bunty. Garry was horrible to all the residents. Any one of them could have killed him.’
‘Not my problem.’ Toni shut the gate after them. ‘Thankfully, I’m the advance party until they get in Major Crimes; we’re hands full with Operation Foxglove. I’m here to see if there is a connection since it’s a stone’s throw from the Robinson murders. What was Haslem like with you? Did he complain about the fish?’
‘Why would he?’ Freddy stopped.
‘Keep your scales on, Mermaid, just that I’d expect the bloke you’re describing to find fault with anything that cost hard cash.’
‘Reckoned he could convert me to men, I needed to meet the right one, blah blah.’ Freddy waved a hand.
‘Did he try it on?’
‘I’m too old. His dolly-birds, as he called them, were pushing twenty – Garry always referred to them as “it”. He cultivated the image of a lovable shit.’
Toni could find no words. A murder investigation was fuelled by sympathy, however tenuous, for the victim. She was struggling not to think it no bad thing Garry Haslem had been removed from Earth.
They emerged from the wood onto a landscape dotted with clumps of grass and bushes of gorse and heather.
‘Dedmans Heath.’ Toni stopped. ‘Of course, Blacklock House is the closest house to the Robinsons’ crime scene. My guys questioned the residents, did anyone say? Sheena and Darren called it a horror show. Everyone accused everyone else.’
‘No one mentioned it to me.’ Freddy shook her head. ‘The residents bandy insults that could strip paint. Although this morning they were actually polite with each other. I put it down to Garry not being there.’
‘All paths lead to Haslem.’
‘Is that where the murders were?’ Freddy nodded at a taped-off section of heath where duckboards were laid on the springy turf.
‘The last one was here, by that tree.’ Toni pointed to a tall oak, the girth the size of a car. ‘We’ve just walked the path that, had the killer escaped towards Blacklock House, he would have taken.’
‘You think he came from Blacklock House?’ Freddy looked shocked.
‘It’s a possibility. Except all the residents have an alibi,’ Toni said.
‘Any clues at all?’ As discreet as the confessional, Freddy would feel able to ask.
‘A black Fiesta that may, or may not, have gone into the car park where the Robinsons’ Range Rover Defender was found. Their car had recently been keyed, very likely by the killer, which chucks up the possibility it’s personal and not a serial killer. Maddie and her aunt, Lisa Robinson, suspected Tristan of having an affair. So, I think, did Geoff Robinson, but he’s not saying. No evidence from Tristan’s phone that he was playing away.’ Toni skirted a clump of bracken. ‘None of this matters, if we have a serial killer.’
‘You’re sure it is a serial killer?’
‘I’m sure of nothing.’ Toni trudged across tufts of coarse grass to the oak tree. ‘Same MO of stabbing and overkill, outdoor public space for a crime scene, both weekend afternoons, and in each case the killer made a clean getaway.’ Toni had been repeating these points like a mantra at night in bed. It beat counting newspaper headlines and explained her ever-present heartburn. ‘James Ritchie was seeing a sex worker, but not for sex, he wanted to talk.’
‘You OK?’ Freddy spoke in a low voice. ‘These murders, the violence. That it’s kids too. Maddie Robinson is fifteen, only three years older than you were. ’
‘I have to – dreadful word – compartmentalise. It’s awful, but going there won’t help me think straight.’ Taken aback by Freddy’s sympathy, Toni dismissed it, ‘I was thirteen.’
‘OK.’ Freddy’s expression suggested she was not about to argue. She cut back to the subject, ‘If Robinson was having an affair, he probably had a secret phone.’
‘Good point.’ Toni’s turn to be sympathetic. Freddy’s last girlfriend had run a parallel life – on a secret phone – until Freddy found out and ditched her. It baffled Toni that, if you were in a relationship with Freddy – good-looking and the best smile – you’d cheat on her. Freddy had to be a lesbian’s poster-woman. ‘I know we’ve checked his bank accounts and found no record of paying for one.’
‘Probably had a burner.’
‘You’re right.’ Toni slapped her forehead. Duh. People having affairs lived like criminals, practised at deception. ‘Thank you, Freds.’
Retracing their steps along the path that Toni was increasingly thinking the murderer had taken on Sunday afternoon, they stepped out onto the lawn. The side of the house where Garry Haslem’s body was found was now tented. Blacklock House was officially a crime scene.
‘Tell me your impressions of this lot,’ Toni said. ‘We’d ruled them out of the Robinson murders, they had alibis, but given there are no signs of a break-in, we don’t yet know if this is an inside job. From what you say, Garry Haslem was everyone’s favourite enemy.’ Toni saw Malcolm, one foot on the fountain, taking details off an overly smart young man. ‘Who’s that, for starters?’
‘Timothy Mew, he’s the companion Rex Lomax employed.’
‘He and Rex Lomax alibied each other. What kind of outfit is that, does he think he’s lord of the manor?’ Toni took in the languid pose and crisp linen suit.
‘I suspect he does. He told me he grew up in a stately home,’ Freddy said. ‘He was decked out expensively on the first morning. I’ve only seen him a handful of times, when he comes for Rex’s fish order and once at Mass, but he obviously cares about clothes.’
‘Too much to hope you can put a date on Mr Companion’s arrival?’
‘I do remember actually because it was the Monday after that weekend the Ritchies were murdered, everyone was talking about it around the van. I’m usually – like today – here on Tuesdays, but that week I’d swapped.’
‘Great stuff, Freds.’ Toni was grateful to have Freddy as a key witness, she could trust her to tell her the truth and make salient observations. ‘Tell me about Rex – could Timothy Mew be after his cash?’ Toni was well aware of predatory marriages – where strangers befriended elderly or vulnerable people, became their spouses, obtained power of attorney over them, convinced them to change their wills to make the predator chief legatee.
