A patient fury, p.13
A Patient Fury, page 13
Connie’s phone went onto voicemail, but twenty minutes later she walked into the open-plan office and went over to Matthews’s desk. Sadler strode over to the door of his office and yanked it open. ‘In here.’
She walked towards him, half defiant. He waited until he had shut the door. ‘You went to see George Winson.’
‘I wanted to ask him about Francesca.’
‘Did you? I don’t recall asking you to do that. Why did you question him about his failed marriage and his missing mother?’
‘It’s background. Don’t you see it’s just so bloody odd. The forensic evidence says that it was Francesca who killed the family. You’ve asked us to look for a reason. I can’t see any.’
‘Did you ask him about Francesca? About the type of mother she was?’
‘No, but—’
‘If you had, he might have mentioned the strong disciplining of Charlie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘George witnessed Francesca slapping Charlie. The act, it seems, was shocking in itself, as was the fact it left a mark on Charlie’s cheek.’
‘But what relevance—’
‘You don’t think it’s relevant? We’re looking at a mother who’s killed her son. You don’t think it’s relevant how she treated him before? Have you done what I asked and spoken to her parents yet?’
‘No, I was—’
‘So you were just doing something you hadn’t been asked to do.’
Connie’s face was puce. ‘The past has got to be connected to this case. A woman goes missing in a small town, it attracts media attention and then nearly forty years later there’s another catastrophe involving one of the people involved. There’s got to be a connection.’
‘I told you. We don’t have the resources to look into this and I’m not going to tell you again how Peter died. If he’s the murderer of his first wife then he will be getting justice beyond us at the moment.’
‘But what about justice here!’ She was shouting at him. He willed himself to keep calm and held one arm with the other to stop his trembling.
‘You are not to do any more investigating into Elizabeth Winson. Any liaison with the remaining Winson family members is to be done by Pat. It’s what she’s trained for. Is that clear?’
She refused to look him in the eye.
‘Is that clear?’ he shouted back at her, shocking them both. He saw a small tear appear in the corner of one eye.
‘Perfectly clear,’ she said and left the room.
36
Julia had gone inside to escape the warmth of the sun. After brooding in front of the laptop for over an hour she roused herself and rang Maureen at Anchor Cavern.
‘Is it okay if I come in on Sunday? I can’t stand sitting here any longer.’
‘Of course you can come back. We’ve been managing with the seasonal staff but we’ve really missed you. Are you sure you’ll be okay?’
‘I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve now got neighbour problems in addition to everything else.’
Julia heard Maureen put her hand over the mouthpiece and a muffled conversation. ‘Can you sit on reception while I take this call? It’s a personnel issue.’ A moment later, Maureen came back on the line. ‘What’s the matter? I thought you got on well with your neighbours.’
‘This guy’s moved in next to me and he’s complaining about Bosco’s barking. His name is Morell something or other.’
‘Oh my God. Not Morell Thorn? The guy who lost his brother in the caves?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t tell him where you work. He’s been obsessed since his brother went missing.’
‘I’d heard about him but never met him.’
‘Don’t get me wrong. Some of the stuff he’s done is really good. The legislation that regulates caving came about through his persistence. He’s never got over his brother, though. I mean, it’s unhinged him. He visits all the caves in the area as if trying to find out answers.’
‘I’ve never seen him in Anchor Cavern th—’
‘Oh, believe me, he’s been here. Probably before your time. How long have you been here? Five years? Well, it must have been before then.’
‘He’s not dangerous, though, is he?’
‘Look. Just don’t tell him where you work, okay? I have to go. A group’s just arrived. I’ll see you on Sunday.’
As she was putting the phone down, George walked in through the front door, making her heart lurch with shock.
‘Don’t you bolt it when you’re inside? Anyone could walk in.’
‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack? I must have left it on the latch when I came back in. Jesus, I’ve been out in the garden as well.’
He shut the door carefully behind him and turned to her with a face of fury. ‘That bitch has been around the flat. Asking questions about me and Holly and then she wanted to know all about Dad. What’s she digging around for when it was Francesca who started the fire?’
‘Started the fire?’ She could feel the heat rising in her face. ‘That’s a funny way of putting it. You mean murdered everyone and started the fire.’
He grabbed her arm, the roughest she’d ever felt him touch her since they were children.
‘I’m not likely to forget, am I? I’m trying to digest this the same as you. The point is, Francesca is the murderer, that’s what the police have proved.’
‘It’s what they said to me too. What’s the problem?’
‘I’ve just spoken to Sadler and made a complaint about that woman detective, coming around my house and throwing accusations around.’
‘Connie?’
‘That’s the one. Dad may have been a miserable old bastard but I’ll be damned if I see him fitted up for something he didn’t do. Either that or she’s trying to pin the crime on me. Either way, I’m not standing for it.’
‘How can she pin the crime on you? You were with your girlfriend that evening.’
‘Well, Dad then. She’s poking her nose into his and Mum’s relationship. What’s she asking me for? Relationships are a mystery to me, full stop.’
‘It’s quite a punishment, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he and Francesca might not have had the marriage of the century but it’s some punishment being bludgeoned to death in your own bed.’
He turned away from her. ‘God knows what was going on in that woman’s head. The point is they’re not looking for anyone else in relation to the killings. Can I get a glass of water?’ He went into her narrow kitchen and started to open her cupboards.
‘So what did Sadler say? About Connie, I mean.’
‘He seemed a bit resigned when I told him. She’s obviously a bit of a trouble maker and he said he’d have a word with her.’
‘They do still think—’
‘Of course they do. You can’t bludgeon yourself to death, can you? The police know Francesca’s a murderer, we know it’s true—’
‘I don’t.’ The words slipped out and, for the moment, the mask of anger on his face dropped, to be replaced by one of surprise and something else. Julia carried on regardless. ‘I don’t believe it.’
He turned the tap on carefully and filled his glass. ‘What do you mean, what don’t you believe?’
‘Francesca wasn’t like that. She was secretive and, well, a bit chilly but not a cold-blooded murderer.’
‘You think this was done in cold blood? With a hammer? It’s the act of a furious woman. Still waters run deep, and that was the case with Francesca.’
‘Angry with Dad and her child?’
‘They’re not looking for anyone else.’
Was it her imagination or had she detected a note of warning in his voice? She looked towards Bosco and was touched to see he had come to the kitchen door, standing watch and tensed as he kept a pair of wary eyes on George.
‘Do you ever think of Mum?’
She had wrong-footed her brother and he shifted back a little.
‘I never think of her.’
‘That can’t be true. You must think of her sometimes or, if not of Mum, those days after she went missing. That’s what I keep thinking about now. How we felt those first few weeks when they were dredging the rivers and digging in the back garden.’
‘You mean when they thought Dad had killed her. Do you know what? I used to watch them and hope they’d find Mum’s body.’
‘For closure, you mean?’ Julia asked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I didn’t want her to be dead. I wanted to feel something other than bewilderment. Pain, grief. Anything would have been better than not knowing.’
‘Do you think Dad felt the same way?’
George slowly dried his glass with the tea towel. ‘I couldn’t have cared less what Dad thought. It was bad enough knowing we’d have to spend our teenage years putting up with the little digs, the put-downs and the constant pressure.’
‘It turned out all right, though, didn’t it? It could have been worse.’
George shrugged and looked at his watch. ‘I have to go. I’ve got a date.’
‘Do you think she’s still alive?’
He didn’t want to discuss it any longer. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Don’t you ever wonder? Don’t you care?’
He turned scarlet but held his emotions in check. ‘Of course I wonder. Some days I think of nothing else, to answer your question. What good does thinking do, though? We’re not going to find out now.’
Julia wondered whether to tell him about the forum and how she’d sat hunched over her computer for years trying to find an answer, however painful, to the mystery. It was only now, with the discovery of the note on the flowers, she could see she’d been buoyed by the first note received after their mother’s disappearance. There was no way she could share this with George. The identity of the sender of the flowers was a minor part of a much more painful mystery. She tried one more time.
‘Now. Take a moment now and tell me what you think happened.’
He folded his arms. ‘I think she’s dead.’
‘Why? Why do you think she’s dead?’
There was an expression on his face she didn’t recognise and, for the first time, she felt frightened. Bosco felt it too and she could hear him growling from behind her.
He didn’t answer her but fiddled with the laptop she’d left carelessly on the kitchen counter. Don’t look at it, she willed. Don’t discover how desperate I am for answers. He tried to open the screen but it was password locked.
He gave up and looked at the still growling Bosco. ‘Some things are best left in the past.’
37
Tuesday, 9 September 1986
‘Where’s Horace?’
She’d noticed the silence in the house as soon as she arrived home from school. The little bandy-legged dog who would come trotting towards her was missed immediately. She found George in the outside shed, sanding down a chair he’d rescued from a skip the previous week. He stopped briefly to listen to her question then started again, not looking at her.
‘I had to have him put down. Poor blighter.’
‘What?’ Julia could feel her bottom lip beginning to tremble.
George stopped and threw the sandpaper over onto the bench and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘He was sick. I told you, his fur was coming off in clumps, so I took him to the vet and he said there was nothing he could do.’
‘He had the mange!’ she shouted at him. She could feel the fat blobs of tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘All we needed to do was shampoo him in the bath every other day and it would have disappeared.’
He shoved the chair out of the way and walked past her into the garden. ‘The vet said there was nothing he could do.’ He was bellowing at her across the lawn and, as expected, their father came out of the house looking at them over his glasses.
‘What’s the matter?’
She turned to her father. ‘Did you know Horace was going to be put down?’
He was staring at George in silence, forcing an explanation from his son. ‘He was sick. The vet said there was nothing to be done.’
‘Which vet?’ Her father had folded his arms.
‘I took him to a cheap one up in Darley Dale. The Bampton ones are too expensive. This one did it for cash.’
‘Which vet?’ repeated her father. Julia didn’t like the tone of his voice and moved away from them both. It allowed her a better view of how they were standing, like prize-fighters weighing up the opposition. It was her father who gave in first.
‘It was George’s dog,’ he said to her, ‘his responsibility.’
‘But he only had bad skin. I’d have looked after him.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Where’s the body?’
‘I buried it in the woods. You’re too sentimental, you know. When it’s over, it’s time to go. He knows all about that.’ He stuck a thumb towards the door and their father’s retreating back.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sentimentality is for losers. When it’s over, it’s over.’
38
Sadler went home and after stripping off his clothes and throwing them into his washing basket got straight into the shower. Connie had taken his reprimand badly. He had expected that. The question was, would she listen to him and keep away from the Winsons? George Winson had made it clear he wanted Sadler to formally discipline Connie. Well, there was no way he was going to do that. Yet. He had, however, spelt it out to her this time. Leave the grieving children of Peter Winson alone. Next time, he wouldn’t be so polite.
As he turned off the shower he could hear, in the distance, his phone ringing. He’d never make it in time so he waited for the caller to give up. He dressed in the jeans his sister Camilla had bought for his birthday and then berated him that they remained unworn in his wardrobe. As he reached for a jumper the phone began to ring again; he rolled his eyes and went to see who was calling. It was a Sheffield number, the owner not programmed into his phone. He thought back to the glass of wine he’d had with Karen the other evening. At the end of the evening they’d made vague promises to keep in touch and had exchanged numbers. It must be her calling. Sadler felt a curious reluctance to pick up the phone, perhaps out of a long remembered loyalty to his friend Miles. Also, he thought to himself, as he went into his small kitchen, why would she call twice in the same few minutes?
By the time his sister had arrived with her two sons in tow, the smell of cooking wafted around his house. Sadler’s nephews marched into the kitchen, trading jokes. ‘Why was six afraid of seven?’ demanded Ben. Sadler put his spoon down on the counter. ‘I don’t know. Why was six afraid of seven?’
‘Because seven ate nine.’ Samuel roared with laughter. Behind her sons, Camilla groaned. ‘They’ve been non-stop in the car.’
Ben lifted the lid on the saucepan. ‘Spag bol again?’ he asked and was rewarded with a jab in the ribs by his anxious older brother.
‘We like it,’ he assured his uncle. Camilla fanned herself with a magazine pulled from her handbag.
‘It’s hot out there. I couldn’t get the air conditioning to work in the car so I drove over here with the windows down. Remember? Like we used to do as kids.’
‘Of course I remember. How’s John?’
At the mention of her husband Camilla frowned. ‘Working too hard as usual. He called to say he’ll be back home around ten. I think he used the excuse to work late as he knew we were coming round here. He hates going home to an empty house. He’ll get a takeaway at work.’
Sadler made a face. ‘Ben is right, it is spaghetti bolognaise again.’
Camilla smirked. ‘Can you make anything else?’
‘Sausage and mash, but I think I did that last time.’
The phone rang again and Camilla looked towards it. ‘Work?’
‘It shouldn’t be. They don’t normally ring my mobile in the evenings because of the patchy reception.’
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
Sadler, with his back to her, stirred the thick sauce. ‘It can wait until after.’
Camilla snorted with laughter. ‘Not another married woman. Please tell me at least she’s single this time.’
Sadler carried on stirring. ‘Do you remember Miles?’
‘Miles? Of course I do. I quite fancied him myself except he had that weird girlfriend around him. What was her name?’
‘Karen.’ Sadler didn’t dare turn round.
‘Oh my God, don’t tell me it’s her. Francis, seriously, please don’t say you’re seeing her?’
Now Sadler did turn. ‘I’m not seeing her, no. But we did meet by chance the other evening and we went for a drink. She’s rung a couple of times this evening, that’s all.’ He caught sight of his sister’s face. ‘What’s the matter? You didn’t like her?’
Camilla’s face took on a mulish expression. ‘Bunny boiler.’
*
Connie sat in the silent office and stared sightlessly at the computer screen. The admonishment from Sadler hurt more than she was prepared to admit. She was only doing what she usually did, pushing the boundaries further than was expected. Shaking the tree to see what fell out. The problem was, now George had complained she’d have to tread even more carefully. As far as Connie was concerned, he was a suspect whatever the forensic evidence might say.
His mother’s disappearance must hold the key to what had happened up in Cross Farm Lane. Elizabeth was one of those genuine missing persons who are never found. Forces up and down the country had a couple of cases of them on their books. Men and women who just disappeared; sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not. The case appeared to have been periodically reassessed but no formal attempts had been made to put additional man-hours into the investigation. So, except for David Stanhope’s belief that Peter Winson was responsible for his wife’s disappearance, there was precious little to go on.
Connie clicked on the picture of the missing woman. Elizabeth had a large round face and a body prone to putting on weight. At thirty she’d been slightly plump, a roll of fat peeping over the waistband of her elasticated trousers. She had worn her blonde curly hair in the ‘shampoo and set’ style favoured by her own mother. It had meant weekly visits to the hairdresser and much fuss when it was raining. She looked slightly mumsy but that might have been the dated clothes. Tight brown terylene trousers and a striped polo neck that did nothing for Elizabeth’s figure. What had Peter Winson looked like in the seventies? Connie did another search and held her breath when she saw him. At the time of his wife’s disappearance, Peter had been startlingly handsome. He had jet-black hair, curled above his long sideburns. Wearing a pale grey suit, his smart attire seemed out of place in front of his wife’s wool shop, the perplexing note still pinned to the door. She wondered if he’d dressed up especially for the cameras.
