A Family Scandal (33 page)

‘He’s sure to.’

Mavis stood up. ‘You’re right, we should go upstairs now in case any of the kids wake up and wonder where we are.’

As they climbed the stairs, Mavis was still reeling a little from her encounter with Larry Barnet, and there had been other incidents that hadn’t been easy to shrug off; people pointing at her in the market, crossing the street to avoid her, women like Mrs Burns. Mavis thought she had grown a hard shell, but now found it cracking.

When they reached the upstairs living room, Rhona took the portable recorder out of her bag. ‘I’d better make sure this is still OK.’

Mavis looked at the small machine and said, ‘Do you know what, Jeff must think a lot of you to lend you that. They cost a lot, don’t they?’

‘Yes, I think they do, and maybe Jeff does really like me, but I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I’ll find out when I get the nerve to ask him out, won’t I?’

Mavis looked at her friend, still surprised by the change in her. The old Rhona had never lacked confidence where men were concerned, but now she seemed vulnerable. Surely Jeff wanted more than friendship? Mavis hoped so.

Chapter Thirty-Two

It was strange being back, thought Stan, the only guest now as he gazed around the quiet dining room at the B and B in Torquay. It was his first visit since the holiday. He hadn’t wanted to be reminded of how brilliant the holiday had been, marred by what had happened when they got back, with poor Tommy accused of murder. Stan had made excuses at work, inventing plausible reasons not to travel to Devon, but now it was autumn, out of season, and he’d run out of excuses.

He hadn’t liked leaving Jenny, who was beside herself with worry about Tommy. There was also the constant threat hanging over Mavis and her family of losing their house. Stan had felt torn, wondering if he should give what savings he had to either Pete or Tommy. The decision had been made for him when he realised that Pete’s debt was for the full price of the house, and Tommy’s bail was set absurdly high. Even though he’d managed to put by what he considered a very respectable amount, it would barely scratch the surface in either case. He’d lent Pete a bit to buy him some time but there was no way he could do more.

Stan sighed. He’d always been cautious, and in case of something unforeseen happening, he liked to have savings to fall back on. However, at this rate he fully expected to have Pete, Lily, Bobby, Mavis, James and Grace sleeping on his living-room floor before too long. They already had all Tommy’s belongings stored and were paying the fees, and although it wasn’t expensive and he didn’t mind, he had suggested to Jenny that Tommy’s mother, Olive, might like to make a contribution.

Jenny wouldn’t hear of it. ‘I don’t even want to speak to her,’ she’d said. ‘My mum saw her the other day and she’s convinced that Tommy, her own son, is guilty of murder. She’s even going round telling anyone who asks. What sort of mother is she? I don’t want anything to do with her.’

Stan wanted to believe in Tommy’s innocence but he was certain of one thing – Tommy would have done anything to protect Mavis and the children. Would he have gone as far as to murder Alec? He found it hard to imagine that his wife’s cousin, his own good friend, could have done something that cold-blooded, but the conversation they’d all had at Lily’s had opened the floodgates of doubt. How he wished he’d never said anything to him about Collier’s real identity, or at least waited until they’d all got home. Too late now.

Mrs Hawkins came in with a plate of hot food: a steaming beef pie with carrots and peas on the side. It smelt wonderful. She set it down before him and then sat opposite.

‘I hope you don’t mind me joining you,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ve eaten already but it can get lonely now that it’s out of season, rattling around this big house on my own in the evenings.’

‘Of course I don’t mind,’ said Stan, ever the gentleman. ‘It’s always a pleasure to talk to you.’

Something seemed to be bothering her. Eventually she spoke again. ‘I do hope I did the right thing,’ she began.

‘What do you mean?’ said Stan, wondering whatever could have worried the usually calm landlady.

‘When the police came. To ask about … you know. What happened on your last night here, I didn’t know what the police were after or I’d have been more careful.’ She was almost crying. ‘I can’t bear to think of that lovely man in prison and his poor family having to manage without him. They all seemed so happy.’

Stan sighed. Yes, they had been happy that holiday. Mavis and Tommy had had a glow about them. Anyone could have seen it.

‘I only told them that Mr Wilson left just after dinner, and that he had ordered a taxi to go to some sort of business meeting. Surely that wasn’t what got him arrested?’

‘Don’t you worry, Mrs Hawkins,’ Stan reassured her. ‘They’d have found out sooner or later. It was the taxi driver who came forward, and he told the police that he’d seen Tommy on the path looking as if he was having a row with Alec, and how long they were there. That sealed it, I reckon.’

‘He might have had a row with the man, but it doesn’t mean he pushed him off the cliff,’ the landlady protested. ‘There has to be another explanation. I have had many, many guests over the years and I think I’ve learned to be a good judge of character. Mr Wilson is no murderer, I’d stake my life on it.’

His mouth full of the last bite of pie, Stan nodded, hoping that the woman was correct. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about – but he couldn’t put it out of his mind.

‘Would you like some apple crumble?’ she asked sadly. ‘I’ll make some custard if you want it.’

‘Thank you, but no. The pie was delicious and I’ve had more than enough to eat,’ Stan said. He felt sickened just considering the possibility of Tommy pushing Alec over a cliff. Not that the odious man didn’t deserve to be punished for what he’d done to Mavis and his own children, but surely Tommy wouldn’t have gone that far. ‘I might just go for a bit of fresh air, take a little walk down to the seafront.’

‘Surely you’d like a nice cup of tea first?’

Stan shook his head, standing up. ‘Maybe later.’ He didn’t want to be rude to this kind woman who’d done so much for him and his family, but suddenly he couldn’t stay inside a moment longer. Being in this house brought it all back and he couldn’t control the suspicions that were whirling around his head.

Hurrying out, Stan let his feet take him along without thinking where he was going, and before too long he found himself down near the seafront. It was cold, yet he didn’t care. He saw the peculiar stamp shop, its front all shuttered and locked now, with a ‘To Let’ sign above the door, looking the worse for wear, battered by the onshore wind. Stan wondered who would rent it. Would they worry about the previous occupant having fallen to his death? Would it put off customers, or would people soon forget?

Standing there, listening to the sound of the sea, thinking about the time he’d come to this very spot with Jenny and they’d laughed at the building, he didn’t notice at first that there was a light on in the shop next door. Then the shadow of a figure passed across the front window. Stan blinked, wondering if he’d been mistaken. It was getting on; not many places were still open around here at this time of the evening. Then he remembered that this place sold tobacco. He could do with a smoke, and as Jenny wasn’t here to tell him off, it was worth a try.

His feet were numb with the cold as he went across to the shop door and tried it. It didn’t open. Not wanting to give up now he could see the rows of cigarettes behind the counter, he knocked on the glass panel. The figure reappeared and he could tell it was the same man as last time, the one he’d spoken to in the summer.

‘What do you want?’ the man asked, cautiously opening the door. ‘We’re shut.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Stan, his teeth chattering after standing in the biting wind. ‘I saw your light on and wondered if there was any chance of a packet of fags? I’m down here on business and I’ve run out. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.’

The man looked at him and then appeared to take pity on him. ‘Oh I suppose you can have some,’ he said wearily. ‘Come in and shut that door behind you. That wind is perishing.’

Stan gladly obliged and followed the man over to the counter.

‘I’ve seen you before,’ the man said.

Stan was impressed. ‘You’ve got a very good memory. Yes, I was here in the summer, yet I only came in once.’

‘I do have a good memory as it happens,’ the man said. ‘Packet of Embassy, wasn’t it?’

‘Blimey, fancy you still knowing that,’ said Stan, amazed.

‘Well, I remember that day particularly well because it was the very day I got called away, and just after selling you those cigarettes,’ the man said. ‘Normally I wouldn’t dream of shutting up shop in the height of the summer season, but my dear old mum was taken ill and I had to go to her. I’m glad I did, we had that time together before she passed away, God rest her soul.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Thanks. I only got back this afternoon. My nephew took over for me and kept things going but will you look at this?’ He indicated a large pile of envelopes, leaflets and catalogues which looked about to fall over. ‘He didn’t open a single letter. This has all built up since August. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, but he might have missed an important bill. I can’t afford to annoy my creditors. Reputation is everything in business, you know.’

‘I completely agree,’ said Stan, beginning to wonder when he could escape. Still, it was warm in here and as the man had done him a favour, he didn’t begrudge him a bit of conversation.

‘Honestly, he hasn’t even divided it into official and personal,’ grumbled the man. ‘That’s from the electricity company, and that’s water rates … that’s a postcard from my sister, you’d have thought he’d have put that separately … that’s a circular, he could have binned that, he knows what I think of them … now what’s this?’ He had come to a handwritten envelope with no stamp. ‘That writing looks familiar. It’s from my neighbour if I’m not much mistaken.’

‘Your neighbour?’ Stan felt as if an icy finger was touching the back of his neck.

‘Yes. Alec Pugh. Maybe you’ll have read about him in the papers? A sad affair, though it’s old news now. He ran the shop next door, which I seem to recall you were interested in, was discovered at the foot of some nearby cliffs. I only heard after I left, as I must have gone that very same day, and I was terribly shocked. Mind you, he had been acting out of character the night before. He was usually so quiet.’

Stan was fully on the alert now. ‘What do you mean, the night before? The night before he died, you mean?’

‘Well it might have been on the day he died for all I know,’ the man said. ‘From what I read they weren’t exactly sure when he died, which side of midnight it was, I mean. All I know is that when I was shutting up the shop, about nine it must have been because I like to stay open late on summer evenings, he was making a tremendous racket next door. He used some of the upstairs rooms for storage, as I do, and I was up there cashing up. I could hear him through the dividing wall. It was like he was having a row with someone but there was only one voice. Extraordinary behaviour, but I recognised his plummy accent so it was most definitely him.’

‘Wait. You mean he was alive at nine that evening?’ Stan couldn’t believe his ears. Tommy had joined them in the pub well before nine on that fateful night.

‘Oh, without a doubt. Raving, he was. Actually using quite disgusting language, I was surprised at him.’

Stan realised he was shaking at this revelation. ‘Do you mind if I light up in here?’ he asked when he found his voice.

‘Be my guest,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I suppose I should see what this letter’s about. Maybe he’s apologising for making such a din. For the first time ever, I had to bang on the wall. Not that it stopped him. If I hadn’t been so worried about my mother I’d have gone round to have a word with him, complain about the racket. Somewhere round here I have a letter opener. Let me see … here it is.’

Stan could hardly contain himself as the man fussed about, before finally slitting open the envelope. It contained just one page. The shopkeeper read it carefully and the colour of his face changed from a healthy pink to grey in a matter of seconds. ‘Oh no. Oh dear. This is terrible.’

‘May I see?’ asked Stan, craning his neck, but the man backed away.

‘I don’t think so. This is very personal. It certainly explains the shouting. Oh, if only I’d known, I could maybe have stopped him.’ He seemed on the verge of collapse.

‘Can I get you anything?’ asked Stan. ‘Water? Something stronger?’

The man had sunk on to a stool behind the counter and was staring blankly into space. ‘No, no. I’ve never had to deal with anything like this. He kept himself to himself, but I think as we sometimes spoke, he counted me as a sort of friend. Oh, but this. This is terrible.’

‘What is,’ Stan asked. ‘What does the letter say?’

The man shook his head. ‘I don’t know that I should tell you. It’s very private …’

Stan noticed some soft drinks on the shelf beside him and took a small bottle of dandelion and burdock to give to the man. ‘Have some of this. You’re in shock, the sugar will do you good.’

The shopkeeper took it gratefully. ‘You’re very kind. Really, there’s no need, but … I don’t know what to do. I fear there’s no mistaking what it means.’

‘Look, you’re obviously very upset about it, so it might help you to tell me,’ Stan urged.

The man shook his head in distress. ‘It’s dreadful. I think he must have lost his mind. That would explain all the noise that night. But … I can’t quite … well. The thing is, this is a suicide note.’

Stan stared at the man. ‘What? Are you sure?’ He couldn’t square the idea of suicide with the Alec Pugh he had known and loathed.

The tobacconist seemed more in control of himself now. ‘Yes, I’m afraid there’s no doubt.’

‘I don’t believe it. Not Alec Pugh. He just isn’t the type to do such a thing.’

The shopkeeper seemed to overcome his scruples. ‘Here you are, then. Read it for yourself.’

Stan stared in disbelief at the letter and squinted to make out the handwriting, which grew more and more illegible as the message went on: