A Grave in the Cotswolds (10 page)

‘We should get the times straight,’ suggested Paul, who had been paying close attention. ‘Mr Slocombe…when exactly did you meet Mr Maynard?’

‘I don’t know exactly,’ I snapped. ‘I left home just before ten, so it was probably eleven-thirty or thereabouts. We talked for ten or fifteen minutes, then Jessica turned up, and we all headed back here, towards the centre of the village. Jessica and I were driving, and Mr M was walking.’

‘It was five to twelve when you went out to make your phone call,’ said Thea. ‘We were hoping to set off for the pub by quarter past, and you didn’t get back here until twenty-five past.’

‘We don’t know where he lived,’ Jessica reminded us. ‘He might have been going across the fields.’

‘So where did he leave the road?’ I wondered. ‘Last I saw him, he was marching along, on the right-hand side, facing the oncoming traffic. I remember thinking he was just the type to stick to the rules. But the murder was on the left side of the road – the west, I mean.’

‘Maybe the killer was somebody he knew, who lured him off the road, and into that quiet corner, before bashing him,’ said Thea. ‘That makes sense.’

‘He’d have had to do it in those ten minutes before we drove up the road,’ said Jessica. ‘That’s fast work.’

‘But if I did it, he must have been walking pretty slowly to arrive at the spot at twelve-ten, or whatever, to coincide with me,’ I said, already thinking it was only too possible. If Mr Maynard had paused to admire a view or have a discreet pee, or check a misplaced road sign, he’d have been at precisely the right spot at the right time for me to slaughter him. The only puzzle was – where did he disappear to, when we might have expected to see him on the road?

‘Well, your interview’s not going to be until tomorrow,’ Jessica concluded. ‘I suggest you get your facts straight before then. And yours as well,’ she told Thea. ‘You’ll be able to go to the incident room together, won’t you?’ She gave her mother a meaningful look. ‘They’re using that hall in Blockley again.’

‘Oh, God,’ groaned Thea, much to my confusion.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘We had to go there last year, that’s all. I was house-sitting in Blockley, and the man next door got himself killed. Jess was staying with me. She found the body, actually.’

Detective Paul snickered from the comfortable cushions on the sofa where he had plonked himself. ‘She’ll be able to show you the way,’ he said to me, with a sly glance at Thea.

‘Is this formal notification?’ I asked. ‘What time do I have to be there? My wife needs to know when she can expect me back.’

Jessica handed me a card with the name and phone number of a detective superintendent on it. ‘You can phone and ask,’ she said.

‘Who’s this?’ I asked, showing it to Thea.

She smiled. ‘Thank goodness, it’s Gladwin in charge. Detective Superintendent Sonia Gladwin. I told you about her. She’ll be all right.’

‘Actually, you’ve got the wrong side,’ said Jessica. ‘Gladwin’s not available. It’s some bloke called Jones. He’s new, and hasn’t got his own cards done yet. That’s his number, look.’

I turned the card over, to read a neat string of mobile phone numbers, and the name printed in capitals: Detective Superintendent Ralph Jones. West Midlands police. ‘What’s he like?’ I asked Jessica.

‘No idea,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m not with the West Midlands.’ She said it with loud emphasis, as if repeating it to a deaf person.

‘Sorry. No, of course you’re not.’

‘But Uncle James is,’ said Thea, and then added, ‘You know quite a few of the CID people around here, don’t you?’

‘Not really. I gather Jones is young, keen and friendly. You might meet him for yourselves tomorrow.’

It was past five, and I was aware of the need for a meal and a bed that evening. I had far too much to think about for comfort, and cursed again the fate that had brought Mrs Simmonds to me in the first place. I was floundering in a bog of half-understood facts and growing apprehensions. The police, who I had more or less regarded as my friends up to then, were beginning to feel more and more threatening. From the moment PC Jessica Osborne had spotted the defects on my car, I had been on the wrong side of the law. Now there was the skin-crawling realisation that I was under suspicion for the murder of a council official, and I had no idea what to do about it. It hardly mattered where I lay down for the night, I thought – the chance of actually managing to sleep was vanishingly remote.

‘I should go,’ I said. ‘And find myself a B&B.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Thea urgently, reminding me of Stephanie. ‘Not yet. Jess and Paul will be off soon, and…’ she looked out of the window, where the sky was starting to darken, and then checked her watch ‘…well, it’s going to be a long evening,’ she finished weakly.

‘Mum, I’m really sorry we won’t be staying. Paul has to be on duty first thing tomorrow. It’s my fault – I got the dates mixed up.’ Jessica’s distress came as a surprise. She grimaced in an expression of divided loyalties. ‘Why don’t you just go home? At least you’ll have Celia to talk to. You are still friends with Celia, aren’t you?’

‘More or less. But I won’t be able to talk to her. I told you, she’s got a new man. They go fell walking or something on Sundays.’

‘In Oxfordshire?’ Jessica was aiming for light relief, but it fell horribly flat.

‘
I
don’t know,’ snapped Thea. ‘Anyway, it’s decided now. You’re going back to Manchester and I’m staying here. Drew’s going to make his own arrangements, and tomorrow we’ll answer questions and try to convince Mr Jones that we had nothing to do with murdering the council man.’

I felt the
we
somewhere in my chest, without giving it any conscious thought.

‘Yes. Right,’ said Jessica stiffly. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow evening, then. I suppose this all means that at least you won’t have time to brood.’

It dawned on me that I’d missed something. I looked from face to face, even trying to make some connection with Paul, but gained no enlightenment.

Chapter Seven

In the event, I slept surprisingly well, having left Broad Campden at six-thirty for a small but painfully expensive hotel in nearby Chipping Campden. Thea and I had found it in the phone book, and booked it by going back to the field behind the house and using her phone. She gave me a cup of coffee and a brave smile, and waved me off.

‘See you in the morning,’ I said. ‘Sleep well.’

‘You too.’

She had her dog, I told myself, and plenty of practice at being on her own.

My little hotel had a tiny bar, and a modest dining room, so I ate a slow supper and drank two pints of beer with it. I could probably write it all off against tax, I told myself.

The beer helped me to sleep, and I managed over seven hours. I did not dream about Mr Maynard’s moist lips or shattered skull. Nor did I dream about Thea Osborne’s soft spaniel, which had climbed onto my lap while I drank coffee in Mrs Simmonds’ living room. I did dream about Maggs, my trusty assistant, who was gently lecturing me about the state of our cemetery, the need to weed out a patch of thistles in one corner and prepare for a new burial. ‘We have to keep people
happy
,’ she repeated. ‘That’s our job.’

I woke with the words still echoing in my head. She was right – even in the face of appalling loss, the reality of death sticking its ugly face above the smooth surface of normal life – my job was to give them consolation. Not quite hope, perhaps, but a sense that this particular dying had been dealt with decently, with due thought and care. I tried to relate these thoughts to Mrs Simmonds and the threat to her last resting place – a place she had chosen so deliberately for herself.

It did make sense, I could see, to suspect me of killing Mr Maynard. He had transgressed my dearest beliefs, trampled on something precious with his pettifogging insistence on property rights. He might have cost me my business, if a lengthy lawsuit over the grave ensued and I lost.

Except, of course, the death of one council official did not in any way guarantee that the whole thing would be abandoned. Some other beastly little bureaucrat would replace him within hours, and the whole thing continue as before. This had not occurred to me until that point. It did nothing for my state of mind as I ate the cheapest breakfast on the brief menu and made a phone call to my wife.

Almost ignoring the incredible beauty of Chipping Campden’s main street, I drove the two or three miles back to Mrs Simmonds’ cottage, as arranged with Thea the night before. We would present ourselves at the police incident room in Blockley, taking the initiative, on the grounds that I had to get home. ‘They won’t like it,’ she warned me. ‘They like to feel they’re in control.’

‘Phooey,’ I said. ‘People turn up to volunteer information all the time.’

‘True. So what information are you volunteering?’

‘The small fact that I am not their murderer. That I am innocent, blameless and eager to return to my family. Although, actually, they want the pattern from the soles of my shoes, and to have my clothes for forensic analysis. I expect I’ll have to drive home naked.’

It was half past nine, and Thea looked as if she had not slept at all. Her dog was droopy, too. ‘Bad night?’ I enquired.

She sighed. ‘I never thought I’d turn into an insomniac. It feels so
stupid
, just lying there, wide awake, just because…’ she paused.

‘Because a lot’s been happening, and you’d be justified in feeling worried or scared?’ I suggested.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not scared this time. Funny how irrational fear is – three months ago I was terrified because of a few tracks in the snow. Now we know there’s a killer just outside my door, and I’m hardly even thinking about it.’

‘So…what?’

She sighed even more heavily. ‘It’s the anniversary of my husband’s death. Three years ago today. Poor Carl. He should still be here. It was such a ridiculous waste.’

‘Ah,’ I breathed, thinking,
That explains a lot.
‘Three years, eh? Long enough to move on, short enough to still feel all the pain.’ It was, after all, a subject I had some expertise in. ‘Same as me and Karen, to a lesser degree. It is at least long enough to get used to a new situation.’

‘I suppose that’s right. It doesn’t hurt like it did at first. It’s like a fading photo, the colours have dimmed. It feels less
important
now, which is awful to say. Less jagged and shattering. You think at first that it’s all a mistake, that he’ll come back. Then you get adjusted, you go on living and the space where he was gets smaller, until you know he wouldn’t really fit any more if he
did
come back.’ She waved a jerky hand as if scribbling something out. ‘No, that’s banal. What really kept me awake was wondering how I
should
be feeling. Should I be clinging to the memory, accepting that nobody like him will ever be in my life again – or should I wrap him up and put him away and reinvent myself?’

‘Both, I imagine. And some other things as well.’

‘We were so foolishly
happy
,’ she moaned. ‘The perfect couple. At least, that’s how it feels now. We hardly ever argued. He was sweet and clever and patient and focused. He had strong opinions – one of those people who sees what needs doing, and makes every effort to do it.’ She looked at me, with a little frown. ‘Rather like you, I think, with your natural burials. Carl would have
loved
all that.’

I was feeling less and less comfortable in the presence of this Carl-ghost. What was I supposed to say?

‘We’d better get moving,’ was all I could manage. ‘If you’re going to be OK, that is?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She was suddenly brisk. ‘It’ll be something else to concentrate on. Poor Mrs Simmonds needs a defender.’

‘Oh?’ I hadn’t seen it quite like that. ‘Well, I guess you could say that whoever killed Mr Maynard
was
defending her. If it had anything to do with her, of course. Which it probably didn’t.’

‘It’s frustrating, isn’t it? Not knowing who might have hated him enough to murder him. What on earth could he have done to warrant that?’

‘I really can’t imagine it,’ I confessed. ‘We don’t have enough facts to begin to guess.’

‘We have to assume we’ll understand it eventually. There always is some sort of explanation, if you dig hard enough for it.’

‘Usually something rather trivial,’ I said. ‘In my limited experience.’

‘Is it limited, though? I was thinking, in the night, that you and I have something unusual in common.’ She didn’t give me time to respond before rushing on. ‘We both have some sort of need for the big stuff. The larger-than-life events that nearly everybody ignores or forgets. Violence, rage, death, decomposition, loss – all that scary dark side that people look away from.’

This was familiar territory. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Now, let’s get going.’

The incident room had been set up in a hall in Blockley that would have been impossible to find on my own. We took both cars, since I was optimistic that I could make a quick departure for home as soon as the interview was over. Thea led the way, with a sudden right turn down a tiny street, giving me an impression of a town built on crazily uneven land. It seemed to tip and tilt in three directions at once.

A uniformed police constable was sitting just inside the door, with a small table in front of him. He looked up as we went in, his head cocked sideways. ‘How can we help you?’ he asked.

‘Drew Slocombe,’ I said. ‘I think you want to question me.’

‘Mr Slocombe for interview,’ he muttered, with a slight air of reproach. He tapped the keys of a laptop computer in front of him, and nodded. ‘Oh yes. DI Basildon will be with you right away.’

The daft sense of self-importance soon evaporated as I scanned the crowded room. A whiteboard was perched on a kind of easel arrangement, and a row of tables ran down one side, each with a computer and officer. A middle-aged couple I recognised waited uncomfortably with typical chunky village hall teacups at their elbows.

‘That’s Mr and Mrs Watchett,’ whispered Thea. ‘Mrs Simmonds’ friends.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I remember them.’