Dark Ritual (10 page)

Sixteen

Liz Brown was off counter and it seemed that her husband Gary was too. Dot Godsell, Reg’s wife was behind the post office counter when Viviane asked for some stamps.

There was a murmur of conversation seeping through into the near empty shop, which was increasing in volume by the second. Viviane couldn’t avoid hearing the gist of what was being said in the back parlour.

“So you saw the police. And what did you say to them, Gary? I want to know myself what you were doing Sunday night.”

Gary’s voice was moderately quieter. “I was at home here in bed.”

He was doubtless well aware that they could have an audience in the shop.

“What time did you come home, Gary? Don’t lie I want to know the truth.”

Viviane and Dot exchanged looks over the counter as the conversation grew louder; the door had been left slightly ajar between shop and house. Dot moved quickly and closed the door quietly.

“And is there anything else I can get you, Mrs. Trent?” Dot smiled and tried to look as if they had heard nothing of consequence. “You look as if you can do with a nice cup of tea. Has it been a long day for you? Shan’t be sorry, myself, when we close. Those newspaper men keep pestering us,” she said as she handed over the stamps and the change. “And the cameras and TV journalists make it worse.”

“This cell phone, it’s run out. Have you got the top up thing for it?”

“I think so. Let me see now, where does Liz keep them. Ah here they are. Five pounds, Mrs. Trent, please.”

“Thank you. I shall put the kettle on as soon as I get home.”

Dot beamed. “Reg will have my tea ready and waiting for me. He’s a dab hand with cauliflower cheese and such like. Though I do say it myself, he’s wasted as a postman.”

Nothing further was said. But Viviane wondered if Dot would have closed the door at all on the Browns, if she had been on her own in the store. She was a natural gossip like her husband’s elderly aunt, Daisy Doughty.

At home, Viviane’s hand hovered over the phone while she waited for the kettle to boil. Bob had given her his phone number for a reason. Should she tell him about what she had heard? She drank her tea and rang Bob. Would he still be there in the incident room?

“Bob?”

“Viv?

“Hi. Sorry if you’re busy. Just got something I picked up while in the post office this evening. I caught snatches of conversation between Gary Brown and his wife Liz. They were having words about Sunday night. She was really stroppy, wanted to know who he was out with — and where, and what time he came home?”

“Interesting. I did wonder about him.”

“I thought you ought to know. I don’t know what Brown has already said about his movements on Sunday night.”

Fowler viewed the busy scene before him in the incident room. “He’s told me otherwise. Shall have to speak to Mr. Gary Brown again then. Thought he was covering up. Thanks, Viv. I’ll be along later. If that’s okay?”

“It is. See you then.”

Fowler didn’t think that Gary Brown had been that interested in Sandra Peterson but he wanted to know who he had been meeting so he could clear Brown off the list of likely suspects. He glanced at his watch. One place they had to call at still and that was the old Mill house. They had to speak to the Petersons. He never enjoyed this personally, and he’d be glad to get this visit over and done with pronto. He hoped he had given Rosemary enough time to recover sufficiently to answer some questions.

Seventeen

“This seems like an idyllic place to live, Peale,” Fowler commented as Peale knocked on the large front door of the creeper covered old Mill house. The sun was sparkling on the froth of white water pouring over the water wheel on the side which provided background noise constantly. Peale didn’t seem quite as keen as he looked around curiously while they waited for some response from within.

“I think it’s a bit out of the way, Bob. Not my cup of tea. A nice bit of property though. And if you like privacy, it’s ideal. They’re both involved in artistic pursuits, aren’t they? Not so keen on the constant water sounds though. Not so good if you have a weak bladder.” Peale grinned. “It’s like toilets flushing, Bob.” He shook his head and grinned. “Couldn’t stand that.”

Fowler chuckled. “You have a point. This is a good spot on the river for fishing, I expect.”

“Don’t know. I’ve never tried it. Sitting by a river bank getting bitten by the mozzies and waiting for fish to bite, has never appealed to me, Bob.”

They heard footsteps and the large door opened at last with a wheezing creak and a loud groan that served to increase the slightly unreal quality of the place as Alan Peterson greeted them with surprise and a bewildered expression. “Chief Inspector Fowler, Sergeant Peale... We weren’t expecting you to call this soon.”

“Good evening, Mr. Peterson. We would like to speak to Mrs. Peterson, if possible, please?”

“I shall have to see.” He viewed the officers gravely and now with an air of slight agitation. “Rosemary is still unwell. I hoped you might delay this for a while longer, gentlemen. She’s really not at all fit for company or questioning. But come in please.”

He opened the door and they walked into the hallway. Its cream coloured walls were attractively decorated with paintings of the river and other local landscapes which Fowler looked at approvingly.

“I’ll see what the doctor says. He’s here at the moment. I had to call him out. Rosemary has had a bad day, I’m afraid,” he said opening up a door, “If you’d like to wait in the parlour there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Peterson.”

Inside the interior was well lighted by the late sunshine pouring in through the back windows. Peale looked around curiously while they waited. Fowler saw the signs of artistic activity in a room through another open door, which was made obvious by the pieces of work on show that Rosemary Peterson used it as her studio. And another large room facing it on the other side was obviously Alan’s domain.

In Rosemary’s studio, there was work in progress. A stone statue of a woodland nymph was bathed in a shaft of the evening sunlight pouring through the windows. Fowler’s eyes went to a cloth covered block that he could see on a table. Alan coming back into the room saw their interest and motioned to them. It seemed he wanted them to take a look at what was on the block.

“A moment, gentlemen. Perhaps you’d like to see something my wife has been working on recently. This was intended for my birthday,” he said carefully lifting up the damp cloth which revealed a modelled clay head. “Rosemary told me about it only yesterday. What do you think? Don’t you think that she has captured the very essence of our beloved daughter? She had so much to live for...”

The men viewing it were taken aback. The likeness to Sandra was so pronounced. Fowler recalled the last time he’d seen those features in reality the day before and felt the grief that must have overwhelmed her parents. Rosemary most of all, who had worked on it so lovingly before the girl’s horrific death.

Fowler studied it carefully, momentarily lost for words. He drew in his breath, and smiled. “We can see that Sandra was a beautiful young woman. And here with you, portrayed perfectly, to keep for always. It’s a remarkable likeness, Mr. Peterson. Your wife is a talented artist. What do you think Peale?”

“It’s a good likeness, sir.”

“Very like, isn’t it?” Peterson said. “It is comforting to know that she was happy and well when her mother started on it.”

Fowler nodded. “We can see that, sir. Has it taken your wife long to do?”

“Rosemary decided to do it three weeks ago. I’m glad now that she has done it for both our sakes.”

“I’m sure you are, sir.” Fowler agreed, hoping that this was not being used as an excuse to put them off from coming. “And Mrs. Peterson must be really pleased with her work on it. I understand that your daughter lived in London most of the time?”

“Yes, she did. I will see if Rosemary is ready to see you now, Inspector. The doctor is leaving now, I think. If you don’t mind waiting a bit longer, I will see what he says.”

He went slowly up the wooden staircase to the rooms above. They waited in the large sunny open living room that adjoined the other rooms. Alan called them from the top of the stairs. “If you would like to come up now, please.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good day to you, Chief Inspector.” Doctor Lambdon stood at the front door as they came out of the room. “I would wish that you could have given Mrs. Peterson a day or so longer to recover. She is still in shock and not at all well. I would be grateful if you would handle her with care, gentlemen.”

Fowler nodded. “We shall do our best, Doctor, to make it a short visit.”

Rosemary Peterson viewed the officers from her four poster bed, which was in fashion with the rest of the elegant, beautifully decorated room. “I’m so sorry, Chief Inspector Fowler if I’ve made it more difficult for you. Alan here is an old fusspot.”

A handsome woman in her early fifties, she smiled back at them bravely from the plethora of plumped up feather pillows behind her fair head. Anyone not knowing that Sandra had been adopted, Fowler thought, would believe otherwise on seeing Rosemary Peterson. The resemblance to her daughter was quite striking.

“And Dr. Lambdon fussing over me too. I did feel much too bad yesterday to talk to anyone. But I am feeling so much better now. It has hit Alan far worse. But he’s been very brave. You would like to know of course when I last saw our daughter.” She looked up at her husband by her bedside holding her hand and he nodded.

“And we would like to offer our sincere condolences, Sergeant Peale and myself, Mrs. Peterson,” Fowler said.

“Thank you.” She swallowed and paused for a moment. “I think that it must have been on Tuesday when Sandra last popped in to see me here. I told her that I was modelling her head for Alan’s birthday. And it would be a special present from both of us for him... I thought it would please her too.

“You know what these young girls are. I had to get her on her cell phone to reach her. She was so in demand here with involving herself with these dreadful road protesters on the hill.” She sighed. “She looked so beautiful on the television when she spoke out for them. And I was so proud of her.”

She paused and smoothed back her hair looking for further help from her husband. “But she attracted so much attention, didn’t she, Alan? We heard that she had got spoken about in the village. Martin Robbins a friend of Sandra’s got into a fight with one of those protesters outside the Fox and Goose trying to protect Sandra, according to Reg Godsell, our postman.”

“That young man, Macey. He has much to answer for.” He patted her hand. “I can’t begin to think how badly his parents must feel. The mess he’s has gotten into lately. Would he be a suspect?”

“I’m sorry we can’t discuss it, sir. Tuesday you say, Mrs. Peterson. Was that the day that you last saw your daughter?”

She looked unhappy and frowned. “Yes — it would be. Alan had a letter only that morning from an art gallery in London asking him to come up to their opening. There was a special exhibition to be held there on Saturday. He has some of his paintings on display there.”

Alan beside the bed squeezed her arm gently. “That’s right. And you said you’d managed to contact Sandra. I didn’t know that my wife was modelling the head at that time, Chief Inspector. It’s not the first time my two girls have sought to surprise me.” He smiled then looked serious. “I thank God she did now.”

“Yes sir, I’m sure you are. I must congratulate you, Mrs. Peterson, on your excellent work on it.”

“Thank you. I think I shall make a bronze of it, Chief Inspector.” She smiled at Peterson.

“Mr. Peterson before we leave I would like you to tell us when you last saw your daughter?”

“On Wednesday. We met up...”

“Was it not last Friday, sir?”

Fowler waited. Alan was avoiding his wife’s eyes. He breathed in deeply and sighed. “Yes — it was, Chief Inspector. And — and we had an argument. And it was a bad one. I wasn’t happy about Sandra’s involvement with those hippies on the hill. And I told Sandra that we both felt the same about it. I think Rosemary mentioned it to her on Tuesday too. And she blew up. Told me I was interfering with her life and her work. And I should not listen to what the old biddies said in the village.”

He was decidedly looking uncomfortable.

“You were only telling her what we both felt, darling.”

“I can’t tell you how badly I feel about it now. If only I had had the chance to tell her how sorry I feel. I only wish now that it never happened. She was an independent young woman. She knew her own mind. And spoke it.”

“I wish the same too,” Rosemary echoed. “I didn’t quarrel with her. But I was unhappy and told her so. She said she wouldn’t stay here with us. And I’m afraid I lost no time in telling her what she was doing was wrong. And I felt so bad about it afterwards.”

“So how was she generally, Mrs. Peterson? Did she confide anything about her work to you? Why was she really here? We know that she was investigating something for her newspaper.”

The Petersons looked askance at one another. It didn’t seem that she had said anything to them about this.

“She is — was — naturally cautious by nature. Even as a child. And it paid her to be if she wanted to get a front page scoop,” Rosemary said slowly. “She was keen on her work as a journalist. So if she was working on something here she would have been especially careful, I’m sure, not to give anything away. She wouldn’t have wished anyone to be warned about her real purpose in being here.

“As far as we knew Sandra was here to support the protesters, she got good material from them,” she said firmly. “She appeared with them on TV and was in that fellow Macey’s company a good bit. I don’t think that Martin Robbins was happy about it. He was one of her closest friends till these dreadful hippy types turned up. He worked late shifts on the chicken farm. I think he hoped that their relationship could be something more permanent.”

“I couldn’t see it working myself,” Alan Peterson said. “He wasn’t man enough for her.”

“I have to ask you this, Mrs. Peterson. Did your daughter tell you that she’d had a termination recently?”

Her face blanched and she gasped, and clutched at the bed sheet. “
No
—
she
couldn’t
! How do you know this?” She held out her hand again to her husband. “Alan!”

He grasped it and said, “We didn’t know. She said nothing about this to her mother. Couldn’t you have been more tactful, Chief Inspector?”

“I’m sorry, sir. But it had to be asked. Can you tell us if she’d had a relationship with someone before coming here? It could have given someone the motive to kill her.”

“I can’t tell you anything. She kept secrets from us always.”

Alan Peterson nodded. “She led the life she wanted, and as such she had men friends, lovers. We have to accept this.” He gripped her hand tightly.

“I can’t, Alan. I can’t.”

“You have to come to terms with this, darling. Sandra was not our little girl anymore,” he said as Rosemary pulled out handfuls of tissues from the box beside the bed and dabbed at the tears filling up her eyes now.

“I don’t want to hear this, Alan.”

“I think, Chief Inspector, you had better leave.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate what you have told us. If we need to talk to you again we shall let you know.”

“Thank you, Chief Inspector Fowler, Sergeant Peale.”