Embroidering Shrouds (24 page)

‘Lots of people commit murder under the influence,' Joanna said innocently. ‘Unfortunately, it doesn't always work as a defence plea, balance of mind and all that.'

Again that ugly, mad look flashed through Elland's pale eyes. ‘You got nothin' on me,' he grunted. ‘Nothin'. You couldn't pin a soddin' parkin' ticket on me. You're just goin' for me cos you got no one else and I done time. Well, I ain't done nothin' this time. You got the wrong man, Inspector. You better try again.'

A little over an hour later they were again driving through rain. Wind battered the car. Mike leaned forward and switched the headlights on. It was almost as dark as night yet it was still only a little past eleven in the morning.

They turned up the now familiar grassed track that led to the two houses, the contrast as great now as when she had first been introduced to Brushton Grange and its ugly neighbour. Mike parked as near as he could to the front door of both houses and they dashed along the path towards the front door of Brushton Grange.

They clanged the doorbell and prepared to wait; they had grown used to the time it took Arnold Patterson to rise stiffly from his chair, cross the large hall and tug the door open.

Patterson obviously felt he knew them well enough to drop any niceties. ‘You keep comin' back,' he grumbled. ‘I don't know what for.'

‘To see Christian,' Joanna said. ‘But I want to talk to you first.'

‘I don't know what about,' the old man said, his face still angled towards the floor. ‘I can't enlighten you. She's dead. How can I say I'm sorry with
that
there?' He lifted his head briefly, only enough to sweep a gaze across the gully before, exhausted with the effort, he dropped his head again towards the floor. ‘If you must know I do regret her death, Inspector. Mainly because it were violent and because she
were
my sister, but I can't say I'm mournin' her. She is just dead. It's up to you to find out who killed her and let the courts take their justice. There is no point your keepin' comin' back, I got nothin' to tell yer.'

‘You were friendly once,' Joanna said.

‘Aye, as children.' He jerked his head in the direction of the concrete edifice. ‘As you can see. The friendship failed to last.'

‘Why? That's what I want to know.'

The question took the old man aback. He straightened his back again to stare Joanna full in the face. ‘Are you mad?'

Joanna met him full in the face. ‘Why did she build it?'

Something softened in the lined cheeks, Arnold Patterson's eyes moistened. He licked his lips. ‘So,' he said quietly, ‘that's what you want to know, is it?'

‘Yes.'

In deference to his age Joanna had dealt gently with Nan Lawrence's brother so far, but she needed facts now. Even if she had to bully them out of him she would get them. Nan Lawrence's death must be dealt with by the law whatever events had taken place in her life. It made no difference. The crime was still murder and she wanted no more murders, robberies, attacks. She wanted Leek to revert to the pleasant, safe town it had been. And Patterson was being deliberately evasive. Obstructive even.

‘We just grew up,' he said, ‘nothin' more. Brother and sister as children doesn't always mean bosom pals for life.'

But his eyes had told her this was not the truth. He didn't even
expect
her to believe him.

‘You quarrelled, didn't you?'

‘I can't remember.' Another lie. Eyes that flickered from side to side.

And she was running out of patience. ‘Then I suggest you try to remember, Mr Patterson, because I have a suspicion it will have some bearing on the case.'

Again he tried to bluster. ‘What nonsense. What utter ...'

But she and Korpanski had already whisked past him and were halfway up the stairs. It was a measure of how little she valued his statement.

This time there was no loud, thumping music coming from Christian's room. Instead they heard something dreamy and watery, music that seemed to trickle down the stairs, music that conjured up dolphins swimming, music one might smoke hash to.

Which was exactly what he was doing, with a vague, abstracted look on his face as he tugged the door open, a roll-up dangling from his fingers. ‘Hey,' he said, ‘it's the Inspector.'

Joanna could have rubbed her hands with delight. Pot, better than a truth drug, a suspect right under the influence. She and Mike exchanged looks of sheer triumph. Of course, there was always the risk that Christian would pour out a stream of absolute rubbish. But –

She sat down on the cheap, foam sofa, ignoring the girl sitting wedged into the corner, staring into space. ‘Tell me about your great-aunt, Christian.'

‘She was a lady and a half,' Christian said, waving his hands around. ‘A real lady.'

‘Some say she was more of a witch.'

Christian smiled, his arm round the pale girl who was swaying with the dolphin music.

‘She could cast spells,' he said enigmatically.

‘What sort of spells?'

‘Get people, man, do her bidding.'

‘And is that what you did – her bidding?'

Christian was rubbing his fingers together. His head was inscribing a circular movement.

‘Of course. Powerful persona like that.'

‘What bidding did you do?'

‘Closed dangerous mouths. People ought not to talk, Inspector.'

How much of the stuff had he had?

‘It depends, Christian.'

‘I don't think it depends at all. Talking is just ... Cool arithmetic.'

Typical of the sort of roundabout interview one had with a suspect who was high, just when you thought you were getting somewhere sensible they tailed off into dolphin land.

‘Did Nan have her dinner as soon as she came back from church?'

His eyes flipped open. ‘Hey ... You called her Nan. You knew her?'

Joanna was getting bored with this, bored and frustrated. ‘Her dinner, Christian?'

‘Any old time, Inspector. Hunger –'

‘One other thing, Christian. Did you
ever
go into her bedroom?'

‘Inspector,' there was a lazy smile, ‘what
are
you suggesting?'

‘Did you?'

Christian closed his eyes and carried on rasping his fingers. ‘Like the music?'

Mike was steaming all the way down the stairs. ‘Well, that was a bloody waste of time. We didn't even get the point across to him that we found some booty round at the “cool witch's” lair. You should have charged them both with possession and hauled them in.'

‘Did you see anything lying around, Mike?'

‘No, but it was obvious the pair of them were –'

‘Did you smell pot?'

Korpanski stared at her. ‘They must have been high.'

‘Or play-acting.'

‘Ne-v-er,' he said.

They crunched back over the gravel. Barra's squad car had joined theirs and was neatly parked in front of Spite Hall. The door was wide open. It was a good opportunity to check on the results of his fingerprint search.

The hall looked even dingier than Joanna remembered, dark and airless, with all the doors closed and taped across except the first one on the left, leading to

Nan's small bedroom. Barra was in there, so absorbed in his work he didn't even look up until Joanna spoke. ‘A bit more interesting than I'd thought. There are three distinct sets of prints. The dead woman's, of course, all over the place. Some others that I guess are probably the home help's. And another set,' Barra scratched his square chin, ‘on the drawer of the dressing table as well as a few on the wardrobe door. Nowhere else, interestingly.'

‘We'll have them marked out on a diagram and get the home help and the nephew in to check.' To Mike she said, ‘At last. I think we might be beginning to get somewhere. I feel that familiar tingling in my toes.'

‘It's that bloody bike of yours,' he said.

And suddenly it was eight o'clock. The day had flown past but Joanna was reluctant to go home. Home? It didn't seem it anymore, at least not the comfortable, peaceful haven the cottage used to be but an uneasy place where she dreaded the evenings.

She glanced across at Korpanski. ‘How's your mother-in-law?'

Mike grinned with sudden optimism. ‘Gone awful quiet over the last day. She's brewing something up, another spell, maybe. How's –'

She held her hand up as though to ward off evil. ‘Don't even mention her name without brandishing the holy book, a clove of garlic and a cross.'

Mike's face softened. ‘That bad?'

She nodded.

‘You have my sympathy, and for once –' he gave another jaunty grin ‘– my complete understanding.' The compulsion to avoid returning home was overwhelming. She stopped even trying to resist it. ‘Look, um, Mike ... Drop me off, will you?'

‘Where?'

‘At Quills.'

‘You want me to come?'

‘No.' She didn't want to explain anything. ‘Thanks, but no.'

The thought of an evening spent with Lydia Patterson and her animals heartened her.

Inside the wooden shack lamps were switched on. The animals grouped curiously around the gate as Mike's headlights picked them out, eyes staring, reflecting red: the sheep, a mangy looking black-and-white border collie who slunk away as Joanna pushed the gate open and two ducks waddling as fast as they could behind her towards the door steps. Mike accelerated away, leaving silence as she waded through the mud towards the door. Suddenly the bulky figure of Lydia Patterson loomed up, blocking out the light behind her. In silhouette she looked even more enormous than usual, enormous and threatening. It was with a shock that Joanna realized Nan Lawrence's sister was levelling a double-barrelled shotgun at her with the steady hand and intense concentration of someone who would use it. She was about to call out when Lydia Patterson lowered the gun. ‘How nice,' she said calmly. ‘I thought I heard a car, Inspector, come on in, have a slab of cake. I tried my hand at baking this afternoon. Must have been expecting a guest.' Her eyes searched through the gloom. ‘Your bulky friend gone home?' She answered her own question. ‘Back to the station, I'd imagine.'

‘We don't work nine to five – particularly during a murder investigation.'

‘Families must dislike that intensely,' Lydia observed. Tricky things, aren't they, Inspector, families?'

Silently Joanna agreed and followed her into the sitting room while Lydia continued talking.

‘Went for animals myself, although they can be tricky too, temperamental beasts, loyal though. Not allergic to feathers are you?' And without waiting for Joanna to reply she closed the door behind them. In the corner, in a basket, Sam ‘n' Ella clucked softly.

‘Little buggers,' Lydia said affectionately, throwing a glance towards the two hens and locking the gun back in its cabinet. ‘But they did present me with a couple of brown eggs this morning, so I really shouldn't complain about them. It was that that gave me the idea to bake. Fortuitous really, didn't
know
you were coming. Must have had a premonition though that someone would come, and I always felt you'd be back.' Her eyes penetrated Joanna's with piercing understanding. ‘Had to, didn't you? No chance of discovering the truth without learning about the past. Hang on a mo, I'll get the tea tray.' Halfway to the kitchen she turned around. ‘You
have
come to talk, haven't you? About Nan.'

‘Not just about Nan,' Joanna said. ‘This isn't just about Nan, is it? It's about all of you.'

Without answering Lydia walked into the kitchen. But Joanna had gained the impression she was pleased at her statement although it was hard to judge. Lydia's thought processes were jerky and disconnected; she made statements then leaped to other topics without leaving a clue as to what the intermediate thoughts were. One could only guess. Joanna settled back on the sofa and half closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of animals which seemed to fade the longer you were in the room. She felt relaxed.

But the illusion of a safe haven was sharply blasted away by the irate tone of her mobile phone. And as she answered she couldn't quite keep the resentment out of her voice, even though it was Matthew. ‘I wondered if you fancied a lift home,' he said tentatively. ‘We've just got back.'

‘I'm with um …' Lydia would hear from the kitchen. ‘I'm interviewing a relative of Nan Lawrence's. Why don't you pick me up from here in an hour? Bring Eloise with you, it's the lady who wrote the entertaining book. Maybe she'd like to meet her.'

‘Little madam's in a sulk,' Matthew said softly, he didn't want to be overheard either, ‘to be honest ...'

She didn't want him to have to admit it – that his daughter was difficult – even with him, her adored father. She wanted to spare him the self-abasement so she didn't let him finish. ‘It's OK, Matt. We women can all be difficult.'

‘Yeah.'

She gave him swift directions to Quills and finished the call, switching the phone off. Its presence could be intrusive, her awareness of it an obstacle to concentration. She was just putting the phone back in her bag when Lydia returned carrying a tray heavy with a teapot, milk jug, sugar basin, two mugs and a plate of home-made cake. A farmhouse fruit cake. It opened a keyhole of memory, transporting Joanna straight back to six years old, the house of her aunt and the wonderful taste of home-made cake mixed with tea, very milky in deference to both her youth and the current trend when milk had been thought to be universally, nutritionally good.

Lydia hacked off a crumbly slab and dropped it on to a tea plate. ‘Here,' she said, ‘you look as though you could do with this.' Then she poured the tea.