Grave Concerns (5 page)

And Drew and Karen
had
been happy. Stephanie had soon made his lie come true and Drew had erased the memory of his dishonesty. But Genevieve’s sudden reappearance now was
unsettling. Seeing her pregnant only increased his unease. It was unexpected, incongruous, and somehow inappropriate. She wasn’t the right sort of woman to have a baby. He’d had the strong impression, during those previous encounters, that she was at heart very much still a baby herself.

She was playing unself-consciously with Stephanie, blowing noisy raspberries against the child’s experimental open palm, grinning widely at the chuckles this evoked. Drew tried to reconcile this picture with the worried intensity she had shown over the house purchase. Although she’d claimed that it was her husband who really wanted and needed to move, he had wondered whether that was really true. He had also wondered whether he would have behaved as he did if she’d made her appeal more personal. Would he, in the end, have fought so hard to get Karen what she wanted if he had known for certain that Genevieve wanted it just as badly? There had been dreams in the following months where the choice had been presented and the decision far from clearcut. He found himself, in that other realm, doing almost anything that Genevieve Slater asked him to.

‘So – why are you here?’ he asked her abruptly. ‘Not just a visit for old times’ sake?’

She looked at him out of bright grey eyes and made an exaggerated grimace, wrinkling her nose
and carving grooves around the edges of her lips. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I suppose we’d better get to the point.’ She put Stephanie down carefully, much to the child’s disappointment. ‘Can I sit down?’

Drew waved her to an upright chair at one end of his desk. She wore a bulky sheepskin coat that clearly wouldn’t fasten across her bulge and long grey suede boots. He sat in his own chair, having first persuaded Stephanie to settle in her corner with a set of stacking cups to work on.

‘There was a woman, buried here—’ Genevieve said.

Drew blinked stupidly before realising what she was talking about. ‘Oh! You mean – yes there was.’

‘I think – I think she was my mother.’

An awful sense of doom filled Drew’s whole body, heavy with the threat of trouble. He wanted very much to tell her to go away and leave him alone. But he couldn’t do that to Genevieve. He probably couldn’t do it to anybody, if it came to it. And besides, he was also intrigued, hooked helplessly by the promise of a story. ‘Ah,’ he said, weakly. ‘You don’t sound too sure.’ He was clutching at straws; she’d actually sounded quite uncomfortably sure.

‘Well, quite a few things fit. We haven’t seen her since last summer. She had a necklace just like the one in the paper. She was seventy-one, nearly
as tall as me, and – well, it sounds daft, but she’s very much the sort of person who
would
get herself murdered.’

Drew wished he didn’t have to ask such an obvious question. Such a boringly crucial question. ‘I don’t expect I’m going to want to hear this – but why haven’t you gone to the police?’ he said.

She screwed her face up again, and wriggled her shoulders inside the big coat. ‘That’s a bit hard to explain – though I think you of all people might be able to understand. First—’ she held up a hand, palm outwards, as if to slow down an oncoming rush of words and thoughts. ‘First – it might not be Ma at all. If she’s still alive somewhere, she’s going to be furious with me for starting a police investigation. She doesn’t like the police.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh – well,’ Genevieve shrugged. ‘She’s always been a rebellious sort of person. Thinks everyone should be free to do as they like. Doesn’t approve of rules and regulations.’

‘But she hasn’t got anything to hide, has she?’ He tried to sound astute, covering all angles.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘She could have, I suppose. She tends to mix with a lot of strange people.’

‘Hmm,’ Drew nodded doubtfully. ‘What else?
What other reasons for avoiding the police?’

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then took a deep breath. ‘If it is my mother – she’s called Gwen Absolon, by the way – and if she was murdered, then I think it’s possible that my husband killed her.’ The words came out in a low mutter, forcing Drew to strain to catch them.

He remembered Willard Slater from two years ago: tall, much older than his wife, a disconcerting mixture of absent-minded intellect and cold ambition. Drew recalled the icy look in his eyes when Willard realised he might be thwarted in his desire to obtain the Bradbourne house. No, it was not so difficult to imagine Willard killing someone.

‘That’s a good reason,’ he agreed, the cloud of foreboding coming over him again with renewed force. ‘At least, from your point of view, assuming you like him enough to want to protect him.’

She laughed. ‘Good old Drew!’ she said. ‘Always straight to the point. You don’t even realise how unusual you are, do you?’

I could say the same of you
, he thought, while prudently keeping quiet.

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ she added. ‘And, believe it or not, I am trying to work out what the right thing to do would be. That’s where I thought you might come in useful.’

She couldn’t have known – could she? – that no other approach would work so well. ‘You’ll have to explain,’ he said. ‘At the moment it sounds as if you just want to cover up a murder, and pervert the course of justice.’

She shifted in the chair, leaning forward, her expression serious. ‘Let’s go back a bit. I assume you’ve been in communication with the police – after all, the body was found on your property?’ Drew nodded. ‘So – how interested are they? I mean, how much of a murder enquiry are they running here?’

‘The timing was bad,’ said Drew conscientiously. ‘It came at the same time as that dreadful accident, where the schoolchildren were killed.’

‘But that isn’t much of an excuse, is it? Reading between the lines – or rather, seeing how much there
hasn’t
been in the papers about it – I get the strong feeling that no one wants to know. They can’t find any evidence, and so it’s been filed away and forgotten.’

‘But if you
gave
them some evidence, a name, some anxieties or suspicions, they’d be very willing to open a more vigorous enquiry,’ he insisted, though gently.

‘You think so? That’s the sort of thing I came here to find out. I knew you’d help me think it through. So – let’s assume I go to them. I tell them absolutely everything I know – which isn’t
very much. They’ll come and question Willard, and he’ll laugh and tell them the idea’s insane. I’ve been imagining things, on account of being pregnant at forty-two and being a neurotic individual at the best of times. He’ll tell them my mother is a habitual traveller, off all over the world for long spells, and is fairly certain to be in Zaire or Bolivia as we speak. There’s no evidence that she’s dead, and nothing to show the body is her—’

‘They could compare hair or tissue, with DNA, if they had something of hers to work on. Old clothes, a car, anything really. Presumably you could come up with something?’

‘There you are, you see!’ she said triumphantly. ‘Why should we? We don’t
want
them to identify her. We’ve got nothing to gain by involving them.’

‘But—’ Drew had a sense of being caught in a tight and insoluble maze. ‘Does Willard know you think your mother is dead?’

‘We haven’t mentioned her for months. He’s got some new research project and thinks about nothing else. He’s trying to avoid real life these days. All because of this, of course.’ She ducked her chin downwards, indicating the pregnant bulge. ‘It horrifies him.’

‘But it is his?’ Drew asked boldly.

‘Yes,’ she said, with a girlish dimple. ‘It’s his.’

‘So – let’s stick with the scenario. The police turn up, ask him when he last saw his mother-in-law. What does he say?’

‘I told you. He’ll say, last July or thereabouts. At which time she said she’d be setting off on a new trip in a week or two.’

‘Where was she living then?’

‘In a basement room in a little Somerset town. I’ve got the address somewhere,’ she said vaguely. Drew noted the imprecision with suspicion. He found it hard to believe she didn’t know exactly
which
small town her mother had lived in. Genevieve seemed to notice his doubt, and gave a little laugh. ‘She was hardly there. She moved around so much, it was barely worth trying to keep track.’

‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘This isn’t getting us very far, is it?’

‘Oh, it is,’ she said earnestly. ‘It’s so wonderful just to be able to talk to someone about it. Someone I can trust.’

He had to say it. ‘Genevieve – why do you think you can trust me? After what I did to you over the house? Why do you think I won’t protect my own interest and go straight to the police, the minute you leave here? They might come knocking on your door this very afternoon.’

She met his eyes and he recognised the power
of the connection. He knew he was walking willingly into the trap she had set for him. ‘Because I haven’t told you enough to get you into any trouble. And – because you’re you,’ she said simply.

Before Drew could summon up an adequate reaction, there was a brisk knock on the door and the sound of a man clearing his throat. ‘Sorry,’ Drew said to Genevieve. ‘But I’d better see who that is.’

‘No problem,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll mind the baby for you, if you like.’ She bent down to play with Stephanie as Drew opened the door. He stepped outside, closing it behind him, suddenly the discreet undertaker.

Although not in fact wearing tweeds, the man standing on the path outside was decidedly tweedy. A scratchy-looking moustache with eyebrows to match, walking stick and gruff tones
all combined to stereotype him. ‘You the funeral chap?’ he demanded of Drew.

‘That’s me.’

‘Do you do dogs?’

‘Dogs! Er – well, it hadn’t really occurred to me.’ He pulled himself together. ‘I don’t see any reason why not.’ His visitor cast an eye across the field; Drew supposed that this man too had read the papers, and knew what the far corner had revealed. The moustache was quivering.

‘We could fence off an area for pets,’ Drew said, thinking aloud. ‘There might be quite a demand for it, I suppose.’

‘How much?’

‘Um – I’d have to think about that.’

‘We’ll pay two hundred and fifty for the plot and another fifty for a suitable—’ The brisk tone suddenly failed, and the moustache was gripped between the man’s teeth. ‘You know – the—’

‘We could supply a receptacle,’ Drew told him. ‘I think that would be an acceptable price. What sort of dog is it?’

‘Labrador. Had him sixteen years. Never went anywhere without him alongside. Died in his sleep last night. Mildred’s very distressed. It’s been one tragedy after another this past year. She’s in the car with him.’ He waved an explanatory hand towards the parking area, where a large blue-grey Volvo estate sat.

Drew was slightly taken aback. ‘You’d like it all done now, would you?’

‘Is that a problem?’

Drew thought quickly. A labrador-sized coffin wasn’t readily obtainable at such short notice. If he was to add a pets’ cemetery to the services he offered, it ought to be done properly. Some human beings might take exception to sharing their last resting place with an assortment of other species – although he personally rather liked the idea. What an idiot he’d been not to think of this before! It would have made another page in the brochure he’d already produced and sent out.

Lacking a proper mortuary, he always tried to get funerals performed within three days of the death – a return to more traditional timetables which had so far appealed quite strongly to his customers. Jeffrey was on permanent standby for gravedigging. Drew looked the man in the eye, aware of the grief lurking just below the surface. A lot of people kept wives a much shorter time than he’d had his beloved dog …

‘Tomorrow morning,’ he promised. ‘Will you want to be present at the interment?’

‘Of course. Can we leave him here with you, then?’ He stared critically at the small building behind them.

‘Certainly you can,’ said Drew. ‘Part of this building is for the safekeeping of bodies.’

‘What time tomorrow?’

‘Ten-thirty? I’ll need a name and address. The grave will be over there, between the two beeches—’ He pointed at a corner where the field lost all sense of geometry and the hedge incorporated two sizeable beeches and a handsome oak.

The man led Drew to the car. A shrouded figure lay stiffly along the back seat. Drew was unsure about carrying it on his own with any show of dignity. Where was Maggs when he needed her? And wasn’t he leaving that strange woman with his baby for rather a long time? But at the back of his mind, excited calculations were going on. If people were prepared to pay two hundred and fifty quid for a dog’s grave, he ought to set aside at least half an acre for them. Even one a month would make a major difference to his finances. Should he broach the subject of memorial plants, he wondered? Was it likely that these people would want a nice little mahonia or hellebore on the grave?

Mildred was soft and sad, peering at him hopefully from the passenger seat. ‘Can you do it for us?’ she asked. ‘We read about you and thought this would be perfect. We haven’t got a garden of our own any more, you see.’

‘I’ll be pleased to help,’ said Drew easily. One of his resolutions from the outset had been to
avoid gushing platitudes or sloppy euphemisms. Only reluctantly had he adopted
Peaceful Repose
as his trademark. He’d wanted to use something much plainer –
Natural Burials
had appealed quite strongly – but Maggs and Karen had dissuaded him. ‘You have to keep some of the reassurance,’ Karen had said. ‘Even ecology freaks like to think their dead person will rest peacefully.’

He hefted the rigid dog to the tiny cool room behind his office, having taken the basic details. Hubert and Mildred Grainger then drove off forlornly without their faithful companion. This was definitely a job for Maggs, he decided. Let her phone round and find something respectable to bury a large dog in.

‘Sorry to be so long,’ he said, almost running through the office door. ‘Business, I’m afraid.’

Genevieve Slater was on the floor with Stephanie, running a toy train around the limited space between desk, filing cabinet and chairs. She looked up, her face very pink.

‘That’s OK,’ she smiled. ‘We’ve been getting on famously. Was it something interesting?’

Drew hesitated, the question taking him slightly aback. ‘Someone wanting me to bury their dog,’ he told her, hoping she wouldn’t laugh. But she allowed herself only the smallest of smiles.

Stephanie was obviously being well entertained.
She crawled energetically after the train, as her new friend sent it running under a chair, crowing as she went.

‘Where were we?’ Drew asked, knowing only too well.

‘I’m not really sure,’ she puffed, heaving herself awkwardly to her feet. ‘I think the next move is down to you.’

He folded his arms, trying to think of something constructive to say. He also needed to physically prevent himself from offering her a hand as she got up. He would not allow himself to touch her, not even to hold her hand or support her elbow. He was afraid of the electric charge if his flesh touched hers.
Trust me, I’m an undertaker
, he wanted to say. Like a doctor or a ferryman – they helped you with a handclasp without a second thought. But she’d already told him she trusted him, and he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. ‘The next thing will be the reburial, I imagine,’ he told her, striving to be businesslike.

‘Not the inquest?’

‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘It’ll be another month or more before they get around to that. They won’t hold up the burial for it. There isn’t any need, you see.’ He slipped with relief into didactic mode. ‘As long as they’ve taken the whole range of samples, with photos and reports, they don’t need the actual body any more. The verdict
will probably be Unlawful Killing by Person or Persons Unknown, and the police file will remain open indefinitely – pending further evidence,’ he added meaningfully.

‘And will she be buried here again?’

‘I hope so, yes,’ he nodded. ‘I’ve already suggested it, and there isn’t likely to be any objection. I’m cheaper you see – and the Council are probably going to be paying for it.’

‘There was an old tramp, I seem to remember, found dead in a ditch not far from here. What did they do then?’

‘They did a post-mortem, which showed he had pneumonia and a congested heart. He died of natural causes, and Plant’s did a Council funeral for him. Not quite the same thing.’

‘So they don’t know what my – what the woman found here – died of?’

‘Apparently not,’ he said carefully. ‘But they couldn’t find anything organically wrong with her. She seemed quite robust as far as they could tell.’

‘Hmmm,’ she said with a hint of frustration. ‘So all they know is how she
didn’t
die. And you can’t prove a negative.’

‘But you
can
prove identity,’ he reminded her. She did not look reassured.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Stephanie drowsing on Drew’s lap, the sun suddenly
appearing through the clouds and throwing a startling brightness through the back window. The room felt uncomfortably warm and stuffy.

Genevieve put both hands on the desk and levered herself off the chair. ‘I must go. I’ve taken up far too much of your time. You’ve given me plenty to think about. It was nice to see you again.’

Nice!
he thought, not even bothering to stand up himself; chivalry was beyond him at that moment. Was she just going to walk away, after everything she’d told him?

‘There really isn’t anything I can do to help,’ he said, as much to himself as to her. ‘And you’re wrong about one thing, you know. You
have
told me enough to get me into trouble.’

She frowned down at him, stately and matriarchal. ‘Surely not?’ she demurred. ‘Put it down to the ramblings of a confused pregnant woman. Who knows – maybe that’s all it is, anyway!’

He let her go without any further comment. Something told him she’d be back, and that he hadn’t heard the last of Genevieve Slater and her missing mother.

The appearance of Maggs a few minutes later brought him out of his reverie. She was dishevelled and breathless, not built for running. ‘I’ve just
chased two men who were hiding in the top hedge,’ she panted. ‘They climbed over onto the railway line. One of them had a spade.’

Drew stared at her. ‘What did they want?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ she shouted. ‘How should
I
know? But they weren’t at all pleased when I spotted them.’

‘Damn it,’ Drew cursed. ‘This is getting ridiculous. Were they burying something or digging something up?’

‘Neither – because I interrupted them. But my guess is they’d come to dig something up. They didn’t leave anything behind, at any rate. Drew, we should tell the police.’

He wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably. ‘No, no, I don’t think so. It’s lucky you scared them off. I shouldn’t think they’ll come back again now. I’ll get Jeffery to do some work on that top hedge. I never imagined anybody would try to come in that way.’

Maggs snorted and slammed out of the office. Two minutes later she was back again. ‘There’s something in the cool room,’ she said, without preamble.

‘That’s right.’ He told her briefly about the dog people. She listened without comment, clearly wanting to move on to something else.

‘What did that woman want?’ she finally demanded. ‘She was here for
ages
.’

‘Confidential, I’m afraid,’ he told her.

The slam of the door made Stephanie whimper with the shock.

Willard was at home for lunch that day, but Genevieve made no effort to produce anything for him to eat. Uncomplaining, he made himself a generous Welsh rarebit, complete with dry mustard and Worcestershire sauce. Long experience deterred him from offering to make some for his wife. He carried it into the dining room and sat formally at the table to eat it.

Unusually, Genevieve came into the room, moving restlessly from sideboard to window, bookcase to mantelpiece, fiddling with ornaments and pausing at intervals, apparently deep in thought.

‘Is something the matter?’ he asked her, after a few minutes, casting a swift sideways glance at her face.

‘Sort of,’ she admitted. ‘I decided I ought to make an effort to find out where my mother is. We haven’t heard from her for ages now. There should at least have been a Christmas card. She hardly ever forgets Christmas. It bothers me that she doesn’t even know about this.’ She gestured in the direction of her swollen belly.

Willard sighed noisily, cutting a careful corner off his toast. ‘And how do you propose to locate
her?’ he enquired. ‘You’d need to hire a private detective. The police wouldn’t be interested – she’s a grown woman.’

‘Funny you should say that,’ she murmured.

‘What?’

‘Look – you remember that couple – the Slocombes? The ones who beat us to the house in Bradbourne?’

His face darkened, and he fixed her with a hard stare. ‘How could I forget them?’

‘Well, he’s in North Staverton now, running his own alternative burial ground. You must have seen the piece about a body in the local rag—’

‘Get to the point, Genevieve. I want to finish my chapter this afternoon. I don’t get much opportunity for a good uninterrupted session these days.’

‘The point is, I think we ought to do what we can to find out whether the woman they found in North Staverton was my mother. No!’ She put up a hand to silence his attempted response. ‘Wait a minute. Just listen. He’s got experience of … situations like this. We know Drew Slocombe, and he owes us a favour. He’s ideally fixed to help us, and I’m pretty sure he’s not the type to go running to the police. In fact, I’m quite sure he’s not.’

‘So what have you asked him to do?’ Willard asked her wearily. ‘Put his whole career in
jeopardy by lying to the police for you? I can’t believe you’ve been such a fool. There’s no reason at all to think that body was your mother. She’s just gone off with some new boyfriend and forgotten all about you – just like she always did.’

‘That’s what I told him you’d say.’ She picked up a china dog, wiping dust off its head with one finger. ‘This room is a disgrace. It would have been worth moving house, just to get rid of all this junk.’

‘It’s my junk and I like it,’ he said.

‘As you’ve said at least five thousand times in the past eighteen years,’ she returned.

‘You mentioned me then – to the Slocombe chap?’

‘Oh, you were quite central to the conversation.’

‘In what way?’

‘I told him you were less than sympathetic to my wish to find out what’s happened to my mother. That you thought I was just being neurotic, and she’d turn up any day now. Which is true, isn’t it?’

Willard addressed himself studiedly to his toasted cheese for two full minutes before replying. ‘In that case,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t understand why you went to him, and I don’t suppose he does, either. Doesn’t it worry you that when they get to know you just about everybody regards you as deranged?’

She flinched at the skilful thrust. ‘I don’t believe that Drew thinks I’m deranged,’ she said softly. ‘I think he understands my need to
know
.’ She lifted her head, her hands curled into fists. ‘And I
do
need to know, you see,’ she stated clearly. ‘I very much need to know exactly what has happened to my mother.’