Grave Concerns (8 page)

‘But—’ she started to say, before another kick made her pause. She continued in a voice thick with distress, ‘I didn’t have any choice. What else could I have done?’

Willard looked away again. ‘You could have got your neuroses sorted out years ago. It’s time you faced reality. You’re putting two lives at risk with this nonsense.’

‘If my mother was here—’

‘If your mother was here, she’d tell you exactly what I’ve just told you. That it’s time you snapped out of it. What happened is ancient history. You were twelve years old. It wasn’t even
about
you. I never could see why you had to go all to pieces over something that happened to other people.’

She leant her head on her hands, elbows on the table, pushing her thick hair back from her face. ‘It happened to
me
, Willard. Me and Brigid. Our lives fell apart and never got put back together. And now – if my mother really is dead, there’s never going to be any hope of setting it right.’

He stood up then, at the end of all patience. ‘All right!’ he thundered. ‘I give up – as usual. Find your blasted mother, if that’s what you want. Dead or alive, murdered or swanning around with a toyboy in the South Pacific. Just leave me out of it. I told you last year – I never want to see that bloody woman again.’

Drew got Stephanie dressed and fed and carried her round to the office. Sensing his pessimistic mood, she was unusually uncooperative, stiffening her small sturdy body when he tried to put her on the floor, clinging stubbornly to his neck. It was cold out, and the sky was a flat grey: a fit setting for Drew’s gloom. The field looked bleak and unappealing. The building felt damp and draughty,
all the disadvantages of an old cottage manifesting themselves at once. The office had originally been a lean-to, housing logs and tools and an ancient washtub. It had had a corrugated iron roof and whitewashed walls. Drew and Karen had replaced the roof with tiles and erected a more solid outer wall, but it still felt insubstantial.

There hadn’t been a single phonecall for two days apart from the one from Genevieve Slater. Maggs was going mad with boredom. The money from the labrador had all gone on fencing materials.

‘I need another source of income,’ Drew muttered to himself, as he tried to cajole Stephanie into taking an interest in her toys. ‘Maybe I could become a childminder.’

Maggs arrived on her bike a few minutes later, and clumped noisily into the building. She wore boots with enormous soles, which made Drew feel old and stuffy. ‘What’re we going to do today, then?’ she demanded aggressively. ‘The fence is all done, and there’s a limit to the amount of tidying up I can do.’

‘We knew there’d be quiet spells,’ he said. ‘It was like this at Plant’s sometimes. People don’t die in a nice regular pattern – it goes in clusters. Any time now, we’ll be doing two funerals a day and wishing it was nice and quiet again.’

‘Dream on,’ she scoffed.

He sighed. ‘We could have a go at enlarging the car park. Widen the entrance and cut down some of the thistles and brambles. We got planning permission for twelve spaces, if I remember rightly, and at the moment you can barely get three in.’

‘Twelve! Where are you going to put them?’

He shrugged. ‘Eventually, all along the inside of the road hedge. It’ll be tarmacked and marked out – but I haven’t got the cash for it yet. Trouble is, it’ll be a Catch 22 at this rate – nobody’ll come because they can’t park – and if nobody comes, we can’t afford to give them a parking space.’

‘You sound a bit down, same as me,’ Maggs observed.

‘Yeah, well, we might have to rethink what happens with Stephanie. It isn’t going to be fair to her to have her tagging along here all the time.’

‘I did wonder what you thought you were doing.’

‘I expected we’d be getting more business by now, and could afford to pay someone to mind her.’

‘Maybe this chap’ll be the one we’re waiting for,’ she said, nodding at the car drawing up outside the gate. As always, there was a moment of indecision as the driver wondered where he was supposed to park. Drew could see a leather coat, and the side of a man’s head. He looked
late middle-aged, judging by the way his head sat stiffly on his shoulders.

‘Don’t stare,’ he told Maggs. ‘Try and look busy.’

‘Just don’t ask me to take Stephanie for a walk while you talk to him,’ she warned.

Drew had already surmised that the man had a newly dead parent, or wife, and had seen the publicity about the cemetery. He’d learnt that you couldn’t identify those people who’d be interested in alternative funerals just by looking at them. This man, however, seemed even less of a likely customer than Hubert Grainger had been. He was pulling off black driving gloves, and working his thin lips as if rehearsing what he was going to say, as he approached the open door of the office. ‘Is this the Peaceful Repose Cemetery?’ he asked. ‘It’s taken me bloody ages to find you.’

Drew held out a friendly hand, not so much to shake as to usher the man into the building. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We are a bit remote. That’s part of the attraction, of course.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. I don’t require your services. My name’s Jarvis. Dr Jarvis. I’d like to have a private talk about the body you found here last month.’ His face was high-coloured, as if he’d been in the winter sun somewhere, and his hair looked incongruously dark, given his apparent age. Drew almost sighed aloud. A day
or two earlier, he might have been intrigued, even excited, but the flat mood of this morning was so powerful he felt little but irritation at the loss of a potential customer and the prospect of getting involved again in the mysterious body’s story.

Jarvis eyed Stephanie suspiciously as she sat calmly surrounded by toys in her usual corner. Every day Drew had added more amusements and comforts for her, until she had a play area worthy of any day nursery. ‘My daughter,’ he explained. ‘She’s very good.’

‘Hardly the best place for her, I’d have thought,’ said the man shortly. ‘Don’t you keep bodies here?’

‘In the cool room, yes. I don’t think she’s at any risk from them.’

‘Or they from her?’ The flash of humour made some difference to Drew’s assessment of his visitor. He settled the man in his best chair and then took another for himself. He did not sit behind his desk, disliking the connotations of interviews and supplication. ‘Well – how can I help?’ he asked.

The man chewed his lip for a moment. ‘It’s very delicate,’ he began. ‘When I read the description of the woman you found here, and the estimated date when she must have died, I wondered whether it might be – someone I knew. I assume you’re privy to more detail than was published in
the newspapers, and – well – I’d like to be sure in my own mind before taking any further action.’

Drew acknowledged the strong sense of déjà vu that swept over him, listening to what the man was saying. It was as if he’d taken the script directly from Genevieve Slater. ‘She was very difficult to identify,’ he said cautiously. ‘There really isn’t much more to go on than clothes, dentures and the necklace. Just as the papers said.’  

Jarvis became more agitated, cupping a hand tightly around his jaw, and digging his fingertips into his cheek as if suffering from toothache. ‘Tall, elderly, slim. Wearing jewellery from Egypt – where I know she was last year – I’m
sure
it’s her. She hasn’t been seen since last summer by anyone in the family. I just don’t understand who would have buried her here. At least – I do have a very unpleasant suspicion.’ He wriggled uneasily in the chair, looking anywhere but at Drew. ‘It’s difficult to know how much to tell you. I realise you wouldn’t want to be privy to any information that might get you into trouble.’  

This is ridiculous
thought Drew.
They
must
know each other
. He raised his eyebrows encouragingly, but said nothing.  

His visitor went on, ‘There is one possibility the police don’t seem to have considered. If it’s the woman I’m thinking of, I believe she committed suicide – and left instructions to be
buried here unofficially, to save all the trouble of an inquest and so on. She was very keen on the idea of natural burial and all that sort of thing. In fact – if I can be satisfied in my own mind that it’s the woman in question, I’d be happy to finance a reburial here. From a first glance, it seems very pleasant.’

‘Suicide?’ Drew picked up the idea with considerable scepticism. ‘But—’

‘I know. It sounds most peculiar. That’s why I’m here – I hoped you’d divulge a few more of the medical details. Set my mind at rest.’

Drew shook his head. ‘I very much doubt whether I can do that,’ he said. ‘As I’ve already told you – the cause of death is uncertain.’

‘But have you heard anything which would make suicide out of the question? Any further details the police haven’t made public?’

Drew pressed his lips together, in an effort to control his rising temper. He was being played with – that was becoming very obvious – and he didn’t like it. ‘Might I ask why you’ve come to me?’ he said coldly. ‘And why you think I’d answer a question like that?’

‘Because it doesn’t hurt you. Because I’m desperate. Because it’s the only way I can get any peace,’ the man burst out. ‘I know it all sounds crazy – but I’m not the only person involved. There’s a family, as well.’

Drew’s patience snapped. Any other day, and he might have listened with more sympathy. Now he’d had enough.

‘If you believe you know the woman’s identity, you have a duty to go to the police,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s nothing I can tell you. As you rightly say, by merely coming here and talking like this, you make me an accessory to the crime of obstructing a murder enquiry.’ He frowned severely, and slapped one hand down on the desk for emphasis. It felt rather good, and he did it again.

‘But—’ the man attempted, ‘– but, just hear me out. I promise you have nothing to lose by doing that. There is absolutely no chance that I’ll go to the police, and I’m trusting that you won’t do so, either.’

‘The point is, I absolutely can’t help you,’ Drew repeated. ‘I don’t know anything beyond what was in the papers.’ He paused, remembering his conversation with Stanley.
Wasn’t wearing any undies – not even knickers. Ate a substantial meal …
chicken curry
…
There might be more, if he racked his brains. What harm could it do, he wondered, to share these snippets with Dr Jarvis?

As if sensing a softening, the man pressed home his point. ‘If I’m right, then there’s no need to take it any further. She can be laid to rest again, and nobody’s going to be harmed by her remaining
anonymous. Nobody but me – knowing I was more or less the one who drove her to it.’

Drew’s scepticism became mixed with curiosity.
Damn it
, he thought.
Why do I always have to know the full story? It makes everything so much more complicated
.

‘But it wasn’t you who buried her here?’ he demanded. ‘Because that’s the way it’s beginning to sound.’

‘No, it wasn’t me. I almost wish it was – at least then, I’d know for sure that it was her. Anyway – let me give you a bit more of the background. I was her doctor, you see, have been for thirty years or more. But I retired eighteen months ago – no, not under any kind of a cloud,’ he added, noticing Drew’s expression. ‘I was sixty, and felt I’d done it for long enough, that’s all.’

‘Go on,’ Drew invited him, leaning forward over the edge of the desk.

The visitor squirmed restlessly on his chair. ‘I hope it’ll explain why I’d much rather keep away from the police. They have an unfortunate habit of digging into the past – especially where a medical practitioner is concerned. Any shadow of suspicion and they start believing they’ve got a serial killer on their hands. There’s no character so unredeemable as an untrustworthy doctor. They would make my life unbearable.’

‘Are you sure you want to tell me this?’ Drew
interrupted. ‘It’s quite possible that I’ll feel forced to pass your story directly to the Coroner.’

‘I’m taking that risk. I hope I can convince you that there’s nothing to be gained by doing that.’

‘Well, it’s up to you,’ Drew said, leaning back in his chair.

The doctor fiddled with a button on his coat, as he spoke, but showed no sign of emotion as he told his story.

‘This woman had a badly handicapped son,’ he said, following the bald statement with a torrent of explanation that felt to Drew like a kind of confession. ‘He had severe deformation of the spine, resulting in diminished lung capacity, chronic joint pain and susceptibility to infection. He also had poor hearing and eyesight. She wasn’t the sort of woman to sacrifice herself to caring for him, especially when he got into his teens. But she had no choice. He was a difficult person, in many ways. Peevish, self-absorbed. She never pretended to love him, and tried several times to get him into long-term residential care. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite handicapped enough to qualify under the NHS and she couldn’t hope to pay for it. She had two other children, much older, and was no chicken herself. Well, in the end, she cracked. I had to choose whether to see her completely destroyed by the burden or to help her out of it. I won’t go into details, but between us we
brought the whole thing to a somewhat speedier conclusion than nature would have done, left to its own devices. Nathan had a chest infection, which turned to pneumonia. He was in severe distress, and was developing a new set of spinal problems as he grew to adult size. There was no quality of life for anyone concerned.’

‘I’m with you so far,’ said Drew, glancing at his little daughter and wondering at how things might have been in his own family circle. It didn’t occur to him to doubt the man’s medical credentials; as a former nurse himself, he recognised the language, the oddly brisk detachment from a painful emotional situation. And he found himself almost as drawn into this tale as he had been into Genevieve’s.

‘How long ago did this happen?’ Drew asked, as the man paused.

‘Oh, five or six years. I’d almost forgotten the whole thing, until early last year.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She came to me in great distress. Someone had accused her of killing her son and she was frightened.’