Shadows in the Cotswolds (16 page)

Oliver sat in a small room until twenty past four, when a middle-aged court official came to fetch him. ‘Mr Meadows? You’re to be called in a minute or two. It’s rather later than we expected, so I’m afraid it’ll just be the formalities today. Then, first thing tomorrow, you’ll be on the witness stand and the day will be yours.’

‘Just one day, do you think?’ His heart was fluttering uncontrollably, as he walked beside the man down the deserted corridor. ‘Is that all it’ll be?’

‘It’s never easy to say, but from what I can see of it so far, that should be about the size of it.’

Just one day
, after nearly sixty years of hatred and fear and a burning lust for vengeance. ‘It hardly seems enough,’ he murmured.

They made him read the words of the promise to
be truthful; checked his name and address; waved a document at him which was the original statement of accusation against Cedric. They were patient and softly spoken, even the barrister defending his brother, who got up once to make a comment that Oliver could not fully understand. Raised above them all, like God, was the judge, at whom Oliver barely glanced. There was no time to worry about what he might be thinking. Several of the wigged and gowned lawyers were female, but gender seemed irrelevant. They all rustled papers and stood up and sat down in turn, like a dance. People whispered, on all sides. In the rows of the public seating, whispers seemed to go on constantly. Oliver forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, to maintain control whatever might happen.

Because Cedric was sitting there, to one side, The Accused, looking impossibly old and small and lonely. Cedric who had frightened and hurt him so much that the injury never faded, but mutated gradually into disgust and shame, and then a burning rage. Cedric, whose face swam before Oliver’s eyes whenever he came close to venturing on an intimacy with anybody, man or woman. Cedric who had told him repeatedly that he enjoyed sex with a man, that he had
loved
it. Look at how his body had responded to it. Obviously, it was something he would never forget, never know again in such vivid physical colours. Cedric had been twenty and Oliver fourteen. As far as he knew then, everything his brother said was true.

They had last met at their father’s funeral, ten years before. It had been possible to avoid any direct conversation, especially as Cedric had seemed more than happy to cooperate with the estrangement. It had been a huge affair, with black horses and a glass-sided carriage, and half the population of Stepney had lined the streets to watch it pass. Prior to that, many years earlier, their mother’s funeral had been only slightly less of an occasion, and again, Oliver had remained in the background, speaking not a word to Cedric, despite the absence of Fraser – claiming not to be able to afford the fare from Australia.

How was Cedric feeling, he wondered. How was he enduring the humiliation, as a slavering public lapped up the details of the case against him? There were other accusers, whose testimony Oliver was not supposed to hear. But none of them were from any later than the nineteen fifties, a fact that Oliver found troubling. He would rather his brother had continued his sinful practices throughout his life, in order to justify this public retribution. If he had stopped of his own accord, packing the whole thing away as a youthful error of judgement, it made Oliver seem to himself as unacceptably vengeful. What good could it do at this stage? Despite the consoling and encouraging words of his lawyer, it seemed perhaps that he was behaving with less than full integrity now.

Cedric had been the top man at an undertaker’s that served the polyglot community to the east of the
City of London. His father had taught him to adapt their services to embrace a variety of ethnicities. When it came down to it, a cremation was a cremation and a burial was a burial, and the trappings around the edges were easily accommodated. The style of coffin, the preparation of the body, the sweetmeats afterwards were the chief variants. Oliver had lived with it all for eighteen years, and remained unsqueamish about death as a result. Death was a much lesser evil than humiliation, pain, cruelty, even ridicule. Death had a dignity all of its own, and Oliver never forgot that.

Inevitably, he was forced to send his mind back through all those long decades, to bodily encounters that no longer seemed real to him. The bodies in question had changed beyond recognition. The urges and responses were long ago lost, leaving traces in the mind, not in the flesh. Perhaps, he thought, he was wrong to seek punishment now. Looking at his brother, he could not but think he was. When he ventured a glance at the avid faces of the public and the reporters, he was in very little doubt indeed.

But it was too late now. The juggernaut was rolling, and even if he backed out and refused to speak, there were others who would say the same things, and lead to the same conclusion. Cedric had, after all, been monstrous. He had raped a lad two years younger than Oliver, predating on him, terrifying him into silence. Malcolm, his name was, and a year ago he had visited Oliver and told the whole dreadful story. They
persuaded themselves that they felt better afterwards, for the sharing of a secret that had most definitely ruined their lives. And there was an even more wretched victim, who Oliver had known at the time was being treated with real cruelty by Cedric. Bertie had been soft in the head, a grinning simpleton who hung about the streets hoping for casual tasks that would earn a shilling now and then. The child of an aged, arthritic mother, he was a figure that should have long ago disappeared from society, a figure classically designed for victimhood. But news headlines right up to the present day indicated otherwise. However the language might change, the pack continued to attack the weak and foolish with appalling viciousness. Cedric had thrust into the boy’s uncomprehending body, telling him it was a secret brotherhood practice that would make him special. Cedric whispered of love as he wounded poor Bertie. Oliver had on one occasion been outside the sordid little shed, listening with helpless horror. He wondered, even then, whether this might be the worst injury of them all – to him, not to Bertie. To render him complicit, because he lacked the courage to even try to prevent the torture.

And then, seemingly overnight, Cedric had reformed. He had pulled himself around, with a gruesome complacency, finding Sylvia and marrying her within a few months of meeting her. If the girl looked pale and sore at times, she never made any complaint. Oliver suspected that Cedric was secretly vile to her, but she
had few options but to endure, and there was money in plenty to assuage any injuries. After twelve years together, they produced a son, Henry, who was raised for ambition and respectability.

Oliver was invited to descend from the witness box and find a seat while proceedings for the day were drawn to a close. He was told to present himself the following morning, ready for the real meat of the business, with questions from prosecution and defence. He listened calmly and tried to imagine the night to come.

As the courtroom slowly emptied, he realised a young black woman was standing in front of him, blocking his way and asking if he was Mr Oliver Meadows. She drew him aside and showed him a card in a plastic holder. ‘Detective Sergeant Button,’ she introduced herself. ‘I’ve been asked to speak to you on behalf of the police in Gloucestershire. Would you come with me, sir, please?’

The bloody house has burnt down
, he thought.
That house-sitter has let me down
. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Let’s get comfy first, shall we?’ she said with a smile. She seemed terribly young, but there was steel in her eye, and a look of total purpose. She took him into a small room that had something about Police on a printed notice on the door.

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ she said. ‘Do you know a young woman by the name of Melissa?’

‘Melissa? Well … yes. I know a Melissa.’ He was alerted instantly, his mind seizing the signals and processing them with great efficiency. ‘Why?’

‘Is she a relative of yours, sir?’

‘I’m afraid I need to know the reason for these questions before I answer that.’ Dignity had always been his refuge. He had learnt from his father that it had a very useful effect on all kinds of people. Calm, quiet dignity, even in the face of calamity, was the order of the day.

‘She’s dead, sir,’ came the unhesitating response. DS Button was not interested in playing games. She plainly had little time to waste.

‘Melissa? Dead? No, no. She can’t be.’

‘She was unlawfully killed in the grounds of your house in Winchcombe.’

‘When?’

‘A day or so ago. There was nothing to identify her, other than her first name. She collected some objects from your house, on Saturday evening, and was killed shortly afterwards.’

The woman was not reading from notes, he realised. She had a blank page in front of her, on which she seemed poised to record his replies to her questions. She had got the details by heart, presumably from someone in Winchcombe. She looked him in the eye, sitting at an angle to him, with no intervening desk of table.

‘Oh, God,’ he groaned, some of the dignity fraying at this news.

‘Who was she, sir? I mean, what was her surname, and where did she live? And how is she connected to you?’

‘Melissa Anderson. She had a flat in Oxford, but she moved around a lot. She left things at my house, and rented out the flat.’

The police officer wrote a few words. ‘What sort of car does – did – she drive?’ This was asked with a little frown, as if Button herself thought it irrelevant, but she’d been ordered to pose it.

‘It’s not a car – it’s a van. A white van, actually. She’ll have parked it up by the church somewhere, because she never liked bringing it down Vineyard Street. She once had trouble turning it round.’

Button made a note. ‘And was she your daughter, sir? Or your niece?’

‘Neither of those, Sergeant. Melissa was my sister.’

‘
Sister
?’ repeated Thea incredulously. ‘But she must be … what … forty years younger than him. She
can’t
be.’

‘Half-sister, of course,’ Gladwin elaborated. ‘Child of a district nurse who visited the Meadows when the wife had a septic leg. Thirty-two years ago. The old man was over seventy …’

Thea tried to do the arithmetic. ‘Nearly eighty, surely,’ she concluded. ‘His eldest son is eighty now. And he’s been dead ten years. Wait a minute,’ she jotted figures on the edge of a convenient newspaper. ‘He must have been born about 1900, and Melissa about 1980. Yes, he’d have been close to eighty. How old was the district nurse?’

‘I have no idea. But it looks as if Oliver was the only one who knew about it. Even the old man was never told, apparently.’

‘So did Melissa really think Fraser was her father? Did she never meet him?’

‘Seems not. Fraser was in Australia the whole time it was happening. We have no idea what she was told about him – or him about her. But we’ll ask Oliver. There’s a lot we need to ask Oliver.’

‘And the older one? Cedric? Did
he
know she existed?’

‘It’s still guesswork, Thea. We couldn’t ask the Met to go into that sort of detail for us. This is
our
investigation.’

‘But you’ve got an identity and maybe a motive,’ Thea realised. ‘The family must have worked out that with all this sordid investigation into Cedric, the business is in real trouble. Somehow Melissa was seen as a threat. Maybe they thought she’d stake a claim to it and make trouble for Cedric’s son. What’s his name?’

‘Henry. Try to keep up, love.’

‘I thought you’d reproach me for running ahead,’ Thea laughed.

‘That too. We’ll speak to Henry, of course. But there’s a million miles to go before it’s settled. Evidence, as you know, is the key difficulty. Without that, motive counts for nothing.’

‘And there’s still the question of Reuben.’

‘Yes, Thea, there is. I think that should have been my line, don’t you? I haven’t forgotten Reuben – or his screaming wife.’

‘So what now?’

‘The boring stuff. Forensics. Background. Who was where and when. The pathologist’s complaining because he’s got a horrible cold and doesn’t think he should be working. His assistant was going to do Reuben, but she’s in the doghouse because she missed some bruises on Melissa’s knee, or something. Patrick gave her the extremities to work on, and she said she didn’t think that extended to knees. You couldn’t make it up, could you? She’s been moaning to me about it this afternoon.’

Thea made a sympathetic gurgle.

‘Actually, she’s pretty useless. Patrick gets furious with her, makes her rewrite all her reports. She’s in a major sulk now.’

‘Oh dear. Nobody thinks of human interest in the mortuary, do they? Maybe it’d make a good TV series.’

‘Very funny. I’ve got to go now. Let me know if … well, you know. If you stumble across a confession or something. Anything you think might come in useful. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Thea agreed, feeling considerably more cheerful than she had for many a long week.

She felt for poor Gladwin, with two murders in one small town where nothing more unsettling than a prolonged pipe-laying project that had closed the main shopping street, thereby wrecking a few businesses, had happened for decades. The CID team in Gloucestershire was modest in size and not unduly
eager to undertake long hours of overtime. Gladwin herself had two young sons and a husband who all enjoyed her company at home. She had transferred from Cumbria and plunged immediately into a convoluted investigation in Temple Guiting, where Thea and her then boyfriend were centrally involved. She was infinitely more sensitive and understanding than any stereotypical police officer Thea had come across. But then, so were Phil Hollis, and her
brother-in
-law James Osborne. Nearly all the detectives Thea knew personally were genuinely good and pleasant people. This was reassuring, since her own daughter Jessica was also a police probationer. Only Jessica’s ex-boyfriend, Detective Sergeant Paul Middleman, had manifested a number of undesirable character traits.

Gladwin would have sent officers to speak to virtually everybody on the south side of the town, as well as putting out requests for information. A police investigation like this depended totally on individual members of the public reporting what they knew. Old vendettas, squabbles between neighbours, overheard threats and invisible connections were all likely to be significant. The picture that began as little more than an amorphous grey cloud had to be given outlines and dimensions and colour in order to explain precisely
why
and
who
and
how
things had happened as they did.

Now, as Thea assembled the known facts that had
emerged in the brief period since she had discovered Melissa’s body, a viable hypothesis emerged. This was tremendous progress. A hypothesis could be tested. It gave direction to any questioning, and comparisons for the forensic activities.
But what about Reuben?
How did he fit the picture? She struggled to remember everything he had said on Sunday afternoon, as he interrupted her lunch and made oddly veiled remarks. He had claimed to know who she was, and to have seen her at Temple Guiting. He eavesdropped on their conversation, and admitted he had heard them talking about Oliver, and Thea’s ignorance as to where he might be. Given the notoriety of Cedric’s trial, it was virtually certain that Reuben himself had known full well where his elderly neighbour had gone. He had been teasing them, somehow. Her mother had reprimanded him, and none of them had liked him.

But Thea had not disliked his wife, Jenny, and she was greatly enamoured of the fabulous dog. Jenny had screamed for ten minutes when told of Reuben’s death. How was that possible? It must be like singing a sustained aria in
Turandot
or something. Surely it hadn’t been real actual loud screaming? The woman hadn’t looked like a screamer. But shock took people in strange ways, few of them predictable.

And as her mother kept saying, Reuben had been far too young to die. And their not having liked him made it worse. Even Thea felt a pang or two of guilt, and guilt was very much not her thing. It was assuaged by
the recollection of the man’s deliberate provocation. He hadn’t
wanted
to be liked. He had been snide and intrusive.
And
, she remembered suddenly, he had not known, at lunchtime on Sunday, about Melissa’s death – unless he was a very good actor. He knew
something
had happened – probably his main reason for approaching them was to find out precisely what – but he still hadn’t ferreted out the central fact, three hours or so after the event. He had been needling Thea about her reputation in the Cotswolds, implying that she was in some way the
cause
of various troubles, but he was doing it idly. Surely nobody could have taken that approach if he’d known that a healthy, happy young woman had been viciously killed in the woods a few yards from his house.

And he had been different in manner later that same day, when the truth had finally filtered through to him. He had seemed more
rehearsed
, along with his wife. They had come to the door offering protection to a vulnerable stranger, quoting their Neighbourhood Watch credentials, and been thoroughly unconvincing.

So – had Reuben killed Melissa, with his wife’s knowledge, and plotted an elaborate smokescreen to throw everyone off the scent? If so, he rapidly got his punishment, as some third person wreaked revenge on him. ‘No, no,’ she muttered aloud. ‘Far too convoluted.’ She very much doubted that anybody could have acted as convincingly as Reuben would have had to, on both occasions she’d met him.

It was close to seven o’clock, and yet again, food was required. Her mother could hardly be expected to work another magic trick in Oliver’s poorly stocked kitchen, but the prospect of going out to eat was deeply uninviting. ‘I wonder if there’s a fish and chip shop,’ she mused. ‘I don’t remember seeing one.’

‘There a Chinese,’ said her mother. ‘I saw it yesterday. We could get a takeaway.’

‘Mmm.’ Thea was unenthusiastic. ‘It’s probably closed on a Monday. So many places are.’

‘That’s what comes of pretending Sunday is just another day. The wretched creatures discover they have to have at least
one
day off, so they just shift it along to Monday. Which is a lot less convenient for the ordinary person.’

‘Depends what it is, I suppose. Museums and places like that ought to open on Sundays, because people like to go at weekends.’

Her mother flapped an exasperated hand. ‘My goodness, Thea, how you do
argue
,’ she complained. ‘Why don’t I go and have a look? It’s less than ten minutes’ walk, and I must admit I’m damned hungry.’

Hungry enough for an expletive, it seemed, even if only a mild one. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she sighed. ‘I think we should probably keep together. I’ll never forgive myself if you get bumped off as well.’

It was meant flippantly, but it seemed her subconscious knew better than that. The words sparked a flicker of fear somewhere in her middle. Somebody
was out there, just beyond her field of vision, killing people. And it was already almost dark. The misery of the shortening days added another depressing strand to her plummeting mood. It would be April before there was any prospect of warm weather and balmy evenings, and even then it was far from assured. April could often be horrible.

‘All right. Have you got any money?’

‘Hardly any. I was planning to go to a cash machine today, and forgot all about it.’

‘Well, there’s one in the square. We’ll pass it on the way to the shops.’

‘We’ll take the dog. She hates being left alone after dark.’

‘Soft thing.’

They had barely closed the door behind them when a figure confronted them on the path leading to Vineyard Street. ‘Hello!’ it greeted them heartily. ‘Just the people I wanted to see.’

It was the Heap woman. Miss Heap, no relation to Uriah, thought Thea wildly. Still wearing the corduroy jacket, it seemed, and still intruding onto delicate territory. But the heartiness proved temporary. ‘I know I’m being a bore, but the fact is …’ the voice faltered, ‘I wanted a bit of company.’

‘But … you
live
here,’ said Thea daftly. ‘I mean, don’t you have friends or family?’ It smacked of far too much desperation that the woman should seek out complete strangers.

‘Friends and family are unequal to the moment,’ came the reply. ‘They are all bewildered or indignant, when I’m searching for some sense.’

Thea had come across women like this before. The Cotswolds in particular seemed rich with them. They were not always horsey; neither were they always reliable. But Thea liked them, and knew them to be capable of great surprises. She liked their straight talking and the sort of bone-deep courage that enabled them to live alone facing an unappealing future. She sometimes imagined that her fate was to become one of them, in about fifteen years’ time.

‘We’re on a quest for some sustenance,’ said Thea’s mother, matching the woman’s diction and manner with impressive accuracy. ‘Do you know whether the Chinese place is open this evening?’

‘It is not. But there’s a sort of van arrangement in the car park that sells kebabs. I can recommend their prawn concoction. It’s astonishingly delicious, and costs a mere four ninety-nine. I’ll escort you, shall I? It’s a bit tricky in the twilight.’

‘Sounds ideal,’ said Thea. ‘Lead on.’

They crossed the high street and entered a smaller street that Thea had not noticed before. A sign informed them that it was Cowl Lane, and it sloped upwards. In the poor light, Thea could see no buildings of interest; nothing that might provide material for idle conversation.

Their escort threw occasional nervous glances at
the spaniel, and Thea diagnosed a familiar dog phobia that she knew better than to remark on. As with many Cotswold settlements, the levels were unpredictable, and although this one was parallel to North Street, it felt higher. ‘The abbey used to be just over there,’ their guide informed them, waving to the left. ‘It’s fanciful, I suppose, but I often feel its presence, especially at this time of day. Every stone was removed, you know. There’s nothing left to see. And yet it was a major centre in its day. People came from all over Mercia – and beyond – on pilgrimage. All roads led to Winchcombe at one time. Now you’re lucky if anybody beyond Gloucester has even heard of it.’

‘It goes like that,’ said Thea. ‘Reputations rise and fall.’

‘Look at Tewkesbury,’ added her mother.

‘Indeed,’ said Priscilla Heap, whose Christian name Thea had only just remembered. She added a little snort of amusement, as if belatedly grasping the point of a joke. ‘Although I’m not quite sure that Tewkesbury was ever …?’

‘Oh, it was. King Kenulf was based there, and he was
tremendously
important in the seventh century,’ Maureen asserted.

‘Mother, you amaze me,’ said Thea. ‘I never thought you were interested in history. But wasn’t Kenulf here in Winchcombe? You’ve got them confused.’

Maureen paused, a finger to her lips. ‘Have I? I was
sure
…’ She turned to Priscilla for support. ‘Which is it, then?’

‘I fancy your daughter’s in the right. But there’s barely ten miles between them, so I expect they all moved around a bit, and most of it’s legend, anyway,’ said Priscilla kindly. ‘You’re right that this area was very important, in any case. Up to the fifteenth century, at least. Don’t forget the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471.’

‘How could I forget that?’ laughed Maureen uncertainly.

‘There you are, Mum,’ Thea said bracingly. ‘All that stuff about the war that you and Fraser have been coming out with. That’s in the history books now.’

‘Pity I can’t remember more about it, then,’ sighed Maureen. ‘But let’s not get started on that.’

They found the mobile kebab van with a small crowd of customers waiting for their food. ‘Ten minutes,’ said the small man inside. A woman was energetically chopping and slicing and sizzling onions behind him. The smells were unbearably enticing.