The Burning (47 page)

‘My daughter was a troubled child. She was born having a tantrum and never stopped. The doctors told me some are like that. They promised me she’d grow out of it, but when every day
starts and ends with a screaming fit you struggle to believe it. In fact, you start to think that you’ve been cursed, or visited by some evil spirit. I loved her. Of course, I did. I loved
her dearly . . . I just felt so helpless. So inadequate. If a mother can’t even offer solace to a crying child, what use is she?’ She paused and took in a breath, the effort of which
seemed to drain what little strength she had left. ‘She’d been having hysterics and acting up all morning. I was exhausted, my nerves were in pieces. I was trying to make lunch, peeling
potatoes at the sink; there were boiling pans on the stove and Susie made a grab for one of them. She
knew
that frightened me more than anything else.’ Clare briefly closed her eyes.
‘It wasn’t even conscious. Just a reflex. I slapped her cheek and she fell and hit her head. It raised a slight bump but that was all. She was perfectly fine afterwards. She even ate
her lunch . . . But a short while later she turned pale and started to fit. Two minutes. That’s all it took. She went limp and died in my arms. Even if I had called an ambulance I don’t
believe they would have saved her. It wasn’t my fault, it could have happened to anyone, but somehow I couldn’t see it that way. And I couldn’t face explaining what I had done to
Philip. Which is why I took the coward’s way out, that wasn’t a way out at all.’

Jenny said nothing. Despite the oppressive warmth of the room, a cold sensation crept over the surface of her skin.

Clare’s voice took on a renewed clarity now that she had finally given voice to the truth. ‘The only person I felt knew, really
knew
, was Kelly. How she did, I couldn’t
tell you. She recognized something in me, I suppose. She never said a word, but she played on it. She taunted me – a glance here, a gesture there. That’s why I looked the other way when
she and Philip – ’ She paused to swallow. Jenny saw the movement of every muscle in her painfully scrawny neck. ‘It was her way of telling me, I suppose. Telling me that she could
do whatever she liked, because she knew.’ Clare’s face twisted into an expression of hatred that seemed both to consume and explain her. ‘It was an accident, an
accident
. I
loved my daughter just like any other mother, but that woman tormented me for years. She revelled in it.’

Jenny glanced at the tray of medicines sitting on the dressing table and reminded herself that Clare was under the influence of heavy opiates, and that nothing coming from her mouth could
possibly be classified as reliable evidence. She would need some further proof.

‘What did you do with Susie’s body, Mrs Ashton?’

Clare dipped her head. ‘I wrapped it very carefully and I put it in a bag. Then I hid it next door, in the church, before I called the police.’

‘Where in the church?’

‘There’s an alcove with a wooden statue of a Madonna and child. The stone shelf it sits on slides away. One of the old churchwardens told me about it – Mrs Dawson, the one who
gossiped to me all those years ago about Ed Morgan. It was where they hid the silver during the Civil War. It was a burial of sorts – the best I could do in the circumstances. I go in there
often to offer a prayer. And to ask
why
?’

‘And she’s still there?’

Clare nodded. ‘I’ve never disturbed her.’

Jenny heard the nurse emerge from the kitchen and start up the stairs.

‘I’ve just one favour to ask of you,’ Clare said. ‘Can you keep this to yourself until – ’ Her eyes flitted nervously to the door at which the nurse would at
any moment appear.

‘No, Mrs Ashton,’ Jenny said, rising from her chair, ‘you know I can’t keep those kind of secrets. And I think that’s why you chose to tell me now, isn’t
it?’

The nurse bustled through the doorway with a tray of tea and a breezy smile.

‘Everything all right?’ she enquired cheerfully.

Clare kept her gaze fixed on Jenny, then gave a hint of a nod before sinking back on her pillow.

‘Yes,’ Jenny said as she turned to go, more than grateful to be leaving Blackstone Ley for the very last time. ‘Much better.’

Writing is a selfish job. Each morning I sit at my desk and busy myself with this and that, while waiting – sometimes for several hours – for the real world to fade
and the fictional one to take over. And so it continues, month after month. At the best of times this can stretch the patience of all but the most saintly partners and children. This year was a
tough one, with illness in the family, and I have never felt that tension between the fictional and real worlds more keenly. There was a long stretch of time during which I fantasized about having
a mechanical, untaxing profession, which would allow my thoughts to remain with those closest to me. Thankfully the fantasy passed and I accepted that life simply conspires to test us in the most
unexpected ways, and shuts down the escape routes while it’s at it. We are left with no choice but to keep on through the narrow tunnel until we reach the end, which, ultimately, is the best
thing.

I want to say a heartfelt thank you to my editors, Maria Rejt and Sophie Orme, for cutting me all the slack I needed through a difficult time, and for being unfailingly kind, supportive and
heroically elastic with the deadlines. My agent, Zoe Waldie, has also been a steady, understanding and reassuring presence throughout, for which I am hugely grateful. As always, the whole team at
my publishers, Macmillan, has been a delight to work with. In particular, special thanks to Katie James, Geoff Duffield, Jodie Mullish and Will Atkins.

Lastly, thanks to my family for putting up with a husband and father who shuts himself in his study and mutters to himself all day, emerging only to tell bad jokes and eat all the biscuits.
Couldn’t do it without you.

October 2013

M. R. Hall’s Coroner Jenny Cooper series

The Coroner

The Disappeared

The Redeemed

The Flight

The Chosen Dead

The Burning

First published 2014 by Mantle

This electronic edition published 2014 by Mantle
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-230-76128-5

Copyright © M. R. Hall 2014

The right of M. R. Hall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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