The Celibate Mouse (7 page)

‘So, how come you broke up?’ She is not going to let it go.

‘David decided he would sleep better at his mate’s place, which didn’t help me one little bit. On his days off, he did traffic duty for private contractors or security for industrial companies. Even I knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep working such long hours with so little sleep and I couldn’t seem to cope.’ Remembering that terrible time brings the heartache surging back.

‘Don’t cry, it’s all in the past now.’ Marli hands me a tissue, as the tears pool in my eyes.
I’m so weak and needy. Stop this!

‘I need to make it plain that it was not the fault of you and your sister. The number of times I went to the doctor and was told to, ‘Pull yourself together, mother. Lots of women have worse problems than yours!’ I blame myself for not standing up to him and demanding proper help, but post-natal depression was regarded as a figment of a woman’s imagination in those days.’

‘But what happened with David? Did he come back?’

‘Yes, a few days later, but not until after the grand finale. I had a particularly awful night with you both and “lost it” about two in the morning. I packed you both into the car, with bottles and nappies, and raced over to his mate’s house.’

Marli leans forward in anticipation.

‘I screeched up to the gate, jumped out of the car and tore up the path. I didn’t even think. I picked up an aluminium dog’s dish from the porch not realising it was full of water, and hurled it at the window. I was so mad it went up in the air, hit the porch light, which was on and the electricity sparked like fireworks. It was like a bomb going off! The house blacked out because the fuses were blown.’

‘You didn’t!’ Marli is suitably impressed.

‘I did. It shocked me senseless. There was a sort of scuttling inside the house and David and his mate burst out of the door in their under-daks with their guns drawn, shouting ‘Police! Get down, get down!’

‘What did you do, Mum?’

I had actually shouted, ‘Piss off, you bastard!’ but wasn’t about to admit that to Marli.

‘Well, everything was happening. All around the street lights were coming on. I refused to back down and threatened to turn the hose on them next, if David didn’t come home.’

David marched me down the path, threw me in the car and shouted at me to stay put or he’d personally shoot me. He ran back into the house to get dressed and take me home. Right then, a woman, I never knew if it was Cherie, but David swore it was Mick’s girl, drove a car out of the garage and took off.

‘My mother, the gladiator!’ Marli is laughing.

In retrospect it sounds funny, but I quickly remind her it was loss of self control and nothing to be proud of. ‘I was stupid, love, and I ruined any chance of a reconciliation.’

‘Did he come back home?’

‘Yes, but not to move back in.’ I remember how, a day or so later, he’d propped his gorgeous bum against the kitchen bench, arms folded defensively across his chest and watched me folding mountains of clean laundry.

‘What are you going to do?’ he’d asked briskly, not about to take responsibility for any of the chaos.

‘How would I know? I’m stuck here with the kids and you’re away doing God knows what with whom!’ I’d snarled.

He stayed silent for awhile, before announcing that we would separate to, ‘get our heads together.’ Even after all these years, I can remember the utter despair of that moment.

I sigh, and look sadly at my daughter. ‘If only I’d been rational and calm, I might have saved the situation, and if someone had been available to advise me. But I was so angry and too exhausted to cope. David wouldn’t consider counselling because it was “your problem, Susan,” I discovered later that David’s station OIC had tried to talk to him. The Superintendant told him to take me to the doctor and insist I be given a check-up and medication to help, but David was so fed up he wouldn’t listen. I, of course, was too afraid to ask for anything from the doctor, because he had already made me feel so guilty and stupid.’

‘Mum, that’s terrible. Even I know about post-natal depression. We learned about it in school. And then David left again?’

‘Yes.’

She’s silent for a moment before asking the inevitable question. ‘Mum, would you marry David again if you had the chance?’

‘No way. No chance. Never.’ I jump to my feet and charge to the window facing the mountains in order to hide my flushed face from Marli. It is late afternoon. I lean on the broad sill, striving for calm as I look at the shoulder of the mountain with the sun glowing on the granite outcrop. A flash of light half-way up the steep slope flickers and then beams again. Shock sends ripples of fear through me.

Sensing something wrong, Marli jumps up and comes over to me. ‘Mum? What is it?’

‘Turn around slowly and wander to the kitchen. Don’t look at the mountains. Go now.’ I move casually away from the window. ‘Pick up the binoculars on the table as you go and keep walking.’

She picks up the binoculars and tries not to run out of the room. I skirt around the settee, keeping close to the wall as I follow. Marli hands me the binoculars with a questioning look. I slide into the laundry and position myself where the sunlight can’t bounce off the lens and reflect back to the mountain. I focus the glasses on the spot where I saw the light. My heart rate picks up and the skin on the back of my neck prickles.

Someone has a telescope trained on the house.

CHAPTER 10

Making A Good Impression

The Policeman

Monday: afternoon.

J
ohn Glenwood had slept fitfully for a couple of hours, before throwing off the covers, dressing and heading for the station to write the report on his attendance at the hospital crime scene. After he’d handed it in, he fended off the press who were camped outside the police station and set off down the street, ostensibly on patrol. In reality, he used the exercise to try to contact the person whom he thought had been at the dog trials. But each time he’d dialed, the message bank answered.

In all the places he visited, the supermarket, the greengrocers, the hardware, people were edgy and agog with the news of the murders. Some, he suspected, were trying not to appear too inquisitive in case he assumed their interest meant they knew more than they should. The women were afraid to ask questions for fear of risking a rebuff, but babbled incoherently about how dreadful it was: ‘Thank goodness, Jack didn’t breed,’ was one camp’s take on it. The other school favoured the, ‘Poor Penelope, what a
pity
she has no children’ approach. The men had a different perspective: ‘Jack got caught on the wrong nest at last.’

John worked his way through town, listening and storing in his mind apparently insignificant pieces of information. Frustration built; would he
never
get a reply to his messages?

When his mobile phone rang in the mid- afternoon, he answered eagerly. After the usual greetings he asked the caller if the long-distance relative had actually been present at the sheepdog championship and if so his caller had seen what happened?

The reply came after a moment of silence. Yes, the relative had been there, but he himself had not witnessed anything untoward and he’d been as shocked as everyone else when Jack collapsed. Glenwood felt disappointed. He’d banked on receiving useful information. Then he remembered something vital. ‘We believe Jack was shot from the eastern side of the stands near the announcer’s box. You were standing there when I saw you.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’m sure you’re mistaken. I was near the announcer’s box earlier, but I wasn’t anywhere near it at the time. But now, I come to think of it, I do remember seeing ... look, give me a few hours to check something out and I’ll ring you back. No, wait a minute. How about you pop into town tonight, join me for a drink and we’ll do some catching up? Seven-thirty? I should have some news for you then.’

Glenwood scrubbed his hand over his eyes. Something didn’t feel right, but exhaustion muddled his thoughts. He almost gave an excuse that he couldn’t come because of being on duty, but Nola babysitting their grandchildren in their daughter’s home put paid to that. The image of a silent house with television shows punctuated by canned laughter seemed unappealing. He wasn’t actually on duty, so he could have a quick kip if he went home now ...

‘Right, you’re on! See you at seven-thirty, mate.’ He snapped his phone shut and headed purposefully for the main street. Pleasure flooded through him at the prospect of an afternoon nap and an unexpected night out. He dismissed a moment’s unease and doubled back to the station, taking a shortcut in front of the school playground where he looked forward to playing Santa in a couple of months time.

He glanced at his watch and realised he had time for a cup of tea, but hesitated, not wanting to run into the CIB team until he had some useful information to impart. When he spotted DI Maguire’s car heading in the direction of the hospital, he quickened his pace. If he hurried, he’d get his tea and, if there were any left, a couple of biscuits.

He greeted the young constables at the front desk, who were flirting with a young woman making up her face for her driver’s licence photo, and went through to the kitchen at the back of the station, passing the conference room, now the Incident Room. Relieved only by a photo of a much younger Queen on the wall, it was now decorated with several whiteboards, on which were diagrams, timelines, lists and photos of Jack and Edna. The extra chairs borrowed from the town cultural centre would be scattered around the room, the table littered with mugs ringed with coffee scum and three computers bulging with data. Folders and paperwork were piled at one end of the table.

Excitement flooded through him. For the first time in his career, he would be contributing what he hoped would be a vital clue to two high profile murder cases.

***

The killer needed to do something.

Fast.

He’d been on borrowed time as soon as John Glen-wood mentioned spotting him near the announcer’s tower. Any time now, Glenwood would put two and two together. The man might be a country copper heading for retirement, but he wasn’t a complete fool.

He willed his mind to quell the rage bubbling within, to remain calm and think logically about how to save the situation. Perhaps he might jump in the car and head out to the Glenwood’s house? No, Nola would probably be home. An idea rose, like pond-life in the scum of his mind and the solution fell into place.

The senior constable would have to travel along the country road to town. The sun still set early, so less chance of being seen. Of course, there was the problem of
lack
of light, but just how to accomplish it?

He gazed around the room, seeking something– anything. A small box directly in front of where he was sitting caught his eye. Ah. He pulled it down off the top of the cupboard, dumped it on the table and stood chewing his lip for a few minutes. Yes! Glenwood, the “punctuality freak,” would leave home at exactly six forty-five and arrive right on seven-thirty.

He remembered the bend with a huge granite rock stuck up right next to the inside gutter, where the camber sloped to the outside edge, with a steep slope straight down to the creek bed. He knew it well. The locals had complained for years about that section. There’d been several accidents, particularly by teenagers driving too fast, and he had been as outraged as the rest of the community, but now he blessed the parsimonious inertia of the Main Roads Department.

Thanks to the copper’s penchant for punctuality, he could calculate almost to the moment when the Land Rover would arrive at the rock. With a little regret, for he’d always liked the man, he took a small item out of the box and slipped it into his pocket. Plenty of time to get into position. He would park a couple of kilometres away–no, he would ride his mountain bike. With the road racer’s regalia, helmet and goggles, no one would recognise him and the police would never find the lone cyclist who may have “seen something.”

‘Poor Nola–no caravan holiday for you, sweetheart,’ he chuckled. John Glenwood’s life was irrelevant in this high-stakes game, where a stupid man’s ego and a pious old woman’s words could have led to humiliation and disgrace. By morning another problem should be solved. After that, he’d follow up on the Prescott woman, who’d been visiting Edna the day she’d ‘swallowed her pillow.’

His safety depended on
nothing
being left to chance

CHAPTER 11

Requiem for Edna

Sir Arthur and Lady Ferna Robinson

Monday: late afternoon.

‘A
rthur, go and put your teeth in!’ snapped Lady Ferna Robinson, eyeing her elderly husband over the cornflakes. She needed answers from him, but couldn’t understand what he was saying. She was prepared to wait for him to go to the bathroom and fiddle with his dentures, but not to wait while he meandered around the house looking at books on his way back to the dining room.

She was therefore rather surprised, when he fished a large white handkerchief out of his pocket in which nestled a pair of grinning dentures. He proceeded to fit them carefully into his mouth, to the accompaniment of a good deal of clacking.

As soon as he’d finished, Ferna persisted. ‘Arthur, what are we going to do about Edna?’

‘Why, nothing, dear. She’s dead.’

‘You know what I mean! Don’t play games, Arthur. You may be eighty years old, but you’ve still got all your marbles.’ Edna had let the side down badly by bringing wretched media clamouring at the front gate for “quotes.” Two of them had even climbed the fence and sneaked up to the house, and taken photos of Arthur in his dressing-gown with Genevieve wrapped around his neck like a fox fur, until Ferna had the gardener set the dog on them.

She barrelled on. ‘Of course we’ll have the funeral in St Matthews, a requiem mass, and then afternoon tea in the church hall. After all, it’s too far for people to come out here and Edna belonged to the Country Women’s Association.’ Her sister-in-law had been a very popular member of the blue-rinse set. ‘I might give Marigold Fensborough a ring. She thinks she’s so wonderful being the President of CWA, so let her work for it. They may as well cater this, after all Edna’s been a member for God knows how many years.’

Anger shot through her, when she remembered how she had been pipped in the voting for president. Then her mind swerved to the matter in hand. She would have to contribute to the wake, but what? Sandwiches would be easy and could be frozen beforehand. ‘Mark will help me plan the service at St Matthews. Arthur can get the drink organised.’ Edna, thought Ferna grimly, would get a better send-off than she deserved.

Arthur frowned. A requiem mass was too–Roman. Ferna was so High Anglican that she was practically knocking on the gates of Heaven. He decided to throw his weight around. ‘The service will be the ordinary funeral one and the wake will not be in the church hall, Ferna. It’s fitting that the wake for my sister be held in our family home.’

Once Arthur had made a decision, his wife had the very own hell’s job of changing his mind. Ferna, who had been enjoying a pleasurable vision of herself playing the ‘grande dame’ to the sycophants who came to pay their respects–
‘So good of you to come’
– snapped back to attention and sighed. ‘I’ll order flowers and talk to the undertakers.’

‘Hadn’t you better find out when the police are going to release her body?’ asked Arthur, dryly. Ferna shuddered.

In the excitement of planning a central role for herself, she had almost forgotten why Edna was dead. ‘Well, I’m sure no one we know could have been responsible. She must have upset someone ... perhaps from the Guild.’

Arthur looked at her over the top of his spectacles. ‘The
Ladies
Guild? Don’t be ridiculous, my dear. One of the family did it. There’s no one else who would bother!’

Furious, Ferna heaved her not inconsiderable bulk out of her chair and towered over him. ‘Who then? Constance and Grace are in their dotage, Kathleen’s a weakling and always has been and John wouldn’t do
anything
without your permission.’ Her crisp tones uncharitably disposed of her elderly siblings-in-law. ‘What I can’t understand is why? What could Edna have possibly done to make someone murder her, apart from driving him or her stark staring mad.’ Suddenly she paused and stared right into his very soul. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you Arthur?’

Arthur looked at his cranky wife without much pleasure. ‘Certainly not. I don’t know why someone would want to murder my sister, but the fact remains that someone did. You can speak to Mark if you want to, but nothing is going to happen until her body is released. And
I’ll
decide what form the service will take and where it will be held.’

Ferna stood motionless for a long moment. When Arthur spoke in that tone of voice, even she dared not cross him. Arthur was one of the executors, but she hadn’t been able to discover the contents of Edna’s will. Not that they’d be likely to get anything. There was the grand-daughter after all, being as Edna’s second husband was long dead and Edna’s son by him had very deep pockets. Of course, that second wife of his, Beatrice...it didn’t bear thinking about. ‘I’ll be in the garden if you want me. And by the way, there’s cat-sick on the hall carpet,’ she snapped, glaring at her husband’s feline companion who lay in the patch of sunlight under the window, staring at her with downright malevolence.

When the kitten had arrived as a stray and attached herself to Arthur, Ferna had become involved in a tug-of-war for her husband’s attentions, from which the cat emerged triumphant. Ferna swore that Genevieve distinctly resembled Lily, Arthur’s alcoholic bitch of a first wife. The moment she left the dining room, Genevieve would be up in Arthur’s lap, eating from his plate. She winked insolently as Ferna swept past on her way out of the room, fully aware that both her husband and his cat were equally pleased to see the back of her.

As he got up from the table and went in search of a dust pan, brush and floor cloths to clean up after his cat, Arthur dallied with the possibility of hiring someone to murder Ferna. To his knowledge, she had not spent so much as a second to grieve his sister’s death, a woman she’d known for more than fifty years.

Not for the first time, Arthur rued the day he’d made Ferna his second wife. He should have made do with a mistress, but then he remembered what she was like when he’d met her–elegant, commanding and the perfect hostess. And then there was the sex. Twenty-five years ago, Ferna could screw like a crazed weasel when she put her mind to it. He lowered himself onto arthritic knees and proceeded to clean the hall carpet of the clump of furball stuck in the fibres.

Genevieve wreathed herself around his hands, delighted to have caused trouble yet again. He made a mental note to groom her, but then decided to get her clipped. After lunch he’d put her in the cat box and take her, screaming, into town to the pet grooming parlour.

He didn’t want to remain under the scrutiny of Detective Inspector Maguire and his minions. He had a fair idea why his nephew had been murdered– unless he’d finally diddled with the wrong man’s wife or daughter. But if that were the case, Jack would have been shot or bashed up years ago. Jack and Edna had left immediately after the family meeting and were known to have talked since. Normally Edna wouldn’t have associated with Jack, but they’d been adamant that ... but who could have actually killed the man? Arthur didn’t really want to know.

Cleaning completed, he put the gear away and wandered down the tarmac pathway into the garden to sit on a seat in the shade. Genevieve jumped into his lap and puddled energetically for awhile before settling. Minutes later, Arthur and his cat were snoring in unison.

The Robinson family were the first to settle in the district. Arthur’s great-great-grandfather had brought his bride out on the train in 1903 to the small rough-hewn hut where the dynasty began. From those first hard years sawmilling and dairying, the tiny farm had grown from a small crop pasture to a sprawling, cattle and grain-growing property. Arthur’s land stretched across the undulating hills, most of it was leased due to its owner’s age. A company had planted a tree plantation on one half, which brought in good money. A neighbour leased the rest. The noughts on the quarterly cheques were very comforting.

The small acreage around the house was more than sufficient for Arthur’s garden and Ferna to flaunt her importance. Arthur roused slightly, remembering the 1940s when he’d returned from fighting in New Guinea, starved from being in a prisoner of war camp. But it wasn’t long before he could manage to work his cattle and take care of the family. ‘Yes, take care of the family in the best way possible ... please God the police will never find out what happened ... ’

‘Arthur!
Arthur!
Where are you?’ Ferna’s playful ‘come out, dear, wherever you are’ tones penetrated his sleep with all the gentleness of a buzz saw, a sure indication that visitors had arrived. Genevieve tore the fabric of his pants as she bolted for cover amongst the rhododendrons; Arthur wished he could follow her. He struggled to his feet, still half asleep as Ferna hove into view waving a trowel, smiling viciously under a huge floppy gardening hat. ‘She looks like a constipated sheep,’ he thought spitefully.

A tall figure loomed behind her. Detective Inspector Maguire stood just outside the kitchen door. Even though he was not currently guilty of anything, the elderly knight felt his insides curdle as he got slowly to his feet.
No one must ever know. Had Edna said anything about
–

‘Sir Arthur?’

The detective came toward him, holding out his hand. The world swam around him, like heat haze coming off the bitumen. Arthur struggled to focus, but then his body started to dissolve. He just had time to register Ferna and Maguire’s shocked expressions, before he sank into darkness.

***

At first he thought he was still sitting in the garden, but this idea was dispelled as Ferna’s beady eyes glared down at him as he lay under a fluorescent light. He didn’t dare look around in case he was at the undertakers. Cautiously, his fingers fluttered around. He was laying on something hard–not stainless steel–a padded board. Then a man’s face replaced Ferna’s.

‘He’s awake.’ He felt his wrist being picked up, his pulse taken.

‘Where am I?’

‘You’re in the hospital, Sir Arthur. You’ve had a little turn.’ The face metamorphosed into ten-year old, Doctor Jason Hargreaves. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll have you up and about in no time and home again.’

He turned away for a moment to repeat his reassurances. ‘Don’t worry, Lady Robinson, you’ll be able to take him home again soon.’
Oh please God, no ...not with Ferna.

Arthur wished they’d all go away and leave him in blessed peace. Weariness slackened his muscles. Somewhere a machine beeped. His limbs felt so heavy, all he wanted to do was sleep.

As he drifted into unconsciousness again, he recalled Edna’s death in the Close Observation Ward and hoped he wasn’t occupying the very bed she’d died on.

But of course, he was.