The Sting of Death (13 page)

Drew was limp with exhaustion, having dug both graves by early afternoon. 

Maggs looked up at him fleetingly as he came into the office, and wrinkled her nose. ‘You smell,’ she told him.

‘Well, let’s hope we don’t get any visitors, then,’ he puffed, wiping his face with a hanky. ‘I’ll cool down in a minute.’

‘You should have left it until this evening,’ she chided him. ‘Instead of choosing the hottest part of the day.’

‘Never mind. It’s done now.’ He flopped into a chair and waited for his breath to return to normal. Maggs seemed restless. ‘You did know the Frenches want to use the church tomorrow,
didn’t you?’ she said. ‘And there’s that flower festival thing at the weekend; they want us out by three at the latest, so they can get started on the decoration and stuff.’

Drew sighed. ‘I wish they wouldn’t.’

‘What?’

‘Keep wanting to use the church, especially in summer. We can quite easily do it all at the graveside just as meaningfully.’

‘The Frenches think there might be fifty people,’ she observed. ‘Personally, I’d rather they used the church.’

‘In America they cheerfully get a hundred or more to the graveside.’

‘With rows of chairs and a catafalque all laid out on artificial grass,’ she snapped back. ‘And probably only in places where they can be sure it won’t rain.’

‘Really? They really use a catafalque?’

She leant back in her chair. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ she admitted. ‘That’s how it looks in the films sometimes. If you don’t like using the church, you should crack on with building us a chapel of our own.’

Drew sighed again. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times we can’t afford it,’ he said. ‘And anyway, it’s not the way I want it to go. Once we had a chapel, there’d be “Abide With Me” and fancy coffins, and processions and it’d all be back to the bad old ways.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Maggs said sternly. ‘It’s up to you to offer them alternatives.’

It was a recurring disagreement, that never seemed to move any further forward. Drew was aware of being unreasonable in his desire to keep the burials as plain as he possibly could. He firmly believed that the majority of church services meant nothing whatsoever to the people involved and were little more than a nod towards the old conventions. He wanted people to construct their own heartfelt ceremonies in the open air, with minimal fanfare. However much Maggs might try to convince him that most people just weren’t up to such creativity, he stubbornly resisted the idea of building their own chapel. The furthest he was prepared to go was some kind of
open-sided
shelter where people could gather when the weather was seriously inclement.

But his heart wasn’t in the argument today. He couldn’t shake off the memory of Justine Pereira, bruised and scratched and telling such a wild tale of what had befallen her. He’d stayed until well past nine, before realising he’d already been there far too long and should leave mother and daughter to resolve their differences as best they might. He’d barely managed to convey any of the story to Karen before she zonked off to sleep. Now Maggs was too busy to talk about it, too. She was annoyed with him for failing
to pass the accusations against Penn to her new police friend.

Normally he would be more than happy to have two funerals to prepare for. Maggs had taken on most of the work for the burial of Mr French, while Drew handled Mrs Stacey. The old lady with the unsuccessful operation was a sad story, which he’d heard now from both the doctor and the lady’s daughter. She wasn’t so old, either – seventy-two, with all sorts of hopes and plans still for the future. She had heard Drew speak a year or so ago, when he’d been actively promoting his services to a variety of clubs and lunch groups, and had made sure that her daughter knew she’d be wanting a place in his cemetery when the time came. Efficiently, she had noted the phone number and included her wishes in her will. Everything was straightforward, apart from a continuing small doubt as to the rightness of proceeding without a post mortem. It happened regularly enough for him not to be tempted to raise any direct questions, however. The doctor was the final arbiter; it was his job to distinguish natural from unnatural deaths. But since the trauma and general loss of trust arising from the Harold Shipman story, most doctors were treading more warily. Everyone was now aware of just how simple it was for them to certify a death as unsuspicious, and it
was a matter of self-protection to remain well on the right side of the law.

Mrs Stacey was a sad case for a number of reasons and Drew sighed as he envisaged the scanty attendance at the graveside the following day. An unmarried daughter, busy with a
go-getting
career; two or three friends, confused and perhaps resentful about the unorthodox funeral; a nephew who had phoned to ask for directions, and Maggs. Drew had offered to say a few words as the coffin was lowered, and the daughter had gratefully accepted. ‘It will seem awfully strange,’ she’d admitted. ‘No music or anything.’

Drew was only faintly optimistic that she would in the event find it a genuinely moving experience. It didn’t sound as if her mother had managed to convince her that this was a far better way of ending her time on earth than some scrappy formulaic cremation.

The day continued cool, with a light breeze and grey skies. Drew found himself thinking about Justine Pereira and the bizarre story she’d told the previous evening. He wondered how she and Roma were getting along now, and whether they’d come to any accommodation. He found himself stabbed by compunction at having concealed the latest twist in the tale from Detective Sergeant Cooper, who obviously trusted him and
wanted his co-operation. Drew had not missed the spark that had been struck between Maggs and the tall policeman and felt almost fatherly towards her as a result. She could do worse, he told himself, having watched her work through a number of unsatisfactory boyfriends, not one of them lasting more than a few weeks.

‘I’m going to phone Roma and see how they’re getting on,’ he announced suddenly, making Maggs jump.

‘What?’ She was carefully marking the positions of the two new graves on their chart of the burial ground, using a ruler to keep it accurate to the nearest centimetre. ‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ she reproached.

‘Sorry. I was thinking about Justine.’

‘Oh. So was I, sort of. Make them tell the police, then, will you? It’s their duty, after all. You can’t just leave them in the dark. It’s perverting the course of justice.’ She uttered the phrase in a sing-song, enjoying the sound of it.

‘I’ll tell them I think I’ll have to say something if they don’t. And then you can call your friendly detective, if you like.’ His generosity was amply rewarded by the sudden twinkle in her eye.

‘Right then,’ she said carelessly.

‘And I suppose I ought also to be a bit firm with them about the missing child? Try to get them to take it seriously.’

‘How do you know they won’t?’

He rubbed his neck again. ‘I don’t, do I? It’s just a feeling. I mean, it seems as if we’re the only people who know the whole story. Everyone else is working in the dark.’

‘We don’t know the whole story,’ she corrected him. ‘We don’t know where the little girl’s got to. And when the police find out that Justine’s turned up without her, they’re going to be taking her disappearance a lot more seriously.’

‘Yes,’ Drew agreed, with a frown. ‘Of course they are. With good reason. Somehow I didn’t see it like that. Bloody hell, Maggs, they won’t be happy about this, will they? With me not saying anything this morning.’

‘Better late than never then,’ she observed. ‘Shouldn’t I just phone Den right away, before you talk to Roma?’

‘Go on, then. Make his day.’

Penn repacked hurriedly, adding clothes and necessities to cover more days than she had originally planned for. She’d have to rush for the train now. If it was true that Justine had turned up, then things had obviously changed dramatically and she had to be prepared. There was really no knowing what might happen next or where she stood. Even without the disquieting rune reading, she was clearly in trouble.

With everything so uncertain, it seemed wise to remain out of sight for the time being. There was only one person who might safely be approached at this stage, and even he might be unpredictable. All the same, the idea struck her that a brief call to him wouldn’t hurt. She keyed in the number and waited with crossed fingers for him to be the one to pick up at the other end.

She was in luck. ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Look, I’m going away for a bit. Down to the coast. It’s all getting much too messy. You can keep in touch on my mobile number, okay?’

Having replaced the phone, she stood for a moment, waiting for the trembling to subside.

The train was surprisingly prompt in arriving and she joined the short queue for taxis just outside the station. She knew of a hotel that would probably have a room, even in the high season. They wouldn’t remember her – it had been three years since she last stayed there, during a dutiful weekend escorting her maternal grandmother on a trip to the seaside. The old lady had been in her late eighties and had died not long afterwards. Penn had rather resented the task, demanding to know why her mother or aunt couldn’t have done it instead. But Helen had conveniently developed sciatica, and everyone knew there was no chance of Roma
putting herself out in such a cause. Roma had been impatient of her mother’s forgetfulness and deafness and constant need to go to the lavatory.

The hotel was set two or three streets back from the sea front, in a tree-lined avenue filled with similar establishments. It was an ideal place to hide, although Penn was some decades younger than almost all the other residents. She smiled self-consciously at the girl on Reception. ‘I’m hoping to persuade my father to join me here,’ she explained. ‘But there’s no sense in forcing him. I take it you could find a room for him if he suddenly puts in an appearance?’

‘I’m sure we can manage something, Madam. How long would that be for, do you think?’

‘That’s a bit difficult to say at the moment. I’ll be here for a week or so, I suppose. Am I being a terrible nuisance?’ she simpered. ‘I’m afraid it’s one of those complicated family things.’

The receptionist became confiding. ‘To be honest, we’ve got quite a few empty rooms. People don’t come to the seaside the way they used to. If it wasn’t for the weekend conferences, we’d be virtually empty most of the year.’

‘Oh dear,’ Penn sympathised. ‘But lucky for me. I’ll keep you posted, anyway.’

‘Thank you, Madam.’

Den was a few miles away from Gladcombe when his mobile warbled. Assuming it was the DI or someone from the station, he flicked his hands-free button and barked ‘Cooper.’

For a second he didn’t recognise the voice at the other end. When he did, he very much regretted the tone he’d used. ‘Maggs? What do you want?’

‘At last! Have you had the phone turned off? I couldn’t reach you – and this isn’t something I can put in a text.’

He examined the phone. ‘I think it was on. Maybe reception’s bad round here,’ he said vaguely. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I’m really phoning with a message from Drew.

‘Oh?’ He tried to soften his voice, but with little success. There seemed to be some obstruction in his throat.

‘Yes … the thing is, Drew was at Roma Millan’s, in Pitcombe, last night, when Justine walked in. She’s still there now. She’s had a terrible time, or so she says. Something about being kidnapped.’

‘When?
When
did this happen?’

‘Last night.’

‘Why didn’t he tell me before now? I spoke to him this morning. Why wait all this time?’

‘He says Justine was in such a state, she obviously wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t really sure what to do.’

‘Even when I told him the Renton child was missing?’

‘He didn’t think you sounded too worried, and he was thinking about Justine to the exclusion of all else. He was very slow to understand the implications. But we’ve had a think, and realised you have to know the whole thing.’

‘Is the child with Justine?’ As soon as he asked he knew what the answer would be. It was obvious.

‘No, it doesn’t look like it. That’s worrying, isn’t it.’

‘It bloody is. Well, thanks for telling me now. I’ll have to go and see her right away.’

‘Sorry, Den,’ she pleaded. ‘We just didn’t think it could be that serious.’

‘Let’s hope it’s not,’ he said tightly.

Pulling into a lay-by he called DI Hemsley, reporting succinctly the tangle of findings so far. ‘I’ll go straight to Pitcombe now,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to hope Justine knows where the little girl is.’

‘What about the Strabinski person? She started all this, as I understand it. Could she be playing some game?’

‘Very likely,’ Den agreed. ‘She’s a bit odd.
Nervous. Could be she knows more than she’s saying. And there’s the undertaker,’ he went on in a rush. ‘Plus his assistant. They seem to be getting pretty deeply into this, though I’m not best pleased at the way they left it till now to tell me they’d found Justine.’

The DI clicked his tongue warningly. ‘Civilians,’ he said. ‘Don’t let them get too involved. Sounds like amateur detective stuff to me.’ He paused, and Den could picture him doodling while he considered every angle. ‘This is a weird one,’ he summarised. ‘Better get the press in on it – can’t do any harm. Have we got a picture?’

‘Yeah, but it’s not very good.’

‘What are the parents like? Emotionally, I mean.’

‘Fairly flat. Stunned, I guess. He’s got the lid tightly on, and she doesn’t seem to know what to think. They’re not as scared as you’d expect. At least …’ he remembered Renton’s scratched face. ‘Maybe they are. But not in the usual sort of way.’

‘How many missing children cases have you handled, Cooper?’