A Restless Evil Page 18

‘Oh, you’re a great fixer, you are!’ was the sarcastic retort. ‘You’ve fixed yourself into all kinds of trouble. You should never have kept them. Did you get rid of them?’

  ‘Yes, I told you! There’s nothing to tie me into it, nothing!’

  A sniff and a change of tack. ‘Here, what did the police want to talk to Dilys and Uncle Billy for?’

  ‘How do I know? Will you shut up or what?’ roared Norman.

  Evie knew the time had come to close the conversation, before Norman closed it with his fist. But she also sensed that for once, she had the advantage. ‘Young enough to be your daughter …’ was mumbled again, followed by ‘Don’t know what a young girl like that could see in an bald old bloke like you.’ Then, in triumph, ‘Sex in the church! You’ll go to hell.’

  ‘See you there, then,’ returned her ever-loving husband.

  At that moment a dustbin overturned with a crash and began to roll about the car park. Evie screamed.

  In the morning, the main street was littered with bits of thatch, twigs, leaves and the rubbish that had come from the dustbin. The rest of the contents lay strewn about the car park. All in all, it took Norman an hour to sweep it up. Over in the churchyard, the stone angel had tilted to an even more precarious angle. But the wind had dropped and in the stillness Lower Stovey wondered what would come next.

  In the circumstances, the inquest on Simon Hastings ought to have been a routine affair attended by a handful of interested parties, and taking only minutes. But Lower Stovey was in the news now, following Hester’s death. The press, sensing a story, turned out in number, mostly local papers but with representatives from at least two national tabloids and one broadsheet. The journalists had been doing their homework, as Markby quickly found, and had unearthed the twenty-two-year-old reports of the rape cases.

  ‘Do you think these are the remains of the rapist, Superintendent? ’ a dozen voices asked eagerly as he pushed his way into the room where the inquest was to be held.

  ‘This is a simple inquest and nothing more!’ he snapped back.

  It wasn’t a very big room and with the press and those who were drawn to a local story with such gruesome features, it was packed. Markby, glancing round, saw that Lower Stovey had sent what might be termed a deputation. The landlord of the Fitzroy Arms, his gloomy visage singularly appropriate for the occasion, sat a little way from Muriel Scott. Markby was surprised to see Ruth Aston sitting next to Muriel. Now, what brought Ruth here? At that point another villager he might not have expected to see emerged from the direction of the ladies’ cloakroom and took a seat self-consciously next to Norman, the landlord.

  Dilys Twelvetrees, he thought, by all that’s wonderful. She was wearing what he guessed was her best coat, its lilac colour clashing somewhat with her salmon-coloured hair. The coat was well-worn at the cuffs and edges but carefully brushed and adorned with a brooch of glass ‘stones’. Norman took no notice of her but presumably she’d come with him. They were, after all, Markby recollected, cousins. He was distracted from the Lower Stovey-ites by the arrival of an elderly well-dressed woman with fine bone-structure and expertly coiffed silver hair. She moved to the front of the court room and sat, bolt upright, her eyes fixed on the coroner except when Guy Morgan gave his account of finding the bones. Then she looked down at the gloves she’d pulled off and held tightly clenched on her lap.

  Pearce gave evidence as to their identity. The coroner concluded that as there was no evidence of foul play, it seemed likely Simon Hastings had met with some accident or died of natural causes. He noted the occupation of the deceased and the likelihood, therefore, that he’d been following some botantical investigation in the woods at the time of his death which was why his body had lain there, and not on the old way itself.

  The coroner then cleared his throat and directing his words towards the press contingent added, ‘I understand that attempts have been made in some quarters to link this unfortunate happening to an old, unsolved case. I must stress that this court has heard no evidence to suggest any such connection and unwarranted speculation can only cause distress to the family.’

  When the coroner had left the room, a loud buzz of animated chatter filled the air. Pearce approached Guy Morgan and thanked him for his contribution.

  Guy was looking past him at someone else but turned his head politely back to Pearce. ‘Not at all, Inspector. I’m glad you’ve been able to put a name to him. Tell me, who is the distinguished-looking elderly woman?’

  Pearce glanced towards the silver-haired woman and said quietly, ‘Mother.’

  ‘Oh, I wondered …’ Guy said. ‘I noticed, when I was giving my evidence, that she gave me one quick look and then kept her eyes fixed on her hands. I could see that listening to me was painful for her. I’m glad she didn’t have to give any evidence.’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary, in the circumstances,’ Pearce told him. ‘Once we identified the dental work in the jaw we knew we had Simon Hastings.’

  Markby had turned to look for Ruth Aston, but now she and Muriel had disappeared towards the ladies’ cloakroom. The elderly woman he’d observed earlier was approaching him. The mother, he thought. He must say a few words to her.

  She spoke first. ‘I understand you’re Superintendent Markby.’ Her voice was educated, pleasant and dignified. When he confirmed that he was, she went on, ‘I’m Daphne Hastings, Simon’s mother.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector Pearce pointed you out to me. I’m very sorry,’ Markby went on. ‘This must have been quite an ordeal for you.’

  A muscle twitched in her heavily-powdered cheek. ‘It’s been an ordeal for me, Superintendent, for more than twenty years, since my son’s disappearance.’

  ‘Have you come from Godalming?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Look, would you like a cup of coffee? There is a little café down the road here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head. ‘I think I would like a cup of coffee. It was a long journey because I had to change trains in London.’

  He was pleased to find the café half empty and particularly pleased that none of the journalists who’d been at the inquest had found their way there. They were probably all in the pub. The café was the sort of place where you went to a counter and fetched your own food and drinks. He established Mrs Hastings in a corner and went for the coffees. When he carried them back to the table, she’d taken off her black suede gloves and hung them neatly over her handbag. She’d unbuttoned her coat, but not taken if off. Now he could see she wore a black dress beneath it and pearls which looked to him like the real thing. He found himself wondering if this mourning attire had been donned since the discovery of her son’s remains or whether she’d been wearing black in his memory for some years now.

  She thanked him for the coffee, picked up a spoon and began to stir it round and round in the cup. ‘I should wish to give my son proper burial,’ she said. ‘I have been in touch with the coroner’s office. They are content for me to take the – to take Simon.’ She gave a dry smile. ‘I got the impression they were glad someone was offering to take responsibility. The girl I spoke to suggested I clear it with you, with the police. Will you need to retain—?’ She broke off and raised her fine eyes to his. There was the imprint of tragedy in them.

  Markby said quickly, ‘No, we don’t need to keep anything. Of course you may take – take your son’s remains back to Godalming. I assume that’s where you mean to bury him?’ She nodded and he went on, ‘A local undertaker here will be able to make the necessary arrangements to transport him. I recommend Jenkins in the Market Square. He’s pretty good.’

  She still seemed unwilling to drink any of the coffee and until she lifted her cup, he felt he couldn’t drink from his.

  ‘I know,’ she said in the voice of someone forcing herself to speak painful words, ‘that I haven’t my son’s complete — that I only have a few bones. But they are Simon’s and I do have something to bury. I can’t tell you how hard it’s been, just not knowing. One always hopes, you see, when t
here’s no body, that somehow, somewhere, one day … One consoles oneself with explanations of amnesia, kidnap, nervous breakdown … Anything, however unlikely, that might account for his just vanishing as he did. One thinks that one day he might just walk through the door again. That’s why I’ve never sold my house. I thought, foolishly, that he might come home and I’d not be there, strangers might open the door to him. So, I stayed.’

  ‘Mrs Hastings,’ Markby said, deeply moved. ‘I wish we could have found your son sooner. I have looked up the file. The police did search the area extensively at the time of his disappearance. But it’s heavily wooded. We don’t know exactly where – the place the bones were found is unlikely to be the exact spot he died. I don’t know why they couldn’t find his body then. I do know they tried.’

  Yes, dammit! They had tried and they hadn’t found him. Why? Markby wondered angrily. Of course it had been a difficult area to search. If the bones had been moved by animals, as seemed the case, Simon could had died anywhere along that length of the old way or in the woods on either side of it. But was there a more sinister reason why he hadn’t been found? Was it because someone had made a good job of burying him somewhere in Stovey Woods? And why, oh why, had the attacks by the Potato Man ceased at the time of Simon’s disappearance?

  At last she was drinking her coffee and he was able to sip his.

  ‘It will be a great relief,’ she said, ‘to be able to hold a funeral service. Of course in my heart I’ve recognised he was dead for some years. But one can’t mourn without a funeral. All this, though it’s been a shock, has also been a release. I think that tonight, Superintendent, for the first time in twenty-two years, I shall sleep soundly.’

  The door of the café opened and two more customers came in, two women. Markby looked across and saw Muriel Scott and Ruth Aston. He was sure they hadn’t seen him or Daphne Hastings.

  The two newcomers consulted together and Muriel went to the counter. Ruth looked round for a vacant table and saw then who else was there. She flushed, hesitated and then came over to where they sat.

  She glanced guiltily at Markby and addressed his companion. ‘Mrs Hastings? You don’t know me. But my name is Ruth Aston and I used to be Ruth Pattinson before my marriage. I was a student at the same time as your son. I am very sorry.’

  ‘You knew Simon?’ Mrs Hastings’ face lit up. ‘Do sit down.’

  ‘Well, I’m with a friend—’ Ruth gestured towards Muriel Scott. ‘I just wanted to express my condolences.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, my dear.’ Mrs Hastings put out a hand and rested it on Ruth’s arm. Markby thought Ruth twitched at the touch. It struck him she looked as if her nerves were in a bad way. Dark circles under her eyes indicated she hadn’t slept well. She was a poor colour, very pale.

  ‘Simon was a brilliant student, wasn’t he?’ Mrs Hastings was saying. She turned to Markby. ‘And he was very popular. Everyone liked him. When he went into business, he was doing so well at that. It was as though he had a golden future.’ She stopped speaking abruptly.

  Ruth muttered, ‘Yes, he was a brilliant student. I see my friend is bringing our coffee. Do excuse me.’ She moved away.

  ‘I must be going,’ Daphne Hastings said. She sounded suddenly exhausted. ‘I must go and see this undertaker, Jenkins, you say?’

  ‘I’ll take you there,’ he offered.

  She shook her head. ‘You’ve already given up your time. I’m sure I shall find it. Is the Market Square very far from here?’

  ‘No, it’s only at the bottom of the road. How are you getting back to Godalming?’

  ‘I came by train,’ she said. ‘As soon as I’ve made arrangements with the undertaker, I shall be going to the station. There are plenty of trains to London this evening, I understand.’ She began pulling on her black suede gloves, smoothing down each finger individually.

  ‘You’ve great courage,’ Markby heard himself say suddenly.

  She paused in the rhythmic movement of stroking the gloves and looked up, eyebrows raised and a half-smile on her face.

  ‘Oh, no, Superintendent. Not at all. You were right in saying today was an ordeal. When that young doctor was giving his evidence I found it too painful even to look at him. Not because he described finding Simon’s bones, something for which I’m grateful to him, but because he was much of the age Simon was when he disappeared. He was about Simon’s height and build and he’d been hiking, as Simon was then. Just such a young man as my son was in every way. It was as if a ghost spoke to us.’

  He opened the door for her and watched her walk steadily down the middle of the pavement in the direction of the Market Square. He remembered his thoughts on broken hearts when talking to Ursula Gretton. Mrs Hastings had been successfully maintaining a brave front for over twenty years. There was no doubt whatever that beneath it, her heart was broken.

  He made to leave the café but heard his name called and looked back. Ruth had left the table she shared with Muriel Scott and came hurrying towards him.

  ‘Mr Markby,’ she said urgently in a low voice. ‘I must talk to you but not in front of Muriel. I don’t want to go to a police station. Can you come and see me? And bring Meredith with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘We’ll come out this evening, if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She twitched again. ‘You see,’ she said. ‘I think I may have committed a criminal offence.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘What could she possibly have meant?’ Meredith mused as they drove towards Lower Stovey that evening. ‘Didn’t she give any clue?’

  There were few cars on this stretch of the early evening road. They must have hit that fortunate window between people hurrying home from work and those hurrying out again on evening pursuits. She thought Alan looked a little tired and definitely sombre. Sensitive to changes in his mood, she picked up on his inner tension and the not altogether successful way he was trying to disguise it.

  She’d been on the train on her own way home from London when she’d received his call on her mobile. He suggested he drive over to her house and if she was willing, they’d go to see Ruth at her request. He’d explain when he saw her. She’d replied simply, ‘Of course I’ll come.’

  She’d had no time other than to effect a quick change of clothes and run a brush through her thick brown hair, grateful for the amenable bobbed style which meant minimum fuss. He’d arrived as she’d just burned her mouth on a too-hot mug of instant coffee. In the car he’d given her a brief account of the inquest and of his meeting with Daphne Hastings, followed by Ruth’s request. In answer to Meredith’s question, he now said, ‘Not directly. But as this urge to confess appears to have followed on the inquest I suppose it may have something to do with that. She was particularly anxious I bring you along.’

  Markby slowed as they neared the turning which indicated ‘Lower Stovey. No Through Road.’ ‘There is one thing I should perhaps mention to you before we get there. There’s no need for Ruth to know I’ve told you if the subject doesn’t arise, but I fancy it will and I want you to be prepared.’

  And as he turned down the single-track road and they bumped their way over the uneven pitted surface between high hedges, he told her about Ruth’s baby.

  ‘I didn’t mention it before because it was by way of confidential information,’ he added apologetically.

  ‘Of course I understand that!’ Meredith returned indignantly. ‘But why should Ruth want to talk about it now?’

  ‘Because she’ll have to be told we’ve spoken to Dr Fichett and it would be unfair and unwise to leave her in an agony of suspense over whether the old chap has let the cat out of the bag or not. And because I suspect that Simon Hastings was the father of her child. If he was, then I’ll have to ask her where she was the weekend he disappeared.’

  ‘So long ago, how can she be expected to remember?’ Meredith asked indignantly. ‘Alan, for goodness’ sake, be careful. The poor woman already thinks yo
u’ve got her marked down as Hester’s murderer. Don’t make it sound as if you’re thinking she had a hand in another death.’

  ‘I don’t think it. I told you, I don’t think anything right now. We don’t know how Simon died. I’m merely observing and making notes to keep tucked away in a corner of my brain. I’ve made a note, for example, that two people have died in the neighbourhood of Lower Stovey and both were connected with Ruth Aston. But that’s all it is at the moment, a mental note. It was Ruth herself, I’d remind you, who told me she thought she might have committed a crime.’

  Meredith was prevented from comment because at that moment they encountered a tractor coming towards them. As the banks were steep and there was no passing room, Alan was forced to back his car until he reached a spot where enough space had been scooped out of the bank to allow him to pull over. The tractor, its huge wheels caked in mud, grumbled its way past. It was being driven by a weather-beaten man in a pullover and a battered cap who raised a laconic hand in acknowledgement as he passed.

  ‘Kevin Jones,’ said Markby. ‘I went to their farm twenty-two years ago when we were investigating the Potato Man. Not for any particular reason, just routine. We called at all the farms and asked if they’d noticed any signs of anyone sleeping rough on their land. It was Martin Jones running the place then, Kevin’s father. Kevin was there, too, waiting to take over when his father retired. That must have happened by now. Martin must be—’ Markby frowned as he calculated. ‘At least seventy. Kevin must be forty or so now. He was a young man in his early twenties then and I guessed chafing at not being able to run the farm in his own way. I’ve run into him a couple of times since. I got the impression he was in charge now.’

  ‘He looked older than forty-something on that tractor,’ Meredith said. ‘Not that I got a good look at him.’

  ‘Farming’s a tough business these days with a lot of worries. I wonder if Kevin is as keen to run the farm now as he was in his twenties,’ Alan returned drily. ‘But perhaps we were both a lot keener on our chosen professions back then. I was only twenty-five.’