A Cotswold Killing Page 11

  Vulnerability had never been an attractive trait in Thea’s eyes. Her father had taught her to be confident and realistic. ‘Very few people in the world are actively out to get you,’ he’d said once. ‘They’ve all got more pressing things on their minds.’

  Carl had embraced very much the same philosophy. ‘Nobody’s going to stick the knife in just for the hell of it,’ was his line. ‘You have to provoke them first.’ As far as she knew, he hadn’t provoked the driver of the juggernaut that killed him. The man had simply misjudged a bend, letting the vehicle drift over into Carl’s lane, swatting his car almost carelessly into a fatal roll. He’d been very upset about it afterwards, and had lost his job over it, albeit temporarily.

  But that was another story, another time. Thea banished the familiar wave of frustrated misery and focused on the present. She had a project now, which could well fill the coming two weeks and give her considerable satisfaction. If it turned out to be dangerous, then she’d deal with that too. Whether or not Joel Jennison had knocked on her door with the intention of asking for help, he was going to get it. Too late, perhaps, but nobody could blame her for that.

  Except, they could. Because she hadn’t got out of bed that night, when she heard the terrible scream outside. She hadn’t grabbed a torch and called the dogs, and raised a commotion, which just might possibly have saved poor Joel Jennison’s life.

  Obviously, the first place to call, on a drizzly Friday morning, was Barrow Hill Farm again. She had yet to meet old Mr Jennison, and convey her condolences to him directly. Perhaps he could use some practical help, if June and Lindy had gone home, and the relief milker was only doing the cow-related tasks he was hired for.

  Finding a pair of Wellington boots in the back room, she pulled them on. ‘You stay here,’ she told the dogs, who seemed relieved to be spared the uninviting weather. The early morning walkies had been briefly functional on all sides.

  For a moment, Thea considered taking the car, but it seemed likely to arouse contempt, given the trip was not even half a mile, door to door. Arriving on foot was more neighbourly, less formal, and somehow suggested a firm intention rather than a casual whim.

  True to June’s promise, there were no longer cattle in the muddy yard. Nor was there the sound of a tractor engine, any sign of a car or any evidence of a human presence. Thea plodded across the yard and up the short front path to the house door. She knocked, waited and knocked again.

  There was a sound behind her, and she turned to see what it was. A man was standing at the gate, one hand leaning heavily on the stone wall separating the little front garden from the yard. He was breathing hard, as if he’d been running – but Thea thought she’d have heard him if that were the case.

  ‘Oh! Hello,’ she said, moving towards him. ‘I’m sorry to intrude again. I’m Thea Osborne—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said, scowling.

  ‘Yes? Oh, good. I came to see if you needed—’

  ‘You came from nosiness, the same as all the others,’ he accused. ‘Can’t leave a person alone, can you?’

  ‘Mr Jennison, I’m really sorry—’

  He interrupted her yet again. Was he never going to let her finish a sentence? ‘Why should you be sorry? You didn’t kill him, did you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She stared at him, controlling the urge to be as rude and aggressive as he was. ‘Isn’t June here?’

  ‘Why would she be? Moved out a year or more ago. There’s no place for her here.’

  Despite the rough breathless delivery, his accent was almost as much of a surprise as his son’s had been. And yet she knew that these days farming took brains, determination, manual skills and familiarity with paperwork, if it were to prosper. Except, she reminded herself, the Jennisons had not been prospering. Far from it. And every farmer she had ever met of this man’s generation spoke with a regional accent.

  ‘Mr Jennison, I’m very sorry if you feel I shouldn’t have come. The fact is, I did find the body of your son in the field of the house I’m caretaking. I can’t help feeling some sort of responsibility for that. Furthermore…’ she drew in her chin and squared her shoulders, ‘…I was rather upset by it. I feel at a tremendous disadvantage, not knowing any of the people involved, not understanding what it is that’s been going on. I didn’t just come to see if I could help you – I was rather hoping that you’d have something to offer me.’

  It was a gamble that showed no sign of paying off. Aware of the incongruity of facing the man as he approached his own front door, as if he were the visitor, she held her ground. It would be awkward to push past him, anyway. Instead she maintained eye contact, eager to spot any softening on his part.

  He made a sound not unlike Harumff and shifted his weight. It did seem that he had a severe problem with one or both hip joints. Grooves on his face spoke of constant pain, suffered with absolute stoicism. Pity, however, did not seem to be the appropriate response. Thea began to appreciate the impatience she’d heard in June’s voice and words, concerning her father-in-law.

  ‘They tell me he came to see you, that afternoon, before milking,’ he said, firing the words like missiles.

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I have no idea. He seemed to be just paying a polite visit. Except he was wearing his work clothes.’ She deliberately risked elaboration:

  ‘I thought he must be the gardener.’

  ‘Gardener! They haven’t got a gardener.’

  ‘No, I know that now. But that’s what he looked like. Scruffy, if I may say so.’ The garden-party diction was catching. Maybe everybody around here spoke like this. Perhaps, like the source of the Thames, this was also the source of True English. The idea almost made her smile.

  ‘The police think it was me that did it,’ he said, with a slight lapse of syntax. ‘Damned fools.’

  ‘Have they said so?’

  ‘Not directly. They’d have to arrest me then, wouldn’t they? But they keep coming back, asking all about the boys’ mother, who owns the land, why Paul went off when he did. As if I could…’ He inhaled deeply, his knuckles tightening on the top of the wall. Thea couldn’t let him go on standing there.

  ‘Here, I’m in your way,’ she said, and moved to one side. ‘Go in and sit down. June said you had a bad hip.’

  He gave her a stony look. ‘What has my hip to do with you?’

  She began to speak, but checked herself, before starting again. ‘I told you why I think this whole business has something to do with me. I’ve been dragged into it, whether I like it or not. I don’t know why you’re being so belligerent about it.’

  In a Hollywood movie, this would have been the moment when he thawed, spilling out his pain and misery, confiding his terror for the future and his bewilderment at what had happened. Instead, he moved stiffly past her, without turning his head. At the door of his house, he threw a final remark over his shoulder.

  ‘This has nothing to do with you. You’re a stranger here. Leave us to our own business, will you!’ And he closed the door with some force.

  Perversely, the reaction of Mr Jennison Senior only made Thea more determined to get involved. The contrast with Harry Richmond had been so stark that she wondered whether the farmer might actually have killed his sons, as he said the police believed. He certainly did not seem to be a very pleasant person. Even taking into account his painful hip and the disastrous loss of Paul and Joel, he still came across as churlish, unyielding and suspicious. Worse – the look in his eyes had been unnerving. It was rare to find such a demeanour in a sane person. The blank gaze of gum-chewing adolescents was annoying and unsettling at times; the defensive sideways glance of youths with a guilty conscience likewise – but this was different in kind. This man had problems beyond the obvious, and Thea wanted to know what they were.

  She also wanted to make a report of some sort, and that could only be to James. Trudging back up to the road from the still mucky farmyard, she rehearsed the e-mail
she would send him. Or would it be wiser to telephone? People made such a fuss about e-mails being insecure, although she couldn’t understand how anybody else could see them unless you all worked together in a big office. She’d never liked making phonecalls; the person was always busy or out or distracted. E-mail it would be – but she’d use James’s personal e-mail address – the one he accessed only from home. If he didn’t see it until the evening, then nothing would be lost. It was hardly a matter of life and death. ‘At least, I hope it isn’t,’ she muttered to herself.

  The computer waited invitingly on the living room coffee table, reminding Thea she hadn’t indulged in a game of Scrabble for three days now. There’d been moderately interesting offerings on TV the past few evenings, as well as an absorbing book she’d got into, which tempted her to earlier nights than usual.

  It had taken her less than a year to appreciate the pace and freedom of living alone. The lack of routine suited her better than she’d ever expected, with nobody to explain to, nobody saying, ‘But you usually go to bed at eleven…’ if she suddenly wanted to go at nine thirty, or one in the morning. It became a habit to avoid habits. She automatically followed whims, having a bath at teatime, staying up to watch a film into the small hours, drifting about in a bathrobe all morning. It was so good she seriously doubted whether she could ever live with anybody again.

  Me again, making my report, sir. I’ve been busy here, meeting people. Chiefly Jennison Senior. The man is a churlish beast, more or less slammed the door in my face this morning. He seems in a bad way with painful hips, but that’s not enough reason to be so rude. Seems to think the police suspect him of killing his sons?

  No sign of any detective work going on. No sign of anything, come to that. Life carries on invisibly, as far as I can tell.

  I haven’t said much about Harry R, have I? He knew who I was, and seemed a bit concerned for me. He has a lot of contact with Lindy, Paul J’s daughter. He knows about you as well, and I think he might have been probing for some inside information. I’m afraid I might have given him a bit, too.

  I know you didn’t exactly ask me to report to you, but I feel rather out of my depth, to be honest. I’m not sure what I can do, or what you want me to.

  I can see Helen Winstanley again, and maybe her husband (another James, as it happens) will be there.

  Only two more weeks to go until Clive and Jennifer come back. Funny, I have a sense of a big blank sheet of paper waiting to be written on, with the events of those coming two weeks. Ignore me, I’m being fanciful.

  See you sometime. Love to Rosie.

  Thea.

  Then she played a game of Scrabble with a person called Shelby in Australia. The people logged on varied geographically according to the time of day or night. Morning in Europe meant late evening in Australasia, evening in the UK meant morning in America and Canada. She seldom played with other Brits, purely because she had chosen to use the American dictionary. It gave more spelling variations, and fewer ‘cheat’ words like zo and qi, which she disliked to use. Bad enough that the American version permitted jo, oe and ut.

  She and Shelby were neck and neck right to the end, but Thea eventually lost by ten points, being left with a D when Shelby placed five remaining letters in one deft move. It reduced her overall points rating by a very unfair 12, which annoyed her.

  It was still only a little past midday when she was finished. Outside it remained damp and grey and uninviting. The heating had switched itself on in response to the drop in temperature, and the dogs were all revelling in the warmth. She wished the house had a view that included at least one other dwelling, from the back or the front. It recalled the peculiar dread she had frequently suffered from as a child, coming out of school at the end of the day with a sudden conviction that the world had ended and nobody had informed the school. She blamed it on a premature reading of The Day of the Triffids when she was nine.

  Now she experienced the same sensation. How would she know if everyone had been struck dead across Gloucestershire, if not the whole of the planet? Well, Shelby in Australia was still alive, of course, but that was small comfort.

  There were, she reminded herself, houses in three directions, less than half a mile distant. It was simply that the sloping terrain and thick growth of trees closed in the vistas. Each house was cut off from its neighbours by the way the land was arranged, aided by the interventions of mankind, cutting lanes through deeply wooded corridors with high hedges on either side. There was none of the openness she’d noticed on the road down towards Cirencester; none of the bland featureless modernity of the A417, slashing its brutal way through the landscape. Here, just a couple of miles away, all was secret and small and separated.

  And beautiful. The human impact had been almost entirely in harmony, she was forced to admit. This, she realised for the first time, was the charm of the area, the reason people came thousands of miles to see it for themselves. Nothing could prepare them for the reality of the warm, almost edible-looking stone, the odd angles, the quirky surprises like the ford through the centre of Duntisbourne Leer, and the barn door covered in public notices, for lack of a Post Office or shop or even Parish Council-sponsored notice-board. Things were not as they seemed, and Thea suspected a person could live here for ten years and never quite feel they’d grasped the spirit of the place.

  The delight was in the villages. Bigger than might at first appear, there was nothing brash or materialistic about them, despite the tendency for brash materialistic urban individuals to buy the properties that composed them. It was pleasing to think that the place wove a benignant spell over the people, turning them into softer, slower creatures, content to tend their gardens and enjoy the quiet beauty around them without competing or boasting about their wealth.

  Pleasing, but probably inaccurate. People in the Cotswolds were probably just the same as people anywhere else. How, she wondered, was she ever going to find out for herself just how true this was?

  ‘Let’s go and see Helen,’ she said to the spaniel, after a five-minute lunch comprising a cheese and salad sandwich. ‘And if she’s not in, we really must go and visit Cirencester. Apart from anything else, we need some proper shopping.’

  They walked up the road to the Winstanleys’ house, Hepzibah on a lead. The hedges were high on both sides of the lane, planted into banks that were already burgeoning with wild flowers. Thea flipped absently at them as she passed, not in the mood for appreciating nature. She was aware of a smouldering anger, directed at people who killed other people. The ultimate theft, one of few acts that could never in any way be rectified. The same could of course be said of rape – and arson perhaps. Any act of violence brought about irreversible change, but to kill someone sent the world spinning off its axis for large numbers of survivors. It turned black to white and hot to cold. Her head filled with images of Carl, mangled in his car, and Joel Jennison, sodden in the pool, and she raged inwardly. Two good, funny men wiped out for nothing. Whether by accident or design might be relevant, but was not central. The central thing was that they were gone, and could never ever come back.

  She arrived at Helen’s front door with her eyes smarting and her cheeks wet. The dog was drooping, her damaged ear apparently causing some discomfort, to judge by the odd head-shaking she kept doing. ‘We’re a right pair,’ Thea said to her. ‘Maybe Helen can cheer us up.’

  Helen took some minutes to answer the door. When she did, she was in a long blue dressing gown and bare feet. Her hair was tangled; her face smudgy and creased. ‘Errghhh,’ she said, clasping her hands together and pushing, in a sort of reverse stretch. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Quarter past one,’ said Thea. ‘Sorry. I’d better go away again.’

  ‘No, don’t. It’s nice to see you, even if you have caught me being such a slob. You won’t tell anybody, will you?’

  Thea took this as a joke until she gave Helen her full attention, and realised she was serious. ‘Who would I tell?’ she asked, genuinely wond
ering.

  ‘Come in, anyway. How’s your ear?’ The last part was addressed to the spaniel, who gave no reply.

  ‘I think it hurts a bit,’ Thea answered for her. ‘But she’ll be OK.’

  ‘And your hand?’

  Thea had forgotten her hand. Or rather, she had absorbed the fact of the pain as merely part of her overall experience. There was always pain, after all. She made sure of that. ‘Fine,’ she said, without even looking at it.

  ‘You look a bit rough,’ Helen observed. ‘Though not half as rough as me, I’m sure.’

  ‘Late night?’ Thea ventured.

  ‘Something like that. James gets home tomorrow. I’ll have to pull myself together by then. You probably know how it works – doing just the opposite of what you know you’re supposed to?’

  ‘Sort of. It depends who’s doing the supposing,’ said Thea, striving for accurate empathy. ‘It’s not quite like that for me.’

  ‘No. Well, I’m tempted to say lucky you, but that would be appallingly insensitive of me.’

  They were in the kitchen, and Hepzie jumped onto an old chair that looked as if it was intended for a dog. It stood beside a handsome dark red Aga that gave out a heat that was far too much. Thea disliked Agas for this and several other reasons. Carl had wanted one when they moved to Witney, and she had resisted.

  ‘That looks like a dog chair,’ she said, stepping around the minefield of female survival strategies, but realising too late that this could well be another booby trap.

  ‘Oh – yes. We had a dog until a few weeks ago. Sammy. Nice old chap.’ Helen spoke lightly, while fiddling with the lid of an electric kettle.

  ‘What happened to him?’ When it came to dogs, Thea needed to know.

  ‘Oh, we gave him away. Funnily enough, he’s the father of Binnie’s pups. He lives with the Staceys now. It wasn’t right for him here, nobody playing with him. He needs a bit of company. There’s always someone to play with at Fairweather. He does them some good, too, apparently.’