Dead Time (9 page)

He was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. He looked different, odd.

‘I can't stop. I'm just on my way somewhere. To meet a friend.'

‘Where's that?' he said.

She hesitated. She didn't want to say
the cemetery
.

‘Parkway East.'

‘I'm going that way. I'll walk along with you.'

She hesitated. It would be downright rude to refuse so she walked on with Henry the policeman beside her.

‘How are you feeling? Since last week?' he said.

‘I'm fine,' she said.

‘Being at a crime scene can be a terrible shock. It can sometimes hit you later, days or weeks later.'

‘I've been OK,' she said truthfully. ‘Any developments on the case?'

He laughed. A crowd of boys were walking towards them. They made a gap in the middle so Rose and Henry could walk through.

‘What?' she said.

‘You sound like someone in a TV cop show.'

He was mocking her. She was instantly cross. She had an inclination to speed up and leave him behind.

‘The detectives did find out one interesting fact,' he said, glancing sideways at her. ‘It'll be in a press release tomorrow so I'm not giving anything away.'

She slowed a bit, craning to hear him.

‘Ricky Harris was killed with his own knife.'

‘What?'

‘The knife that stabbed Ricky Harris belonged to him,' Henry said.

‘I don't understand.'

‘There are two possibilities,' Henry said. ‘Either the person knew Ricky, knew he carried a knife and knew where that knife was …'

Rose couldn't help but to think of Lewis Proctor.

‘Or,' Henry went on, ‘the killer was a stranger who got into an argument with Ricky and it was Ricky who pulled the knife out. In other words Ricky was the aggressor and the other person took the knife off him …'

‘So it could have been self-defence?'

‘It's a possibility. We have other lines of enquiry.'

‘Now who sounds like someone off a cop show?' Rose said.

‘Rose,' he said, ‘allow me to sound like a policeman. It's what I am.'

Rose made a
tsk
sound and looked at her watch. It was 17.48. ‘You know what? I'm going to have to run. I promised to meet someone and I'm going to be late,' she said.

‘I can walk faster.'

‘No, really. Thanks for your help the other night but I've got to go.'

‘Rose!'

She turned and saw him hurrying up to her. She exhaled with exasperation.

‘What!' she said, crossly.

‘Would you like to come to the Sundown Club?'

‘What?'

‘This club I run for teenagers. It's in a community centre across the road from your school. It's a place to meet other people your own age. Play music, table tennis, chess.'

‘Why would I want to go there?' Rose said, astonished. ‘I meet loads of other people of my own age. In school.'

‘It's somewhere to go at night …'

‘I don't need somewhere to go at night.'

‘I thought as you lived away from the school. On your own, with your grandmother, you could make friends …'

‘Do you think I've got no friends? 'Course I've got friends.'

‘It's just …'

‘I can make my own friends, thank you very much! I'm sorry. I just have to run ahead now!'

Without another word she ran off along the High Street.

Up ahead was Parkway East station and beyond that the cemetery. She knew now that it was called St Michael's RC Cemetery. After Emma left she'd looked it up on the internet. It was spread over twenty-three acres and had been open since 1868.

She looked at her phone and saw that it had just gone six. She groaned at her lateness. She came to Parkway East and had to move around a taxi that had stopped to drop someone off. She could see further along the gates of the cemetery but there was no one standing there. Most probably Emma had thought she wasn't coming and had gone on in. She was dismayed. She hadn't wanted Emma to think she had let her down. She quickened her step. When she got up to the gates she stepped back to allow a hearse to come out. The big black car slid slowly out of the wrought-iron gates empty of its passenger.

She stepped into the cemetery.

It was vast. Her eye swept across a panoply of gravestones, crosses and mausoleums. From the train she had only seen the edge of it. Here she was faced with row after row of marble headstones, wrought ironwork and brick-built tombs. There were stone angels, and statues of monks and saints, their heads bent over in prayer. In among the greys and blacks of the stone were brilliant splashes of colour where flowers and wreaths broke up the lines and angles of the graves.

Even at six o'clock on an autumn evening it seemed summery.

The sky was darkening, though, and some groups of people were making their way back towards the gate. She looked at the gatehouse and saw a sign that said
Gates Close 18.30
. Underneath, on the brick wall someone had sprayed some tiny graffiti:
DEAD TIME.

She wondered where Emma was. She remembered her talking about a walled rose garden and saw a high brick wall over to the right at the end of a meandering path. She started to walk in that direction. A hearse was coming from beyond it, inching forward slowly. She passed some mourners at a graveside. Their pale faces and black clothes made her look away. She wondered why on earth Emma and Lewis had met here. An open space it may be but the idea of people enjoying themselves on top of graves did not appeal to her.

Then she saw Lewis Proctor.

He was emerging from an arch in the brick wall.

Was she too late? It was only five past six. Had Lewis said his piece in such a short time? She walked towards him. His face was blank. She didn't expect him to recognise her but he didn't look as though he would recognise anyone. In fact he looked stunned, his steps faltering.

‘Are you all right?' she called, getting closer.

He didn't answer. He dipped his head and passed by her, rushing away. Rose watched him for a moment and then walked under the archway into an oblong garden. In front of her were roses, hundreds, thousands of them;
yellows, pinks and oranges. She looked over the top and through them to see if she could see Emma. There was a path round the outside of the garden with benches spaced along it. She walked along to the first corner and looked along the side wall. The benches were empty and her eyes swept back and forth across the area until they caught a glimpse of purple. It was at the far corner of the rose garden and she walked round the side to get to it.

‘Emma,' she called.

Emma's gaudy purple top stood out among the light florals. A smudge of dark colour, it contrasted with the fluttering petals and gentle shades of the roses.

‘Sorry, I'm late,' she said. ‘I got held up.'

Turning the corner she stopped. Emma was not on a bench but on the ground near an archway, a back exit from the rose garden. She was lying on her chest, her face turned to the side, her arm splayed out. A feeling of dread gripped Rose. For a second she was back on the walkway at Parkway East looking at Ricky Harris's body. Then she had frozen at the sight of him. Now she rushed towards the slumped form. When she got there she squatted down.

‘Emma,' she whispered.

The girl was completely still, her purple top tightly stretched over her back. Rose could see her bra strap and her shoulder blades and the chain across her neck. The hoop earring was flat on her motionless face. Rose put her fingers out to touch it. Then she looked hopelessly
around. The rose garden seemed darker, later, as if it was a different time of day than moments before.

She heard something.

The silence was heavy and yet she thought there was someone there. A rustle of leaves, a puff of breath, a footstep. She turned slowly around but all she saw were the shadows of the brick wall and the roses, a little darker in colour now, sombre in their bloom. In the distance she heard the sound of a train, passing through, on its way somewhere.

She put her hand on the ground at Emma's side. It felt wet.

The blood was warm and was oozing out on the stone pathway.

Rose stood up, her hand stained. Her mouth fell open and she felt a flash of nausea. She stepped backwards away from the girl; one step, then another, then another. She turned and ran along the pathway, cutting the corner, passing the benches until she was under the arch and out into the cemetery. She paused, dazzled by the light. She saw the hearse still making its way back towards the gate and she ran after it. The driver glanced at her briefly and then away. He had no party left to pick up. She was of no interest to him.

But he slammed his brake on when she started banging on his windscreen, leaving dark smears of blood along his glass.

The police had been cold and distant. Detective Inspector Schillings had interviewed her, asking her the same questions over and over again. At first she had been too shocked to notice their changed attitude and their businesslike way of dealing with her. The previous Tuesday night there had been sympathy and tea with sugar and concern for her well-being. Henry had driven her home like some kind relative. This time she was put in a room by herself for what seemed like hours. Her grandmother was called to the station and sat beside her while she was interviewed.

Why did the deceased visit you at home?

What reason did Emma Burke give for her visit?

Are you friends with Emma Burke?

What is your relationship with Emma?

She had cried until her eyes were sore. Not with grief but with shock and sadness. She hadn't known Emma, not really, but still there had been a spark there, a tiny
link between them. Emma had come to her for help and she, reluctantly, had agreed.

When DI Schillings continued to repeat his questions, she began to feel angry.

Why did you have Emma Burke's blood on your hand?

Is there some reason why the deceased's blood was on your fingers?

How did Emma Burke's blood come to be on the windscreen of a hearse in St Michael's Cemetery?

She'd told him that Lewis Proctor had passed her, that he had been in the rose garden with Emma, but the DI hadn't reacted in the way that she'd thought he would. He'd not given orders for Lewis Proctor to be arrested. He'd simply stared at her, unimpressed with her answers. And suddenly she'd known. DI Schillings thought that
she
had something to do with the murder. When she realised this she felt light-headed.

Her grandmother put a stop to the questions. She stood up and put her coat on, taking a while to wind a silk scarf around her neck.

‘I've had enough of this,' she said. ‘My granddaughter has had a terrible shock. She needs to recover. If you wish to interview her again, you should make an arrangement with me and I will bring her. You will also need to let me know in advance so that my solicitor can be here. Come on, Rose.'

There was silence on the drive home. Rose was relieved to be out of the station driving away from the policeman
and his questions. She looked at Anna's profile. Anna was staring straight ahead, her jawline set, her anger still apparent. Rose was grateful she had come. She was more than grateful.

The streets were busy with people going out. It was just after ten. Sitting at red lights, Rose watched a stream of young people cross the road, talking, laughing, frolicking; on their way out to a pub or club or party.

Rose was tired. She wanted to go to bed. She wanted to close her eyes and put it all out of her head. As soon as they walked into the house she headed for the stairs but her grandmother broke the silence with her words. Her face was stony.

‘Spending time at the police station is not something I wish to do.'

‘I don't want to do it either …' Rose started.

‘Last week I had a phone call from the police telling me you were involved in some murder and now this! For goodness' sake. Something could have happened to you!'

‘I was not
involved
. I was a witness.'

‘Both times it's been to do with this so-called school you go to.'

‘Two people have died. That isn't my fault.'

Her grandmother unfastened the buttons of her coat and let it drop from her shoulders. She bundled it over the newel post and turned away. Rose glanced at the coat
sitting precariously in a place where coats never sat. The heels of her shoes clipped on the parquet floor. She was angry. She'd seen her like this before. Calm and polite at the police station, she was smouldering underneath. Not that Anna ever lost her temper or flew into a rage. Her annoyance was more like a pot bubbling on the stove, the lid firmly on.

Rose, tired but angry, followed her towards the kitchen.

‘I was trying to help the girl, Emma Burke, the girl who came here. That's all I was trying to do.'

Her grandmother dropped the silk scarf on the work surface and leant back against a cupboard. She was still immaculately dressed as usual. No doubt she had changed in order to go out for the evening. She had a camel-coloured jumper over trousers and boots. Round her waist was a plaited leather belt. She had several leather belts hanging from a rail in her dressing room.

Rose stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor.

‘I sent you to boarding school, at great expense. I didn't mind. You are Katherine's daughter and my granddaughter and I have a duty to look after you. Last year, when you were upset and said you wanted to leave the school, I offered to send you to another. I found brochures and arranged a couple of visits. You didn't want that. You wanted to return here, to this house.'

Rose listened. Anna's words were on one level as if she was reeling off something she had learned by heart. Her
meaning was clear.
To return to this house
. Anna would never say
come home
because this house had never been offered to Rose as a
home.