Death of a Friend (7 page)

Gratton’s mouth worked a little as if tasting something bitter. ‘Nobody I know would want Charlie dead.’ He tapped a forefinger on the
table. ‘Charlie was … well, people wanted to protect him,’ he finished weakly. ‘It didn’t matter what he said or how much of a nuisance he made of himself. There’s nobody would wilfully kill him.’ His eyes grew shiny and he swiped a hand across his nose.

‘And can you account for your own movements earlier this week?’ Phil proceeded, having made a brief note on his pad. ‘Sunday and Monday in particular.’

‘I’ve been here all week. In and out, of course. Monday I did a bit of shopping in Newton Abbot. Sunday I never went anywhere, so far as I can recall. You’d need to be more precise.’

‘Who told you about your brother’s death?’ Phil asked suddenly.

‘Aunt Hannah. She phoned me first thing this morning. I offered to go to her, but she told me not to. I don’t go there any more. Haven’t been there for years.’

‘Why not?’ asked Phil baldly.

Frank’s expression changed. His cheeks darkened and he turned his face away. ‘Just a silly family thing,’ he muttered stiltedly. ‘Too late to mend it now. I speak to Hannah now and then, but the old man won’t have me in the house.’

Den stirred, feeling somewhat left out of the interview. ‘Could you elaborate on that?’ he
said. ‘We’d like to know exactly why you’re not welcome in your own family’s home.’

‘Look at me,’ Frank invited. ‘You’ve seen them, I suppose?’ Den nodded. ‘Everything clean and neat and ladylike, if I remember rightly. I don’t fit in. It goes back a long way.’ His head sank even further into his shoulders and both detectives waited in silence for more. Frank attempted a rueful smile; it was a horrible failure. ‘These things happen,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘I think we’ve all forgotten what it was about by now.’ His flush deepened further, but his lips clamped tight against any further explanation.

‘But you saw Charlie from time to time?’ Phil said.

‘He came over here every few months. In spite of his lunatic ideas, I liked to keep up with him.’ To Den’s watching eyes, Frank suddenly became a near replica of his father, racked by an identical sadness. He took a deep shuddering breath before whispering, ‘I’m really going to miss him.’

Phil became brisk. ‘You’re not married, are you, Mr Gratton?’

The man smiled bitterly and shook his head. He cast a long look around the room. ‘No,’ he conceded. ‘I’m not married.’

Phil nodded as if satisfied and wrote quickly in the notebook. Then he raised his head. ‘One
last thing. I take it you’re a good horseman?’

‘Me?’ Frank responded with a slight nod of his head. ‘I can ride anything. There isn’t a horse alive that’s not putty in my hands. I love them, you see. Wife, family and friends, my horses are. Anyone’ll tell you.’

The Quaker Meeting House was an unimpressive Victorian building, with a more modern two-storey extension that provided accommodation for the Wardens. Inside the front door, leading off a small hallway, were a kitchen to the left and a dusty book-lined room to the right. Directly ahead was the Meeting Room itself. This was fitted with wooden benches on all four sides, arranged in gently-rising tiers. An old oak table stood in the middle of the room, covered with a lace cloth, a vase of flowers placed dead centre. Heat was provided by ugly storage heaters crammed into any available space, with a further set of convector heaters high up on the walls. These had been switched on a few minutes
earlier and were crackling and spitting as they expanded.

On Friday morning, at the special meeting for Charlie Gratton, Den Cooper entered by the front door and stood conspicuously in the hallway, utterly at a loss. He was a few minutes late. Ahead he could see the large Meeting Room already dotted with people. Nobody seemed to be on any sort of door duty, so he edged slowly forwards, wondering how many iron Quaker rules he could unwittingly contravene in the next hour.

He recognised three faces as he entered the room: Hannah and Bill Gratton, he on the corner of one of the lower benches and she at the back of the tier facing him; and Alexis Cattermole on the second row facing the door. Six others were also present, scattered around the room.

Hannah and Alexis both looked at him, Hannah with a gaze of unsurprised acceptance; Alexis with narrowed eyes and obvious resentment. He sat close to the door, crossing his legs and trying to shrink in size. The silence in the room was like a mountain mist, cool and tangible. As he looked across at Bill Gratton and the other people on the same bench, he observed that their eyes were closed. They sat upright, but with relaxed shoulders, chins tilted slightly upwards. They were like people waiting for something. 

Hannah was to his left; when he gradually turned his head to catch sight of her, she too had closed her eyes.
What are they all thinking?
he wondered.
How do they manage to keep so still and quiet?

A mucousy sniffing came suddenly from Alexis, abnormally loud, and he watched her wipe a fingertip impatiently under first one eye then the other. At least she was thinking about Charlie, Den presumed.

He tried to focus on his own reason for being there. He was above all an observer, seeking to learn more about the Quaker group to which Grattan had belonged, and to watch for any significant reactions amongst those who knew him. The meeting was open to anyone to attend, although it didn’t feel like that: the sense of alienation was acute. He had no idea how to behave, what to expect, or, indeed, what might be unusual behaviour for a Quaker. He inwardly cursed DI Smith for sending him. It was one of the hardest assignments he’d been given so far.

Mercifully, within ten minutes of Den’s arrival, a man stood up. Very dark, in his late thirties or early forties, with a ringing voice and a gimlet stare, he began to speak with no preliminary clearing of throat or other warning. Den was aware of Hannah’s startled twitch at the first words.

‘Friends, this is a dreadfully sad time for us all. Our beloved friend Charlie Gratton has been killed in a terrible, shocking manner, and we can only come together and grieve for him and for those who loved him. We remember Charlie as a man of strong principle and outspoken opinions. He was a person who could never be ignored. He was a person who will never be forgotten. Perhaps I could give special sympathy to his family, Bill and Hannah, in what must be a time of great pain, and also to his friend Alexis, who has lost not only Charlie, but also her sister in recent days. It seems to be a cruel fact of life that troubles do indeed come in battalions and we pray that Alexis will find all the support that she needs at this time.’

Den watched Alexis and saw her give a weak smile of acknowledgement. One or two heads nodded in agreement with the words. But one or two mouths tightened, as if suppressing irritation. Bill Grattan made no response, but continued to sit like a statue on his bench.

There were two other elderly men besides Bill. At first glance they seemed very alike: small, neatly dressed and still. But one had a round head, with thick, faded brown hair, and the other had a long, lined face, large ears and only a scattering of white hair across his narrow head. Something about the expression of the latter, and the set of
his shoulders, made Den think that perhaps he was a relative of Bill and Hannah. He rehearsed in his mind how he would approach each person at the end of the meeting, in order to find out who they were and why they were here.

The man who had got up to speak was flanked by a woman of a similar age: probably his wife, Den decided. She was colourlessly pretty, her hands folded passively in her lap. She had shown no sign of interest or agreement when the man had been speaking, but had continued to stare at the floor, as she had done all along.

The last two people were both women, one elderly and one in her thirties. Den could not see the former at all; she was sitting directly behind him, in complete silence. The younger one was plump, with wavy hair styled in a rather old-fashioned bob. He scrutinised her boldly as she sat with closed eyes not far from Alexis. She had rich, creamy skin; her neck was a warm hue somewhere between beige and magnolia. She looked solidly rooted, heavy, almost languorous, on the bench.

The meeting settled back into silence. With a furtive glance at his watch, Den discovered that only twenty-three minutes had so far elapsed. His buttocks felt sore already from the hard bench. He tried to concentrate on the inquiry into Charlie’s death, to assess the chance that the person who
killed him was there in the room. Any of the men, apart from poor old Bill, would probably qualify. The Junoesque woman could doubtless handle a sturdy horse, and even the subdued little wife might be stronger than she looked. He wondered whether the people gathered around him represented everyone who had genuinely loved Charlie. Were they actually grieving in their silent absorption, without shedding a tear or stifling a sniff? Apart, that is, from Alexis, who was by her own account no Quaker.

Just when he thought he couldn’t possibly bear a further thirty-five minutes, another person stood up. It was the long-faced man. ‘Charlie was an angry chap,’ he began, his voice louder than his elderly frame suggested, ‘and he upset a lot of people with his carryings-on about animal rights and that. But he was young and he was one of us and his manner of dying was an abomination. An
abomination
,’ he repeated, making much of the word. ‘As Quakers, the one thing we refuse to bear is violence. Our Peace Testimony is more important than anything. It is hard for us, knowing that one of our Meeting has been killed by a savage act of violence.’ He began to sit down again, but straightened once more. ‘And we must give our love to all his friends – yes, we must.’ And he fixed Alexis with a gaze both fierce and affectionate. 

Den had assumed the meeting would last for an hour, but two minutes after the second speaker sat down there was a general rustling and opening of eyes, and all the people stretched this way and that to shake hands with whoever was closest to them. Den found a hand appearing over his shoulder, and turned to face the elderly woman he had hardly glimpsed so far.

‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘I’m Dorothy Mansfield.’ He took her hand, finding it cool and supple. Meeting her eye, he realised he already knew her. With difficulty he restrained himself from exclaiming; time enough for that when he’d gathered all available information from the assembled Quakers. The need to avoid distractions seemed even greater than usual, in this place.

Alexis came directly to him, followed closely by Hannah. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Alexis demanded. Before he could answer, Hannah laid a reproachful hand on the younger woman’s arm, with awesome effect. Alexis dropped back, wiping her finger under one eye again, and let herself be accosted by the dark man who had first spoken.

Den addressed himself to Hannah. ‘I need to know who all these people are,’ he said apologetically. ‘I hope you’ll understand why.’

‘Let me introduce you,’ she said. ‘Everyone
here wants to give you all the help they can.’

She began with the long-faced man who had spoken last. ‘This is Silas Daggs, my cousin,’ she said, inadvertently boosting Den’s confidence in his detective abilities. ‘He lives out on the Launceston road. Like us, he’s been a Quaker all his life.’ Den took out his pad and noted the name and relationship.

Then there was a general silence, which Den realised was probably an expectation that he would try to interview everyone on the spot. He forced a genial smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said to the room at large. ‘My colleagues and I will want to speak to you in due course, but for now I’d just like names and addresses. I hope you don’t feel this is an intrusion …’ He tailed off, silenced by their obvious patience and understanding. How would he have felt if a policeman had invaded such a peculiarly emotional and spiritual occasion as this had been? For the fact that they all knew he was a policeman, in spite of his plain clothes, was beyond doubt. He presumed he was better known in the area than he’d appreciated in the past. His height; his presence at times of crisis; even his relationship with Lilah Beardon – it all made him visible. It did at least avoid the need for awkward explanations.

Hannah led him round the rough circle that had formed. ‘Clive and Mandy Aspen,’ she said.
‘They’re the Wardens here, so you won’t need to ask for their address.’ The weak joke was received without humour by Clive Aspen, the dark man who’d spoken first. He made a stiff little bow to Den and laid a hand on his wife’s back, between the shoulder blades. She nodded and then tried to turn away, perhaps to escape her husband’s proprietary touch. Den noted down their names, with
Wardens
after them. If he could have been sure that nobody could read his jottings, he’d have added
Not a happy couple
.

‘That leaves Val Taylor,’ Hannah continued, gesturing at the creamy-skinned Juno, ‘then Dorothy Mansfield and Barty White,’ indicating the other elderly man. ‘They can give you their addresses themselves. I ought to go and see to Bill.’ Together they looked at her brother, who had not moved since the meeting ended. ‘He’s really not dealing very well with all this.’ Worry tinged her voice and Den felt a surge of pity for the man and his shattered life.

Addresses duly noted and a few vague indications given as to when each person might expect to be interviewed, Den prepared to make his exit. The sense of being an intruder had not lessened, in spite of the easy welcome. Alexis followed him to the door. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. Even so …’ She screwed up her face, looking very like Martha.
‘I’d hoped to get away from it here. From the … nastier elements of what’s happened.’

He made an understanding grimace. ‘Not possible, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But I hope I didn’t wreck it for you completely.’ He looked around the room. ‘They seem to be very nice people.’

‘They are,’ she said. ‘But I assume you think one of them could have killed Charlie.’

He’d seen the question coming. ‘We’re not ruling anything out,’ he said.

When he’d gone, Mandy appeared with a trayful of teacups. Hannah was the first to take two from her and carry them over to Bill. ‘Why can’t she ever make it hot?’ she said to him, after her first sip. ‘Lukewarm tea’s disgusting.’ Bill drained his own in a few seconds and wiped his mouth with his hand.

‘Disgusting,’ he agreed thickly, though he clearly didn’t really care.

Hannah sat beside him, watching the others in the room, trying to see them as the young police detective must have done. Clive was escorting Mandy, taking cups from her tray and handing them out, proffering a plate of plain biscuits. The Aspens had come to Quakerism slowly, making it the rock – or safety net – of their marriage. The story they had told on their arrival was a sorry one. Clive had been a product of the eighties,
working fourteen hours a day and earning a six-figure salary in something to do with oil, a rising star. Then their first – and only, as it turned out – child had died, and Clive had broken down spectacularly, spending two years looking out of the window and letting his life disintegrate. Finding a Quaker Meeting marked the first stage of his recovery, and six years on he glowed with zealous gratitude.

Hannah transferred her attention to Alexis, whom she herself had asked to come to this special meeting. The younger woman had been to two Quaker meetings with Charlie during the past months and confessed to finding them very uncomfortable. Sitting still for an hour on a hard wooden bench was physically demanding and on the first occasion she had panicked and almost left. Hannah had watched her with interest, guessing at her feelings. She knew there could be something awful about being forced to sit there in silence, in a virtually solitary intimacy that was everything and nothing. Some people closed their eyes, but others did not. Alexis had tried it both ways, but in either case had to fight to quell the thoughts crowding her mind. On that first visit, nobody had spoken throughout the entire hour; Hannah was in no doubt that it felt to Alexis like a complete waste of time.

On the second occasion, Charlie himself had
risen to ‘give a ministry’ as he himself called it. He had spoken about anger, in his usual direct fashion. Hannah had been proud of him and had seen how impressed Alexis had been.

Today her quiet crying had not gone unnoticed. They were all feeling for her and the space to weep freely seemed like a great gift.

Dorothy, tall with a great mane of long silver hair and disconcertingly acute brown eyes, approached Alexis now and patted her on the shoulder. ‘There’s nothing anyone can say to make it better. We just have to keep going, one day at a time.’ Dorothy could always be relied on, Hannah thought. Intelligent, good-humoured and possessed of a transparently clear conscience, there were moments when Dorothy was almost frightening.