Kennedy 01 - Into the Shadows (17 page)

‘It will be better coming from you, Michael,’ she said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘He won’t bite. Truly’

Michael looked doubtful but, very slowly and hesitantly, he told Max exactly what he’d told Jill. And to give Max credit, he managed to listen without interrupting and without losing his calm.

‘Michael’s worried that no one will believe his story,’

Jill said.

“I believe you,’ Max told him.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Michael said quietly.

‘Right.’ Max was on his feet. ‘I’m going to visit your father, Michael. I want you to stay here. OK?’

Michael looked at Jill. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Of course it is.’

When Max had gone, they could settle to nothing.

Jill had another drink, and Michael made himself a cup of tea.

‘Max will phone as soon as he’s spoken to your father,’

she told him.

At least, she hoped he would. It would be typical of Max to haul the man off for questioning and forget all about them.

Jill made up the spare bed, and they sat watching television for a while. She had just decided they might as well go to bed when Max phoned.

‘Has Michael been out of your sight this evening?’

he asked.

‘No, of course not. Why? What’s his father said?’

‘Nothing,’ Max said grimly. ‘Jonathan Trueman is dead.’

The Pennines looked dark and menacing as Jill drove to the post office. She normally walked, but the sky was heavy with rain. She’d lived in the shadow of the Pennines long enough to know that when the rain came, it tended to be heavy and horizontal, making umbrellas more of a hindrance than a help.

There was a queue at the counter and she was tempted to call back later. She only needed postage stamps, and she guessed Olive would be gossiping. Given the shocked state of the village, there was plenty to keep her tongue busy.

The post office, like most of those to survive the village cutbacks, sold everything from groceries and cigarettes to a motley collection of fading birthday cards.

Jill was on the point of leaving when Ella walked in.

‘Jill, I was going to phone you,’ she said. ‘Tonight’s meeting has been cancelled.’ She pulled a face and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘In view of what’s happened, it seemed the only thing to do.’

Jill had forgotten all about the meeting.

‘No doubt Olive will supply all the gory murder details,’

Ella went on, her voice so low that Jill struggled to catch the words. “I would have given her and her tongue a wide berth, but I need to get this parcel off today. It’s for my niece in the States and it’ll struggle to get there for her birthday as it is.’

“I was about to walk out, too,’ Jill said, her voice low, ‘but now I’m here, I may as well wait for my stamps.’

‘How’s young Michael?’ Ella asked. ‘Have you heard?’

‘His aunt’s at the vicarage with him.’ Jill liked Ella, and instinctively recognized her as someone to be trusted. Her quiet acceptance of things was enviable, and her genuine concern for Michael was touching. People often forgot Michael in all this.

‘That’s a good thing. That will be Alice’s sister, Eve. I’ve met her a couple of times. She’s a lovely lady.’

‘That’s her.’

It was still difficult to believe what had happened. Max had told her that the vicarage had been deserted so he’d wandered across to the church to see if Jonathan Trueman was there. Max had found his body in the porch. Someone had shot him five times.

It was Jill’s turn at the counter.

‘A dozen first class stamps, please, Olive.’

“I was just saying,’ Olive remarked, her voice a dramatic whisper for all to hear, ‘that I’d always thought Jonathan Trueman a strange one. Someone else must have thought the same thing.’

‘People don’t get killed for being strange, Olive,’ Jill pointed out.

‘Who knows? I’ll tell you this, though, Jim Brody is another strange one.’ Her fingers hovered above the postage stamps. “I wouldn’t have bothered giving him the time of day if I’d known I’d get my head bitten off for my trouble.’

Jill suspected Jim Brody had been fully justified.

“I expect he’s miffed because he’s lost his job,’ Olive went on, ‘unless the next vicar wants his garden doing the same, but there’s no need for him to take it out on me.’

‘Indeed. Sorry, Olive, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

Olive sucked in her breath at what she interpreted as a snub, gave Jill her postage stamps and took the ten-pound note Jill gave her.

Her change was slapped down in the metal tray. Jill grabbed at it.

‘Thanks, Olive. Bye.’

Olive didn’t respond, which caused Ella to chuckle.

‘I’m in a hurry, too,’ Jill heard her tell Olive as she left the post office …

It wasn’t raining yet, so Jill popped into the baker’s next door. She needed some bread, and she wanted to see if Michael’s girlfriend was about. However, there was no sign of the girl. Molly, the Truemans’ cleaner, was there, being served by Joan. It was clear that Molly had been crying, poor woman.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,’ she was saying as Joan put a couple of custard tarts in a paper bag.

‘That’s what happens when strangers come to a village,’

Joan said. ‘All these holiday homes - you can’t get to know people so you can’t trust them.’

Molly turned, saw Jill, and asked, ‘What harm did they do anyone, eh? First poor Alice and now … What’s the world coming to, that’s what I wonder?’

Before Jill or Joan could respond, Jim Brody walked into the shop and everyone fell silent. Confidences were being shared among women and Jim Brody had broken the circle.

‘Hello, Jim.’ Molly was first to speak. ‘This is a rum do and no mistake.’

‘It is, Molly’

‘Of course, you were never that keen on him, were you?

You were friendly with Alice, not Jonathan.’

Jim Brody shrugged. “I never rated church, so rarely had cause to see the man. There are enough problems in the world without adding religion to ‘em. And he left the garden to Alice.’

‘You saw him the other night,’ Molly reminded him.

“I heard the two of you arguing.’

‘Dear God,’ Jim snapped. ‘You can’t breathe in this damn place without everyone needing to know about it. D’you know what I had for my breakfast an’ all, Molly? If you don’t, Olive Prendergast is sure to be able to tell you!’

With that, Jim turned on his heel and slammed out of the shop.

‘What did I say?’ Molly asked in astonishment.

‘In light of what’s happened, I expect he’s regretting his disagreement with Jonathan,’ Jill suggested. ‘In the heat of the moment, we all say things we regret.’

“I didn’t think of that.’ Molly looked suitably contrite for a moment. ‘He’s a funny one, Jim, but he soon forgets. The next time I see him, he’ll be as nice as pie, as if nothing happened.’ Cheered by this knowledge, Molly turned back to Joan. ‘And a small cottage loaf if you’ve got one, Joan.’

As Nice as Pie? That was running at Haydock Park this afternoon. It didn’t have a hope of winning. The distance was against it, as was the going. Added to that, this would be the horse’s first outing after recovering from a virus.

No, it didn’t stand a chance.

All the same …

‘The village is changing,’ Molly was saying, ‘and not for the better. These young kids - they hang around outside the old library drinking and think nothing of throwing the cans on the ground. You can’t tell ‘em. They’ll mug you as soon as look at you.’

‘It’s the driving that gets me,’ Joan confided. ‘You can’t sleep for young men racing cars through the streets. I was walking past the church and -‘ She broke off and grimaced.

‘Ooh, that’ll have been around the time Jon was being killed.

Thank God I didn’t know that at the time.’

‘What happened?’ Jill asked.

‘Some idiot in a van nearly knocked me down, that’s what happened. I thought at first it were Nigel as drives our van, but it weren’t. Don’t know who it were, but if I catches ‘im ‘

‘A red van?’ Jill butted in and Joan nodded.

‘Going hell for leather, it were.’

Andy hated Christmases and birthdays. His own birthdays had always been joyless affairs, but he hated his mother’s birthdays far more. So many hints were dropped that he always felt honour bound to take her out for a ‘nice meal’

and buy her something extravagant and frivolous. This year, he’d bought her a silk dressing gown, flowers and chocolates and, amazingly, Melanie Collins had approved.

She always sent a card and enclosed a book token on his own birthday. When he phoned to thank her, she always said the same thing: ‘It’s no use me buying you a proper present when I don’t see you for months at a time.’

She saw him a lot more often than Andy liked. His life wouldn’t be worth living if he didn’t see her on Mother’s Day, at Easter, today for her birthday and then, three weeks later, for Christmas. Given the choice, he’d never see her again.

‘This soup could be warmer,’ she said now.

‘Mine’s fine,’ he replied.

‘Mind you, the restaurant could be warmer. Looking at the prices they charge, you’d think they could provide some heat for the customers.’

She’d probably only looked at the prices to make sure he was treating her right.

‘Put your cardigan on if you’re cold,’ he suggested, teeth gritted.

God, she was hard work, and they had another two courses and coffee to get through yet. She would be on a diet, she was always on a diet, but it wouldn’t stop her ordering a sweet.

She was wearing a maroon, floral-patterned dress and, after a moment’s consideration, must have decided the cardigan wouldn’t show it off to its best. Give her her due, she was still an attractive woman. She kept herself in shape, and always spent whatever it took to keep her hair looking good. Naturally dark, you’d never catch her looking anything but blonde. Andy sometimes thought she would rather die than let anyone see her with dark roots showing.

“I might in a minute,’ she said.

The restaurant was plenty warm enough, thanks to several radiators and two roaring fires, one at either end of the large dining area.

She was staring at him. ‘Your father used to do that,’ she said, and the criticism was there for all to hear.

‘Do what?’ He was eating soup.

‘Frown,’ she explained. ‘Wore a permanent frown, that man did.’

Andy couldn’t blame him for that. He’d never known him; the mystery man had made an escape several months before Andy was born. He was never entirely convinced his mother knew who his father was, either.

‘Sorry,’ he said, giving her a broad smile. ‘So what have you been up to, Mum? Still doing your dancing?’

‘What would I have if I didn’t do that?’ she demanded.

‘I’m not like some people who always have family popping round.’

‘At least you have plenty of friends.’

‘It’s not the same as family. Maud - you know Maud who I go dancing with - she has six to lunch every Sunday without fail. At least six.’

Andy let her talk about the lucky Maud. Compared to her, everyone was ‘lucky’. His neck was feeling tense already. He could feel the muscles tightening up. Soon the conversation would progress to his single status.

‘Are you listening?’

‘Of course,’ he assured her, but he hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.

‘Anyway, she’s got another baby on the way,’ she went on. ‘Funny that. She spent six years with you and couldn’t decide if she wanted to get married or not, and then within a year of meeting that Frank, she’s married with a kid.’

So she’d managed to work the conversation round to Tanya already. Usually, she waited until they reached the dessert stage of this ordeal to give voice to her disapproval.

It wasn’t Tanya who caused the disapproval, it was what she saw as his failure to be like her friends’ children.

Without exception, they were married with the obligatory two point four children.

He and Tanya had been together for six years but, for the first three years, it had been a very casual relationship.

They’d gone to the cinema or out for a meal once a month or so. Neither of them had wanted marriage, despite occasionally mentioning it as something they might do in the future, yet Andy’s mother always insisted on laying the blame for their break-up squarely on Andy’s shoulders.

In reality, Tanya had arranged to meet him for lunch unexpectedly one day, and told him she’d met someone else.

‘His name’s Frank,’ she’d said, ‘and I love him.’

At the time, Andy had felt something akin to relief.

‘When I was at the hairdresser’s the other day,’ Melanie Collins said, dabbing a napkin to her lips, “I read an article in one of these trendy magazines, Cosmopolitan or one of those, and it reckoned that most women leave their men because the sex isn’t much cop.’

‘Mother!’

‘I’m only telling you what I read.’

‘I’d rather not know,’ he snapped.

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t.’ She smiled slyly. ‘Course, we both know that you like to treat your women a bit rough.’

“I do not!’ Confound the bloody woman. ‘Now, have you finished with that? The girl’s been across to the table twice to try and clear away our plates.’

‘I’ve finished.’

He kept talking until they were tucking into their main course - her a lemon chicken and him a good-sized rare steak.

‘Don’t know how you can eat that,’ she muttered. ‘You get all sorts of problems from eating food that’s not cooked properly.’

‘It is cooked properly.’ His neck was even more tense now and his jaw ached from gritting his teeth. He took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to relax.

‘Your Tanya,’ she persisted.

‘She was never my Tanya.’

‘Whatever. Did she know about your police record?’

‘Mother, the charges were dropped.’ He took a swallow of his wine. If he had enough, perhaps he’d drive them both into a ditch. ‘Besides,’ he added tightly, ‘that was years ago, when I was at university’

‘Yes, at least you had the good sense to do it away from home. Well? Did she?’

‘Did she what?’