The Unburied Past (4 page)

The nearest hill was some two hundred yards from the car park, and he saw that from this side a path offered a more manageable approach to its summit. Not that he'd either the time or inclination to scale it, but he recalled seeing people standing on a wide shelf some third of the way up, which would suit him admirably.

Slipping the strap of the camera round his neck, he picked up his canvas bag and set off across the muddy grass. Soon he was climbing steadily, considering and rejecting possible shots as he went. From the height of the ledge, a series of exposures should give a panorama of the entire lake, putting into perspective the more localized views he'd already taken.

By the time he reached it, out of breath and with aching legs, he was promising himself a brief rest and a drink from his water bottle before starting work. But as he emerged on to the shelf, all thoughts of a rest vanished.

Some distance below him three men were standing at the edge of the lake, and it was clear a heated argument was in progress. A small boat was bobbing at the edge of the water and Mark noticed a fishing line propped against a rock. Curious, he fumbled in his bag for a zoom lens and, supporting the camera, pressed the shutter release.
Figures in a landscape
, he thought.

The man facing him had started waving his arms about, one of his companions was shaking his head, and the third stood passively looking on. Their raised voices reached Mark on the wind but he was unable to distinguish the words. A couple more clicks.
Drama by the lake; every picture tells a story!

What happened next took him totally, horrifically, by surprise. The man who'd been gesticulating suddenly lashed out with his fist, catching his opponent on the chin and sending him crashing to the ground. Then, before he could recover himself, the attacker stooped to pick up a rock and brought it down forcefully on the fallen man's head. Aghast, unbelieving, Mark continued to record the scene as more blows rained down until the third man, belatedly galvanized into action, caught the assailant's raised arm and hung on to it. For measured seconds no one moved. Then they both straightened, looking nervously about them and, conscious of his exposed position, Mark ducked out of sight behind a gorse bush.

By the time he cautiously raised his head, the man who'd restrained the attacker had dropped to his knees beside the still figure and was feeling increasingly urgently for a pulse – at the wrist, then at the side of the neck. And as Mark watched, his heart thundering, he raised his head to meet his companion's eyes and slowly shook his head.

For a timeless moment the tableau froze before, simultaneously snapping into action, they lifted the inert form of their comrade between them and, staggering under his weight, tottered over to the boat still bobbing at the water's edge and tipped him into it, causing the small craft to rock violently. One of them scrambled in after him while the other pushed the boat off from the shore before climbing in himself and, manoeuvring a pair of oars into position, started rowing speedily towards the centre of the lake.

A sudden whirring as the film began to rewind recalled Mark to his surroundings and the fact that, disbelievingly enthralled by what he was witnessing, he'd risen from the shelter of the bush and would be in full view should one of the oarsmen happen to glance up. Hastily he ducked down, made his way swiftly off the ledge and began scrambling and stumbling back down the hillside, intent only on reaching the safety of the car. It took several attempts for his trembling fingers to unlock the door, then, having checked no pursuer was in sight, he half-fell inside, started the engine, and with a screech of tyres shot out of the car park and on to the road back to the village.

It was as well that there was no other traffic. Taking corners at breakneck speed, he skidded from one side of the wet road to the other, his heart hammering at the base of his throat, his whole body shaking, and when at last he came to his turning, he swerved round it on two wheels and shot through the open gates of the cottage.

Switching off the engine, he sat for a moment in the sudden silence, head bent, hands still gripping the wheel. Then, grabbing his camera bag, he hurled himself out of the car, stumbled to the front door and flung it open, meeting Emma's startled eyes as she looked up from her sewing.

‘Mark!' She came to her feet in alarm. ‘For God's sake, what's wrong?'

Mark drew a deep, ragged breath. ‘I've just seen someone being murdered!' he said.

L
ynne heard the doorbell, but as her mother was downstairs paid no attention. She was making a list – it was all she seemed to do these days – of the tasks to be completed before Charlotte returned from school and Claire from her afternoon play group. It wasn't until Thelma called her, a discordant edge to her voice, that she pushed back her chair and went on to the landing.

‘Yes?' she called back.

‘Can you come down, please? Now?'

‘I'm just—'

‘
Now
, Lynne!'

Muttering under her breath, she started down the stairs, stopping short as she caught sight of two uniformed figures in the hall. Immediately alarm bells rang. The children!

She ran down the remaining stairs. ‘What's happened? Is it the children? I—'

Her mother interrupted her. ‘It's me they want to speak to, but for some reason they'd like someone with me.'

Again, that clutch of fear. Lynne looked quickly about her. ‘Where's Dad?'

‘He's gone to the bank,' Thelma said distractedly, gesturing the man and woman into the sitting room and pulling Lynne in after them. She turned to face them. ‘This is my daughter. Now, please tell me what this is all about?'

The police officers exchanged a glance. They looked very young, Lynne thought incongruously.

‘Would you like to sit down, Mrs Franklyn?' the woman suggested tentatively.

‘No, I wouldn't! If you've something to tell me, for God's sake get on with it!'

Lynne, however, cold dread settling in her stomach, guided her mother to the sofa and sat down with her, taking hold of her hand. It must be Dad, she thought sickly. A heart attack at the bank? A crash on the way home?

The male officer cleared his throat, but the question that came shocked them by its unexpectedness. ‘Could you confirm, please, that you are related to …' He glanced at the notebook in his hand. ‘Mr Mark Franklyn and Mrs Emma Franklyn?'

Thelma and Lynne stared up at them whitely. ‘Yes,' they said in unison.

‘Then I'm very sorry to tell you that two bodies believed to be those of Mr and Mrs Franklyn were found in Penthwaite, Cumbria, early this morning.'

There was a moment's total silence, then Thelma said explosively, ‘
No!
' and, wrenching herself free of her daughter, clapped both hands over her ears. ‘No, no, no! There's some mistake!'

Lynne moistened her lips. ‘
Found?
What …?' Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, God – the children!'

‘They're safe,' the woman officer said quickly. ‘They're being cared for.'

‘But my brother and his wife?
What's happened to them?
'

Before the officers could reply, Thelma gave a little moan and, slipping sideways, fell across her daughter's knees in a dead faint.

Lying awake in her parents' guest room, Lynne's mind continued to replay the horror of the last two days; horror that, now that the story of the murders had broken, was exacerbated by the persistent and unwelcome attention of the press.

Both sets of parents had immediately flown to Cumbria, the women to reclaim the children, the men to perform the grim tasks of identifying their son and daughter and engaging a firm of undertakers recommended by the police. And it was only on their return that they'd passed on the scant facts they'd been able to establish.

Bob reported that it had been a milkman on his rounds who'd spotted Mark, lying beside his car in the cottage driveway. While trying in vain to revive him, he'd heard a child crying inside the house and, since the door was on the latch, he'd gone in to find Emma lying dead at the foot of the stairs and little Adam bending over her crying, ‘Wake up, Mummy!' Kirsty, still imprisoned in her cot, was yelling lustily upstairs. Both children had been examined at a local hospital and, thank God, found to be unharmed. A couple of postcards addressed to the Franklyns and Emma's parents had, together with credit cards found in Mark's wallet, enabled Cumbria police to contact the local forces and confirm next of kin. An inquest would be held to establish identity, then immediately adjourned pending further investigations.

At this early stage the police had refused to divulge any details, saying only that it seemed two perpetrators had been involved and that death in both cases was caused by a blow to the head. The motive for the attacks remained a mystery; Mark's wallet and credit cards were in his pocket and Emma was still wearing her jewellery.

The children had been brought back to the Franklyn home, where it was hoped the presence of Charlotte and Claire might help ease the situation. They were obviously disorientated, but though repeatedly asking for their parents could, to everyone's relief, for the most part be distracted. Bedtime, particularly in Adam's case, proved the most difficult, and Lynne had spent hours reading stories and singing nursery rhymes until he fell asleep. Little Kirsty, though she also cried, could usually be soothed by the presence of her teddy bear.

As Thelma kept saying, it was a blessing they were so young; had they been even a little older, their pain and loss would have been that much greater.

Lynne stirred in the wide bed. ‘Harry,' she said into the darkness, ‘we
are
going to adopt them, aren't we?'

He stroked her hair. ‘Of course, honey. It's the only solution.'

‘Bless you for that, though I still think we should postpone Canada. How can we leave Mum and Dad when we still don't know what happened?'

Harry sighed. It was a subject they'd come back to repeatedly over the last couple of days, and one on which, he'd been both surprised and gratified to discover, his parents-in-law agreed with him.

‘It's not good for your little ones to stay too long in a house of mourning,' Bob had told them. ‘Charlotte is old enough to understand at least part of what's happened. With luck, we'll be bringing Mark and Emma home next week, so the funeral can be held before you leave. For the rest, we'll all have to learn to live with this, and for you to stay on would only prolong the agony.'

‘Your parents say we should go,' Harry reminded Lynne now. ‘But our main priority is to arrange a family meeting to agree the adoption and get things moving on that front. There shouldn't be any difficulty; Mark named me as the children's guardian in the event of their deaths – which, God knows, we thought at the time was a mere formality.'

Lynne shuddered, and his arms tightened round her. But all she said was, ‘Let's try to arrange it for tomorrow.'

Condolence letters were already starting to arrive, and among those the next morning was one from Mark's friend and fellow photographer Graham Yates.
I can't tell you how shocked Sue and I were by this dreadful news
, he wrote.
As you know, Mark and I go back a long way, and in many ways were more like brothers than friends. I shall miss him and Emma more than I can say, and can only imagine the horror you're all going through, not only over their deaths but also the manner of them.

Wearing another hat, if I may, I'm not sure if you're aware that Mark asked me to be his executor? We shall therefore be meeting in due course, but in the meantime if there's any way at all that I can be of help, please don't hesitate to ask.

‘A nice boy,' Thelma commented flatly. ‘I always liked him.'

Since everyone had taken the week off work on compassionate grounds, there'd been no problem in arranging the conference for that afternoon at the Franklyns' home. A friend of Lynne's had offered to take all four children to the park to allow for uninterrupted discussion.

Some of them hadn't seen each other since the tragedy and their meeting was, inevitably, emotional. As they assembled in the sitting room, it struck Lynne for the first time how different the two sets of parents were. Louise Grenville, tall, silver-blonde and immaculately dressed, was rigidly in control, only her shadowed eyes and the tightness of her jaw betraying her inner anguish, while Thelma, smaller and rounder, was openly struggling with her tears. Even the men were opposites, Clive Grenville dark and thin, his intelligent face deeply grooved, and her own father a more cuddly version with his bright blue eyes and sparse greying hair. Janice, clutching Roy's hand, was avoiding eye contact and had barely spoken.

‘As it's only two thirty,' Bob began, ‘we thought we'd get the discussion out of the way first, then we can relax over tea. So here goes.' He looked round at their tense faces. ‘I appreciate that we're all still coming to terms with what's happened, but there are some things that can't be postponed, one of which is the funeral arrangements. We've been told Mark and Emma are likely to be brought home next week, so we must decide which church to go for – the one where they were married, which, of course, is near Louise and Clive, or the one near where they lived and where the children were christened. Once that's decided, we should book the service as soon as possible, to ensure it's before Lynne and Harry leave.'

Feeling the ball was in their court, Louise and Clive conferred briefly. Then Clive said, ‘I think we should go for where the children were christened. Emma took Adam to their Mothers and Toddlers group.'

Bob nodded. ‘Then may we leave it to you to contact them?'

‘Of course.' Clive made a note in his diary.

‘And the other big decision,' Bob continued, ‘concerns the children's future. So, Harry, perhaps—'