Читать книгу Dark Waters: The addictive psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down - Mary-Jane Riley - Страница 16

The early morning air was crisp and fresh and the hedgerows were covered in frilly cow parsley as Alex drove to Lapford. She reached the home of the late Roger Fleet in little under an hour. She wanted to see where he had lived, to get a feel for the man from the depths of Suffolk who had chosen to end his life with a magazine owner from London. She hoped if she got there early enough she would beat Heath Maitland to it – he’d never made an early start in all the years she had known him – and also, with any luck, there wouldn’t be anyone around to question her as to why she was there.

The satnav took her through the actual village of Lapford itself, past a high school, a crinkle-crackle wall, and along a high street that could have come out of the Middle Ages, all beamed houses and cottage gardens. Some had notices outside advertising free-range eggs or garden vegetables. One enterprising householder sold jam and pickles at his gate. Alex wondered how long it would take the health and safety police to get to that one. There was even a little duck pond in the centre of a green, complete with duck house in the middle and a wooden bench on the edge. And actual ducks too. The only people she saw were an old boy on a bike in his wellingtons, probably going to work at a local farm, and two dog walkers.

She turned left opposite the primary school with three distinctive arches at its entrance and a couple of cars parked on the bit of grass next to it, past a newsagent, a butcher’s shop, a deli and an imposing church with a tall tower, and on to the road out of town.

After a few more twists and turns Alex drew up outside a five-bar metal gate. A wooden board at the side of the gate proclaimed it to be Hillside Farm. Excellent, she thought, as she parked up on the grass verge.

The soothing sound of a harp made her look at her phone. It was a text message from Gus, at last.

Hi Ma, it said, planning to get a flight from Ibiza to Stansted in the next day or so. Will try and let you know tomorrow what time and when. I’ll make my own way to Sole Bay, just get the food in, I’m Hank Marvin!

Alex smiled. She was looking forward to seeing her son again – it was many months since he’d gone to Ibiza to meet his father for the first time. Gus had slotted into his father’s family of Argentinian wife and three children as if he’d known them all his life. Which was a good thing. A really good thing. And it was good that he got on with his dad. It was the right thing to happen.

So why did she always feel that twist of jealousy when she spoke to him over FaceTime and he waxed lyrical about what fabulous people they all were and how he was enjoying working for his father and how he couldn’t believe he’d waited so long to find him? Alex nodded and made encouraging noises, all the while feeling the envy and the slight resentment (slight? really?) that he should have this much enthusiasm for a man she’d had a one-night stand with and who hadn’t wanted to know her the next morning.

Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. Gus was happy and that was all that mattered.

Great, she typed. So looking forward to seeing you.

Texts, she thought, were lifesavers. She could stop worrying about Gus, and she’d had one from Sasha earlier that morning telling her not to worry, that she was with a friend. Right then, she wouldn’t worry. Much.

She jumped out of the car and pushed open the gate, shutting it behind her. Then she took a picture of the pebble-dashed bungalow in the distance with her phone, and a close-up of the veg garden.

Walking up the drive she marvelled at the rows of young vegetables growing either side of the gravel. If she was a proper gardener she would have known what was there; as it was, she could only identify some curly lettuces, the beginning of frondy carrot tops and wigwams made out of canes ready for runner bean plants to curl around. As she got closer to the house she sniffed the air. The sweet, earthy smell told her there were pigs in the vicinity, and she heard the triumphant crowing of at least one hen that had just laid an egg.

Police tape had been fixed across the front door of the bungalow. They must have come yesterday, maybe looked for clues to – what? – to see why he killed himself? She frowned. So, the house was still the subject of a forensic investigation.

She walked around the back and found a number of fenced-off areas with chickens, pigs, and sheep. There was also a goat tethered in one corner underneath an apple tree. When she got closer she saw large plastic buckets of feed and water. So the animals were being cared for.

‘What do you want?’

Alex turned and saw a woman whose age could have been anything from thirty-five to sixty with a sharp, ferrety face. She was carrying a bucket and a shovel and was wearing wellington boots together with a muddy-coloured skirt (or perhaps it was muddy) and a faded pink tee shirt, partly covered by a flowery cardigan. So much for nobody else being about this early. She hadn’t thought about someone coming along to feed the animals.

The woman put the bucket and shovel down. ‘I said, what do you want?’ There was no friendliness in her voice.

‘I was worried,’ said Alex, thinking quickly, ‘about the animals.’

‘Why would you be worried?’

‘Because—’ Alex floundered.

‘RSPCA, are you?’

‘No.’

‘DEFRA?’

‘No.’ Did she look like someone from a government department then? She would have to take more careful note of what she wore.

‘So what business is it of yours?’

‘None really, but—’

‘Well, bugger off then. Go on. Roger doesn’t like visitors. Never has. Never will.’

With a sinking feeling Alex realized the woman probably didn’t know about the death of Roger Fleet on the boat.

‘I’m sorry, but—’

‘Did you not hear me?’ She raised her voice. ‘I’ll call the police if you don’t leave. Now.’

Alex had to try again. ‘Are you Mr Fleet’s wife?’ Unlikely, she knew, as a wife would have been told by now of Fleet’s death, but she thought talking to this woman could be useful.

The woman laughed. ‘Wife? That’s a fine one. Best I’ve heard yet. No, Roger hasn’t got a wife. Never had, never will, I shouldn’t think. Likes his own company. Anyway, what’s it to you? And why should you be worried about the animals? He loves them and always asks me to look after them when he goes away. He’ll be back later today or tomorrow at the latest. Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘You haven’t seen police here?’

She shook her head. ‘Why should they come out here?’

So she hadn’t seen the police tape at the front door. ‘Mrs—?’

‘Archer.’

There was nothing else for it. She stepped forward. ‘Mrs Archer, perhaps we could go somewhere and sit down.’ She took her elbow.

‘“Sit down”?’ Mrs Archer shook off Alex’s hand. ‘What do I want to do that for? I’ve got animals to feed.’

Alex took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news. Roger Fleet has passed away.’ She flinched inwardly as she used that phrase – she had always thought it mealy-mouthed – and she wanted to go and put her arms around the woman, but she didn’t think it would be welcomed. Instead, she watched as the colour drained from Mrs Archer’s face and her whole body sagged.

‘“Passed away”? Died, you mean? Oh my.’ Mrs Archer put her hand to her throat. ‘What was it? Heart attack? He never looked after himself properly, all the years I’ve known him.’

‘I don’t know how he died, I’m afraid.’ That much was true.

‘Where did it happen? In Penstone?’

‘Penstone?’

‘The Priory.’

‘The Priory?’ Alex frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Mr Fleet had problems?’

‘Problems?’ Mrs Archer sighed. ‘He certainly had problems. No love, not that fancy place that’s always on the news with some celebrity or other falling through its doors. This priory is the Catholic place in Penstone. He was on a retreat.’

‘A retreat?’

‘Bugger me, girl, do you always repeat everything? He was praying and that. Searching his soul. That’s what he told me. He went ten days ago. Load of old nonsense, if you ask me. I was surprised, though, because I know he didn’t have a lot to do with religion.’

‘Did he say why he was going at this particular time?’

‘Said he needed to make his peace with God.’ She frowned. ‘And now he’s dead. Poor sod. What’s going to happen to his animals? I can’t look after them all the time. What’s going to happen, tell me that?’

‘I don’t know, Mrs Archer. Perhaps the RSPCA could help. Did he have any family?’

‘A sister. In London.’ She frowned as she thought. ‘Uptight piece she is. Treated me like I was the home help when I met her. I don’t think they got on. Not much love lost, if you know what I mean.’

‘Do you know his sister’s name?’

‘Margaret. Margaret Winwood. Lives in Twickenham. I remember that because of the rugby. You know, the stadium. I want to go to a match one day. Love watching it. All those well-built men in shorts running around barging into one another. Do you like rugby?’

Alex tried to keep a straight face – she was having a hard time reconciling Mrs Archer with a love of rugby players. ‘I quite enjoy watching it sometimes.’

‘Anyway, why do you want to know about his sister?’

‘I—’

‘Because I can’t stand here chatting all day otherwise the poor buggers’ll die of hunger and thirst.’ Mrs Archer picked up the bucket and shovel. Her lip wobbled slightly. ‘Roger wouldn’t want his animals to go without.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a bad business. He was quite a troubled soul, I think.’

‘Oh?’ Alex wanted to keep her talking.

‘Something had gone on in his life that had made him sad. He never would tell me, well, I wouldn’t have expected him to, but he was a kind man. He would invite me in for a cuppa of a morning and we would sit and put the world to rights, though he would never say anything bad about anybody. Such a gentle soul. Educated too. “Mrs Archer”, he’d say, “things might not have always gone right, but I do have my animals and my land”. That’s what he’d say. And he loved his dogs, Bramble and Cotton. Two brown labs they are.’ She put her free hand over her mouth. ‘What’s going to happen to them? They’re with me for the moment, but I can’t keep them. Pigs and sheep and hens are one thing, but those lovely dogs. Oh my word.’

‘I’m sure arrangements will be made.’ Alex felt helpless.

‘“Arrangements”. Poor bugger. I suppose they’ll let me know when the funeral is.’

‘I’m sure they will.’ Though Alex did wonder who ‘they’ were.

‘Anyway,’ went on Mrs Archer, who seemed to have found that once she started speaking she couldn’t stop, ‘you haven’t told me how it happened. Roger dying, I mean.’

‘It was on a boat. On the Broads.’

‘On a boat?’ Mrs Archer looked disbelieving. ‘Roger wouldn’t go on a boat, not for all the tea in China. He hated boats. And he was on a retreat.’