“He’s back in the car.” She gestured in the direction from which she’d walked to meet Harry at the bridge. “Want a ride up to the square, then?”
“I couldn’t possibly cope with being inside a car. I can barely manage thirty seconds inside the Spar to pay for my purchases. Can I help you in some way, Barbara? I ask because while I’m quite pleased with the early morning greeting, when it comes from a member of the police force, one tends to think there might a secondary agenda.”
“Wise way to look at things. It’s to do with the PCSO, actually.” Barbara reminded Harry of what he’d told her: seeing Gary Ruddock with various young people, squiring them home or to the police station or to wherever it was he took them when they were causing aggro late at night in the town. Did Harry remember telling her that?
Indeed he did, he told her.
She asked him if he thought he would recognise any of them if he saw them again, but not in the company of the PCSO. To that, he told her that he wasn’t at all sure. When he’d seen Mr. Ruddock with young people, it was often at night, it was generally quite late, or if not late it was usually dark. Unless they passed under a streetlamp, he wouldn’t have got a good look at them. So he couldn’t swear with any degree of certainty about anything. Plus, there was the difficulty of seeing young people all round the town anyway, and especially in the vicinity of Castle Square, with its access to West Mercia College. Thus it would be difficult for him, seeing a young person after the fact, to say that he or she was also someone he’d seen previously in the company of Gary Ruddock. Did the sergeant understand what he meant?
She did, naturally. But, “Would you be willing to have a go anyway?”
“Certainly. Should I ring you if I happen to see a familiar face?”
Barbara told him that, no, she had something different in mind. Now that the weather was improving—although England being England, it would probably all go to hell with the advent of June—would he be willing to meet her and the inspector at the Hart and Hind this evening?
He would indeed be willing, he told her, as long as he could meet her and the inspector outside even in the event of a cloudburst and as long as he could also remain in the company of Sweet Pea.
Barbara agreed to this. So they set a time and said their farewells. Barbara returned to Lynley. He’d got out of the car, she saw, and was contemplating the weir. A female mallard and her ducklings were tranquilly paddling there.
Lynley said, “He’s out and about early, isn’t he?”
“Says he likes a change of scenery when the weather allows it.”
Lynley nodded but looked thoughtful. After a moment, he said, “That’s quite good to know, isn’t it. It makes him available for all sorts of things: to act, to be acted upon, to be a witness to action.”
“That’s what I thought, sir.” She told Lynley about the plan she’d laid with Harry Rochester: the Hart and Hind, that evening, fingers crossed about who might turn up. She was just concluding when her mobile phone rang. She had to do a bit of excavating, but she found it before it went to message.
It turned out to be Flora Bevans, yet another early riser. She said she’d had a thought, one she’d tossed round in her head to decide if it had any value at all. “I certainly don’t want to muddy the waters,” she said. “But I’ve recalled something having to do with Ian that I failed to tell you earlier.”
Barbara gave a thumbs-up to Lynley. She said, “Any information is helpful,” and waited for what that information was.
“It has to do with my sister, actually,” Flora Bevans said. “As you’re in town—at least I assume you’re in town—”
“Standing right by the Ludford Bridge admiring the waterfowl.”
“Oh yes. It’s quite lovely, isn’t it, that bridge, with those wonderful spars for pedestrians. I’m quite fond of it.”
“And your sister . . . ?”
Flora didn’t assume Barbara was enquiring about her sister’s affection or lack thereof for the bridge. She said, “This was several months ago. Greta rang me and asked if Ian might be willing to speak to one of the students at the college. I can’t remember whether it was a male or female student—I’m not sure I ever knew in the first place, frankly—but what I do remember is that Greta asked me if I’d pass along a message to Ian to phone her so that she could explain as it seemed rather an urgent matter.”
“Is she connected to the college in some way?” Barbara asked.
“Oh. Sorry. I’ve left that part out, haven’t I? She’s a counsellor at West Mercia College, the only one there is, actually.”
“So this was about . . . what? Something she couldn’t handle herself? Beyond her expertise or whatever?”
“I expect it was more to do with her workload. She’s fully qualified for the job she does but getting to things is the issue since there is one of her and . . . I actually have no idea how many students there are, but it’s got to be hundreds, hasn’t it. On the other hand, if the student was in some kind of spiritual crisis, Ian would have been better as a counsellor since Greta gave up religion as an adolescent. At any rate, I thought you ought to know about it as it had to with Ian. Shall I give you her number? I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you.”
Barbara told her that yes, indeed, Greta’s number would be appreciated. And if anything else popped into Flora Bevans’s mind, she wasn’t to hesitate, day or night.
“I hope you find it marginally helpful,” Flora Bevans said.
“Everything is,” Barbara assured her. She rang off and related the information to Lynley. He agreed it wanted looking into.
“After breakfast?” he suggested.
She was happy to hear this. “You know me, sir. Last thing I’d ever say no to is a meal.”
ST. JULIAN’S WELL
LUDLOW
SHROPSHIRE
When she’d volunteered for the duty, Rabiah Lomax hadn’t given the slightest thought to the fact that chairing the Maintenance and Repairs Committee of Volare, Cantare might be quite a time devourer. Why would it be? The beauty of a glider was the fact that in comparison to a motorised plane, there was very little to maintain or repair. But her taking up the position of chair was soon followed by one of the club member’s forgetting to engage the undercarriage prior to landing, and who would pay for the subsequent damage to the plane was the hottest topic they’d come upon in years. Obviously, one group asserted, the pilot ought to pay. Unfair, another group declared, as their dues were supposed to cover something besides drinks and nibbles at their monthly meetings in Church Stretton, weren’t they, and by the way, what about their insurance? A fortuitous occurrence, announced the third, since really shouldn’t they start thinking of purchasing an entirely new glider anyway? Every year more bells and whistles were added to gliders in the form of safety features and technical components. Theirs was a virtual antique, and this was a moment they could seize, making use of it to benefit everyone. Thus the Maintenance and Repairs Committee were tasked with making a recommendation and the club members were tasked with agreeing to it. Thus each proponent of a solution to the problem had sent a representative to be part of the meeting on this particular morning. Rabiah was only too glad she’d insisted on a relatively early start because it looked as if Dennis Crook and Ngaio Marsh Stewart (whose mother had obviously had a thing for Roderick Alleyn) would prefer to resort to fisticuffs in the street rather than compromise.
They’d just reached the point of Ngaio’s “See here, my good man”—always an indication that more was to come and it wasn’t likely that the more would be pleasant—when the doorbell sounded. Rabiah excused herself, rather thankful to have an escape from the rising tension, although when she saw who’d come calling upon her, she was equally thankful to have an excuse not to let them into the house.
“I’m quite sorry,” she said, “but I’ve got something on at the moment.” Detective Inspector L
ynley, she reminded herself, was the man. The woman was Sergeant Havers. “It’s a committee meeting, and I’m the chair.”
“We’re happy to wait,” Lynley replied.
“Love to listen in as well,” Havers added.
“Unfortunately, there’s not enough seating. And the topic is nothing that will please, I guarantee you. An argument over the purchase or repair of a glider.”
“Sounds exciting to me,” Havers said. “What about you, sir?”
“Indeed,” from Lynley. “But if there’s no room for us—”
“I’ll ring you when we’ve finished.”
“—we can easily wait in the kitchen. Or your garden. Or we can speak here on the pavement if you’d like to step outside.”
“We’ve had a word with Greta Yates at West Mercia College, Mrs. Lomax,” Havers said, in a tone far less friendly than that which was carried on her earlier words. “Turns out that in a roundabout fashion, she put Ian Druitt—the deacon? I reckon you remember him—into contact with a girl called Melissa, surname Lomax. To me and the inspector here . . . ? We were thinking that what we have is one of two things. Either one hell of a coincidence with two Lomaxes being counselled by a bloke who turns up dead in the local nick, or one Lomax being counselled by the bloke while the other Lomax tells tales to the coppers who’re trying to work out what the hell happened to him.”
Lynley said, “Do you care to shed any light on this, Mrs. Lomax? Ms. Yates was good enough to give us Melissa Lomax’s details—”
“That means we can track her down,” the sergeant added politely.
“—but we thought you might wish to illuminate the matter.”
“You don’t need to, ’course,” the sergeant went on, “but things keep getting curiouser and curiouser, if you know what I mean, since Dena Donaldson also has a connection to your granddaughter and we’re wondering what that’s all about when it’s tucked up in bed. Turns out that Melissa’s mobile number matches one that Mr. Druitt phoned on two occasions, by the way. I’ve rung it myself, but all I get is one of those automated messages. The owner of the phone—that would be Melissa, I reckon—hasn’t returned my call.”
Rabiah had felt the sweat on the backs of her knees the moment Greta Yates’s name had been spoken. She was determined, however, not to be cowed. She needed to buy herself some time, though, and she tried to use the committee meeting once again to do so. It was a complicated matter they were dealing with, it was going to take more time than they wanted to wait about, surely. She would ring them—
“As I said, we’re quite happy to wait. You might want to ring your solicitor as well.”
“Since spinning tales for the rozzers is never quite the idea,” Havers added.
Rabiah saw no other choice. She said, “If you’ll wait in the kitchen . . . And I’d be grateful if you didn’t introduce yourself to anyone as the police.”
“I’m fine with that,” Havers said. “What about you, sir? Good at posing as a roofer, are you? Or a plumber since we’ll be in the kitchen?”
“If only I’d thought to bring my spanner.”
Rabiah hustled them into the house. She rejoined the subcommittee meeting, where it had been decided in her absence that the only solution was going to be bringing the matter to the entire club for a vote. The committee could recommend nothing, it seemed. The three factions could reach no compromise.
By the time she’d shut the door on the last of them, Rabiah had made her decision about what she wanted to say. She went into the kitchen—astonished when the man actually stood politely, something she hadn’t seen from a male in years—and she began before they could pose a question.
“When you first came to speak with me, my main concern was the protection of my granddaughter. The lives of her entire family—of my entire family—have undergone an upheaval. Missa’s younger sister died over a year ago after a long illness. Missa wanted to leave West Mercia College and return home to be a support to her youngest sister. Sati—her youngest sister—wanted it, but no one else thought it was a good idea. Missa first brought it up over the Christmas holiday but was talked into returning to the college. It was clear she wasn’t happy about it, but none of us knew she was seeing Mr. Druitt for support. And I certainly didn’t know when you lot first came calling. I wanted to speak with Missa before I turned her over to you. I’m sure you would have done the same had you found yourself in a similar position.”
“Perhaps she was seeing the deacon for another reason,” Lynley said.
“She’s not a liar,” Rabiah said. “Things have been difficult for everyone since Janna’s death, and things were terrible enough leading up to it. She had very good reason to want to speak with someone.”
“Except since Greta Yates turned her name over to Ian Druitt, it’s not like your granddaughter sought him out herself,” Havers noted.
“Regardless of how she got there, what can Missa’s seeing him possibly have to do with his death?”
“We have no answer for that,” Lynley told her.
“But we’re working at it,” Havers added. “See, it’s turning out that everyone’s connected to everyone else: We speak to you about Ian Druitt, we see you speaking to Dena Donaldson, Dena Donaldson lives in the same house as Finnegan Freeman, Finnegan Freeman assisted Ian Druitt with his after-school club, Ian Druitt had meetings with your granddaughter, your granddaughter is a close friend of Dena Donaldson.”
“The number of connections is rather remarkable,” Lynley said.
“I can explain where I fit easily enough,” Rabiah countered. Now her armpits were dampening as well. “There was a misunderstanding I was clarifying with Dena. I’d assumed that she was using our name because she was meeting with Ian Druitt.”
“Why did you assume that?” Havers asked.
“It seemed logical as she and Missa were close friends.”
Lynley was watching her, his expression frankly appraising. Rabiah noticed his eyes, which were brown. Odd in a blond, she thought. There was a tight little silence among them. In it, a car drove by, that irritating rap music pounding from its open window. Lynley finally said, “Might we return to the possibility of your granddaughter seeing the deacon for an altogether different reason from the one she’s given you?”
Good Lord, Rabiah thought, the man spoke courteously. Her defences immediately rose. She said, “We’re not a spiritual family, if that’s what you mean. I can’t imagine Missa meeting with him to discuss Jesus, the Trinity, afterlife, or any other topic associated with religion.”
“There were condoms in Mr. Druitt’s car. An open box with a number of them missing.”
“You’re suggesting a sexual relationship between Missa and the man? No. It’s unthinkable. Missa has a longtime boyfriend in Ironbridge, and even if that were not the case, she’s put great store in being a virgin when she marries. Old-fashioned, I know, but there you have it.”
“Sometimes girls do that,” Havers said. “I mean sometimes they say they intend to stay pure or whatever . . . until they don’t, if you know what I mean.”
“That she found the deacon compelling and decided to sleep with him? That’s hardly in character.”
Lynley said, “We’re going to have to speak with her. You do see that, I hope.”
Rabiah did see it, only too well. But speaking to Missa was the last thing she wanted because the waters of her family were troubled enough already. She said, “Please don’t. She has nothing to tell you. This poor man who died . . . ? It’s nothing to do with her. How can I get you to see that?”
And of course, she knew the answer to her question even as she voiced it.
LUDLOW
SHROPSHIRE
Yasmina Lomax believed that the real source of her daughter’s troubles sprang from the death of her younger sister. From being witness not only to Janna’s death but also to the potential dissolution
of her parents’ marriage as a result of that death had sprung Missa’s determination to alter her own life. But she’d chosen a way to do this that was going to be self-defeating. It was because of this that Yasmina had attempted to speak with Missa that morning. It was because of this that she cancelled her appointments at the clinic and made the journey to Ludlow.
With Missa, Yasmina had got nowhere. She had risen early—grateful for once that Timothy had drugged himself into a state from which his alarm failed to awaken him—and she’d gone to her daughter’s bedroom. She’d opened the door softly and paused there, taking in Missa’s sleeping form and then the room itself. She wondered why she’d failed to find it odd that the room was unchanged from Missa’s childhood: beloved children’s books tucked into their shelves; dolls in their respective positions on top of a chest beneath the window; a stuffed bear long ago given the silly name Eeshy Beeshy for reasons no one remembered; the jewellery box atop the chest of drawers, which, when opened, displayed a plastic ballerina dancing on a mirror to “Lara’s Theme,” that musical paean to doomed love, always sending out the message that giving into passion would lead to disaster.
Yasmina opened the jewellery box, the tinny music played, and from behind her she heard Missa stir in her bed and say, “Mum? What time is it?”
Yasmina closed the box, turned, and answered with, “We must speak, you and I. Will you come to the kitchen and have some tea or shall we speak here?”
Missa flipped onto her back. For a moment she looked only at the ceiling and Yasmina wondered if it would be the girl’s intention not to speak at all. But then she sat up, took a sip from the glass of water on her bedside table, and said, “Here, then.”
Yasmina drew the chair from the kneehole of Missa’s desk and carried it to the bedside. She said, “Your grandmother told me about the London police coming to question her. She also told me about the conversation you and she had.” She fancied seeing a hardness coming into Missa’s expression. She went on. “One doesn’t generally need to speak to a churchman about leaving college, Missa. So I want you to tell me what’s really going on.”