CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Anne felt ill. Weary of worrying and wondering about Owen, the only alternative was to dwell on the body discovered in his shrubbery. She preferred to think about Owen. Besides, she felt increasingly if irrationally responsible for him. For the first time ever she felt a strong affinity with Alice Shepherd.
Police were already swarming all over the house and garden by the time she and Spence arrived. A tape cordon meant they were forced to stop some distance away. A grim-faced policewoman informed them there would be no public access all the while a thorough investigation of the flat and garden was being carried out. They could just about spot a few hens strutting about unconcernedly as the WPC refused to be drawn on the subject of Owen Shepherd’s whereabouts.
“But I must see him. I’m an old friend,” Anne explained in vain.
However, another officer was more forthcoming and told them Owen was in custody, but advised against going to the police station. “I’d leave it until tomorrow if I were you,” he suggested. “I doubt whether you’ll get to see Mr Shepherd before that, if then…”
“Do you want to go straight back to the hotel or shall we drive around for a bit?” Spence asked.
“Could we drive around for a while? I can’t face being on my own just now,” Anne admitted.
“No problem,” Spence assured her. He drove into Hove, found a quiet pub and insisted Anne drink a large brandy. “It will help, believe me,” he told her with such a look of concern on his face that she hadn’t the heart to refuse. In the event, she had to concede that his prescription for her growing dismay was spot on. The golden liquid not only warmed the cockles of the heart but also helped ease the mind. Everything that had seemed such a muddle since their visit to the Shepherd’s house earlier began to clear. “Better?” he was anxious to know.
Anne nodded. “It was clever of you to realize it was just what I needed,” she told him with a quiet smile.
“Sherlock Holmes at your service,” Spence replied with a mock bow. Both laughed, albeit dryly, and it helped ease the tension.
“I still can’t believe Owen would do such a thing,” she said after a long pause.“I won’t believe it,” she reiterated. “All this time…all these years…I’d have known, surely? I’d have sensed something. How could I think of someone as a friend who was even capable of such a thing?” She took another welcome sip from her glass.
Spence gazed uncomfortably into his beer.
“They will let me see him, won’t they? I must see him. I need to ask him. I’ll know if he’s lying…or will I? Suppose he’s been lying to me all these years and, like a fool, I never suspected?”
“For what it’s worth,” Spence tried to reassure her, “I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of human nature, and I certainly don’t have you down for a fool. You’re upset, that’s only natural. But don’t let that screw up your instincts. If they tell you Owen Shepherd is on the level, trust them, and don’t let anyone change your mind. Not unless…”
“He confesses.” She finished the sentence for him with a dry, humourless laugh, hands shaking as she drained her glass.
“I’ll get you another.”
“No,” Anne protested.
“I’m a beer man myself,” he told her, “But I think I’ll join you. This whole business is doing my head in.” He went to the bar. He liked Anne Gates, but what could he say to the woman? He didn’t dislike Owen Shepherd but…”Bloody hell, there’s a child’s body in his garden!” he murmured inaudibly before summoning a wicked smile for the barmaid and ordering two large brandies. On returning to his seat, Anne’s expression gave him further cause for concern. Her face was grey. This is one tired, scared, unhappy woman, he reflected as he took her hand and placed the glass in it. “Drink up, Anne. Brandy never put anything right, but at least it makes bad times a lot more bearable.”
They drank.
“You shouldn’t drink and drive,” she scolded him as if suddenly remembering.
“Don’t worry. I had a word with the barmaid and she says it’s okay to leave the car in the car park. She’ll call us a cab when we’re ready to leave.”
“Charley will be wondering where you are,” she observed.
“I sent her a text before we started out. Besides, she’s not my keeper. I’ll do as I damn well please.”
“Oh dear, have you two had a row?”
“Not as such. I love her to bits, you know. But she makes me so mad sometimes. It’s like she has to do what she has to do, no matter who gets hurt along the way. Oh, she means well. She honestly thinks she’s done you a good turn.”
“She has if it’s my Patricia in that grave,” said Anne in a hoarse whisper.
“Maybe,” Spence agreed, “But she hasn’t done it for you. She’s enjoyed having the bit between her teeth and running away with it. That’s Charley all over, forever rushing in where angels fear to tread and all that.”
“She’s a character and no mistake,” Anne commented and sipped again at her glass. “Do you think Owen is a murderer?”
Although he had been expecting the question, Spence felt ill prepared to answer it. “It’s like I said,” he repeated, “You have to trust your instincts. If you can’t do that, what’s left?” He reached for the glass. You know him better than anyone, I imagine and…well, if it it’s your daughter…” He drank, spluttered, and instantly drank again. “I’d say what you think counts for more than any conclusions other people choose to jump to…” A fit of coughing was almost welcome. “Excuse me,” he mumbled and promptly made a beeline for a door bearing the legend ‘Gentlemen’ above the cartoon figure of a man.
Hours later, Anne recalled her conversation with Kirk Spencer and took some encouragement from it. He hadn’t condemned Owen as she had expected him to. Nor, she reminded herself, had he failed to condemn poor Owen either. He had, in fact, fairly and squarely dumped the verdict in her lap.It’s all very well to say trust one’s instincts, she brooded, but how can one ever be sure? She must ask Owen face to face, of course she must. But he’ll deny it, surely? Would she really know if he were telling the truth? Would she really, really know, beyond all reasonable doubt? Did she really know Owen that well…or herself for that matter?
“Oh, Patricia!” she moaned softly into a pillow. “Patricia, Patricia, let there be an end to it all at last…” But even as she spoke the words, she knew it was a false hope. There would be the media to contend with, at least until any trial was over. Would they let her bury Patricia before then, she wondered? She would leave the funeral arrangements to Tom, she decided. He was so good at that sort of thing. “Poor Tom,” she told the impassive, indifferent, impersonal hotel room, “He’ll be devastated all over again…” Will there, can there ever be closure.
Involuntarily, her thoughts returned to Owen Shepherd. She shivered, in spite of the evening’s clammy heat. Again, she tried to examine her emotions and gave up the attempt for a lost cause. It had become a habit of sorts, the unspoken anticipation that had punctuated their friendship in latter years. Only once Alice Shepherd was dead would the need arise to confront their true feelings for each other. It’s not as if we‘ve ever deluded ourselves it’s love. But companionship isn’t to be rejected outright at our age. She shivered again and reached for a cardigan. How could she have considered, however inarticulately, spending the last years of her life with someone who might be her daughter’s killer?
“No!” she told the room emphatically, “I won’t believe it…not unless I hear it from Owen’s own lips,” she added tearfully, crossed to the bay window and peered behind a curtain. Lights on the seafront failed to stir her imagination as they usually did. Nor did shadowy figures, in all shapes and sizes, coming and going, make any impression on her consciousness. Only a wicked moonlight, riding white crests of surly waves, insinuated her darkest thoughts as if seeking to offer teasing glimmers of reassurance.
“No, no, no!” She could not have been so wrong about Owen Shepherd all these years. Could I?
A sudden urge to talk to Cathy came over her. On impulse, she retrieved a mobile phone from her bag. She rarely remembered to switch it on and now stared indecisively at the dead screen. Instead, she replaced it and undressed.
A sharp rap at the door was almost welcome although a glance at her watch told her that it was nearly 11.30 pm. Her heart sank as she hastily grabbed a dressing gown hanging on the door and slipped into it.
“Mrs Anne Gates?” a uniformed police officer, a sergeant this time, asked politely. A WPC stood close behind.
“Yes. Is it Owen? Has something happened? It has, hasn’t it? Oh, no, what now? Oh dear, oh dear…” She stepped aside to let a young policeman and his female colleague enter the room.
“We’re investigating the disappearance of a child Mrs Gates.”
“Yes, yes, I know, my daughter, Patricia. They think they may have found her don’t they, in Owen Shepherd’s garden? I’ve been expecting you. But you can’t be certain yet, surely? Couldn’t it have waited until morning?” She tried to stay calm but, to her dismay, became increasingly distressed.
“The child reported missing is a Lynette Taylor,” said the WPC in a clipped tone that made Anne dislike the woman intensely.
“Lynette?” Anne was incredulous at first. Then she remembered her conversation with the Taylors earlier. How could she have forgotten? “I did get a call…” She tried to explain but panic was starting to take over. “When no one called again, I assumed Lynette had been found. It seemed likely the porter had made a mistake. She’ll be with her little friend, won’t she? Oh dear, oh dear. Everything is such a muddle, such a muddle…” Her lips seemed to lose control of the words tumbling out of her mouth and she began to feel feverish.
“Suppose you sit down and let me pour you a glass of water,” the sergeant insisted and led her gently to the bed.
“What? Oh, yes, thank you. A glass of water would be nice.”
“I believe you spent some time with Lynette earlier today, you and Mr Shepherd?” said the sergeant a little later, by which time he was relieved to see the woman had got her act together and was much calmer.
“Yes. Yes, we... Oh, my God, Cathy! I must go to her, she’ll be frantic.”
“My colleagues are with Mr and Mrs Taylor even as we speak,” said the sergeant gently. “With all due respect, I suggest they might prefer to be left alone for the time being. You could call them in the morning perhaps? I’m sure they’d appreciate that. Meanwhile, we need to ask you as few questions. But only if you’re quite sure you’re feeling up to it. We can come back in the morning if you like?””
“Feeling up to it?" Oh, yes, I am. I am, really. I want to help all I can, of course I do. I can’t think what came over me earlier. You must forgive me. There’s just so much to take in, you see, so much to…take in.” She could feel her self-control starting to fold but took several deep breaths and quickly rallied. “Now, how can I help you?”
“Take your time,” the sergeant told her reassuringly, “and tell us everything you can remember about this afternoon, from start to finish, however unimportant it may seem.”
Distraught though she was, Anne was relieved to oblige. Again, she found it perversely easy to talk about Lynette and Owen and their trip to Lewes. It had to be better than speculating about the body Kirk Spencer had dug up only hours before in Owen Shepherd’s shrubbery.
She remained sitting on the edge of the bed. The sergeant sat in a chair next to her, occasionally taking notes as she spoke. The grim-faced WPC had positioned herself by the door. Nor was it so much the interview as the constable’s relentless shifting impatiently from one foot to the other for the duration that dragged on Anne’s already frayed nerves.
…………………………………..
“How many more times do I have to tell you?” Owen Shepherd protested. Two plainclothes detectives wearing dour expressions confronted him across a bare table in a stuffy, poorly lit interview room at Brighton police station. “I have no idea where Lynette Taylor could be. The last time I saw her, she was heading for the lift in the hotel lobby where her parents are staying. Why don’t you ask them? They must know, surely?”
“It was they who reported her missing, remember?” one officer responded with a sardonic smile that made Owen’s flesh crawl.
“So why didn’t you go with her?” the other demanded for the umpteenth time, “Why not deliver her to the parents yourself, make sure she arrived safely?”
“I had no reason to believe she wouldn’t arrive safely,” retorted Owen, “and I’ve already told you why I didn’t want to see the parents. Her father doesn’t like me.”
“I wonder why?” the first officer murmured in a tone heavy with innuendo.
“I want a solicitor,” Owen mumbled unhappily.
“The duty solicitor is on his way,” the first office growled.
“Look, why not make it easier on yourself and just be straight with us…” the second officer reiterated.
It was a very frightened Owen that glared into a round face, almost as shiny as the high forehead and balding pate above an arch of incongruously bushy eyebrows. A pink tongue kept licking at full, feminine lips. Wearily, Owen closed his eyes. But to no avail. The image pursued him, dangling in his mind’s eye like a grotesque parody of the Cheshire cat in Lewis Carroll’s classic tale.
He had called in at a corner shop to buy some tea bags and bread after leaving Anne and Lynette then gone straight home. “Mother, it’s me!” He had opened his mouth to shout the usual greeting, before remembering…
It had been a wonderful day. He had always enjoyed Anne’s company and the little girl, Lynette, was a joy. Worried that Anne was becoming too attached to the girl, he had nevertheless put his concerns to one side and, yes, it had been a wonderful day. The house, by comparison, was oppressive. Even watching a favourite soap on TV could not assuage a sense of abandonment; a feeling, he was inclined to judge, even more engulfing than loneliness. So when the doorbell rang, he had answered it with a spring in his step, expecting Anne. To his surprise, Lynette stood on the doorstep somehow managing to look determined and distressed at the same time.
“Please, Grandpa Owen, can I come in?”
“Of course you can. I can’t keep my favourite little girl standing on the doorstep, can I? He showed her into the sitting room, went to turn off the TV and thought better of it as he saw her glance at the screen and caught the glimmer of a smile. “Can I get you anything? A sandwich, a cup of tea?” he felt awkward, had no idea how to talk to children. I wish Anne was here. She was good with children and had given him the confidence to establish a good rapport with the child on previous occasions.
“Have you got any sparkling mineral water?”
Owen nodded and went to the fridge, Lynette trailing behind. They sat at the kitchen table and drank. He wasn’t thirsty but it was something to do while he struggled for something to say. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit young lady?”
Lynette scowled. She liked Grandpa Owen but hated being patronised. “I couldn’t remember the name of Grandma Anne’s hotel so I came here instead,” she announced gravely. “I remembered the way, you see,” she added with a glow of pride in her face that made Owen smile.
“Do your parents know you’re here?”
“Not likely! They’ll throw a wobbly when they realise I’ve left the hotel. Serve them right. I am so fed-up with their quarrelling all the time. I couldn’t stand it any more, you see. Can I stay here tonight?”
Owen began to panic. “Your parents will be worried sick. What’s your mother’s mobile number? I must call her at once.”
“I can’t remember,” Lynette told him, drained her glass and went to the fridge to fetch a half empty two-litre bottle without asking.
“I’ll have to call the hotel then,” muttered Owen.
“There’s no need,” said Lynette, “I expect they will still be arguing. I doubt whether they will even have noticed I’ve gone. I can find my own way back. But I’d much rather stay here with you,” she added.
The hotel number was engaged.
“Well, you can’t,” said Owen with growing consternation, “I’ll take you back to the hotel myself. You shouldn’t have come here.”
“Why?” Lynette wanted to know, “I wanted to see the hens. You too, of course,” she added hastily. “Can we go and see them now? I expect they’ll be asleep but I’ll be ever so quiet, I promise.”
“Well, alright, but only if you also promise to let me take you back to your hotel immediately afterwards.”
“Okay.” Lynette scrambled down from her chair and together they went into the garden.
Time flew, as it does. By the time the pair had arrived at Hillcrest it was already getting late. “Can you make your own way from here?” Owen asked as they paused just inside the lobby entrance.
“Of course I can. But don’t you want to see Mummy and Daddy? Oh, sorry, I forgot. Daddy doesn’t like you, does he? Mummy does, though and she’d love to see you, I know she would. Daddy’s probably in the bar by now, anyway,” she told him with all the precocious wisdom of a ten year-old.
“Let’s say goodbye here, okay, just to be on the safe side? We don’t want to start another argument, do we?”
“Okay.” Lynette shrugged, resigned to not getting her own way, and then held up both arms while he bent his head to receive a kiss on the cheek. The arms lingered around his neck and he couldn’t help but wish, as he often had, that he’d married and had children of his own.
Lynette ran towards the lift.
Owen had not gone straight home this time but taken a leisurely stroll along the promenade. Twilight was already fading. The sea resembled a green tablecloth edged with white lace where it lapped at the pebbled shore. There were lots of people about. Men, women, children, noisy teenagers…they all provided company of sorts and succeeded in lifting his spirits far more than any soap opera. This was real life, after all, he reminded himself with a wry smile.
At the peace statue, he stood a while, watching the setting sun paint and re-paint the angel’s wings in various shades of pink and gold, its orb and olive branch held out wistfully, or so it seemed to him, but in vain since no one but himself was taking any notice.
His thoughts turned to Iraq, Afghanistan. “Fat chance of peace in the world!” he muttered, felt suddenly maudlin and proceeded to make his way home with brisk, determined strides in a desperate attempt to shrug off a rapidly descending spiral of discontent.
The police had been waiting for him...
“You were the last person to see the child,” Baldy was saying.
“Why should she come to see you in the first place?” snapped the colleague.
“You were seen in the hotel lobby with her…”
“I told you, I took her back to the hotel myself,” Owen sobbed.
“Took her back or went there to fetch her?”
“Where is she, Shepherd? Where is Lynette Taylor?”
“I don’t know!” Owen screamed.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not!” Why should I lie?”
“You tell us…”
“Whose body did you bury in the garden?” Baldy flung at him abruptly.
“I don’t know anything about that, I swear.”
“Is it Patricia Gates? Did you abduct her too?”
“No!”
“Like little girls, do you?” the first officer asked in a deceptively mild voice.
“Yes. That is, no…not in the way you mean.”
“Oh, and what way would that be?”
“I want a solicitor,” Owen groaned. But the interrogation did not let up.
“Did you kill Patricia Gates?” Baldy demanded.
“No!”
“Where is Lynette Taylor? Have you killed her too? Rape her first, did you?” The first officer made no attempt to conceal his disgust.
“No, no!” Owen Shepherd placed both hands on the table and partly rose from his chair, looking first one then the other officer full in the face. “I last saw Lynette at Hillcrest going towards the lift. I have not abducted anyone. I know nothing about any body in my garden. Nothing, do you hear? Nothing, nothing, nothing! I am innocent. Why won’t you believe me?”
“Suppose you tell us the truth? Then we just might,” Baldy shouted.
“Where is Lynette Taylor?” his colleague yelled.
Owen Shepherd closed his eyes again and willed the nightmare to end. He was back at the peace statue. Suddenly, the angel took flight. He was on its back, being carried far, far, away into a warm, comforting darkness. In the distance, he could see a pinpoint of golden light. As they approached it, he saw that it was the angel’s orb. What is that doing here? What am I doing here? How did it get here? How did I get here? Dear God, why me, why me? Suddenly, he was past caring, not afraid any more. Relax, Owen, relax. It’s not as if Mother would ever let anyone hurt you.
“Shit! The bastard’s fainted!” exclaimed Baldy.
To be continued on Monday.
