Ann Cleeves: Murder in My Backyard

“I was wondering if you were free this evening. We could go out for a drink, a meal. We could go into town.”

Of course, she thought. Much less danger of being recognised in town.

“Mary,” he repeated, and she realised that he was as desperate as she was.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m free this evening.” She felt a sudden panic in case he was disappointed with her.

That had been how it all started. They met in Newcastle in a poorly lit wine bar and she drank Perrier all evening because she wanted nothing to cloud her memory. Then she had taken him back to her flat and he had stayed all night.

“What will you tell your wife?” she asked. It was five in the morning, blackbirds were singing fit to burst outside, and he was shambling, naked, round the room retrieving his clothes.

“She’ll blame herself,” he said. “ We’ve been through a bad time lately.”

“So you only phoned me because you had a row with your wife?” Mary spoke carefully. If she made too many demands on him, he might not see her again.

“No,” he said. “Of course not. It wasn’t like that. You can’t understand what she’s like. I’ve been looking for an excuse since the night of the barbecue.”

And that was true as well, he thought. She had haunted him. The phone call might have been an impulse, a way of escaping from his wife, a way of proving to himself that he was still attractive, but it was hard to forget Mary Raven.

After that they met every week, at least once, sometimes twice. Usually he came to Mary’s flat. He never stayed the night again. She never introduced him to her other friends. They teased her about her secret lover, but she just smiled. That first joyous elation returned, but only occasionally, and she persisted with him in the hope that it would last.

Perhaps I should be satisfied with those moments, Mary thought, sitting in the car as the light faded and the wind blew stronger than ever. But she knew she wanted more than that.

In the Tower the dining room was decorated as it always was on March 1, with vases of daffodils. They were everywhere, on the polished wood table and on the windowsills and even standing on the floor. In the old days, when Anthony Parry was still alive, they would have been forced to listen to records of Max Boyce live at the Neath Rugby Club and even to male choirs singing the Welsh national anthem. Now the daffodils were enough to remind them of St. David’s Day.

No-one except Carolyn noticed that Alice had been crying. If they saw that her eyes were red, it would never have occurred to them that she might be upset. She was not the sort to howl alone in her bedroom. She was made, they all thought, of sterner stuff. She stood at the head of the table ladling soup into bowls, an indomitable English lady, secretary of the WI, organiser of the village horticultural society, and now founding member of the Save Brinkbonnie campaign. She was wearing clothes she must have had for years: flared purple trousers that she had bought, in fact, when she had taken the boys for a trip to London in 1969 and a silk tunic her husband had brought home from a trip to Hong Kong.

It was Peter’s first grown-up dinner at Brinkbonnie and for the first ten minutes he was so excited to be there, at the table between Aunt Alice and his mother, that nothing else mattered. The disappointment came slowly. He had expected a special attention from Alice, a conspiratorial joy in his achievement at persuading his parents to allow him to stay up. He had thought she would listen to his jokes. But throughout the meal she was distant and preoccupied and he wondered if he had offended her in some way. He became nervous and knocked over his mother’s wine with his elbow.

“Peter,” his mother said. “ If you can’t sit still, you’ll have to go to bed like the twins.”

Then he looked to Alice for her customary support, but she seemed hardly to have noticed the incident, and there was none of the laughter, the assurance that it was only an accident and really did not matter, which he might have expected.

At the end of the meal he sat sullen and silent. He had looked forward to this weekend for months and now it was all spoiled.

Immediately after the meal he was sent to bed. He had a room near the top of the Tower that he shared with the twins. His brothers were asleep in their cots snuffling and snoring. The strong winds had blown the storm over and the rain had stopped, but the wind was still fierce and it was cold. The noise was deafening. The gale blew around the old stonework and through the trees behind the house. Night had come suddenly and it was dark. Peter thought it was very exciting. His mother pulled his sleeping bag around him and sat on the bed to kiss him. This attention was unusual. At home she was always in a hurry to clear up before going to a meeting or running a class and there was only time for a quick story. Now she sat close to him and waited in the dark and noisy room.

“Mum,” he whispered, hoping to keep her there. “ What’s wrong with Aunt Alice?”

“Wrong?” she said. “ Nothing’s wrong. What do you mean?”

“She didn’t talk to me,” he said. “And she didn’t say anything about the treasure hunt. She always does a treasure hunt on the first night.”

Judy laughed. “ She has more important things to think about than you children,” she said. She began to stroke his forehead. “Besides, there might be a treasure hunt tomorrow.”

“No,” he said, quite certain. “ It’s always on the first night.”

“Oh, well,” she said easily. “ I expect there’ll be other treats.” She stood up. “ Will you be all right?” she asked. “With all this wind?”

“Yes,” he said. “I like it. I’m never scared at Brinkbonnie.”

When Judy returned to the dining room, they were all still sitting at the dining table. Alice had switched on the lights and drawn the curtains. They were drinking coffee, their elbows on the table, and as she entered the room she expected to hear the familiar family gossip, the old stories about Anthony, about other St. David’s days, about James’s and Max’s childhoods.

But they were silent. She thought of Peter’s whispered question, “What’s wrong with Aunt Alice?,” and realised that Alice had always started the after-dinner conversations, bringing the others in until the whole family were included. Without Alice they had nothing to say to each other.

As Judy took her place at the table, Alice broke the silence.

“Carolyn,” she said. “I realise it’s not bedtime yet, pet, but would you mind going up to your room? I’m sure your mother will come up to see you later.”

Carolyn got up and drifted out without a word, but the adults were surprised. Weekends at Brinkbonnie were informal, chaotic affairs with the children wandering around in their nightclothes until midnight and the parents complaining that it was impossible then to return them to a normal routine.

“I want to talk to you,” Alice said, “about this development in the village. I feel strongly about it. I’m going to fight it.”

They looked at each other, amused. Why was she taking herself so seriously? She was famous for her involvement with environmental issues, something of a joke even to Judy, who supported her. Alice the Green, James called her, secretly, to Stella.

“It’s too late now,” James said. “You’ve sold the land.”

“It was in good faith,” Alice said, “for small, cheap houses in the village. People like Fred Elliot’s son who want to stay in the area. Not executive detached residences with double garages and two bathrooms.” She looked at James sharply. “ I expect your help,” she told him.

“There was no proper contract,” James said. “There’s nothing I can do.”