Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

They were through the village now. Lorimer glanced behind at their passenger. The psychologist’s eyes seemed glued to the passing countryside, his customary smile playing around his lips. What is he really seeing, though? the Chief Inspector wondered.

‘That’s it up there, sir.’

Annie Irvine nodded in the direction of a cottage set against the hillside, then turned the car into a narrow track.

‘The Yarwoods?’ Solomon leaned forward as far as his seat belt would allow.

‘Believe in keeping themselves to themselves.’ Lorimer remarked as the car came to a halt.

The cottage was old. Deep-set windows told of thick walls built more than a century before. The dull grey roughcast was made even gloomier by the deep overhang of the slate roof. There was no garden to speak of, just a flat area of rough grass on two sides and a few gnarled oaks behind the house.

‘Well, there’s a washing out, anyway,’ said Annie Irvine, pointing to a row of sheets billowing on the line to the side of the cottage.

‘They’ll be in all right. They know to expect us.’

Lorimer knocked on the cottage door, noting that it was painted in the same drab grey as the walls. The door opened a fraction and Lorimer could see the security chain in place.

‘DCI Lorimer. Mrs Yarwood?’

He was aware of a thin face and a pair of gimlet eyes staring hard at them.

‘Show me your identification.’

Lorimer had in fact held out his warrant card but now he and Annie passed them to the woman. Her out-stretched claw drew them in and he could see her bent head in the shadows scrutinising them. They were thrust back suddenly and the chain fell with a dull clunk. As the door opened wider, Lorimer raised his hand to indicate his bearded companion.

‘Dr Brightman from Glasgow University. He is working with us.’

As the woman stared at him the psychologist was sharply reminded of Janet Yarwood. It was the same face, grim and unsmiling.

They were ushered into a dingy room which, from the look of it, was seldom used. Lorimer wondered if young Annie had come across the old-fashioned habit of keeping a ‘front room’ for visitors. He doubted it.

‘Take a seat.’

Mrs Yarwood motioned Lorimer towards a dark mauve armchair. A thin layer of dust arose as he sat on the moquette. The whole place smelled of dust and damp. Even the creamy anti-macassars were spotted with rust marks. Solomon seated himself on an upright chair by the window, facing the parlour door. Annie stood beside him, glancing at Lorimer.

‘She’ll be down in a minute.’

The woman sat upright on the edge of the settee, hands clasped in her lap. Her wispy white hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, accentuating the thin, sharp features. The door opened and both men rose to their feet as Janet Yarwood’s sister strode in. Solomon tried not to reveal his astonishment as he quickly glanced from the young woman to the detective. Lorimer’s face gave nothing away.

‘Miss Yarwood? DCI Lorimer.’

The hand was taken and pumped up and down vigorously. It was hard to assess her age, thought Lorimer. She was a thick-set female with bright red hair tied back in a single plait. Her black dress covered a bulky figure that was utterly lacking in femininity.

As she grinned at them all, her expression was that of a greedy child rather than a grown woman. The detective caught himself wondering about her provenance. Was Mr Yarwood a large red-haired man?

‘I understand Mr Yarwood is not at home?’ Lorimer asked.

‘No. Mister Yarwood doesn’t live here any longer!’

Mrs Yarwood spat the words out as if the mention of her husband’s name caused a bad taste. Janet’s sister had sat next to her mother, a crafty smile on her childish face.

‘Daddy was bad. He went away!’

‘That’s enough, Norma.’

Mrs Yarwood’s rebuke failed to change her daughter’s expression.

‘I can give you his address,’ the woman offered reluctantly.

‘Yes. Thank you. We will need to talk to him.’

‘Did he do her in?’

The girl bounced up and down eagerly.

‘Norma, be quiet, or you’ll go to your room.’ Mrs Yarwood turned to Lorimer. ‘I’m sorry. Norma’s not quite herself these days.’

‘Do you mind answering some questions about Janet?’ the detective asked.

‘Not at all.’

The woman’s indifference struck them all. She might have been discussing the weather.

‘When did you last visit your daughter?’

The ramrod back didn’t budge although Lorimer noticed a tightening of her jaw.

‘We were only there twice. Once when she had just moved away.’

‘And the other?’

‘She was ill.’ Mrs Yarwood’s stiff lips began to tremble. ‘I made her some soup.’ Her mouth closed in a tight line and Lorimer could see the struggle to suppress any emotion.

‘Didn’t you want to see your daughter more often?’

‘This is a Godly house, Chief Inspector. I wasn’t going to take Norma into a place like that!’

‘A place like what, Mrs Yarwood?’ Lorimer’s question was smooth as steel.

‘A den of iniquity! All these terrible pictures everywhere! All the terrible goings on in that — Art School! And see where it all led to? I told her. I told her she’d come to a bad end!’

‘Bad end,’ echoed Norma, a silly smile still fixed on her face.

‘Perhaps you remember the pictures?’

‘Why should I remember them? A product of Satan, that’s what they were. No graven images were ever allowed in this house. She never got those ideas from me. She had a good and Godly upbringing here.’

‘Did you ever meet any of Janet’s friends?’

‘No.’ The word was spoken quietly now, her outburst suddenly over.

‘Did Janet often come back here?’

The woman shook her head silently, a look of hatred in her eyes. Was her wrath directed against her dead daughter? Lorimer wondered.

‘May I ask a question, Mrs Yarwood?’ Solomon cocked his head to the side in a gesture of deference. ‘Did you get on well with Janet?’ For a moment the woman looked as though she didn’t understand the question so Solomon continued, ‘Were you friends?’

‘I was her mother .’

Solomon nodded as if she had told him a great deal in that one answer. Lorimer rose to his feet.

‘I’m sorry to take up your time, ladies. Perhaps if I could have Mr Yarwood’s address?’

Lorimer ignored Annie’s puzzled look. He had that information already but he wanted to see the woman’s reaction to the question. Mrs Yarwood stood up, hesitated for a moment, then walked out without a word. Norma sat on, her chubby hands plucking at the voluminous folds of her skirt.

‘What about you, Norma?’ Lorimer whispered conspiratorially, once her mother was out of earshot. ‘Was Janet your friend?’

Norma nodded solemnly, the pigtail jerking up and down behind her.

‘Janet’s gone to the bad fire,’ she whispered back, one hand cupped against her mouth.

At that moment Mrs Yarwood returned and handed Lorimer a piece of paper.

‘Thank you. I may have to contact you again, I’m afraid.’

The woman shrugged slightly then led the way to the front door.

As they filed out, Lorimer looked around the room, mentally contrasting it to the city flat Janet Yarwood had chosen for her home. There were no pictures here, no photographs anywhere at all. There was just one decoration on the wall: a text with the words ‘God is Love’ embroidered in painstaking detail. Lorimer gave an involuntary shudder and quickened his steps to join the others out in the fresh air.

Nobody spoke until the car drew away from the cottage.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Annie. ‘You wouldn’t need a psychology degree to work out why Janet Yarwood left home!’ Then, realising her gaffe, she glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘Oops! Sorry. No offence, Dr Brightman.’