Ken McClure: Tangled Web

‘Don’t be ridiculous! How can you have? You’re lying,’ said John Palmer springing to his feet.

Lucy Palmer suddenly screamed and made a headlong dash to the door, bursting out of the room past the startled constable who made a late grab for her but missed.

‘Stop her!’ cried Davies but she ran round the back of the house to where canvas screens were now being erected around an excavated section of the garden about twenty metres back from the house. Two police officers stepped forward to restrain her but not before she got a good look at what lay in the shallow pit. There was a moment when all of them seemed to freeze like a tableau before Lucy let out a scream that tore at the nerves of all present. She collapsed unconscious on to the wet grass at the feet of the officers.

Davies and John Palmer reached the scene and it was Palmer’s turn to see what lay there. He was left to stare down at the tiny little legless corpse lying in the mud between the Wellington boots of the officer who had dropped down into the hole to reach it. He shook his head slowly as if unwilling to believe what he was seeing. His eyes didn’t blink and he seemed oblivious to everything around him, even his wife’s unconscious condition, leaving her welfare entirely to the policewoman who was kneeling beside her, loosening her clothing and trying to bring her round.

Palmer didn’t appear to hear the murmured angry comments of the police search team as he moved closer to the edge of the hole and squatted down on his haunches. Davies warned his officers off with a glance. When he judged the time to be right he asked the policewoman if Lucy Palmer was going to be fit to caution in the near future.

John Palmer interrupted her reply. ‘No,’ he said, turning to look at Davies directly. ‘Leave Lucy out of this, she had nothing to do with it. It was me, I did it. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t cope any longer.’

As two police officers took hold of his arms John Palmer looked down into the grave and said sadly, ‘I’m so sorry, my darling.’

Lucy Palmer was still unconscious as he was led away.

‘Well, what d’you make of that?’ Davies asked his sergeant as they drove back to the station.

‘Bloody unsatisfying,’ Walters replied.

‘You’re kidding — we’ve just cleared up a murder.’

‘But it’s just a mess, isn’t it sir. I mean it’s not like catching a real murderer, is it?’

‘Isn’t it? That’s how the law will see it.’

‘I suppose. Maybe that’s why it feels, like I said, unsatisfying. I feel for them, don’t you? All their prayers were answered; they were so happy and then it all went wrong The baby is born like that and it all ends in tragedy for everybody.’

‘Mark my words, we’re in for an emotional sports day over this one,’ said Davies. ‘The Bible-thumpers, the disabled lobby, the euthanasia mob, they’re all going to start shouting the odds but let’s look on the bright side, boyo, we’ve just cleared up a kidnapping and solved a murder. Not bad for a day’s work, wouldn’t you say?’

Gordon was called out on Saturday afternoon to a local shop where a middle-aged woman had collapsed on the floor. She had already come round by the time he got there, although it had taken him less than five minutes to sprint up from his own flat near the harbour. He was out of breath from the climb up the steep flight of steps to Main Street — something that caused even the woman herself to smile. She was still sitting on the floor but had been propped up with her back against the counter. One of the shop assistants knelt beside her holding a glass of water in readiness while a small group of onlookers stood in a huddle at a discrete distance.

‘I just came over all faint, Doctor,’ said the woman whom Gordon recognised as Ida Marsh, who did cleaning work in the village. The Palmers were one of the families she cleaned for.

‘Now then, Mrs Marsh, tell me what happened exactly.’

‘I think it must have been the fumes, Doctor. They were making me feel light-headed while I was working.’

‘What fumes?’

‘I was cleaning out the spare bedroom in the place I do on Saturday mornings along in Aberlyn when I came over all queer, like. Maybe it’s because the windows are never open in that house — it’s empty most of the time, but there was a funny smell in the room; made me feel quite sick it did while I was working there. I told the gentleman about it, like, and he apologised — said it was the paint stripper he’d been using on an old chest of drawers.’

‘What man was this?’

‘Peggy Grant’s tenant. She’s rented out her house down on Beach Road while she’s away in Australia visiting her son and his family. Nice man, English but a gentleman, like. Works up in Caernarfon.’

‘Paint stripper can be nasty stuff,’ said Gordon. ‘Especially in enclosed spaces.’

‘I popped in here when I got off the bus to buy a bottle of lemonade to take away the taste in my mouth and suddenly all the lights went out. I’ve made a right fool of myself.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Gordon reassuringly. ‘It could happen to anyone. Are you sure that’s all it is? You’ve not been overdoing it lately? Taking on too much in the way of cleaning jobs, I mean.’

‘No, Doctor, far from it. I’ve just given up one of them, Dai didn’t want me going to the Palmers’ house any more, he said.’

There was a murmur of assent from the huddle of women and knowing looks were passed.

Gordon felt annoyed but he knew that rumours had been spreading like wildfire in the village over the past couple of days. Julie had said that she’d heard people talking in the bank on Friday morning.

‘That baby was never kidnapped,’ said one of the women. ‘Mark my words.’

‘Perhaps you should share your knowledge with the police, Mrs Jones,’ snapped Gordon who’d recognised the voice as belonging to the wife of the local butcher.

‘Don’t think I need to, Doctor,’ came the reply. ‘They were up there this afternoon — in force, I hear.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Let’s just wait and see shall we?’ said Freda Jones with a self-satisfied nod of the head as she did up the top button of her coat and sought the support of her companions with sideways glances in both directions.

‘Who’d want to kidnap a child... well, like that,’ said one of the others.

‘Doesn’t make any sense if you want my opinion.’

‘It’s just a matter of time before they find her body. You’ll see; there was never any kidnapping.’

‘Mind you, when you think about it, it must have been a terrible strain on the pair of them; I mean you’ve got to have some sympathy.’

‘Nonsense,’ insisted Freda Jones. ‘The good Lord put that little mite here for a purpose. It’s not up to anyone else to question what that purpose might be.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Maybe you should all just hold your malicious tongues!’ exploded Gordon who could remain quiet no longer.

‘Well, really,’ said Freda Jones angrily. ‘I don’t think there’s any call for that kind of talk. We’re just saying what is perfectly obvious to all of us with the apparent exception of yourself, Doctor.’

Gordon bit his tongue this time and turned his attention back to Ida Marsh to finish his examination. He helped her to her feet. ‘No real harm done,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble but if you do, give me a call at the surgery.’

‘Thank you Doctor, I’m very grateful to you but I’m sure it was just the fumes in that room,’ said Ida Marsh. She said it without any real feeling as if unwilling to alienate her friends by appearing too effusive in her thanks to Gordon.