Faith Martin - A Fatal Obsession

‘Yes. He’s… was… would have been thirty years old now.’

DI Jennings slowly felt a cold chill begin to creep up his spine. ‘This girl, sir. Your son…?’

‘His name is… was … Jonathan McGillicuddy,’ Sir Marcus said flatly. ‘His mother’s name is Mavis. Naturally, he kept his mother’s name. I believe her neighbours all think McGillicuddy is her married name. Er… less gossip that way.’

‘I see,’ DI Jennings said heavily. ‘And did the lad, er, know who you were?’ he asked delicately.

‘Oh, no,’ Sir Marcus said, sounding shocked. ‘Mavis always told the lad his father died in an accident before they could get married. My father insisted on that.’

‘I see,’ Jennings said – and did too. No doubt Mavis McGillicuddy had received a small annuity to pay for the raising of her child only on the strict understanding that neither she nor the child would do or say anything to embarrass the Deering family.

‘Mavis rang me this morning and told me… told me…’ Sir Marcus began, but then couldn’t get the words out.

‘Yes, sir,’ the DI said grimly. ‘I know what she told you.’

‘My… son. Jonathan.’ The businessman finally raised his head from his inspection of his hands and looked the policeman squarely in the eye. ‘He died at twelve noon yesterday, didn’t he?’ Sir Marcus asked bleakly.

‘We don’t know that, Sir Marcus,’ Jennings admitted levelly. But he knew it would fit with the timeframe supplied by the police surgeon.

Sir Marcus gulped and raised his hands to his head, covering his eyes with his palms. ‘When nothing happened yesterday, we were all so relieved. I thought the nightmare was over, but it’s not. It’s just beginning, isn’t it?’ he asked, his voice muffled by his fingers and despair. ‘Whoever wrote that letter said they’d kill my son, and they did.’

DI Jennings opened his mouth, but didn’t know quite what to say. That they had been protecting the wrong son at twelve noon yesterday was all too clear – and he could imagine the reaction of his superiors when this came to light. And, no doubt, if Sir Marcus had come clean right from the beginning about having a second son, he might not now be lying dead in the county morgue. But that cruel fact hardly needed saying out loud.

‘You have to catch him,’ Sir Marcus said finally. ‘You have to stop him. Or Anthony…’ He broke off and shrugged helplessly, not even daring to put the horrible thought into actual words. Not that he’d needed to, of course, for the DI had already reasoned it out for himself.

If the poison pen could kill once, they could kill again.

‘Sir Marcus, I ask you again. Do you really have no idea what this person wants? What exactly is this “right thing” they want you to do?’

Sir Marcus shook his head. He was a pitiful sight now. Unshaven, pale and trembling, he was a far cry from the bustling, self-important businessman the DI had first met just a week ago. ‘I don’t know!’ he wailed. ‘Unless… there’s only one thing I can think of, but it doesn’t make sense. It truly doesn’t.’

‘I need to know anything that might be relevant, Sir Marcus,’ Inspector Jennings insisted gravely.

And so the shattered man told him all about the fire.

Beatrice Fleet-Wright bit neatly into a thin slice of toast topped with a thin layer of Oxford marmalade, and reached for the copy of the local paper. Her husband was already reading The Times , while Rex, her son, ate without benefit of the written word, as was his custom.

Beatrice was just two years short of her fiftieth birthday, though if that landmark event loomed large in her life, you couldn’t tell it by looking at her. Her short, dark hair was as well groomed as ever, and if hair dye played a major role in keeping the telltale grey at bay, it was too professionally done by one of the city’s best hairdressing salons for anyone to be able to tell. Her green eyes still dominated an otherwise unremarkable face, but clever and discreet make-up had always served her well. As had her determination, over the years, to watch her weight.

Hers had been the generation that had grown up listening to the song ‘Keep Young and Beautiful If You Want to Be Loved’, and if she’d ever been inclined to forget, her mother had always been kind enough to remind her.

Outside, it was another dull and overcast day. She sighed, and to distract herself from the never-ending day ahead, glanced at the rather lurid STOP-PRESS headline that had clearly been rather hastily cobbled together. Obviously a major story had broken shortly before the morning papers went to press.

For a moment, she only took in the bare details – some poor soul, murder, and the horror of a discovery in a large Kidlington garden.

And then she saw the name.

McGillicuddy.

And her heart leapt into her throat, instantly cutting off her ability to breathe. It wasn’t exactly a common name, after all.

For a moment, the room swam around her as, fearfully, her eyes scanned the small printed paragraphs for more details.

The name of the murdered man was Jonathan. It was Jonathan . The age was right. And he was a gardener… It had to be him.

For a moment, Beatrice thought she was actually going to be sick, right there at the breakfast table, staining the white damask cloth and making a total exhibition of herself, no doubt causing her husband and son much distasteful inconvenience.

But, of course, she didn’t. Such behaviour was unthinkable. She was Beatrice Fleet-Wright, a Collingswood by birth. The daughter of a wealthy local brewery owner, she’d attended Cheltenham Ladies College, and later Somerville College. She had always attended her nearest church and had always done what was expected of her. Which included behaving like a lady at all times.

She had even made a good match – and one much approved of by her parents – in marrying Reginald Fleet-Wright, whose father owned a large haulage firm that very nearly produced an annual income equal to that of her father’s business.

She had produced two children and, if life had been fair, could then have expected to decline genteelly into middle age, with nothing more than the odd wrangle with the church-flower roster to blight her days.

Of course, that hadn’t happened. Instead, she had faced tragedy, betrayal and loss. Not to mention scandal, and becoming the object of either pity or cutting censure. And now, just when it was beginning to look as if she had weathered all that, it seemed life was about to deliver her yet another vicious blow.

Although she had not loved Reginald when she married him, she had grown fond of him over the years. She’d always loved her children, naturally. But even here she had never worn blinkers, or been one of those mothers who insisted on seeing their offspring as veritable angels.

Which had been just as well.

Beatrice had always insisted on seeing life as it really was. And past bitter experience had taught her that, when faced with adversity, it was no use trying to bury your head in the sand. You had to face things head-on, and try to find a way to make the best of it.

So she quickly swallowed back the bile that had risen to her throat, and put down her toast with only a slight shaking of her hand. A quick glance told her that neither of the men at the table had noticed anything amiss.

This didn’t surprise her either. To her husband, over the years, she had become more or less a fixture of the house – a vaguely valued one, like a really good chesterfield sofa, or a rather elegant painting that hung on the wall, quietly accruing value. And to her son…Beatrice sometimes wondered if Rex was actually aware she existed at all.