A Passion So Deadly

Fifteen

Constance sat very still. The Sun newspaper lay before her, flat on the kitchen table. Rent Boy Killer Strikes Again screamed the front-page banner headline. She had a copy of the Express on her lap. The lead story was the same, of course. It was the same in every paper.

Constance was surrounded by newspaper reports of the third murder. She read each one thoroughly and, when she had finished, folded the newspapers with care and piled them in one corner of the table. The Aga made the whole room glow with warmth, but Constance was barely aware of its comfort. The chill which engulfed her came from her own heart.

It was late afternoon on Saturday, 19th December, the day after Wayne Thompson’s body had been discovered in Bristol and around the same time that Rose Piper was setting off to meet Terry Sharpe. There had been quite a heavy fall of snow earlier on in Chalmpton Peverill, but Constance had not even noticed. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She had been unable to stop herself crying all day. She had, after all, done quite a lot of it lately. Although after the funeral things had seemed to settle down a bit for a few days. She had shut what she knew must be the truth out of her mind, and, for the sake of what remained of her family, had tried to force herself to behave as normally as possible.

Even William had encouraged that — at least when it came to any kind of public appearance. It was William who had made her pull herself together, and forced her to dress and behave the way she had for the funeral. She had known he was right and she had tried to keep that up, she really had. It was all a pretence of course. All a mere façade. But that was all there was left, really. And there wasn’t just William to consider. She also had two lovely daughters, one still at school who so needed the love and support of a calm, strong mother — although even before this latest horror Constance hadn’t really thought she could ever be that again — and the other, a mother herself, who was so nice and kind and normal.

But now, surely Constance could not go on pretending. Could not kid herself that life could ever return to any kind of normality.

She wiped away a tear. She had been sitting at the table almost all day. For once in her life she really did not know what to do next. Losing Freddie was so terrible. Her grief would have been overwhelming under any circumstances. But with everything else that had happened it was unbearable. And her guilt too. They say you always feel guilt when someone close to you dies, however irrationally — but her guilt was not irrational. She knew she had caused Freddie’s death. There was no alternative to believing that. But she had been trying to convince herself that at least it was all over now. That nothing more would happen. It wasn’t over though. It was still going on. All of it. And so it would unless she did something about it. Only she could stop it.

Constance took a deep breath and grasped the edge of the table firmly as if to draw strength from it. She had more or less lost her grip over the past few weeks, nobody knew that better than Constance — unless, she reflected, with just a flash of the old wryly amused Constance, it was Marcia Spry — but she had to pull herself together. After all nobody except her could help her family, if not herself, get through it all.

But Constance did not know if she had the strength.

Josh lay heavily across his mistress’s feet, his tail thumping occasionally on the tiled floor, glancing upwards adoringly at her every so often.

She ignored him, as she seemed to so much of the time nowadays. Gone were the days when at the very least she would habitually if absent-mindedly scratch the top of his head whenever he rubbed against her.

He continued to thump his tail on the ground, hoping for attention. His eyes were sad. Josh knew his mistress was deeply unhappy. That meant he was unhappy too.

The villagers were amazed by the way in which Constance seemed to fall apart so quickly. Although they would have expected her to be devastated by her husband’s death they would also have expected her to cope. She was, after all, that sort of person.

Constance did not appear to be coping at all. And, as Constance herself had predicted, the villager best informed about all of that was Marcia Spry.

‘She just mope about day in and day out,’ Marcia related that afternoon in the village shop, her enjoyment of Constance’s predicament only thinly disguised. ‘You’d never ’ave thought ’er’d ’ave fallen apart like that, but then, of course, ’er didn’t have the breeding. I always said ’er true side would show itself sooner or later...’

But Marcia had chosen a bad moment to revel in other people’s misfortunes, let alone to indulge in character assassination.

‘I’m sure you always did, Marcia Spry,’ responded an angry female voice. And the redoubtable Iris Phillips, mother of Harley, her usually beaming features arranged into an expression of uncharacteristic indignation, emerged from behind the shelf of video tapes at the back of the shop.

‘And you’m right too. Us ’ave seen the true side of Mrs Lange often enough in this village. ’Er saved my Harley’s life, ’er did, and there’s many others could tell ’ee what that woman’s done for them. A saint she’s been to this village, if you ask me.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Marcia, you really should, talking like that about ’er. Mrs Lange needs some support from this village for once, and look what ’er’s getting. You’m a mean-mouthed, wicked old woman, Marcia Spry, that’s what you be.’

And with that Iris Phillips swept out of the shop calling behind her, ‘I’ll pay you tomorrow, Mrs Walters. I’d better go before I says more.’

But in the doorway, with half her body already out in the street, she turned to glower once more at an astonished-looking Marcia. And her final parting shot was beautifully delivered.

‘As believe me I could — a great deal more,’ she said menacingly.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Marcia, as soon as the shop door was firmly closed and Iris had retreated out of earshot. ‘I’ve never been spoken to like that before, I must say.’

Mrs Walters eyed her customer quizzically. Marcia, accustomed as she was to using the village shop-keeper and post-mistress as a sounding board and a sorting house for all her most scurrilous gossip, would, if she had thought about it, have realised that Mrs Walters had never before passed any comment at all really. But this time Mrs Walters not only looked like a woman who had seen and heard it all before, but also as if she’d had enough of it.

‘So perhaps it’s not before time, then, Marcia,’ she remarked conversationally.

Marcia could barely believe her ears.

‘Well,’ she said again, and, most unusually, she said nothing more as she paid for the packet of digestive biscuits which had been her excuse for going into the shop in the first place.

Hastily now, Marcia left the shop, her features pinched into offended disapproval. As she did so she almost bumped into William Lange, who seemed to be so preoccupied that he barely acknowledged her.

Nonetheless, Marcia had been impressed by William’s behaviour recently, if a little surprised. The boy seemed to have really taken hold of the reins, it seemed to her. He had announced right after his father’s death that he would be giving up his studies to run the farm, and he was making a fair stab of it too — the Lange’s most senior farm worker, Iris Phillips’s husband Norton, had told her that. Norton still liked a good gossip, even if his silly wife didn’t, Marcia thought — not that she thought of herself as a gossip, of course, rather a concerned neighbour taking an interest in local affairs.

As she proceeded behind William, a little more circumspectly than him on a street still covered by an inch or two of snow, Marcia watched the young man stride briskly along, his heavy boots crunching the white powder as he walked. At the entrance of Chalmpton Peverill Farm, he paused briefly to speak to Norton who had just pulled up outside in the Land Rover.

William went on into the house and Norton began to unload some trays of eggs from the back of the vehicle.

Marcia waved a greeting to him, and in spite of already having been effectively rebuffed by Norton’s wife, force of habit moved her to pass comment on her observations of the dramatic events which were dominating village life.

‘Proper chip off the old block, that William’s turning out to be, takes after his father, of course,’ she said to Norton who nodded his agreement. Marcia’s manner somehow inherently implied criticism of Constance, but if Norton noticed that, then unlike his wife, he chose not to comment. In any case, Marcia needed only a half-receptive audience to be quickly back into her normal stride.

‘He’s been a bit of a lad, there’s no doubt, but he’s coming good all right now.’ She sniffed the cold fresh air as if it smelt of something nasty. And her voice was full of double meaning and innuendo when she continued to speak.

‘Somebody had to...’

William walked into the house through the kitchen door as usual. It was about the only usual thing left at Chalmpton Village Farm. His mother, still sitting at the table, made no attempt to greet him as he removed his snow-covered boots carefully in the porch. She watched in silence as he picked up the big stainless steel kettle simmering on the hob of the Aga and poured hot water over instant coffee in a mug. When he turned towards her, his eyes were as cold as the street outside. His mouth was set in a thin hard line. He did not speak. He ignored her. He almost always did nowadays.

Constance was not sure that she could stand it any more. The atmosphere in the house that had always been so happy, was now perpetually strained. The memories made it all the more painful.

She studied her only son. The tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and try as she might she could not entirely stop them beginning to flow again. Constance knew really that her relationship with William was beyond repair, but, almost involuntarily she tried one last time to get through to him.

Her voice was cracking with emotion as she tentatively broached the subject that had so far been forbidden between them.

‘I know I’m to blame, what happened was just so... so awful,’ she stammered. ‘But, but I never, never meant...’

He simply turned his back on her, his manner leaving her in no doubt that the true cause of the breakdown of their previously close relationship remained something he was not prepared even to discuss.

She made a decision then — on the spur of the moment, but probably the thought had been lurking. Suddenly it seemed inevitable.

‘I don’t think I can bear being here any longer,’ she said abruptly. ‘I think it would be better if I moved out. This can’t go on...’

He interrupted her then, still with his back to her.

‘If that’s what you want, fine. You can have the cottage over at Dingwell. It’s been empty since old Percy died.’

He spoke so quickly, the solution so readily at hand. Constance had little doubt that the thought must already have been in his mind. She had no fight left. She simply nodded her head.

‘I’ll get it organised straight away. If you’re going, then the sooner the better.’

To Constance, the words, which had been half-snarled at her, seemed like a slap across the face. Only much, much more painful.

William downed his coffee and left the kitchen without speaking again. As soon as he had gone from the room Constance slumped on to the table, buried her head in her hands and let the tears fall freely.

Her only son was revolted by her. It was virtually unendurable.

William moved fast. Dingwell was made ready within two days.

Harley Phillips — who, with his one good arm and the other continuing to heal well, could by now drive his van, an automatic — had been called in to help her move. His ribs were almost as good as new, and he was big enough and strong enough to be able to shift and carry with one hand more than a lot of men could manage with two.

In any case, Constance expressed no desire to take anything much with her — except her dog, of course. But nobody, not even William, would have expected her to leave Josh behind.

She was, she said, quite happy with the few bits of old Percy’s furniture which were still in the cottage. And most of what she was taking with her, including her clothes, were being moved simply because William had made it quite clear that he no longer wanted them in the house once she had gone.

Harley had been told simply that Constance had decided to give William his independence at the farm, and if he noticed the strain between mother and son, verging on open hostility on William’s side, Harley gave no sign of it.

Charlotte, however, was not so easily sopped. Her mother had told her much the same story as she and William had told Harley, and added that she felt she could no longer live among all the memories at the farm.

‘I’m perfectly content, dear, believe me,’ said her mother in a tone of voice which indicated almost anything but contentment. ‘I need to get away from the past. It’s for the best, really.’

Charlotte was not convinced. She felt sure there was more to it than that, but when she confronted William she was met with the same intransigence.

‘Mother has told you why she doesn’t want to live in the farmhouse any more, I have told you too, why can’t you leave it at that?’ he asked her.

‘Because I want to know what the bloody hell is going on between you two, William, and it’s time one of you told me, it really is.’

Charlotte was very upset, more upset than she had been since the night she learned the news of her father’s death.

William regarded her coolly. It was, of course, a strained time for all of them, but Charlotte had noticed her brother hardly ever smiled nowadays. That was understandable, of course. Following the death of their father and the stress they were all under. But it was more than that. Charlotte was sure of it. Every bit of William’s old warmth and humour had left him.

‘Nothing is going on, Charlotte, stop being ridiculous.’

William’s voice was flat and expressionless, and his manner left his sister in no doubt that she was going to get nothing more from him.

Charlotte felt very alone and very afraid. Her wonderful family was falling apart all around her. Her mother seemed to have turned into some kind of zombie and her brother had become a stranger to her.

How she longed for her father. How she longed for things to be the way they had been before.

In the small front bedroom of Dingwell Cottage, Constance looked out through the window across acres of greenly rolling Somerset and began to think that it really was all for the best to be away from William. Every time she saw him, every time she was faced with his coldness towards her, it hurt desperately. She needed to think, and here at least, she reflected, she might be able to do that and even to find a little peace — if only for a short time.

But not yet, it seemed, she thought with a groan as she spotted Marcia Spry on her old black bicycle coasting down the hill towards the cottage. Not for the first time Constance, who had only just arrived at Dingwell, marvelled at the older woman’s intelligence sources. Freddie had always said that if Marcia Spry had been employed as a spy during the Cold War the rest of MI5 would have become instantly redundant. In spite of everything, Constance smiled at the memory, then she hurried downstairs to deflect the old busybody. She really couldn’t cope with Marcia on top of everything else.

Outside Josh was barking his head off — he’d never liked Marcia Spry either. Harley was still unloading his van — his name had not led him ever to share his father’s enthusiasm for motorbikes — and as she opened the front door Constance heard the incorrigible Marcia remark with a certain relish to the rather bewildered-looking young man, ‘’Er’s ’eading for a breakdown, ’er be, no doubt about it, mark my words...’

God, the woman really was impossible, Constance thought. Her cheek had to be admired though. Presumably hearing the door open, Marcia turned to see the subject of her latest diatribe approaching her and, barely pausing for breath, it seemed to Constance, continued to speak, her voice now full of false concern.

‘Oh, Mrs Lange, there you be, I came over to see if ’ee could do with an ’and. Always that much work, moving ’ouse. I just came to ’elp.’

Constance looked her up and down. Harley had reddened slightly in embarrassment and was shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Marcia Spry had probably never had the sensitivity to experience embarrassment in the whole of her life, Constance thought. She shivered as the chill of the day engulfed her. The snow from what had been the one brief fall of the winter so far had completely cleared, but there was an icy wind blowing in from the direction of Exmoor. Marcia Spry was muffled against the cold. Her slightly pointed nose protruded a vividly gleaming red from the depths of the woollen scarf wound around her head, and her unashamed eagerness to be involved, to learn all that she could about what was going on, shone almost as brightly.

‘Miss Spry,’ said Constance, who would normally have addressed the woman as Marcia, but was well aware of the impact of formal address on the right occasion. ‘Miss Spry, knowing what I can hardly avoid knowing about your frequently expressed opinion of me, I would have thought I would be the last person in the world you would ever seek to help. So would you please go away and leave me alone. You are a malicious old woman and I really want nothing more to do with you.’

For the first time in months Constance felt quite pleased with herself. That had been a flash of the old Constance and she had almost enjoyed it. She had even managed to keep her voice firm and controlled. There were some advantages even in the depths of despair, even when you reach the lowest ebb of all, she realised. She had spoken sharply to Marcia Spry once or twice over the years, but never before had she felt able to tell her quite so bluntly exactly what she really thought of her. And to send her packing, too.

Marcia began to splutter some kind of outraged reply. Constance did not even bother to listen. She turned on her heel, a now growling Josh close behind her, and walked back into the cottage, vaguely aware that Harley had stopped blushing and was grinning broadly as he followed her carrying another load of bags and boxes.

Safely inside, she allowed herself a peep from the dining-room window and with some satisfaction saw Marcia wheeling her bike up the hill — in retreat, and obviously in high dudgeon, her head nodding up and down as if she were talking to herself. On the grounds that everyone else is sick of listening, thought Constance.

Harley was still grinning. ‘Me mam gave the old bat a right telling off t’other day, too, Mrs Lange,’ he remarked with obvious enjoyment.

‘Did she really, Harley?’ Constance responded with some surprise. Iris was known for her easy-going manner.

‘’Er takes some getting going, my mam,’ continued Harley. ‘But you’d be surprised what ’er can be like. Me dad and me, us knows better than to cross ’er, I can tell ’ee.’ Harley shook his head at the thought.

‘I can’t bleddy stand that old cow Spry either,’ he said later, before taking his leave. ‘If ’er upsets ’ee again, Mrs Lange, you just let me know. All right?’ And Harley drew himself up to his full towering height, throwing back his immensely powerful shoulders.

It was a spontaneous display of support. Constance knew that. Few understood the nuances of village life better than her, after all she had had to work at winning acceptance into it in the first place. Fleetingly she felt cheered.

But once Harley had gone any vestige of cheerfulness and normality left with him. Alone in the silence of Dingwell, except for faithful Josh, Constance could do nothing other than sink again into the nightmare her world had become. She wished she could go back in time, but she was honest enough to realise that she would in any case have to completely reinvent herself.

She told herself no one can be other than their true self, that she could not help being what she was, any more than her son, or any of her family could deny their own selves. But she did not really believe her own message, and certainly it brought her no comfort.

She still did not know where to go from here, but she was beginning to realise at last that doing nothing was no longer an option. If the nightmare was to grow no greater she had to act, she had to do something. She must take control.

There was no one else who could.