A Passion So Deadly

Eighteen

‘I always knew ’er was a wrong ’un,’ said Marcia Spry in the village shop the next day. Mrs Walters sighed extravagantly, but this time made no further comment.

Peter Mellor regarded the women curiously. They, in turn, had earlier eyed him up and down as if he came from Mars. Well, being black amounted to much the same thing really in a place like Chalmpton Peverill, he thought wryly.

It was the morning of Christmas Eve, just a few hours before Constance was due to appear in court in Bristol to be charged with three murders. The sergeant’s mission was to attempt to get a picture of Constance Lange, and to talk to as many people who knew her as possible, as well as to her immediate family. Before his foray into the shop, he had spoken to the vicar, the headmistress of the primary school, the Langes’ dairyman and a smattering of other villagers including a young man with a name like a motorbike who seemed to regard Constance as some kind of goddess.

Marcia Spry was the first person with anything but good to say about the woman who had pronounced herself a serial killer.

‘As a matter of fact, sergeant, I pride myself on being a fine judge of character, many’s the time I’ve said, haven’t I, Mrs Walters, you mark my words I’ve said, ’er’s a bad penny that one...’

And so the old woman continued her diatribe, apparently blissfully unaware of Mrs Walters’ ill-concealed disapproval.

Peter Mellor was by now only half-listening. Marcia Spry left him in no doubt of at least two things — village life would never be for him, however idyllic it might seem on the surface; and Marcia’s opinion of Mrs Constance Lange counted for little because he’d stake a month’s salary the old biddy never had a good word to say about anyone.

His attention drifted to the scene he could see through the shop’s plate-glass window. The vultures have landed all right, he thought to himself.

A small crowd of press, photographers and reporters were gathered outside Chalmpton Village Farm. Mellor recognised one or two he knew from the Bristol pack. Others would have been dispatched from their main offices in London, he supposed.

Peter Mellor didn’t like this case, he didn’t like anyone involved in it. He just wanted it over. He didn’t like the victims, the witnesses, or the prime suspect. His opinion that Marty Morris and Charlie Collins had degraded themselves and let down their race extended now to everyone involved in the case. He thought the whole damn lot of them had let down the entire human race as it happened. He was particularly contemptuous of, even revolted by, Constance Lange. She was rich, middle-class and privileged. It made Peter Mellor’s blood boil. He had had about as bad a start as you could possibly get, and he had single-mindedly worked towards carving a decent life for himself and his family. It hadn’t been easy. It still wasn’t easy. Being a bright black man in the police force remained a tough ride, and he sometimes wished he had chosen an easier route, if such a thing existed. He had learned that Constance Lange had also not been born into privilege, but that didn’t impress him either. The woman had never had to work for what she had — she had married into it. And she had destroyed her husband, who, as far as Mellor could gather, had been a thoroughly good man.

Even thinking about Constance Lange sent a shiver down Peter Mellor’s spine. She was depraved, totally depraved, in his opinion. It had been her bizarre sexual desires which had turned her into a serial killer and he had to admit that he was disconcerted by his senior officer’s approach to the woman. Rose Piper was showing a great deal too much sympathy, if you asked him.

That aside, he did have some feelings for Constance Lange’s family. And in any case Peter Mellor remained a by-the-book police officer, who would always meticulously carry out what he regarded to be his duty whatever the circumstances. So when, through the window, he saw that one snapper had climbed on top of the wall opposite the farm and had set up his camera on a monopod with a 400mm lens aimed at the Langes’ kitchen window, Mellor made a mental note to have a word as soon as he’d finished in the shop. British law might allow anyone to take a photograph of anyone else in a public place and then publish it without permission, but aiming a Long Tom through someone’s kitchen window breached the privacy laws in Mellor’s opinion.

He wondered how on earth Constance’s children were going to be able to cope with their lives after all this. Mellor was terribly sorry for the seventeen-year-old in particular. The poor kid didn’t know what had hit her. Her brother was a real stiff-upper-lip Englishman, Mellor reckoned, who would never let on to an outsider what he was really thinking. And the elder daughter, Charlotte, merely kept protesting that her mother was innocent, that it all must be a mistake, and he supposed he could understand that. She just didn’t want to face the truth.

What a mess, Mellor thought. Three young men — although it was true he didn’t consider any one of them to be much of a loss — murdered, one thoroughly decent citizen dead, and his whole family wrecked. All down to a sex-mad old tart. The woman should swing, in his opinion. Peter Mellor was pro hanging. For some reason people always seemed surprised that a black man should hold such a view as strongly as he did. Peter Mellor couldn’t understand why. He had no time at all for soft justice. He had clearly defined ideas about right and wrong. He did not see any conflict at all between capital punishment and his strongly held Christian convictions. Wrongdoers should be properly punished, he believed.

That afternoon Charlotte travelled to Bristol to visit her mother in jail. She would have gone before if her husband had not joined her brother in trying to dissuade her. She could do more good at home in Chalmpton Peverill, they both told her. Helen was confused and frightened and badly needed her big sister to comfort her. And in any case it was better for the whole family to keep their heads down, to wait and see what happened, they said.

Well, they had seen all right, hadn’t they, thought Charlotte as she drove considerably faster than she knew she should down the village street — causing at least one cameraman to have to leap out of the way, which even in her present distraught state of mind did give her some brief satisfaction.

Her mother was about to be charged with murder, they had been told by that black policeman. Three murders to be precise. Charlotte was going to her, whatever anybody said. Nothing made sense. She had to find out what was going on. And she was fed up with hiding away from the world.

Her wonderful family life had fallen apart with a vengeance, into a nightmare beyond her comprehension, but Charlotte was darned if she was going to hang her head. That was not how she had been brought up. She had done nothing to be ashamed of, and she still could not really believe that her mother had, either.

William, however, was behaving like a complete bastard in Charlotte’s opinion. She could not understand him at all. Of course the whole family was in shock, but William was being so bloody tight-lipped. Pompous, priggish — and ostrich-like as well, Charlotte reckoned. William had told his sister quite categorically that he wanted nothing to do with his mother ever again, and that all he desired in the world was to preserve Chalmpton Village Farm for future generations and restore normality to his family life.

Charlotte knew that in the village they all thought William was behaving wonderfully well. Even the dreadful Marcia Spry had remarked that morning — when she had just happened to be passing Charlotte’s cottage as the younger woman left, lurking there for hours on the off chance more likely, Charlotte reckoned — on William’s new-found maturity and sense of responsibility.

Charlotte did not see it quite like that. That lunchtime, just after learning the latest terrible news from DS Mellor, Charlotte had clashed angrily with her brother.

‘It’s obvious, Mother has had a complete breakdown because of father’s death,’ she told him, angrily. ‘None of these things can possibly be true of her. How can you stop believing in her the way you have?’

Her brother had not even bothered to answer.

Constance sat on the narrow bunk in her cell in the custody unit of Staple Hill Police Station. The solicitor whose services she had so reluctantly accepted had told her not to expect bail. Constance, after all, was to be charged with three murders. It was a foregone conclusion that she would be remanded in custody until her trial which would probably begin in around six months’ time. There was no women’s prison in Bristol so she could expect to be transferred to the Eastwood Park Remand Centre, twenty miles or so away, immediately after her court appearance.

Constance didn’t mind. It was strange that. She quite liked the seclusion of the small bare room in which she was currently confined. She had been shocked at first by the starkness of it, by the crudity of the lavatory without a seat in the corner and by the sight of the bars on the tiny window in one wall, too high even to see out of, by the severity of the narrow iron shelf, firmly attached to both floor and wall, which, covered only with a thin plastic mattress, served as her bed. Her initial reaction had been pretty much what you would expect from someone used to the creature comforts of life, who had never been in a police cell before. But almost from the moment the door was closed with a heavy clunk behind her and the metal viewing panel clamped shut, she felt more relief than anything else.

She had found her examination by the prison doctor humiliating, of course, when samples of her hair and body tissue had been removed for forensic investigation. She knew about DNA — deoxyribonucleic acid, the substance in the chromosomes of most organisms which stores genetic information. Didn’t everybody? But she doubted that much would be deduced from it in this case. There had been next to no body contact at all. She was as sure as she could possibly be. She’d told them about the boots and the gloves and, in any case, she doubted they would ever be found, after all she had thrown them into the sea along with the murder weapon. No, without her confession they would have nothing. But she had wanted to confess. And she did not regret it for an instant.

The routine of her life in custody already seemed almost comforting to her. The regular times for exercise, the carbolic soap in the wash room, the provision of dull, sometimes unidentifiable, food at regular intervals. At no stage was she required to think for herself. Except when she was being interviewed. And that would stop soon too, she had been told. Once she was charged the police would no longer have the right to question her so intensely whenever they felt like it. She relished that. She particularly didn’t want to have to talk to that woman detective inspector any more. That one asked the kind of questions which could get Constance tied up in knots if she wasn’t very careful. She didn’t want to have to be careful. She didn’t want to have to think about anything. After all, nothing mattered to her any more. It was a curious feeling. There was a vacuum inside her head. Her life was over, and that was about the only thought she had.

So when the custody officer — a tall thin-faced sergeant who gave the impression that he had seen it all before and was pretty damned bored with it too — came to tell her that her daughter had arrived to visit her, Constance had some difficulty even taking it in. In her own mind she had dismissed her family. She had decided that she should have nothing more to do with them, that they would be better off without her. That had been a major part of the reasoning behind her confession.

She refused to see Charlotte.

‘I don’t want any visitors,’ she told the sergeant. ‘I don’t want any contact with the outside world. That’s all over for me, now.’

Charlotte, who had only got as far as the police station’s front office, at first did not quite understand what the tall sergeant was saying to her.

‘It is your mother’s right, I’m afraid, Mrs Lawson. She does not have to see visitors unless she wishes too.’

‘But I have to see her. I have to know.’ Charlotte knew that she was shouting. She couldn’t help it.

‘I’m afraid there is nothing I can do, Mrs Lawson.’ The sergeant spoke patiently, but he sounded weary.

Charlotte began to plead. ‘Can’t you at least ask her again, tell her I must see her, tell her...’ Charlotte’s voice trailed away. A small woman wearing a smart blue trouser suit, her fluffy blonde hair forming a halo around a sharply intelligent face, had suddenly appeared between her and the sergeant, behaving almost as if she had not even noticed that Charlotte was standing there.

‘We need to see Constance Lange one more time before she goes to court, George,’ said the small blonde woman.

Before the policeman could respond Charlotte heard her own voice. The words came out in a kind of childish wail.

‘I’m her daughter, why should anyone else see her? I want my mother...’

The blonde woman turned to face her then, her eyes appraising.

‘You must be Charlotte,’ she said quietly. It was a statement, not a question. ‘I’m DCI Rose Piper.’ She held out her hand in greeting. Charlotte ignored it.

‘I don’t understand what is happening,’ she said. ‘Why is my mother being charged with these terrible crimes? Why? It’s just crazy.’

Rose Piper continued to study her carefully.

‘Your mother has confessed to murder...’

Charlotte interrupted her. ‘My mother shouldn’t be here, she shouldn’t be locked up with criminals...’ She was almost screaming now.

Rose Piper’s voice remained quiet and well-modulated when she spoke again.

‘Your mother has confessed to murder, Charlotte. We have no choice but to charge her. There can be no alternative.’

‘Why won’t she see me?’

The detective Chief Inspector placed one hand lightly on Charlotte’s arm.

‘I’m sure she will soon,’ she said, and her voice really was surprisingly gentle. ‘Give her time. And give yourself time. Go home. Get some rest. Take it day by day.’

Charlotte felt herself calming, just a little. The policewoman sounded genuinely concerned and reassuring.

‘But there’s so much I want to know...’

The detective inspector smiled slightly. ‘There’s so much I want to know too,’ she said. ‘And some of it you may be able to help me with. But not now. I have to see your mother first.’

Charlotte could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She didn’t want to break down in front of these people. She was still a Lange after all.

‘Will you... will you give mother my love?’ she asked in a more normal tone of voice.

‘Of course I will.’ The detective inspector sounded gentler than ever now.

‘And will you give her this?’

Charlotte held out the framed picture she had so carefully carried with her, glancing down at it as she did so. It was a photograph of the entire family, taken in the garden of Chalmpton Village Farm on the day of the christening of Charlotte’s baby son, Alex. Even Josh was there. And they all looked so happy. The perfect family.

The DCI took the picture from her. ‘Of course,’ she said again.

Charlotte raised her eyes and stepped back. She just wanted to get out of the place now. Her legs carried her automatically through the big double doors and on to the pavement outside, but she was not even aware that she was walking.

Somehow she found her way to her car and there was something comforting about the mechanical familiarity of starting the engine, changing gear and threading her way through the city traffic.

It was not until she reached the M5 and turned west towards the home which had always previously given her so much joy that she began to cry. Trying desperately to concentrate through the tears she could no longer control, Charlotte began to realise how much she had been relying on this visit.

Her mother refusing to see her was the final blow. Constance had never before turned away from any of her children. And Charlotte realised that she had all along been harbouring the belief that once she had seen her mother everything would start to be all right again, that Constance would take her into her arms and tell her it was all a dreadful mistake. Constance had always been there for reassurance after all. And her daughter had even somewhat fancifully imagined herself leading a fight to clear her mother’s good name.

It was not yet four o’clock but already almost dark. The traffic was heavy, people rushing home to be with their families for Christmas Day, Charlotte assumed, for the kind of celebrations the Lange family certainly would not be enjoying that year. She peered through the gloom, not sure if it were the glare of the headlights or her own tears which were blinding her. She knew that for safety’s sake she should find somewhere to stop and to try to gather her composure — the remains of her family did not need another tragedy — but she was in too much of a hurry. If she couldn’t hold her mother close then at least she could go back to the sanctuary of her cottage and seek what comfort she could from her husband and little son.

Peter Mellor was quite right, of course. Charlotte had been resolutely refusing to face up to grim reality. She felt certain still that her mother would never be able to look her daughter in the eye and lie to her. And so Constance’s denial of her daughter led to all kinds of ominous interpretations. For the first time, Charlotte began to accept that it might all be true — that her mother really could be a murderer, and a lot more besides.

Constance heard, without interest and indeed with some irritation, the sound of the lock in her cell door being turned yet again. She was sitting on her bed and did not stand when Rose Piper, accompanied by a young detective constable, and, yet again, the solicitor she had no interest in, walked into the grim little room.

Then, just for a moment, her feelings got the better of her. The extraordinary calm which had quite genuinely been with her ever since she had decided to confess, momentarily departed.

‘I wish you’d all leave me alone. I’ve told you that I did it, all of it, I just want to be locked up, and the key thrown away, that’s what I deserve,’ she shouted at Rose in an outburst of raw emotion.

It was the first time she had felt anything, really, since she had decided to confess. She hadn’t been sure if she was even capable of feelings any more.

The Detective Chief Inspector listened patiently, as if trying to understand Constance, which Constance thought was a pretty impossible task as she didn’t entirely understand herself.

‘You’ll get your wish soon enough, unless you show some inclination to help yourself,’ said the DCI.

Constance could not quite work this Rose Piper out. The younger woman disconcerted her, made her not quite so sure of herself. She couldn’t imagine why a senior police officer should have any sympathy or concern for her, not after all that she had told Rose Piper of what she had done, and yet each time she talked to the inspector she was aware of a certain empathy.

The detective constable certainly did not seem likely to confuse the issue with a display of sensitivity. He was already setting up a tape recorder.

‘We have some more questions for you, Mrs Lange,’ he said, as if her little outburst had never happened.

When Rose Piper spoke again, her words were unexpected.

‘Your daughter sends her love.’

Constance was taken by surprise. She struggled not to react.

‘Why wouldn’t you see her?’

Constance shrugged. ‘There was no point. I have nothing to say to her.’

‘You have a younger daughter too, only seventeen. She still needs you. Charlotte wants to help you. Why don’t you let her visit at least once?’

‘No,’ responded Constance, and only she knew how deeply the denial hurt. ‘They will both be better off if they never have anything to do with me again. I can only give them pain now. They will forget me, in time. I don’t want them near me. Never again.’

‘You don’t want this then.’

The policewoman held out Constance’s favourite framed photograph of her family which she had always kept by her bedside at Chalmpton Farm.

There is a limit to denial. Constance could not stop herself taking the picture. She hugged it close to her, unable to let go of it, reluctant to look at it. Suddenly she felt as if it were her own flesh into which that vicious butcher’s knife had been plunged.