The invitation, p.2
The Invitation, page 2
“That’s not Mr Twit,” cried Toby.
“No, Mr Twit’s gone missing, so we’ll have to look for him tomorrow. I found Winnie though. Is that alright?” she said, nestling in beside him.
“But I want Mr Twit.”
“Perhaps tomorrow, Toby, but tonight, for one night only, we’ll have Pooh Bear.”
“Does Pooh smell?”
“What? I don’t think so… well, if he does, he smells of honey – honey and possibly bees.”
“George smells.”
“George, Elaine’s son?”
“He smells,” Toby giggled. “He had to be taken out of the class – he did a poop in his trousers.” He repeated the word, relishing the sound of it on his lips, the soft explosion of sound. “A poopy pooh.”
Now Claire was giggling herself and pulled him closer to her, his body exuding an intoxicating perfume of its own, a complex mix of milk, shampoo and his own body odours. She inhaled deeply and for a moment felt calmer. She read aloud to him for a little, curled up beside him, and despite her unease, found herself starting to nod off. She awoke with a start. She wondered how long she had been asleep. She glanced at the bedroom clock which emitted a soft green digital glow: 7:05 PM. Twenty minutes? Longer? Toby was asleep. She eased herself out of the bed, taking care not to wake him. She gazed down at his prone form and kissed him gently on his forehead. The guilt of what she had done during her pregnancy never left her.
She remembered Jessica was still waiting downstairs. Stretching upwards like a cat, she smoothed her top down and crept out of the door, pushing it shut behind her.
Jessica was sitting on the cream sofa in the living room, her shoes off, her legs tucked under her. Claire observed her for a moment through the glass-panelled doors before she entered. Jessica had always been the sensible one in their friendship, the one able to switch off her emotions, bringing a coolly analytical approach to a problem. It was odd; Claire was all of these things in her work, but her personal life was something else again.
Claire was also a little envious of her looks. Jessica had auburn hair, an expensive layered cut, with blonde and gold highlights. She had a flawless complexion, and the sort of pert nose Audrey Hepburn would have been proud of. She was pretty – in some lights, beautiful. Claire’s own nose was a more patrician affair, one which people said gave her face a strong, almost masculine look. Claire was holding the funeral card down at her side as though to hide it, but when she sat down beside Jessica she handed her the card.
Jessica looked at it blankly for a moment, comprehension slowly dawning, a look of horror finally emerging. “When did you get this?”
“It was hand-delivered today. I can’t tell when. Anyway, there’s a reason it was delivered like this; the funeral’s tomorrow. Whoever sent it didn’t want to leave it to chance that the card might arrive too late. It also means I have little or no time to try and find out what’s going on.”
“Have you rung the church?”
“No, I meant to, but then you two came back and—”
“You must phone them now. Look, I’ll google their number.”
Jessica fished out her phone from her shoulder bag, which had been dumped on the floor. It was black, with an ornate gold chain strap. New, Claire thought, and she could tell from the etched logo of a tree on the tag that it was a Mulberry bag, very expensive. It would have cost far more money than Claire was prepared to spend on a bag. She thought about commenting on it but then decided against. Jessica had been at university with her, studying English and drama. She had become an actor, but her career had never flourished and now she combined temp work as a waitress or barmaid with the odd stint in provincial theatre. It was a precarious existence and money was often tight. Realising this, Claire had asked her to help out with childcare, taking and collecting Toby from nursery three days a week. She insisted on paying and Jessica had reluctantly accepted. Brenda, Claire’s aunt, did the nursery runs on the remaining two days of the week.
Jessica found the number and handed the phone to Claire. Claire pressed the small telephone icon. The call went to voicemail. She pressed cancel, sighed, and handed the phone back.
“And?” said Jessica.
“Voicemail.”
“Well, call them back – leave a message, explain it’s urgent.”
“Yes, sorry, of course, give it back to me.”
She rang again. Voicemail. Waited for the monotonous greeting to finish, inviting her to leave a message, and took a deep breath. “I’m calling about a funeral service which is taking place at your church tomorrow morning at 9.30. I believe it’s for a Claire Evans. Could you call me back, please? It’s very important I speak to you. My number is 07700 334208. I’ll repeat that: 07700 334208. Thank you.”
Jessica leaned towards her, covering one of her hands with her own.
“I’m so sorry, Claire, this must be so frightening. Are you okay?”
“No, not really.”
“Have you thought about who might have sent this?”
Claire gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve thought of nothing else. But I can’t… my mind’s in a complete… I can’t think straight. I’m sorry, I just—”
Tears pricked her eyes.
“Don’t go to the church tomorrow; it’s obviously a hoax. It’s just someone playing a very nasty trick. I think they stopped burials there anyway in the 1970s.”
“They stopped using the graveyard, but they still hold funeral services there. I have to go – even if it is a hoax, and I’m sure it is, I still need to go. I might find something, a clue, something that helps me find out who did this.”
“All you’re going to find,” said Jessica, “is a closed-up church. It’s a waste of time.”
“Even so, I still think I need to be there. There’s always a clue, my job has at least taught me that. Even the most careful person will leave something behind.”
“Not if they didn’t go there in the first place. The person sending that card wouldn’t have needed to visit the church. They probably don’t even live locally, just looked up your address on Google Maps and worked out where the nearest church was.”
“The card was hand-delivered.”
“Oh, of course, it was. Sorry, I’m sure I’d make a lousy detective. Do you want me to stay over? I could come to the church with you tomorrow.”
“No, Jess, it’s fine. I think I have to do this on my own.”
CHAPTER TWO
The oak doors to the church were open but there was no sound from inside. It had been raining steadily all night, the morning sky shrouded by dense grey clouds. She stepped through the doors and gazed around. Jessica had been right. It was a hoax; there was no funeral service. If she had been fearful and anxious before, now she was angry. Her car was parked in one of the quiet side streets and she decided to walk back through the cemetery surrounding the church. It was a longer route, but she needed time to think.
Claire looked around at the ancient headstones: some sunk into the ground, others leaning over. Even though the cemetery was closed to new burials, it still had to be maintained and she could see the grass must have been cut within the last day or two. It had rained almost constantly over the previous week, and the mower had torn up the wet grass, spilling it in green gobbets across its surface. She had tried phoning the church again before leaving but had got the same voicemail message. No-one had rung her back. Jessica had offered to take Toby to the nursery and to pick him up again in the evening, which was a godsend because she knew she wouldn’t be able to drop him off and drive to the church in time for the funeral.
Near the exit stood one of the largest headstones in the cemetery, white marble, edged in black. She had never had cause to visit this church or its graveyard before, but so striking was its appearance that she stopped to read the inscription. In ornate black lettering it stated that the headstone had been erected by public subscription. A woman called Mary Ann Weems had been buried there, following her murder by her husband in 1819. He had been executed, and although the headstone didn’t say, she presumed he had been hanged.
She moved closer to read the final lines of the inscription which were in a fainter and smaller font.
Ere crime you perpetrate survey this stone.
Learn hence the God of justice sleeps not on his throne but marks the sinner with unerring eye.
The suffering victim hears and makes the guilty die.
A rook swept noisily into the air behind her and, startled, she turned around. She spotted what appeared to be a freshly dug grave which, of course, was impossible because—
There was a temporary marker at the head, a simple wooden cross. She gazed transfixed at the inscription on the smal metal plaque mounted on the cross.
Claire Evans
3rd September 1979 – 13th June 2012
The suffering victim hears and makes the guilty die.
Her brain scrambled to do the maths. 13th June. A month away. No, less: twenty-eight days.
She could feel her heart pounding, her breath choked off in her throat. The air around her felt heavy and dense, a spider’s web vibrating with tension. She sensed a movement behind her and, turning, she saw a grey-bearded man watching her keenly. He was standing just in front of some iron gates close to the exit. She started to walk towards him. He suddenly bent down, gingerly scooping dog shit into a small plastic bag. Now, she could see his dog, a brown cocker spaniel, head down in the grass just ahead of him. He stood and smiled at her. She didn’t return the smile and, edging past him, walked out of the cemetery.
It was just as she reached her car that she realised she should have taken a photograph of the temporary grave marker. She hurried back. The car was parked five minutes’ walk from the church so at worst she would have lost ten minutes. When she arrived back at the grave, though, she had another shock. The marker had gone.
CHAPTER THREE
“Did you remember the milk?”
This from Kate, the department’s secretary, a mischievous nineteen-year-old with an untidy mop of curly brown hair.
Claire grimaced.
“Sorry, Kate, I forgot.”
“Well, there’s still some left but the sell-by date’s yesterday. Never mind, we’ll just have to risk it. I’m sure none of us are going to—”
“Don’t say you were going to use the word ‘die,’” groaned Mark.
Mark Simmons was a trainee pathologist, late twenties, his pale skin marked with red blotches from psoriasis.
“Go down with a bad case of the runs,” grinned Kate. “Your turn to make it anyway, Mark. And remember, don’t make it too strong for me. I like strong blokes but weak tea.”
She winked at Claire, who hid a smile. Mark had a crush on Kate but lacked the self-confidence to do anything about it. Kate knew this and enjoyed teasing him mercilessly.
“So, what delights await us this morning?” said Claire.
“It’s the SIDS baby, I’m afraid,” grimaced Mark. She had been brought in last night. “Doctor Madison rang to say she should be here by ten – her train got cancelled so she’s had to catch a later one.”
Claire’s heart sank. Not only the dubious death of a baby to investigate, but she would be working with someone she found less than congenial. Joan Madison was a paediatric pathologist, Claire a forensic one. The unexplained death of a child was really her territory and Claire would simply be her assistant.
Claire had dealt with only two previous instances of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, but both had been stressful. It was always important to arrive at the right diagnosis, but particularly so for SIDS cases, which could have devastating consequences for families who were already traumatised, and now she had Madison to contend with as well. Madison looked to be in her late forties but was in fact much older. One of her colleagues had told Claire in confidence she was fifty-eight – not far off drawing her pension, although Claire suspected she was the sort who would want to go on until she dropped. Madison had never married and appeared to have no interest in men. Claire suspected she was gay. There had been a rumour that she had once had an affair with a female work colleague, that they even lived together for a while, until her friend’s promiscuity had driven Madison away. Now she lived alone, a cat her only companion. She was obviously besotted with it. Uncharacteristically, she had shown photographs of the cat to Claire on her phone. Claire had to confess it was gorgeous, a Persian, with a wash of black and white fur.
Claire looked at her watch; it was nine-thirty, so they had half an hour before Madison’s arrival. “Right,” she said, “we might as well have a cup of tea while we wait for her. Will anyone from the police be in attendance?”
“Yep. We’ve got a DS coming in,” said Kate. “Your old mucker, Pete Hamlin, and a trainee detective apparently. Don’t know his name – just hope he’s porkable.”
Kate was an outrageous flirt and “porking” was her favourite slang expression as far as men were concerned, as in “I wouldn’t mind giving him a good porking.” Mark, needless to say, wasn’t considered suitable porking material. A bit too green for Kate, who preferred her men well-seasoned.
“So, when can we expect the pleasure of their company?” said Claire.
“Any time now. I took a call from them fifteen minutes ago saying they were on their way.”
Mark handed Claire a cup of tea. The mug was chipped and had a hairline crack down one side.
“Mark, I can’t possibly drink out of this.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
She turned the mug round to show him.
“See the crack? If this broke, I’d be soaked in hot tea.”
“Ah,” he said. “Sorry, I’ll start again.”
Ten minutes later, the door entry system buzzed.
“That should be them now,” said Kate, pressing the switch to unlock the door. A tall, barrel-chested man in his early fifties entered, followed by a young police officer, bearded, with neatly trimmed hair. Trailing behind them was a man who towered above his colleagues, with sunken cheeks and a deeply lined face. Claire guessed that he was a smoker. He was carrying a large camera and had a black canvas bag slung over his shoulder. It was the barrel-chested man who spoke first.
“Hi, Claire – good to see you again,” said Hamlin. For once he wasn’t smiling, looking both pale and anxious.
“I’m pleased to see you too,” said Claire. “This is going to be a difficult case, unfortunately.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Hamlin. “Can I first introduce you to my colleague, Tony Foster? He’s the SOCO on this job. Tony, this is Claire, the forensic pathologist, Kate, her secretary and… ?” He looked at Mark quizzically. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met—”
“Mark, Mark Patterson – sorry, I’m new here. Started a couple of months ago – trainee pathologist.”
Hamlin gave a brief smile. Foster nodded but didn’t speak. The taciturn, watchful sort. No bad thing in his profession.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Hamlin, nodding towards the young police officer. “I do apologise – this is Michael Adams, a trainee detective. I brought him down to show him the ropes, so to speak. Treat him gently, because this is his first post-mortem.”
“Unfortunately, we’re still waiting for the paediatric consultant pathologist,” said Claire. “She’s had a problem with her train, but she should be here in the next ten minutes or so. You might as well join us for a tea or coffee first. Pete, I know you’re a tea with one sugar. Tony, what would you like?”
“A black coffee, if that’s alright – no sugar.”
She had already forgotten the trainee detective’s name so, to avoid embarrassment, she simply turned to him and said, “And what’s your poison of choice?”
“Tea would be great, no sugar,” said the trainee.
“Kate, can you do the honours?” said Claire.
“Yep, will do.” Kate glanced at Hamlin. “We’ve only got instant I’m afraid – is that okay?”
“Yeah, that’s fine, thanks,” said Hamlin.
At that moment the door burst open. Standing in the doorway was Madison, leaning forward as she tried to catch her breath, still holding her pass card. She had clearly been running to get there. She looked soaked through, her hair hanging down in limp strands around her face.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Madison. “Sodding train – they’re always cancelling them. They should bloody privatise the lot. Oh, wait – they already have.”
So, she was in a bad mood already. Claire forced a smile. She had only worked once before with Madison but had taken an immediate dislike to her. She had been both arrogant and condescending.
Madison grimaced. “Forgot my umbrella as well this morning. I always have one in my bag, but I used it yesterday and forgot to put it back. I’ll need five minutes to sort myself out. Where are the toilets? You can introduce me to everyone afterwards.”
“Out that door there,” Claire said, pointing. “They’re shared, I’m afraid, unisex. Just an excuse to only provide the one really. It also doubles up as the disabled toilet, although, if you did get a wheelchair in there, you’d probably never get it out again. Oh, and we’ve run out of toilet paper, so we’re making do with tissues. Still, at least that’s better than newspaper.” She nodded towards Kate. “Kate was going to get some last night but forgot.”
Kate cheerfully acknowledged this with a bow, bending low and sweeping one arm across her chest. “One of my finer moments, of which I’ve had many.”
“Kate will make you a cup of tea while we wait – unless, of course, you’d prefer coffee?”
“Black coffee, no sugar, please.”
“Yes, of course. Chocolate biscuit with it? We’ve only got McVities, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t eat biscuits. Or cake for that matter. I won’t be long.”
She disappeared through the door, leaving a wet puddle on the floor behind her.
Hamlin glanced at Claire, raising an eyebrow.
