In the Family

  The discovery of the skeleton of a young woman by workmen causes Detective Inspector Tim Yates to reopen the gruesome case of Dorothy Atkins, a woman who was imprisoned for murdering her mother-in-law, Doris Atkins, more than thirty years before. What is the link between the skeleton and Dorothy Atkins, now the aged inmate of a care home? Her former husband, Ronald, and her son, Hedley, each appears to have something to hide, and both only grudgingly co-operate with the police. What happened to Bryony Atkins, Dorothy’s and Ronald’s daughter, and why is everyone so reluctant to talk about her? Hedley Atkins has recently allowed a relatively new friend, Peter Prance, to move into his flat, and he is introduced to Peter’s family in Liverpool. Is Peter simply a persuasive upper class scrounger, or is there something more calculated in his relationship with Hedley? Did Dorothy in fact kill Doris Atkins, or was she wrongfully imprisoned for a crime withthe killer still at large? How many murders have there been, and how many killers are there? Detective Inspector Tim Yates and his team make their debut.

  Praise for In the Family

  “I’d like to describe this as a page turner but I read it on a Blackberry, so there were no pages to turn. And it’s really hard reading a novel on a Blackberry. But I did and I finished it which should tell any potential reader how good it is.” — RICHARD CHARKIN, Executive Director, Bloomsbury

  In the Family

  C.A. JAMES was born in Spalding and sets her novels in the evocative Fenland countryside of South Lincolnshire. She works as a bookseller, researcher and teacher. She has a lifelong fascination with crime fiction and its history. She is also a well-established non-fiction writer, under a separate name.

  In the Family

  by

  CHRISTINA JAMES

  CROMER

  Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

  12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Christina James, 2012

  The right of Christina James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

  Salt Publishing 2012

  Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978 1 84471 928 0 electronic

  To the real James.

  Chapter One

  It was bitterly cold on the A1 slip-road. Joel Carson, although wrapped in a council workman’s donkey-jacket (the kind with lime-green shoulder inserts) and wearing an oversized pair of protective gloves, was frozen. Long tendrils of hair had escaped from his beanie hat, and were being whipped against his cheek in stringy strands. His nose was running, and, as he was unable to remove the gloves because his fingers had lost all feeling, he was wiping it at surreptitious intervals on the knitted cuff of his sleeve. He was one of a gang of four, three ‘work experience’ school leavers including himself and Marvin, a gangling black man in his twenties who had just been promoted to supervisor.

  Joel had promised his mother that he would stick it out for the whole six months, and he would keep his promise. After that, he had no intention of working for the council or for anyone else. He had friends who made a living from street trading of various kinds and he intended to join them. He scowled at Marvin as he turned away from shouting some order to the little group about clearing the weeds as well as the rubbish. Joel hated Marvin, partly because of his bossy and unreasonable way of ‘managing’ his subordinates, but mainly because he was a sham. He knew that before his sudden rise from the ranks Marvin had been just as reluctant to do the thankless manual work as he was himself. Well, let him lord it over them. He was welcome to be a tin-pot motorway maintenance gang boss if he wanted. Joel wanted out. He squatted down on his haunches beside a bush, which was as far out of the wind as he could get, and, flinging the heavy gloves to the ground, lit a cigarette. He cupped its fragile glow in a cradle that he made with the frozen fingers of both hands. When he thought that it was properly alight, he took a long drag, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs.

  The paltry contentment that he managed to extract from this action was short-lived. He was totally unprepared for the sudden sharp pain when a huge hand smote the back of his head, but it was a sensation that he recognised instantaneously. A ‘good clip’ to the back of the head had been his father’s favourite form of chastisement, and therefore one that he particularly loathed. Caught off balance, he fell face first into the mud, and then scrambled to his feet to turn on Marvin. He landed a punch on Marvin’s jaw and Marvin hit him back. Nick and Pete, the other two workers, downed tools to watch.

  Marvin head-butted Joel and Joel kicked him viciously on the shins. Marvin responded with a rugby-type tackle and then both were rolling in the mud. Joel lost his temper, slapping Marvin’s face repeatedly and shouting, “You bastard!” through gritted teeth. Marvin was the lither, and, rolling free, stood and hauled Joel to his feet before knocking him down again. Dazed, Joel fell to his knees on a pile of filthy old rags.

  “Get up!” Marvin shouted. “Get up, you little shit!” He stood towering over Joel, his face twisted with hatred. “Get up, I said!”

  Suddenly, Joel was not listening, nor did he now want to continue the fight. Transfixed, he pointed to something poking up from the matted knot of rags.

  “Marvin,” he said in a low voice, “what do you think that is?”

  Marvin peered down into the mud-churned mess.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said. “It’s a finger-bone: a finger bone with a ring still on it.”

  Five hours later, Detective Inspector Tim Yates had had a tent set up over the remains on the bleak roadside verge and had just arrived at the scene himself, having been called out from an evening at home with his wife of eighteen months, Katrin. The council workmen were still there, crammed into a police car on the hard shoulder. The A1 had been closed from the exit before the discovery – which was adjacent to the body – to the one after it.

  Night had fallen and if possible it was even colder and more desolate than it had been earlier in the day. Tim’s spirits were not dampened, however, though he thought with a pang of the quiet dinner that he and Katrin had promised themselves. Not for the first time, he congratulated himself on his luck in having a wife like her – one who not only did not complain about the more uncivilised aspects of his job, but who actually understood them. Katrin had never been a police officer herself, but for the past several years she had worked as a police researcher and this had allowed her insights into the nature of police work which made her wryly accepting of the many disturbances to her private life that being married to a policeman created.

  Tim had only been standing on the hard shoulder for a few minutes, but he was already soaked. Unwisely, he had brought no hat, and his thick, reddish hair was now plastered to his head. Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the cold, he climbed up the slippery bank and poked his head into the SOCO’s tent.

  “Have you found anything else?”

  “It looks as if there is a complete skeleton here – more or less, anyway. There are some bones missing, but they could have b
een disturbed by animals – or we will find them lower down in the soil.” Patti Gardner beamed up at him. He was aware that she had long had a crush on him which they both recognised to be hopeless, though he had encouraged it in a half-hearted way before he had met Katrin.

  “Male or female?”

  “We can’t say for certain – we need to carry out some lab tests to be sure – but judging from the remnants of clothing, and the ring that was found on the finger-bone, the remains are almost certainly female.”

  “How long has she been here?”

  “Again, it is difficult to say. I hope that the fabrics that we’re finding with the body will give us an accurate idea, once they’re analysed. From the general decay of both the remains and the fabrics, I’d say they’ve been here for at least twenty years; but as you know it is always hard to tell in these cases. You might be able to find out when that stretch of road was turned into motorway, or the last time that tree planting work was carried out on the verges. It would help to narrow down the timeframe a little.”

  Tim nodded and thanked her. He walked over to the police car, which was crammed to bursting with two policemen and the four council workers. There was a noxious smell of damp meeting none-too-clean clothes, with other less obviously identifiable odours whose nature he preferred not to consider too closely.

  The policeman sitting in the driver’s seat made to get out of the car.

  “It’s all right – stay where you are, Constable . . . ?”

  “Wright, sir. And this is PC Chakrabati.”

  Tim nodded at them, then craned his neck so that he could see the faces of the council workers.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us to the station. It’s impossible for us to interview you here without everyone getting soaked. Two of you can come with me in my car, and two of you can stay with Constable Wright. If you need to contact anyone, you can either do it now or from the station.”

  Marvin spoke first. He seemed excitable, and keen to exert his authority.

  “I will come with you, Detective. It was me who found the bones. I’m in charge of the gang – Detective.”

  “I found the bones, you evil great scumbag,” a voice cut in.

  Tim peered further into the car. A skinny youth was glaring ferociously at the black man.

  “There are no prizes for being the person who found them,” said Tim, amused. “It isn’t a treasure trove. No doubt you can each tell us your version of events when we get to the station. You” – he spoke to the skinny youth – “had better stay with Constable Wright, since you clearly don’t see eye-to-eye with – what’s your name?”

  “Marvin Thomas, Detective”

  “. . . with Marvin. What’s your name?”

  “Joel Carson,” Joel muttered sulkily.

  “Well, Joel, you stay with Constable Wright, and you” – he pointed at Pete – “come with Marvin and me.”

  Chapter Two

  Mine has been a drab sort of life. There were many great things I could have done – I had the brain for it – and yet I have not fulfilled a single one of them. I could make many excuses, including that I had a very plausible desire to escape into ordinariness from my extraordinarily nasty childhood. But the truth is that I am lazy: bone idle. I always take the line of least resistance. Well, almost always.

  As I look around my flat, I realise that I, aged fifty, should be living somewhere better; and certainly that it should be cleaner. Peter is adamant about the latter. No doubt he will make changes in that respect, in his emphatic energetic way.

  It is because of Peter that I am in rather a pensive mood today. It is nearly thirty years since I lived under the same roof with another person, and then I had no choice. I got a place of my own as soon as I could afford it. And although I have had girlfriends and, eventually, boyfriends, I never wanted to share my home with them. I even preferred not to share my bed, if some alternative solution could be found. But although I have resisted all the little voices telling me that I am meant to be an island, somehow ever since I met him I have known that one day I would be compelled to ask Peter to live with me. He is moving in tomorrow.

  In one sense I am rather astounded that he has accepted the offer. Peter is very upper class and superlatively fastidious. He went to Winchester and then to Peterhouse. His collars and cuffs are always snow-white and starched. I think that he has read almost every worthwhile novel written in the English language (though, not to do myself down, I might add that I have read quite a few myself) and certainly all of the even passable poetry. Yet he jumped at the chance! Any port in a storm, I suppose. I happen to know that his lease was about to expire and that his ancient tough Mummy had not come up with the renewal money as he had expected. But I like to think – am certain, in fact – that there is more to it than that. Little by little, Peter has become the love of my life; and I think that he feels the same way about me.

  That doesn’t mean that I am not scared – it would be no exaggeration to say terrified – however. I don’t know what it will be like living with Peter. He has so much energy, and is so decided in his views, that I may not be able to cope. He has already said that he wants to move the furniture around (apparently he is regarded as extremely proficient at rearranging the contents of rooms) and to re-hang the pictures. I think that I can bear this as long as he doesn’t start throwing things away. I have been living surrounded by the same possessions – with virtually no additions – for almost one third of a century. It is not their value or their appearance that concerns me, but their ingrainedness – they are part of me. Peter must appreciate that. But I’m sure that he does. He can be very sensitive.

  I feel guilty about Elspeth. She’s my cat. She’s fifteen, and not used to strangers. She’s met Peter once or twice and seems to like him well enough. I do hope that she won’t be unhappy.

  I’m not sure what people at work will say when they know about us. Most of the younger ones have guessed that I’m gay – though bisexual would be a more accurate term – but there are still one or two people who remember that I went out with Kathryn Sheppard for a while. They will be confused. But I’m certainly not going to worry about what they think. I’m much more concerned about how things will work out with Peter. Poor Kathryn. I haven’t thought about her for ages.

  I must tidy up in a minute. Peter is coming to supper, but not to stay the night. He said that it would help him if I could cook for him, as he is very busy packing his things. When we have eaten, he will return to his own flat for the last time and carry on packing. When we eat together, I usually cook. Peter is a much better cook, but often I don’t have the ingredients for the sort of food he prepares. All those exotic oils and herbs. I expect he will be bringing them here now; or if not we will buy some. It’s all very exciting, really.

  I’d better move the sofa and clean under it before he arrives. The last time he moved it, he was disgusted by the fluff and pieces of biscuit he found there. I suppose it was rather nasty. I think I’ll cook chicken Caesar salad tonight. Peter likes that, though he wishes that I wouldn’t use Cardini’s dressing. He says that he makes his own, from eggs just put in boiling water for a minute and extra virgin oil. I must say I like Cardini’s. No doubt Peter is right, and it’s the sugar they put in it that attracts me. I don’t pretend to have as fine a palate as he does.

  The windows could do with a clean, too. It’s a while since the last window-cleaner left the area and I haven’t managed to find another one. I must ask the girl who lives downstairs if she knows someone. Or perhaps I’ll just leave it to Peter. He’ll be sure to know what to do.

  I can hear footsteps in the corridor outside – he is probably here already and I haven’t done a thing – no cleaning or cooking! I know he will be annoyed. Dear God, I wish he could understand how afraid I am. When I feel like this, I am quite paralysed – unable to lift a little finger or do anything at al
l. Not anything. My mind goes blank. Even sitting still exhausts me.

  Chapter Three

  It was a sultry afternoon in late July. The housekeeper’s daughter was playing in the drive. She scooped the gravel into two small heaps, creating a bald patch of earth just in front of her feet. Despite the heat, she was wearing heavy lace-up shoes. She could feel her feet sweating inside them, bruising her white socks with the stain of black polish. She swiped at the gravel, suddenly hot and irritable. Hobnailed boots came crunching across the sweep towards her, but she did not look up. She knew from the way that he walked that it was Mr. Sam.

  The boots halted when they reached her. Still she did not look up, though she could see the coarse grey boots and his legs. She knew that it was rude not to look at him. She did not care.

  “Little Miss Tirzah,” he said. It was a joke. She didn’t know why he called her by that name, but when he was playing with her he always did. Normally, she did not mind, but today she scowled and bent her head lower.

  “Hey, little miss,” he said, bending down and taking her chin in his hand, so that she had to look to one side to avoid his gaze. “I’ve told thee before about raking up the gravel – leave it lying flat, or you might cause an accident. And at very least I’ll have yon gardener after me!”

  He pointed to where John Horsley stood, his stern meagre figure bent over his hoe as he coaxed weeds out of the rose beds. She knew that this was a joke too – that John Horsley, like everyone else, took orders from Mr. Sam – but still she did not oblige him with a smile.

  “What’s the matter, Missy,” he continued, looking kindly on her. “Don’t you have anything to do? No-one to play with, is that it?”