The Coop Read online

  Wheatley was within the Thames Valley Police jurisdiction, but a phone call had been made and an exception granted for Everton Bowe due to the unusual circumstances and high profile of the suicide case. The easy commute from London made the pretty village an increasingly popular and expensive place to live. Over half the properties were owned, much to the local’s disapproval, by the “enders” from London, which made the village almost a ghost town during the week.

  Helen followed her satnav directions from the M40, entered the village on the Upper Road and missed the sign to Stadhampton. Five minutes and a matching number of expletives later, they were approaching the outskirts of Oxford.

  “I was following the bloody GPS.”

  “Like a lemming, Helen, and it’s wrong.”

  Bowe needed a cigarette desperately, but Helen, a reformed-again non-smoker, was having none of it, even with the window open. He’d been chewing a piece of Nicorette gum to death for twenty minutes and was not in the best of moods.

  “Do you want me to turn around?”

  “What, and upset your satnav?”

  “Oh, fuck off, smartarse. Check the address again,” Helen ordered, handing Bowe her notepad. “I could have got it wrong.”

  “Great Leys Farm, Stadhampton. Have you got a map?”

  “Why would I need a map when I’ve got a bloody satnav?”

  Everton opened his mouth to tell her but, seeing her cautionary look, thought better of it. “Okay. Do you by any chance have her phone number?”

  “No! Look, I was just told to escort you. Okay?”

  “What, are they frightened I might say something inappropriate? Like how come the recently appointed head of the Met’s child abuse enquiry failed to recognise that her own daughter was suicidal?”

  “Jesus, Everton. You can be a cynical bastard sometimes.”

  “Yeah. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Helen couldn’t hold the quizzical look in his coal-coloured eyes, and merely said, “Shall I turn around or what?”

  Frieda Cole missed Colin’s lunch after being phoned by a journalist, who had somehow got her number and wanted a comment on the “tragedy”.

  She’d been drinking steadily since and was now watching an interview on the London Lunchtime News with one of Gina’s neighbours, who admitted hearing a woman calling for help but, thinking it was a domestic dispute, ignored it. Gina was hardly featured apart from a still photograph of her graduation day with her politician mother, Celia, who was the main focus of attention. Megan Howell phoned to ask if she was watching.

  “Yes,” Frieda replied. “Where did they get that photograph from? It must be years old.”

  “They keep libraries of stuff. Have you spoken to her mother?”

  “It just goes straight through to voicemail.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s probably too ashamed to answer.”

  “Megan! Her daughter just died.”

  “She didn’t die, she committed suicide, and if her mother had been more caring, less controlling and concerned about her own career, it may never have happened.”

  “Look. Gina was ill. We all loved her, but she was ill.”

  “She should never have been on those drugs. Her new GP told her so.”

  “She told you that?”

  “She invited me round to see her new house and told me the whole story. How her mother got some tame psychiatrist to prescribe her drugs to ‘calm’ her–”

  “That sounds highly unlikely.” Frieda prickled. She’d known Gina nine years, infinitely longer than Megan, and wasn’t going to be browbeaten.

  “She cried when she told me, Frieda…”

  Frieda switched her mobile to speakerphone, placed it on the table, and topped up her tea with a large splash of Scotch.

  Celia and Angus Lewis lived outside Wheatley village on the road to Stadhampton. They bought the large converted barn five years ago from a local builder, intending to sell their Fulham Palace house and move permanently when Angus retired. But his car accident flung their plans and their lives into turmoil.

  Celia hid behind the floor-length curtain of her bedroom window, staring out at the posse of press huddled outside her locked gates, thinking it had taken two years to forgive her husband, and now their daughter had re-opened the wound, and, worse, risked throwing her career away.

  “Are they still there?” Angus called from his bedroom.

  “Yes. The police will be here any minute. I’m going down.”

  She checked her immaculate reflection in the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe mirrors. She wasn’t a tall woman but had a certain practised presence – common in politicians. Her ash-grey hair was swept back from her face in a lacquer-hard bob. Her pearl earrings were discreet but expensive, as was the diamond solitaire ring that complimented her white-platinum wedding band. She brushed a piece of lint from her Max Mara linen jacket and made her way out onto the spacious landing.

  “Shave, please,” she ordered as she passed Angus’ bedroom. She pressed the RISE button on the stairlift and made her way down the carpeted stairs, ignoring it as it glided past her on its way up.

  High heels clicking on the polished flagstone floors, she entered her office. The MESSAGE WAITING light was pulsing on the answerphone on her mahogany desk. She pressed PLAY. “You have nine new messages,” it advised brightly. She switched it off, knowing that few, if any, would be from her friends, and slumped into her chair. She felt sick with worry and knew it was only going to get worse. And that as desperate as she felt, she had to control it – and herself. She removed a brass key from a zip pocket inside her handbag and unlocked one of the desk drawers. She took out a small green bottle, that could easily be mistaken for eye drops, and drew a precise amount of liquid into the dispenser before dropping it into her mouth, not her eyes.

  Gina smiled radiantly up at her from one of the silver framed photos on the desk. Celia’s eyes brimmed as she stared at it. Then she shook her head and, in a futile gesture, removed the object of her pain from view, and placed it in the drawer alongside the green lithium bottle. The same drug that she suspected had killed her daughter.

  The video entryphone began chiming a warning. She stood, and walked out into the hall to answer it. Pressing the RECEIVE button, she watched the tiny screen flicker to life. An attractive raven-haired woman was leaning close to the monitor.

  “Mrs Lewis? DC Lake. I have Constable Bowe with me.”

  “Come in,” Celia said, and hit ENTER.

  Bowe was impressed. Unlike most of the people he dealt with on the street, Celia Lewis appeared to be a woman totally in control of her emotions. She accepted their condolences, thanked them for making the long journey from London and even offered them tea and Duchy shortbread. But there was an elephant in the room and they all knew it. Bowe felt obligated to broach the subject.

  “Mrs Lewis, I understand you have some questions about last night, if I can help at all?”

  “Yes. Thank you, I do. Would you mind?”

  Helen thought she was still talking to Everton, and then realised that she’d been asked to leave. “Oh. Of course,” she said, and made her way out into the hall.

  “The door. Would you?”

  Helen nodded, closed the polished mahogany door, and stood admiring the huge Georgian grandfather clock that dominated the hall.

  “Are you the police?”

  Helen swivelled around and saw a grey cadaver of a man descending sedately towards her in the stairlift.

  “Yes, sir. DC Lake,” Helen replied, not totally sure who she was speaking to.

  “Ah.” His voice sounded hoarse and he continually licked the tip of his tongue across his cracked lips, as if trying to lubricate them. “Is my wife in there with the black chap that found her?”

  “Yes,” replied Helen, a little surprised by his politically incorrect choice of words.

  Angus pulled out a handkerchief and loudly blew his nose. “I suppose I should go in.”

  The stairlift had stopped bu
t he didn’t move. Helen wondered if he were waiting for her to help. “Do you need a hand, sir?”

  “No,” he said, adding, “Thank you,” as an afterthought. “Do you have children?”

  “I’m not married, sir. But I hope to one day.”

  “They can be like love,” he said. “A blessing and a burden.”

  Helen waited for him to continue. He didn’t. He just sat sideways on the grey plastic chair, adrift in his own dark thoughts.

  “May I offer my sincere condolences, sir.”

  “Why do people always say that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sincere condolences. Shouldn’t any form of condolence be sincere?”

  Helen thought she’d offended him, then realised he was merely speaking his thoughts out loud.

  “It’s like people saying ‘with respect’ when they don’t respect you at all.” A wry smile briefly twisted the corner of his cracked lips and died just as quickly. He looked apologetically over at Helen. “Please excuse me. I have a habit of speaking to myself. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. There’s been quite enough embarrassment in this house for one day.”

  On the other side of the mahogany door, Bowe was feeling uneasy too. He assumed their conversation was going to be about the circumstances of Gina’s death but Mrs Lewis seemed to accept the fact her daughter had committed suicide, even though, somewhat unusually, she left no suicide note. She merely smiled and said, a little wearily, “Gina had… issues… She’d been on medication…” As if that were explanation enough.

  She was, however, concerned about Laura Fell, asking question after question about her involvement. What she was doing there late at night? Why did she assume someone had broken in when they hadn’t? Why had she phoned the police? Had she been drinking? Had her daughter been drinking? He tried to reassure her that Laura was just an innocent bystander and that things would become clearer after the post-mortem, but he wasn’t sure if she was really listening to him. Something else, something as yet unspoken, was clearly bothering her.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mrs Lewis? Would you like me to speak to your husband?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary,” she said, too quickly. “But there is, unfortunately, another issue: the press.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “We are a very private family, Constable, and as you can see,” she said, waving a manicured hand towards the window and the journalists lurking outside. “The jackals are already gathering.”

  “If you need security, I can ask Thames Valley Police to send someone out.”

  “That is already in hand, thank you. I assume you’re aware of my present position?”

  “As a government minister, yes,” replied Bowe, waiting to see where the conversation was leading.

  “Junior minister,” Celia corrected. “The circumstances of my daughter’s death and my position as chair of the Childhood Abuse Enquiry is going to put myself and my family under considerable scrutiny.”

  Bowe marvelled at her iron composure, but thought he noticed the slightest tremble in her fingers as she pulled an electronic cigarette from her bag.

  “Forgive me. I’m trying to quit, but under the circumstances…” She left the rest of the sentence unsaid and drew gratefully on the comforting fake smoke.

  “I’ve been trying for years. Believe me, I understand.”

  She nodded and for a brief moment he felt they’d made a connection. But then the shutter came down and her voice reclaimed its brittle authority. “I’d prefer you say nothing of last night to anyone, least of all the press.”

  “Mrs Lewis, I’m no great fan of the press.”

  “Your wife is a journalist, is she not?”

  Bowe was stunned. So that’s what their interview was really about. But how did she know, and so soon? He didn’t attempt to hide the irony in his reply. “We’re in the process of getting divorced. I’m surprised whoever you asked didn’t tell you that as well.”

  “Be that as it may, Gina’s friends and associates are likely to be approached and offered an inducement.”

  “I don’t take bribes, ma’am. I do my job to the best of my ability and go home at night with a clear conscience.” Unlike some politicians, he felt like saying.

  “Can I assume that no one has been in touch with you yet?”

  “Apart from you, no.”

  She registered the rebuff, took out an embossed business card and handed it to him.“If anyone does, please contact me through this number.”

  “I’m assuming you’ve cleared this–”

  “With your Borough Commander? Of course. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She was already opening the door, dismissing him. “As you can imagine, it’s been extremely” – she paused, searching for the least emotive word – “distressing trying to cope with the last few hours and I haven’t had much sleep.”

  Bowe nodded, thinking how well she disguised it, wondering if she really felt anything at all. He didn’t see her, as the door closed behind him, reach again for the comfort of the little green bottle.

  Frieda Cole was drunk, although at first glance you’d never know it. She’d been drinking heavily since the death of her wealthy alcoholic husband eight years ago and knew how to disguise it. She was a proud woman and didn’t need advice or sympathy. She’d stayed faithfully married for nineteen years to a man she had very little in common with when he was sober and made the decision to support him and his addiction rather than divorce him. Now, she was free to live her life and drink herself to death if she wanted to. “Christ, not now,” she groaned as she heard the knock at her front door.

  She took another sip of Scotch from the bottle and replaced it in the cupboard. Then she composed herself and walked out into the Victorian tiled hall to open the front door. Laura was on the doorstep, clutching a bottle of champagne.

  Soon, Laura was drunk too. Not badly, but enough to take the panic out of her pain.

  “Do you think it was coming off the tablets, the lithium, too quickly?” she asked, as much to herself as Frieda. “She told me that she’d been misdiagnosed by the psychologist.”

  “Psychiatrist,” Frieda corrected, and immediately wished she hadn’t. It was developing into a habit.

  “What’s the difference?” said Laura, topping up their glasses with the last of the champagne and mopping up the frothy spillage with the sleeve of her suit jacket.

  “A psychiatrist is a medical doctor who specialises in disorders of the mind. A psychologist studies the way we the think.”

  They sat in silence. Isolated in their own grief, until Frieda whispered, “Megan said Gina was frightened of her mother’s reaction when she found out.”

  “Do you think that’s true?” Laura replied, not convinced.

  Frieda shrugged. “Women like Megan always need someone to blame. She and Iris have been phoning around. They’re arranging a memorial dinner to honour Gina.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

  “I told her that. Besides, there’s sure to be an inquest. We don’t need to start our own. Has anyone from the press phoned you?”

  “I didn’t answer it.”

  “Don’t. They got short thrift from me, I can tell you.”

  “I suppose people are just trying to make sense of it.’

  Laura shook her head, feeling weary as the booze and the stress hit her. “I quit my job today.”

  “What? Laura, do you think that was sensible?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Do they know about Gina? Did you tell them?”

  “I haven’t spoken to anyone but you all day. You and the police.”

  “What did they say?”

  “That I was mistaken, there was no one else in the house. But I know there was.”

  “Hold on. What are you saying? That there was someone with Gina last night?”

  “She wasn’t answering the door so I rang her mobile. I heard it ringing inside and suddenly it cut off. I saw them through the lette
r box.”

  “You mean someone inside cut the connection?”

  “Yes.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I just told you, I saw them!”

  “Who? Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. It was just a blur, a shadow… flashing past.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Gina?”

  “That’s what the police said. They said there was no sign of a break-in.”

  Frieda leant forward and took Laura’s hands in hers. “Listen to me. You’re in shock. She was your best friend and you found her–”

  “I know what I saw!” Laura shouted, trying to pull her hands free.

  Frieda gripped them tighter. “There was no one there, Laura. You have nothing to feel guilty about. You couldn’t have done any more.”

  “So how come they never found her mobile? Or did I imagine that ringing too?”

  Frieda daren’t answer. She’d already lost one friend and felt in danger of losing another.

  Nephilim’s mind was reeling. He stared down at the four missed calls on Gina’s mobile and could see from the Caller ID that they’d all come from Laura Fell. Why did she keep ringing when she knew Gina was dead? Maybe it wasn’t her? Maybe it was the police trying to pinpoint the mobile’s position? Could they really do that? It had been a mistake to keep it; he should have destroyed it. What was there to see anyway? The only person he’d ever loved hanging on the end of a nylon rope?

  He gnawed at the back of his hand, eating away at his self-disgust. He picked up a hammer and smashed the mobile again and again until it was in pieces. Hundreds of heads turned like clockwork from their feeding trays, bead-eyes alert, watching him. “Like little feathered Marie Antoinette’s waiting for the chopper,” his mother used to laugh and say. He knelt on the concrete floor amongst the rows of cages and their doomed occupants and picked up the SIM card. Then walked out of Battery 1 and into the chill night air.

  His coop was at the rear of the two corrugated iron hangars. Shielded by tall willow cladding that he’d bound to the wire-mesh fence, and backing onto a pine wood, it was completely hidden from the industrial killing machines fifty metres away. Far enough to muffle the chicken’s screams but near enough to make collecting their feathers easy for his work. Since it housed doves and tumbler pigeons, it wasn’t technically a coop. But he’d always thought it too large to be called a dovecote. He built it himself from reclaimed timber and it contained his prize creations. Not just the birds that soared and tumbled above it like fallen angels, but his artwork.