Deadlock

COPYRIGHT

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1991 by Collins Crime

Copyright © Emma Page 1991

Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780008175788

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008175795

Version [2016-02-18]

DEDICATION

For J.B. and B.B. in gratitude

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

About the Author

By Emma Page

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

The brass plate beside the front door of Dr Peake’s handsome Edwardian premises, half a mile beyond the northwestern tip of Cannonbridge, glittered in the mellow sunshine of late afternoon.

Sunlight flashed from the doctor’s gold-rimmed spectacles as he strolled along the peaceful walks of his beloved garden in the welcome lull before evening surgery – on Tuesdays surgery began at six.

He glanced about with pleasure. Still plenty of colour in the flowerbeds and borders for the first week in September. He paused to savour the delicate fragrance of a rose. A silver-haired man with a spare, upright figure, a look of buoyant optimism undimmed after long years in general practice.

He looked at his watch. Time he was getting back indoors. He let himself in through the conservatory, into the cool interior, along the corridor into the entrance hall.

At the window in reception he saw the husband of a patient – Conway, yes, that was the name. Mrs Conway had consulted him for the first time a couple of months ago; she and her husband had come to live in a neighbouring hamlet back in the spring.

Conway was picking up a repeat prescription for his wife. ‘Hello, there!’ the doctor called out as he came up behind him. ‘How’s your wife? More relaxed and cheerful, I hope?’

David Conway turned from the window. He had a direct, open glance. On the tall side, with a slim, athletic build. Still boyish-looking, although a year or so past thirty. A square jaw, a broad forehead with a lock of fair hair falling forward. Well-groomed, smartly dressed in a business suit, shoes polished to a mirror finish.

He smiled at the doctor. ‘Anna’s much improved, I’m glad to say. And she’s sleeping a lot better.’ He put the prescription away in his pocket.

‘That’s good,’ Peake said heartily. Patients were beginning to drift in. He nodded to one or two, spoke a word here and there. He moved away from reception with Conway and stood talking to him further down the hall. ‘I’ll look in on your wife next time I’m over your way – but don’t for heaven’s sake tell her that or she’ll work herself up into a stew every morning, wondering if it’ll be today I’ll be calling in.’ He paused. ‘Is she getting out much?’

Conway shook his head. ‘Not very much, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s got to be altered,’ Peake pronounced briskly. ‘She’s at a time of life when she should be full of plans for the future. She should be enjoying making new friends, a whole new life. If you could get her to start thinking positively along those lines it would do her more good than any amount of sleeping pills and anti-depressants.’ A thought struck him. ‘Does she drive?’

Conway shook his head again. ‘She’s never shown any inclination to learn.’

‘Then start teaching her. She’ll fall in with anything you suggest. Could be the very thing for her. Living out in the country, on her own all day, it’s easy for any woman to get shut in on herself, stuck at home without transport. It’ll give her a new interest, something to aim at.’

He clapped Conway on the shoulder. ‘And if you could manage a little second-hand car for her, that would encourage her even more. You needn’t pay the earth for it. Once she’s passed her test she’ll be able to drive into town every day, even if it’s only to do a bit of shopping, change her books at the library. It’s all human contact, it all helps.’

‘You’re absolutely right!’ Conway responded with energy. ‘I should have thought of it myself, it’s a first-class idea. I’ll get cracking on it right away.’

‘And talking about getting out more—’ Peake suddenly broke off. He excused himself and went swiftly along to assist an elderly patient hobbling in with the aid of a stick. He returned to take up again where he’d left off, all the while keeping a benevolent eye open all round. ‘As I was saying, would it be possible to arrange a holiday for your wife? That often does the trick, better than any amount of tranquillizers.’

‘Do you think she’s up to it yet?’ Conway asked in a tone of anxiety. ‘It would mean she’d have to go on her own. There’s no chance of my being able to get away at this time of year.’ He had been in his present job, with Zodiac Soft Furnishings, only since March. He had no leave due to him as yet, and one of the firm’s two busiest seasons was already under way.

‘I wasn’t suggesting she went right away,’ Peake demurred. ‘In a few weeks’ time was what I had in mind. I’m sure she’ll be up to it by then. And I wasn’t suggesting she went on her own. Isn’t there some relative or friend who could go with her?’

Conway pondered. ‘I can’t think of anyone who could get away.’

‘Then a cruise is your answer,’ Peake returned with undiminished gusto. ‘Just the thing late in the year. You can head for the sun, shorten the winter.’

‘A cruise?’ Conway echoed doubtfully.

‘Don’t look so surprised.’ Peake smiled. ‘People have very out-of-date notions about cruises if they haven’t been on one recently. They’ve changed out of all recognition over the last ten or fifteen years. It’s not all old fogies these days, plenty of young folk go on cruises now, families too. My wife and I have been on a good many cruises over the years and we’ve enjoyed every one of them. There’s never any need to feel lonely, they’re ideal for folk on their own, convalescing. No pressure, no need to do anything you don’t feel like. You can lie about all day if you want to. Nothing to worry about, everything done for you. Doctor and nurses if you happen to need them. Your wife will love it. Sea, sunshine, change and stimulation, wonderful food. Meeting new people, striking up friendships, finding new interests.’

He suddenly ground to a halt, conscious he’d got rather carried away. A young couple like the Conways, living in a rented, furnished bungalow, hoping to be able to buy a place of their own, were hardly likely to have much to spare for fancy extras like cruises.

‘Of course cruises don’t come cheap.’ Peake’s tone held apology. ‘And she would really need to go for two or three weeks to do much good.’ He looked inquiringly at Conway. ‘I suppose that would be out of the question?’

‘If a cruise is what you recommend,’ Conway responded with decision, ‘then that’s what Anna’s going to have. I’ll manage the money, whatever it costs. All I want is to see her well and happy, that’s more important than any other consideration.’

Peake delivered another hearty slap on the back. ‘Good man. You won’t regret it.’

Conway gave a wry grin. ‘Just as well I can’t go with her. I should be able to manage one ticket but two would be a bit of a facer.’

‘I’m willing to bet we’ll see a substantial improvement when she gets back,’ Peake told him bracingly.

‘And if we don’t?’

Peake grimaced. ‘Then we might have to think about seeing a psychiatrist.’ He raised a hand as Conway opened his mouth. ‘Yes, yes, I know. I’m well aware she’s dead set against seeing a psychiatrist but I’m sure between us we could manage to talk her into it.’

Conway smiled slightly. ‘I was going to say I entirely agree with you. I think Anna should see a psychiatrist if the cruise doesn’t do the trick.’

‘Good man,’ Peake said again. He glanced at the clock. ‘Off you go now – and don’t forget to see about that cruise. Don’t ask your wife’s opinion about it, present her with a fait accompli. Make the booking and then tell her you’ve got a wonderful surprise for her. Produce the tickets, get out an atlas, show her all the places on the map, get her enthusiastic about it. That’s always the best way with nerve cases. Never give them a choice, the chance to say no. Firm direction’s a great relief to folk in that state of mind. Trying to make any kind of decision can be agony for someone who’s anxious enough already.’

As he turned towards his surgery he couldn’t refrain from adding, ‘And tell her you’ll buy her some new clothes for the trip, that’s always a sure-fire tonic for the ladies. Throw in a new hair-do while you’re at it. She’ll agree to go all right, you’ll see. And when she gets back she’ll have Christmas to look forward to, the start of a new year, spring on the way.’

Ferndale, the bungalow rented by the Conways, was a substantial dwelling, built between the wars. It stood in an isolated spot in the scattered hamlet of Oldmoor, a few miles to the north-west of Cannonbridge.

The weather in the second week of September was no less fine than in the first. At two o’clock on Tuesday afternoon Anna Conway came to the end of the household chores she had managed to spin out since breakfast. She stood at the back door of the bungalow, staring out into the brilliant, windless afternoon, trying to make up her mind how to pass the next hour or two.

If she had been less willow-wand thin, with less of a look of being huddled into herself against the cold, however warm the day, she might have been pretty enough. Her small features were regular, her baby-fine hair a pleasant shade of light brown, her grey eyes large and well set. As it was, she would never catch the attention of a casual observer, unless perhaps to wonder fleetingly how a girl of her age – rising twenty – had acquired so early so apprehensive a stance towards life.

She twisted her hands together. The garden seemed so still, waiting, watching. What she longed to do was take a sleeping pill, crawl into the big double bed and pull the covers over her head, extinguishing for the next few hours every nerve, every thought and feeling, every lacerating memory.

But yesterday evening, as they sat close together on the sofa, David had slipped an arm round her shoulders, had gently suggested she might like to occupy some of the time that hung so heavily on her hands with a little leisurely tidying up of the flowerbeds and borders. The exercise could only do her good and he would be glad of any help, however small, in putting to rights the large, rambling garden, neglected by a succession of tenants.

The thought of being able to greet him on his return this evening with the news that she had indeed spent the afternoon battling with weeds, being able to point out some patch of ground she had cleared, seeing his smile of pleasure, hearing his praise, finally won out over the lure of temporary oblivion.

And Dr Peake would be pleased too, next time he saw her. Fresh air and sunshine, he always urged, useful activity of any kind.

She squared her shoulders and stepped out into the caressing air, closing the door resolutely behind her. She went with determined steps over to a shed, wheeled out a barrow, selected a hoe, hand fork, trowel, a pair of shears, pulled on stout gardening gloves.

She looked about for an area to tackle, not too intimidating, and settled on part of a long flower border overrun with golden rod and marguerites. She began to tear up handfuls of rank growth.

The garden no longer seemed so silent. Sounds now seemed to press in on her from every side, obscurely tinged with menace. The raucous cawing of rooks, an aeroplane droning high overhead, the distant yapping of a dog, the harsh whine of a chainsaw, intermittent bursts of shooting from a neighbouring farm.

She worked grimly on till her back began to ache, then she abandoned the border and set off on a tour of the garden.

In the long grass of the orchard area drunken wasps buzzed among rotting windfalls. Every tree appeared ancient and diseased, bearing misshapen apples, grotesque pears. On the edge of the shrubbery, beneath a vast old hydrangea still in bloom, she caught sight of a great clump of oyster-coloured fungus, like a mound of overlapping dinner plates. She stopped in fascinated horror to peer under bushes and shrubs. Even larger clumps of fungus greeted her, rubbery and warty.

She shuddered and plunged on. Long strands of bramble clutched at her clothes. At the base of a decaying tree-stump she came on an enormous fleshy growth dissolving into slime, its stalk alive with maggots. Panic stirred inside her but she thrust it sternly down. She darted out into a stretch of open ground, came to a halt. She drew deep breaths, striving to steady herself.

She would go back to her flower border, show some backbone, start again on her task. She walked determinedly over to where she had abandoned her tools, picked up the hand fork and began to lever up stubborn roots.

But revulsion welled up again inside her. Centipedes squirmed in the earth, daddy-long-legs brushed against her face. A horrid sensation, only too familiar of late, signalled its return with a first stealthy touch as of a band lightly circling her forehead. She tried to dismiss it, went on battling with the weeds.

Slowly the band began to tighten. Across the fields a fresh burst of shooting jerked her up in fright. She managed to steady herself again, bent once more to her task.

A few moments later a wounded pigeon dropped out of the sky at her feet in a sprawl of blood-stained feathers. She sprang back in terror. Tears spilled from her eyes. She threw down her fork, tore off her gloves. She fell to her knees beside the dying bird, gently stroked its head, crooned softly to it. It looked up at her with an expressionless eye already filming over. A moment later she saw that it was dead.

She jumped up, snatched her gloves, the tools, and raced back to the shed, her heart pounding, leaping in her throat. With trembling fingers she restored everything to its place, then she turned and fled back to the house, along glinting gravel paths where leaf shadows quivered in the sunlight, past bushes festooned with spiders’ webs, in through the back door, along the passage, into the haven of the sitting room.

She flung herself down on the sofa, shuddering. From the mantelpiece her own likeness – a framed photograph, head and shoulders – looked down at her with a wide smile of happiness.

Around her forehead the band grew vice-like in its grip. A surge of terrifying thoughts rose in her brain, threatening to overwhelm her. She looked in agony at the clock. Another hour to be lived through before the next dose of the pills that would beat back the thoughts. David had made her swear to stick to the prescribed times and amounts. Every day she strove to keep her word, she never let him know of the many times she failed.

She turned her head in the direction of the kitchen. A beaker of the hot chocolate she loved, strong and sweet, that might soothe her through the next hour. She got up and went from the room.

Twenty minutes later found her back in the sitting room, pacing to and fro, the effects of the hot chocolate already evaporated. She tried to distract herself with the radio, the television, but they served only to jangle her nerves still further.

She looked again at the clock. She would not fail again. She lay down on the floor and closed her eyes. She went religiously through her tense-and-relax exercises, she massaged her forehead, her scalp, the back of her neck. Still the taut muscles refused to slacken. Still the plaguing thoughts bedevilled her brain.

She opened her eyes and looked yet again at the clock. Barely ten minutes had crawled by. She could struggle no longer. She got to her feet and went along to the bedroom for the capsules, the pills and tablets. She washed down the prescribed dose with water, then she stood hesitating, eyeing the bottles. Double the quantity would produce the longed-for relief twice as quickly.

After another brief, guilt-ridden struggle she swallowed a second dose. She went back to the sofa and lay down again. Soon she felt a blissful peace begin to steal over her. A little later she felt a slight resurgence of cheerfulness; later still, a burst of buoyant energy.

She sat up, smiling. She yawned, stretched luxuriously. She went along to the bathroom, washed her face, tidied her hair. She would make a start on preparing supper.

As the hands of the kitchen clock approached six she was putting the finishing touches to an artistically arranged platter of salad. A delicious savoury smell filled the room. She glanced in at the oven, lifted the lids of pans simmering on the stove. She felt joyously serene. Her mind was now clear and untroubled. She hummed in tune with the music from the radio.

A sound reached her ears: David’s car turning in through the gate. Her face broke into a delighted smile. She darted to the mirror, primped her hair.

She ran out of the kitchen, along the passage, into the hall, snatched open the door into the porch. As David came hurrying round from the garage she flew out to greet him, threw her arms round his neck. He embraced her warmly, gave her a tender kiss.

Later, as they finished clearing the supper things, he put his arm round her shoulders. ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said in indulgent tones. ‘Something to show you. I’ve arranged a wonderful surprise for you.’ Her face lit up like a child at Christmas. He squeezed her shoulders. ‘I know you’re going to love it. Come and sit down, I’ll tell you all about it.’

CHAPTER 2

A dark Monday morning, October 23rd. The birds not yet awake, only the occasional mournful cry of an owl.

On their smallholding, two miles from Ferndale, Bob and Irene Garbutt had been up since five; always plenty of indoor jobs to be done before sunrise.

At six-thirty Garbutt came out of the warm kitchen into the chill air, bending his head against the whipping breeze. A tall, broad-shouldered man, lean and solidly muscled. He had been a regular soldier, both his sons were in the Army.

As he crossed the yard a cock crowed shrilly in the distance. A lively cackling erupted from the wire-fronted sheds housing the geese. Garbutt glanced at his watch – he was due at Ferndale at five past seven to pick up David Conway and drive him to Oldmoor station, a regular booking since April, one Monday in four. Garbutt supplemented what he made from the smallholding by running a one-man hired-car service locally.

He went into the cold store for the box of fruit Conway had ordered for his wife. Garbutt had selected the fruit with particular care the previous evening: sweetly-smelling Cox’s orange pippins, prime Comice pears.

He carried the box out to his car and stowed it away in the boot. He went back into the house and stood washing his hands at the sink. Irene came into the kitchen, carrying a jar of her newly made damson jam. Still a pretty woman, with bright blue eyes and a ready smile.

She set the jam down on the table. ‘You can take this for Anna, a little present to say I hope she’s feeling better.’

Garbutt ate a piece of toast and drank a mug of tea; time for a decent breakfast later. Promptly at ten minutes to seven he got into his car. He prided himself on punctuality and reliability. No need to allow for delays; scarcely any traffic on these rural roads at this time of day, this season of the year.

The sky showed the first signs of lightening as he turned the car towards Ferndale; birds began to twitter from the hedgerows.

The front of the bungalow was in darkness when he pulled up by the recessed porch but a light shone out from the kitchen, round to the left. He tooted his horn and Conway appeared a minute or two later, switching lights on as he came. He found Garbutt standing by the open boot of his car, lifting out the box of fruit.

‘Anna’ll be delighted with those,’ Conway exclaimed as he cast an appreciative eye over the unblemished skins. ‘What do I owe you?’

‘No need to bother with that now.’ Garbutt set the box down inside the porch. ‘Leave it till this evening. We can settle up then.’ Conway was travelling to Dunstall – home of Zodiac’s factory and head office – for the four-weekly sales meeting. Garbutt usually picked him up again at Oldmoor station at a quarter to one but today was the firm’s silver jubilee, to be marked, following the sales meeting, by festivities lasting well into the afternoon.

Garbutt handed over the jam, along with his wife’s message. ‘That’s very good of Irene,’ Conway said with pleasure. He carried the fruit and jam inside and Garbutt got back into his car, out of the wind.

A few minutes later Anna came out into the shelter of the porch. She wore a blue woollen dressing-gown and bedroom slippers.

‘The fruit’s lovely,’ she told Garbutt with a warm smile. The porch light threw shadows over her face and hair. She reached into a pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at her lips. ‘And please thank Irene for the jam, it’s very kind of her. Damson’s one of my favourites. Tell her I’m feeling much better.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Garbutt responded heartily. ‘You can start eating the Coxes any time but I should give the pears another day or two. You’ll want to keep your eye on them, catch each one just right, when it’s sweet and juicy.’

‘I’ll remember.’ She thrust her hands into her sleeves for warmth, like a Chinese mandarin.

‘Not long now till your holiday,’ Garbutt commented.

‘November 2nd, a week on Thursday.’ Her tone was pleased and lively. ‘I’m really looking forward to it now.’