‘Was it you who had the patio laid, Mrs Mistery?’
‘Oh no,’ she said, with relish. ‘It was done before we came here. Clive, my husband, was already ill by the time we moved here to be nearer my daughter. Poor man, he wasn’t up to laying a patio or any other building work for that matter.’ Then her eyes widened. ‘You think somebody is buried under there, don’t you? That they laid the stones to conceal a body. Like that West chap. Oh yes, Sergeant Shotton, I have an interest in true crime as well as fictional works.’
Shotton couldn’t think of a suitable reply. Far from being upset at the thought of a body lying underneath her patio since before she had moved in with her dying husband, Mrs Mistery was delighted. ‘Oh how thrilling,’ she said. ‘Just wait till I tell my friends at the WI about this. They’ll be so jealous . Who do you think it is, sergeant?’ Her eyes swivelled towards the patio. ‘Lying there all that time. The mother of the dead child?’ she deduced. ‘It has to be. This is amazing.’ Her eyes still sparkled even when she added, ‘I suppose you’ll have to take the entire patio up. Put up one of those white tents like you see on CSI. It’ll be in the papers. Reporters will be camping on my doorstep asking me for a statement.’
Shotton began to feel slightly alarmed. Mrs Mistery was jumping too far ahead. He tried to put the brakes on. ‘Umm, Mrs Mistery…’
She took absolutely no notice. It was as though he had not spoken.
As each realization hit her she grew more and more excited. ‘I’ll have to take them out cups of tea like Mary Archer did. Oh my word.’ Yet another idea landed. ‘What if there’s a second baby under there? What if there’s a serial baby killer around?’
Shotton felt quite dizzy. ‘Mrs Mistery,’ he said carefully, ‘let’s keep all these ideas to ourselves for now, shall we? Let’s not jump the gun and start making up stories. The dogs are trained to sniff out decayed bodies. Not necessarily human remains. But yes, we will have to dig up the patio but we’ll put the slabs back too when we’ve found what’s beneath them. Please don’t start rumours and please, please don’t worry.’
‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ said the lively widow.
He recalled the final words of the TV show as he said, ‘And don’t have nightmares.’
She looked at him. ‘Nightmares? You must be joking. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since my husband died.’
Shotton was even more taken aback at this. He studied her, now thoroughly puzzled and confused. He might have a good relationship with dogs, he reflected, as he returned to his van and called in to the station, but he didn’t get anywhere near understanding humans.
Grope Lane was a narrow passageway lined with shops near St Mary’s Church and the Bear Steps. It was a pretty, historic part of the town and was reminiscent of a medieval alleyway where all sorts of skulduggery would have gone on. One could almost imagine the shout of ‘ Garde-loo ’ and a bucket of slops being pitched out of one of the crooked casement windows in the thirteenth-century home of one Richard Stury, a successful merchant of Welsh wool.
WPC Delia Shaw walked over the cobbles to a shop halfway up called Victor Plumley’s. She had been detailed to speak to the estate agents. Like many in the town, it was an old family business with a sign over the door which proclaimed that Victor Plumley had been an estate agent in this ‘shoppe’ for more than two hundred years. Delia smiled as she pushed the door open. This feeling of history underfoot was the very reason why she loved this town which so unashamedly and proudly flaunted its history and why she would never work anywhere else if she could help it.
A young man looked up as the doorbell jangled. His badge informed her that his name was David Plumley.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely, ‘Can I help you?’
She flashed her ID card. ‘I’m part of the team investigating the discovery of a child’s body in number 41 The Mount. You may have read about the case in the papers.’
David Plumley frowned. ‘Is that the lady who took a dead child to the hospital? About a week ago.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I really don’t see how we can help you?’
‘It’s to do with the history of the house where the child was found,’ she said. ‘Number 41 The Mount. The people who are the current occupants bought the property from another couple. They, in turn, bought the property through you.’
‘That must be years ago.’
‘Eight years.’
David Plumley couldn’t quite assimilate the information. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I don’t understand what this has to do with us.’
‘Forensic evidence,’ WPC Shaw said, ‘indicates that the baby had been dead for a number of years. The pathologist is not absolutely sure how many. We’re covering all possibilities.’
Plumley made an expression of distaste. ‘How horrible. How gruesome. Are you telling me that the body could have been in the house for more eight years?’
‘It appears so,’ Delia said carefully.
David Plumley swallowed. ‘I showed people over that p-property myself,’ he stuttered. ‘Are you telling me…?’ His voice trailed away and his colour changed to an odd shade of green.
‘So you handled the sale yourself?’
‘Well yes, partly. It’s a lovely house. I remember it quite well. Not the usual run-of-the-mill place. Large, Victorian semi-detached, as I recall it. They’re always popular. Sell very quickly as a rule. Particularly in such a good area. An old lady.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A Mrs Isaac was selling it. She was quite elderly and a wee bit muddled. She wasn’t really up to showing people round the place so when her son and daughter-in-law couldn’t get up here we showed prospective purchasers around ourselves. Subsequently she went to live with her family.’ He frowned again. ‘I can’t remember where they were from.’
‘Were you the only member of staff who showed people around?’
‘No. I had an assistant at the time called Jenny. She did some of the viewings for me. There weren’t that many. The Godfreys appeared fairly soon after the property had gone on the market. The Mount is a very popular area. Number 41 was only on the market for a couple of months as I remember.’
‘When you showed people round was there any time when they were alone in the property?’
‘Absolutely not,’ David Plumley said. ‘That would be totally against our rule book. Oh no. Quite definitely no one would ever have been ever left alone in the property.’
‘Do you know whether Mrs Isaac had carers in?’
Plumley screwed up his face. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I mean she wasn’t that bad. Just a bit dotty and a bit frail. I don’t think I remember any carers being there.’
‘Does Jenny still work here?’
‘No. She left a few years ago. Her husband got a job in Australia.’
‘Are you still in touch with her?’
David Plumley coloured. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘But I can vouch one hundred per cent that Jenny would not have left people alone in the house. It would be against all the rules in the book. They could have stolen something for a start and then we would be liable. Jenny was a professional.’ He smiled and WPC Shaw wondered why the embarrassment? Plumley had mentioned a husband. An office affair?
‘And the Godfreys?’ she prompted.
‘As far as I remember he was a bit of a wide boy while she was typical of a woman who wanted her own way. I remember she was saying she’d have this changed and that changed and she didn’t like this. She was quite a picky person. She slightly irritated me. She seemed to want to change everything. Original fireplaces, central heating system, all the colour schemes, paint over the banisters. She would have spent a lot of money -’ he gave a deep sigh – ‘removing every single vestige of a period property. Ghastly woman. She should have had a newbuild.’