Claire looked at her and added, “Good idea. I like all this spooky stuff. It’s like some black magic ritual.” She qualified her assertion by dancing a few steps round the edge of the grave to Jill’s embarrassment and Saracen’s annoyance. Saracen lowered himself into the hole and replaced the lid of the coffin before climbing out again to begin filling in the earth.
“Shouldn’t you call the Police or something?” asked Claire.
“I’m going to confront Garten first,” said Saracen. “It will short circuit a lot of red tape.”
“There’s a car coming!” whispered Jill as headlights swung into the lane and lit up the middle branches of the pines. The three of them crouched and froze as the car passed slowly along Church Lane, its engine murmuring quietly.
“It’s gone,” whispered Claire.
“No,” cautioned Jill, holding up her hand. “It’s stopped!”
Saracen closed his eyes briefly and swore.
“I’ll take a look,” whispered Claire and made for the wall before anyone could stop her. She was back within moments. “It’s the Police!” she whispered. “They’ve stopped beside the cars.”
“They’re going to start looking for us shortly,” said Saracen.
There was a moment’s silence before Claire said, “Leave it to me.” She got to her feet and ran off across the churchyard to leave by the gate. A few moments later the sound of Claire’s voice came from the other side of the wall. “Good evening Officer. Is anything wrong?”
The policeman’s reply was muffled and Saracen guessed that Claire had deliberately spoken loudly to let them know what she was doing.
“Not at all Officer. I’ve been visiting friends in Trinity Road. It seemed sensible to park round here rather than on the main road. That’s all right I hope?” Claire’s Oxford accent was suffused with solicitous concern. Once again Saracen and Jill failed to hear the reply.
“Oh I see!” exclaimed Claire loudly, “The warehouse! You thought we were burgling the warehouse!” She burst out laughing. “No, things aren’t quite as bad as that!”
Saracen heard the policemen join in the laughter and then heard Claire say, “Yes, that car too. I just had to leave the party early.”
There was some more laughter before the sound of slamming car doors told Saracen that the crisis was over. Claire’s Metro drove off followed moments later by the police car.
Saracen continued with the infill of the grave while Jill held the torch. He finished by trampling down the surface as hard as he could before replacing the turf. There was a pile of earth left over on the tarpaulin because of the lack of ground compaction. He dragged it over to the trees and scattered it evenly before returning the borrowed implements to the gravediggers’ hut and fastening the door. “Right, that’s it,” he sighed. “Let’s go.”
As they walked back to the car Jill said, “I still don’t understand why you didn’t call the police and let them see that the grave was empty.”
“If I had to start explaining everything from the beginning and things start going through official channels it will take for ever but if I confront Garten directly and tell him that I have two witnesses to the fact that Myra Archer’s grave is empty then he will see that the game’s up and he will have to tell me everything.”
“If you say so,” said Jill, far from convinced.
They returned to Jill’s apartment and found Claire sitting outside in her car. “Everything all right?” she asked.
“Thanks to you,” said Saracen. Jill agreed with him.
“Anyone want a drink?” asked Jill, closing the door of the flat behind them. Saracen and Claire said yes without hesitation.
“Can I ask what you are going to say to this man Garten” asked Claire.
“I’m going to tell him exactly what we found out tonight and make him tell me what’s been going on,” said Saracen.
“Garten isn’t going to like it,” said Jill.
Saracen’s silence said that she was stating the obvious.
“I mean, you might be pushing him too far. It could be dangerous.”
“Depends how awful his secret is I suppose,” said Claire.
Saracen had not seriously considered the possibility of being in any physical danger from Garten but could see that Jill and Claire had a point. If the secret was big enough there was no way of telling how far Garten would go to protect it. The actions of a man under extreme pressure could be wildly unpredictable. The spectre of the drunken, embittered Cyril Wylie standing over his own paralysed body flitted through Saracen’s mind and chilled him to the marrow.
Saracen phoned A amp;E at nine thirty in the morning to be told by Alan Tremaine that Garten was probably at home for he was not due on duty until two in the afternoon. “Claire told me about last night,” said Tremaine. “Good luck.”
Saracen put down the phone and considered for a moment whether or not he should wait until the afternoon. The alternative was to go round to Garten’s house and have it out with him there and then. He decided against waiting.
Nigel Garten and his wife lived in the Croft Valley district of Skelmore. Every town has its Croft Valley, where the influential and wealthy tend to flock together for solidarity and reassurance. Such areas usually have nicknames given them by the more humble inhabitants of the town and Skelmore was no exception. In the pubs and clubs Croft Valley was Toffee Town.
The population living inside Croft Valley was further stratified into ‘Just Money’ and ‘Real Class’. Despite the strenuous efforts of Matthew Glendale to elevate his daughter to the latter category Mildred Garten had consistently failed to gain acceptance to the top echelons of Skelmore society. This was construed bitterly by Mildred’s father as blind prejudice against a lass from an honest working background and, by Mildred herself, as a result of what she believed was her basic shyness and over-sensitivity. People just did not understand her. In truth they understood her only too well. That was why they detested her.
Mildred’s capacity for antagonising people was quite unbounded and totally independent of race, creed and colour. From the milk-boy to the Mayor of Skelmore she was universally loathed.
Saracen walked up the path to the front door, his feet crunching on the gravel. The house, a red sandstone town house had a pleasing air of solidity about it, as if it knew that people would come and go but it would go on for ever. He was about to ring the bell when he heard Mildred’s voice and it sounded angry, but then, as Saracen mused, it usually did. Angry, whingeing or disgruntled.
The sound was coming from the back garden. Saracen opened the little wooden gate that led round the side of the house to the back garden.
“I wanted them over there!” screeched Mildred’s voice.
Saracen could now see that it was the gardener she was berating.
“But it makes more sense to plant them over here Mrs G.”
“I want them over there!” insisted Mildred, “And what’s more, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a hundred times that I do not wish to be called ‘Mrs Gee.’”
“Yes Madam,” said the man.
“Excuse me,” said Saracen.
Mildred turned abruptly. “Oh, it’s you,” she said with distaste.”
“Yes it’s me Mildred, or is it Madam?”
Mildred’s face darkened. “What do you want?” she snapped with characteristic charm.
“I’d like to see your husband.”
“You can’t. He’s busy.”
“I still want to see him.”
“Are you stupid? He’s busy I told you.”
“Tell him it’s about sandbags. He’ll see me.”
“Sandbags? Did you say sandbags?”
“Yes, deceased sandbags.”
“Diseased sandbags?”
