I parked at the end of a cul-de-sac of identical 1960s bungalows that ran parallel to School Path, earning a curious glance from an elderly man who was dead-heading roses in his neat-as-a-pin front garden. Before I left the car, I tried Sheila’s phone again, but again it went straight to voicemail.
I walked the length of the cul-de-sac, turning left when I reached the main road. The entrance to School Path was tucked between two pretty red-bricked, Kent peg-tiled houses. The narrow footpath must have led to a tiny Victorian village school once, but it had long since been replaced by an unremarkable but functional building on the other side of the village.
The properties that fronted School Path were the type that estate agents described as secluded. Tall hedges and high gates meant it was hard to catch even a glimpse of the houses themselves. The ones I could see were mostly bungalows dating from the 1920s, in the days when the architecture was uninspiring, but the plot-size was generous. A couple had been knocked down and replaced with contemporary larch-clad homes which no doubt had obligatory underfloor heating and bi-folding doors onto decked areas at the back.
The bungalows all had names like Oaklands, Woodside and Fairview. I nearly missed Sheila’s place because the rusted name plaque was almost hidden by creeping ivy. I peered into the overgrown garden. Brambles and nettles fought for supremacy and if there had once been a path to the house it had long been swallowed up. Between the weeds and hawthorn bushes, I could just about make out the grey pebble-dashed walls of a bungalow. It looked neglected to the point of dereliction.
Sheila had a lot on her plate, I reminded myself. Fitting a full-time job around caring for an elderly mother with Parkinson’s couldn’t be easy. It was no wonder gardening wasn’t a priority.
I tried the wooden gate, but the handle didn’t move. I rapped on the wood and called Sheila’s name. A skinny tabby cat slunk out from under a fence on the opposite side of the path, leapt gracefully onto the top of the gate and disappeared into the nettles beyond.
The crunch of wheels on gravel made me catch my breath, and I spun around to see a white-haired woman on a mobility scooter approaching. I stepped aside to let her pass, but she stopped the scooter and smiled.
‘You look lost. Can I help?’
I smiled back. ‘I’m looking for Sheila Dixon.’
‘Sheila?’ The old woman’s snowy eyebrows puckered.
‘Do you know her?’
‘Oh, I know her all right. I’ve known her since she was knee high to a grasshopper.’ The woman tapped her polyester-clad knee, then pointed to the bungalow one along. ‘I’m Joyce. I live next door.’ Her faded blue eyes were alight with curiosity. ‘Tell me, how do you know Sheila?’
‘I’m her boss.’
Joyce frowned. ‘Why are you here? Isn’t she at work?’
‘She had to leave early. Some crisis with her mother, I should think. I wanted to check she was OK.’
‘Her mother?’
The way Joyce was openly staring at me was unnerving. I nodded. ‘I expect she’s had another fall.’
She shook her head. ‘Maud died six years ago. Sheila lives on her own, love.’
What?
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course, I’m sure. I went to her funeral.’ Joyce cackled. ‘Sounds like Sheila’s pulling a fast one. It wouldn’t surprise me.’
I faked a smile. ‘Sounds like you’re right. I’d tell her she’s been rumbled, only I can’t open the gate.’
‘Sheila hasn’t used this gate for years. She always goes in the back way.’
‘How do I get there?’
‘Don’t you worry about that. Come with me. One of the fence panels between mine and hers blew over in the gales last winter. It’s her responsibility, but she refuses to have it replaced. You can go through that and give her what for. It’ll serve the bitch right.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Once again, my mind was spinning as I followed Joyce and her mobility scooter through a newly creosoted gate into a garden bursting with summer colour. Why would Sheila pretend her mother was alive? It made no sense. She didn’t strike me as the type to seek the sympathy vote. Perhaps there was an element of truth in Joyce’s claim that Sheila was using her mother as an excuse to bunk off work.
Joyce’s scooter veered off the path and bumped across the lawn towards a small wooden shed, behind which was the perimeter fence. Someone had propped a loose fence panel up against the adjacent panel, leaving a gap. An army of nettles guarded the chink in Sheila’s ramparts.
‘Bill’s always sneaking through and using my beds as a lavatory,’ Joyce said. ‘But if I dare mention it to Sheila, she hits the roof, so I don’t bother any more.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Bill?’
‘Sheila’s cat. She shows him more love than she ever showed her poor mother. He’s a child substitute if you ask me. What’s it they call them these days - fur babies, is it?’
I nodded, still struggling to take everything in.
‘Mind you, he was caterwauling something terrible the other night. I had to put earplugs in to get off to sleep.’ Joyce gave a little shake of her head, then nodded at the gap in the fence. ‘There you go, love. Sheila’s house is just beyond the crab apple tree. My son’s on his way over to take me to the doctor’s, so it’s easiest if you go out the back way. The gate’s next to Sheila’s garage.’
I smiled my thanks and stepped through the gap into the overgrown garden, careful to stamp down the nettles so they didn’t sting me first.
As I made my way through the undergrowth, I tried to pinpoint the last time Sheila claimed her mother had fallen. I knew it was recently, but the last few days were such a blur it was hard to remember.
