her, and despite being wealthy, led a frugal existence. What there was for Helga to do all day, apart from cook the occasional meal, was a mystery. No doubt Helga didn’t complain, though it was understandable that she didn’t want to hang around at The Grove now it was getting dark. Don and Berni climbed from the car, Berni suggesting quietly that Don give Helga a ride to the bus stop on the edge of the estate.
“Thank Heaven!” Helga said brusquely.
She might be employed by Don’s mother as a domestic servant, but she never behaved that way. Quite the opposite. Her tone seemed to imply how ridiculous it was that they hadn’t been here several hours earlier, though they’d only been able to leave Stockport once Berni had finished for the day at the legal firm where she worked as a secretary, and in that respect had made good time.
“The heating’s on and there’s plenty of hot water,” Helga said. “I’m afraid I haven’t had time to prepare any tea for you.”
Don waved it away. “That’s fine, we’ll just …”
“I’m supposed to be in at nine tomorrow,” Helga interrupted. “Though I must tell you I’m not happy, the way things are.”
“So … you won’t be in tomorrow?”
She shrugged. “We’ll have to see how it goes.”
“Okay … if that’s what you want.”
“It’s hardly what I want.” Helga let that point hang; again, the implication seemed to be that if anyone was at fault here, it was Don. “Anyway, I must rush.”
She set off down the drive.
“I’m not sure it’s as bad as all this,” he called after her. She glanced back at him. “What I mean is … there are police officers all over the estate.”
“They haven’t done much good so far, have they, Mr Presswick?”
And that, Berni supposed, was true. Don had said what he’d said in an effort to suppress the woman’s anxiety. But it had been a little crass given that in the last three nights on this housing estate three different women had been murdered and their killer was still on the loose.
“They’ll catch him,” Don said, rather lamely.
Helga gave him a withering stare in which all the doubts she’d ever had about his knowing anything worthwhile were implicit, before saying, “I’ll call Mrs Presswick tomorrow.”
She continued down the drive, Don watching her broad back and large, sagging bottom until she’d vanished through the gate.
“I doubt she’s got much to worry about,” he said.
“At least one of the victims was middle-aged, wasn’t she?” Berni replied.
“Would you try and tackle Helga?”
“I don’t think it’s funny, Don.”
“Neither do I.” He climbed into the car and started the engine.
Berni climbed in too. “I thought you were going to drive her to the bus stop?”
“I never agreed to that.”
As they prowled around to the rear of the house, Berni said no more on the matter. Don had served as a policeman for the first twelve years of his working life, and as a security officer ever since. Now that he was in his late-thirties, he’d gone a little to seed, but he was still a rangy, raw-boned chap who stood six feet two inches tall. His hair and beard were greying, but he was handsome in a craggy, masculine sort of way. He regarded himself as a man’s man, which made it all the more galling for him to have to put up with Helga’s domineering manner. Not that this was an unusual experience for him. In many ways, Helga was an extension of his mother and, in that respect, petty victories, like refusing to offer her a ride when she was in a hurry, were the only ones he would ever really have over her.
They entered the house through the kitchen, which comprised dark wood panelling with a linoleum floor. Beyond the kitchen lay the dining room, the hall and the lounge. It was all very tidy, but the furnishing and decor throughout was sombre and old-fashioned. The rooms were tall with elaborate, hand-painted cornicing around their ceilings, but there were heavy curtains drawn everywhere, which made the interior dim to the point where it was almost difficult to find one’s way around. Carpets and rugs, many threadbare and frayed, muffled all sound as Don and Berni entered the lounge. There was scarcely a peep from the outside world. The windows, which were double-glazed, were presumably closed and locked. The walls of this house were very thick, and then of course there was the tree-filled garden encircling it, and the high wall surrounding the garden.
Thanks to the radiator in each room, the house was warm, as Helga had said, but it felt stuffy and lived-in. The air smelled stale. Berni gazed at her reflection in the large mirror hanging over the stone fireplace; because of its deeply tarnished glass, only a fogged spectre gazed back. When she ran a fingertip along the top of the mantel, it drew a visible trail. Don made no comment when she mentioned this. Instead, he grabbed their two holdalls – his blue/grey in colour, hers covered with pink flower patterns – and took them up the steep, creaking staircase to the first floor.
Berni glanced around, irritated as always by the steady process of neglect that continued to reduce her husband’s nest egg to a pathetic shadow of what it once must have been. Upstairs, she heard the strident tones of Don’s mother as she berated him for not getting here sooner.
Miriam Presswick had not always lived like a hermit in her own home. When The Grove had been the sole dwelling on this broad green Lancashire hillside, with only a clutch of trees to shelter it from the heather-scented breeze of the Pennines, she had, for a time, come out of the mental exile she’d endured since returning to England from Africa, and enjoyed life again. Even after her husband’s premature death, she’d made an effort to remain in the real world. Inevitably though, the nearest town – Layburn, once three miles away – had continued to expand, and by the mid-1980s one of its multiple new housing estates, ‘the Bannerwood’, had engulfed the one-time country house. The Bannerwood wasn’t by any means a problem housing estate, being privately owned and suburban in character. But it was vast and sprawling, and on first being built it was occupied mainly by young families, which soon meant there were lots of children running around – so many children, as Miriam Presswick would complain. Children in gangs, children running, children shouting, children screaming – and children encroaching, always encroaching, finding ever more reasons to trespass on her property: in summer chasing footballs or playing hide and seek among her trees, in autumn trick-or-treating or throwing fireworks onto her lawn.
Berni didn’t know whether such persecutions had actually taken place or were purely imaginary, but given Miriam’s personal history it was no surprise that her sense of embattlement had finally become so acute that she’d had the outer wall erected, cutting herself off completely from the busy world that had suddenly encircled her. Despite that, but not atypically of psychological breakdown (not to mention advancing senility), even this security measure had in due course proved insufficient. In the last year alone, Miriam had contacted her son on average once a week to complain that people were trying to climb over the wall, were scratching on her doors, tapping on her windows. Nonsense, of course. Utter nonsense. Though Don had not admitted that. He would never have the guts to be so abrupt with his mother. He’d tried to calm her, tried to reassure her that she was imagining it – to no avail.
And then, this last week, the murders had started.
Berni only knew what she’d read in the papers, but on three consecutive nights an unknown assailant had entered homes on the Bannerwood estate and had strangled a woman to death in each one. It was pretty difficult to take Miriam’s fears with a pinch of salt under those circumstances.
Don now came downstairs. As always after a meeting with his mother, he looked chastised.
“She okay?” Berni asked.
“She’s fine.”
“Happy?”