sweater.
Incongruously, all Rachel could think of was that it was a good thing Frances had been unconscious at the time; she could be a bit obsessive about things like that.
Apparently spotting Rachel’s bemused demeanour, the DC left Sid and gently led her into the kitchen. ‘You’ve had a bit of a shock, love. Let’s get you a cup of tea,’ she said, her voice soft as she took Rachel’s trembling hand. Rachel never drank tea, but accepted a cup anyway, and sat there in the tired kitchen staring into the tea’s murky depths as if scrying for an improved view of her world.
***
The last time DC Angie Watson had set foot in a house like this had been ten years before when her history teacher had dragged a group of them around some National Trust pile. Angie had found the whole thing so stultifying that she couldn’t even remember the name of the place now, but she did remember that it had been a lot like this, only bigger and much, much cleaner.
The only nod towards the twentieth century in The Limes was the kettle she had used to make the tea. Everything else in the room was straight out of a museum. Angie’s taste in kitchens and furniture leaned more towards IKEA than Antiques Roadshow and she looked around the room with barely disguised distaste. No wonder these people always appeared to have money – by the looks of it they never bloody spent any.
She had recently taken out a ten grand bank loan and had used every penny of it to have a new kitchen put in, and if the look of this one was anything to go by, it would be money well spent. There was no way that she would ever stand at an old stone sink doing the washing up and dumping it on a wooden draining board, not when some genius had invented the dishwasher.
Finished with critiquing the kitchen, she turned her attention to the woman at the table, who was trying to read her own tea leaves without realising she had to drink the stuff first. Other than giving her name as Rachel Porter and her date of birth, she hadn’t spoken since they’d arrived and had just stood there, staring at everyone as if she was a bit vacant.
When they’d got the call Angie hadn’t expected to find herself babysitting a spaced-out, scruffy forty-year-old woman who didn’t know what to do with a cup of tea other than stare at it. It was hardly the cutting edge of crime fighting and for her first foray as a fully-fledged DC she found herself frankly disappointed. This case had all the flavour of Murder, She Wrote rather than Criminal Minds. Not quite what Angie had had in mind when she’d joined the team.
God, she hoped she didn’t end up looking like Rachel Porter by the time she was forty: no make-up, shapeless clothes, and hair that hadn’t seen the good edge of a pair of scissors for God knows how long. It was a nice colour though – brown, the shade of conkers. Those split ends needed to go, she thought, absently running a hand through her own straightened and highlighted hair. She might get the shit jobs, but at least she could look smart while she did them.
Rachel was skinny, as if she hadn’t had a decent meal in years, which always made women look haggard and drawn in Angie’s opinion. This observation made her feel better about her own propensity to gain weight by merely thinking about food. It might at least save her from looking a wreck in years to come. Christ, that was a shallow thought – she was on a case and thinking about the size of her arse in comparison to another woman’s. She straightened up and tried to look professional.
She supposed that she ought to try to get Rachel talking, but considering that Ratcliffe would be in here any minute, there didn’t seem a lot of point. Might as well leave it to the boss to sort out. It was hardly as if she was going to crack the case in five minutes flat. Besides, looking at the state of Rachel Porter, the only thing she looked like she was capable of murdering was a good meal.
As if on cue, DS Ratcliffe strode into the kitchen and sat down on a kitchen chair. Angie pretended not to notice his blush as the chair groaned under his weight. He was well built, her boss. He smiled at Rachel and introduced himself. ‘Miss Porter, I’m Detective Sergeant Mike Ratcliffe. Would you like a fresh one of those?’ He looked hopefully at Angie whilst nodding towards the kettle.
Rachel shook her head. ‘It’s gone cold.’
‘I know. Would you like another?’ To his obvious disappointment, she shook her head again. He sighed as Angie set the kettle down and shot him a smug look. ‘Your sister should be fine. We’ve contacted her husband and he’ll meet her at the hospital. I’m sorry you weren’t able to go with her, but we do need you to answer some questions.’
Rachel nodded at him then turned her gaze back to her tea. If Angie didn’t know better, she’d have sworn the woman was stoned.
‘Do you know how we can contact your other sister, Stella?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘She’s gone. She should be here; Stella’s always been here.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘October nineteenth 1996.’
‘That’s both very precise and a very long time ago. I’m told that your mother recently died. Did you see your sister at the funeral?’
‘No, I haven’t seen either of them since ’96. I didn’t go to the funeral.’
‘Why not?’
Rachel showed surprise at the boldness of his question. ‘We had a row; I was excommunicated from the family. It happens. I don’t even know what I’m doing here now to be honest. I should have stuck to my guns and stayed away.’
‘Why are you here now?’ Ratcliffe asked. Angie thought it odd and a little mercenary to ignore the funeral but turn up to pick over the family bones. It was more than obvious they’d been clearing the house. Maybe this would turn out to be more interesting than she’d first thought.
‘Frances asked me to help sort out the house. I wanted to see it again, see if it was as awful as I remembered.’ She paused and looked around. ‘It is.’
Angie had to agree with that. The house was oppressive and gloomy, not exactly a place anyone would want to call home.
Ratcliffe wanted to know why they had all fallen out.
‘Money. Always money isn’t it? My aunt died – she left me her flat and some money. My mother and Frances thought I should share and share alike. I didn’t want to, so we fell out.’
Her answer had been too trite, too neat for Angie’s liking. She hoped her boss would pursue it. ‘What about Stella? What did she think?’ Ratcliffe asked.
‘I can’t recall her being given the chance to say what she thought,’ Rachel replied. ‘Does any of this have anything to do with the fact that dead bodies seem to be popping up all over the place?’
Ratcliffe leaned back in the chair. Angie heard it moan again as the weak joints adjusted to the shift in weight. She could see him thinking and wondered if he shared her thoughts. Her guess would be that Rachel had been a kid when someone had murdered an adult and a baby, covered them in sand, and hidden them away. Still, that didn’t quite explain Rachel’s flippant and detached response to the situation. ‘Yes, about that,’ Ratcliffe said, tapping the table with the tips of his fingers. ‘The bodies. Do you know who they are?’
Rachel wasn’t looking too good; her face was ashen and a slick of sweat was making her forehead shine like oiled alabaster. Angie watched with mounting concern as the frail woman put her head in her hands and said, ‘I don’t know,’ in a voice that was almost slurring. It looked as if she was physically trying to swallow down the distress and confusion of what was happening. Angie had never seen someone turn so grey so quickly. Without warning, Rachel’s eyes rolled back and she slid off the chair onto the floor where she began to jerk and twitch like a thing possessed.
No one had been expecting that.
‘Get Ferris in here now!’ Ratcliffe yelled. A sound that sent Angie scurrying for the door.
Angie knew Julia Ferris as a woman more accustomed to dealing with dead bodies than live ones at that