A Fatal Flaw. Faith Martin
a pleasingly plump girl, with short, curly reddish-brown hair that lent itself nicely to the poodle cut she favoured, glanced around, knowing that she couldn’t stand hovering outside the Lovedays’ garden gate all day long. People would begin to notice and wonder, and that was the very last thing she needed. Drawing attention to herself could be disastrous. Besides, it was getting on for six o’clock, and would soon start getting dark, so she needed to get back to her mum. She’d promised to help give her a bath, and…
Realising that she was still putting the moment off, she determinedly pushed open the gate, marched up to the front door and before she could stop herself, firmly rapped the knocker three times.
She realised then that her hands were trembling visibly, and quickly thrust them into her coat pocket. In her head on the way over here, she’d rehearsed time and time again what she would say, but most of it was swept away when the door opened, and there stood Mr Loveday, Trudy’s father. She knew he drove the buses, though not the one she took into work each day.
She forced a bright smile onto her face, and said, somewhat breathlessly, ‘Hello, Mr Loveday. Is Trudy in?’
Frank Loveday looked down at the worried face of the girl looking up at him, her big grey-green eyes open wide and unblinking, and gave her a friendly smile in return.
‘Grace! Long time, no see. Of course our Trudy’s in. Come on in, Barbara’s just put the kettle on.’
‘Oh, I don’t want to put you to any bother,’ Grace said quickly, stepping into the small hallway, and then following him down the little corridor to the back, where the kitchen was. Her own council house, when she’d lived in this area just a few streets away, had the exact same layout, as did their house once they’d moved to the other side of the city for her dad’s job.
‘Look who’s come to pay a visit,’ Frank Loveday said, ushering a suddenly shy and obviously nervous Grace into the kitchen. Cheerful yellow was the dominating colour, and the tiny space was filled with the appetising aroma of the shepherd’s pie that the family had just consumed for their tea. Grace smiled uncertainly at Barbara Loveday, who was at the sink washing up. Quickly drying her hands on a towel, Trudy’s mother bustled forward to give her a quick hug.
‘Grace Farley! My, but you’ve grown into a pretty girl. Hasn’t she, Frank?’ Barbara demanded of her husband.
‘She certainly has,’ Frank agreed, taking his seat back at the kitchen table, where a copy of the local paper lay spread out at the sports section.
‘How’s your mother doing, Gracie?’ Barbara asked, lowering her voice a few notches. ‘Is she feeling any better?’
Her eyes sharpened in concern when the girl paled slightly, but Grace nodded bravely.
‘Oh, well, you know, the doctors are doing all they can,’ she said, with forced briskness. Then her eyes moved over the older woman’s shoulder and met those of a tall, dark-haired girl with large pansy-dark eyes and a wide smile. ‘Hello, Trudy.’
‘Grace!’ Trudy, who’d been drying the dishes as her mother passed them to her, put down her own towel, and correctly reading the appeal in her old friend’s eyes said, ‘I’ve had my bedroom redecorated since you moved away. Want to come and see it?’
‘Oh, I’d love to,’ Grace lied with a bright smile. ‘I bet it’s green. That’s your favourite colour, right?’
‘One of them.’ Trudy laughed, and leaving her parents to listen to Tony Hancock on the wireless, she led her old school friend to the hall then up the narrow flight of stairs to her small bedroom at the back of the house.
Little more than a box room really, it had enough room for a single bed, a wardrobe and a small dressing table. As they had done when they were still both in pigtails, Grace and Trudy sat side by side on the bed without thinking, the years dropping away.
Although Trudy was glad to see her, her mind was nevertheless working overtime. The Farleys had left this area of town some four years ago now, and although she’d heard the odd bits and pieces of news about them from various sources, she had no idea what could have brought Grace back to her door.
She knew that her old school friend had a good job working as a secretary or book-keeper or something for some shop or business in the ‘posh’ end of town. She’d also heard, sadly, that Grace’s mother was now rather seriously ill.
As if sensing her curiosity, Grace suddenly gave a wry smile, and began to nervously pleat and re-pleat the folds of the skirt she was wearing. It was a habit she’d had ever since she was little, and Trudy frowned, knowing that she only ever did it when she was upset or nervous.
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,’ Grace said abruptly. ‘I’m not sure, really, if I should have come at all. But I didn’t know who else I could talk to. I mean, with you being in the police and everything.’
Trudy blinked in surprise. Whatever she’d expected Grace to say, it hadn’t been that. For what on earth could someone like Grace want with the police? A more law-abiding, respectable family than the Farleys was hard to imagine.
‘Blimey, Grace, that sounds ominous,’ Trudy said, trying to force a touch of lightness into her voice. ‘What’s up?’
Uneasily, she wondered if it was possible that one of her family was in trouble with the law, and Grace was expecting her to help pull some strings? But if one of her relatives had been caught in some minor unlawful practice, there was really nothing Trudy could do about it. She was a mere humble probationary WPC – and as such, had no power or clout whatsoever. Even if she was inclined to do anything, which she wasn’t, particularly. In her opinion, people who deliberately broke the law should take the consequences.
‘It’s about my friend, Abigail. Abigail Trent. The girl that died,’ Grace said abruptly, the words shooting out of her mouth so fast and hard, that it was clear she’d been holding her breath without realising it.
For a second, Trudy was flummoxed. Died? It was nothing petty then, Trudy thought with dismay. Nothing to do with an unpaid fine, or a car tax ‘misunderstanding’ or…
And then Trudy suddenly remembered. ‘Oh! The girl who died from drinking poison,’ she said, somewhat belatedly putting two and two together. She’d read all about the case over the past few days in the Oxford papers, of course. A girl aged around 20 or so had drunk orange juice laced with some kind of poison and had sadly died because of it. The inquest was due to open any day now. ‘Wasn’t it something to do with a poisonous plant. Berries or something?’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Grace nodded miserably. ‘Yew.’
‘That’s right. And she was a friend of yours?’ Trudy mused quietly. ‘Oh, Gracie, I’m so sorry. It must have been awful. Did you know her well?’
‘Sort of. I mean, not that well, but…’ Grace sighed and took a deep breath. ‘The thing is, Trudy, everyone’s saying that she committed suicide. At work, in the neighbourhood, people you overhear chatting in the café or on the bus… You know how people gossip.’
Trudy nodded. ‘Yes. These things tend to get around. Everyone seems to know everyone else’s business. They’re saying she was depressed and moody, I expect?’
‘Well, see, that’s just it,’ Grace said flatly. ‘I don’t think she did commit suicide. To begin with, I don’t think Abby knew anything about poisons, let alone which berries were poisonous or how to turn them into something that could kill. I mean’ – the older girl twisted a little around on the bed, the better to look at her friend – ‘I don’t know anything about that stuff either, I’m not a chemist or what-have-you. I didn’t even do science at school, and what’s more neither did Abby! But don’t you have to distil stuff like that, or put it through some sort of process before it becomes really lethal? Surely it can’t be something as simple as just… I don’t know, pouring some hot water over some berries and then drinking it. Can it?’
Trudy looked at Grace’s