A Jess Bridges Mystery

Red House

JOSS STIRLING

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Joss Stirling 2020

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Joss Stirling asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008422646

Ebook Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008422639

Version: 2020-11-11

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1: Leo

Chapter 2: Jess

Chapter 3: Leo

Chapter 4: Jess

Chapter 5: Michael

Chapter 6: Leo

Chapter 7: Jess

Chapter 8: Leo

Chapter 9: Jess

Chapter 10: Leo

Chapter 11: Jess

Chapter 12: Leo

Chapter 13: Jess

Chapter 14: Jess

Chapter 15: Leo

Chapter 16: Jess

Chapter 17: Jess

Chapter 18: Leo

Chapter 19: Michael

Chapter 20: Jess

Chapter 21: Jess

Chapter 22: Leo

Chapter 23: Leo

Chapter 24: Jess

Chapter 25: Leo

Chapter 26: Jess

Chapter 27: Leo

Chapter 28: Jess

Chapter 29: Leo

Chapter 30: Jess

Chapter 31: Leo

Chapter 32: Jess

Chapter 33: Leo

Chapter 34: Jess

Chapter 35: Leo

Chapter 36: Jess

Chapter 37: Leo

Chapter 38: Jess

Chapter 39: Leo

Chapter 40: Jess

Chapter 41: Leo

Chapter 42: Jess

Chapter 43: Leo

Chapter 44: Jess

Chapter 45: Leo

Chapter 46: Jess

Also by Joss Stirling

About the Author

About the Publisher

In loving memory of Ann, who loved Oxford, children’s books, gardens, and thrillers.

‘When the holly bears a berry, as blood it is red’

Sans Day Carol

Chapter 1

Leo

The gardener got more than she bargained for when she spread bark chips around the holly tree. She’d intended to keep down weeds; instead she’d unearthed a body.

DI Leo George stood over the human remains that the forensic team had carefully excavated. The upmarket houses of Central North Oxford were seldom on his radar; reports from this area were on the occasional break-in, very rarely a violent crime. It was an area of millionaires, educational institutes and private school boarding houses: quiet, well-run, and careful not to attract the attention of the authorities.

‘Ugly bugger, isn’t he?’ said DS Harry Boston, stomping up to join Leo. He looked like a polar bear rearing on hind legs, thanks to his huge white coveralls. They were not kind to those who carried extra weight around their middles.

‘So would anyone who has been mulch for a year,’ said Leo.

‘I bow to your gardening expertise, Inspector.’

‘Oddly, I don’t use bodies to fertilise mine.’ Leo’s voice was distant as he moved around to get another angle and make way for the photographer.

‘Then who did here? Some Monty Don wannabe turned murderous?’ asked Harry. ‘I’d say it’s taking green burial way too far.’

Leo didn’t respond, though Harry’s question was exactly the one they would have to investigate. He watched the forensic team gently ease free an arm, bone clad in a tight brown gauntlet that had once been skin. He was reminded of the peat bog man from Tollund, ancient witness to the old violence of human sacrifice. What sins had this corpse been made to bear? There were the remains of a watch and rings – they should help with identification. If you told yourself this was an archaeological dig, then the sight of the radius peeking through leathery flesh became less grisly. The body certainly wasn’t fresh. It would take the pathologist a while to work out age but from the decomposition that had already taken place, Leo was guessing at least a year. Yet neither was it a really ancient burial like Tollund. Last time he’d checked, Iron Age people hadn’t worn jeans with a leather belt and eagle buckle. The size and clothing suggested male, but with the face skeletal, collapsed nose and a grinning row of teeth, they would need confirmation on that too. The hair was long and wispy black so that gave scant clue.

He turned away, having seen enough. ‘Where’s the gardener who found the body, Harry?’

‘I’ve a constable sitting with her in the kitchen. Her name’s Marigold Green. Talk about names deciding your career choice.’ Harry followed Leo up the path towards the detached house. Made of golden brick with red accents, steeply gabled roofs, and tall chimneys, it was one of the biggest houses in central Oxford still in private ownership. From the front you couldn’t tell that it had a large garden to the rear stretching over half an acre to back on to the garden of the house in the next road. This plot had been landscaped to within an inch of its life: immaculate lawns, tidy gravel paths, clipped and sculpted trees. Even the holly had been shaped into a form like a Victorian lady’s crinoline skirt, which, Leo supposed, suited the age in which the house was built. The berries formed a red pattern against the green reminding him of a William Morris print. To his eyes, however, this house didn’t so much have a garden as a showroom. It was barren of wildlife, blasted into extinction by the frequent application of weedkillers. That was the only way to stop the encroachment of daisies and dandelions that would arrive in their droves from the nearby park and meadows. He preferred a messier, healthier garden himself. The only odd note was the fallen fence panel at the end of the garden, like a rotten tooth in a Hollywood star’s smile. He’d have to find out how long that had been like that as it potentially gave another point of access.

Stripping off their coveralls on the terrace, Leo and Harry entered through French doors into the kitchen. This too had been renovated so that all period detail had long since disappeared: the surfaces were grey granite, the floor white marble, the fittings space-age.

‘Miss Green?’ Leo approached the woman sitting at the glass-topped kitchen table. She was the only thing out of place in this house with her muddy corduroys and dirt-encrusted hands. Bundled up in a fleece, she had a solid, strong frame, which went with her profession, and a crop of greying auburn hair held back in a scarf. This was no landscape designer who gardened only on software; this was the person who got the job done.

‘It’s Mrs Green actually,’ the lady replied, cradling the mug of tea that had been made for her.

‘My apologies, Mrs Green. I’m Inspector George of Thames Valley CID. I know you’ve already spoken to my officers, but would you mind telling me again exactly what happened here this morning?’

The lady sighed. ‘Well, Inspector, I came in for my usual visit. I come once a week in the summer months, once a fortnight in winter. To be honest, there’s not much to do here as the owner keeps the garden very low-maintenance – no flowers or fruit and veg to speak of.’

‘I noticed.’

She grimaced. ‘Not my choice, but I’m only the contractor. The customer is always right.’ She let the ironic tone do the arguing for her. ‘Anyway, I decided to put bark down around the holly tree and the bay on the left side of the garden, keep it tidy-looking. He likes his sculpted trees, does Mr Chernov.’

‘Is Mr Chernov in residence?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve never met him. I get my instructions through an agent who finds all of us.’

‘Us?’

‘The staff – cleaning crew, gardeners, household maintenance people.’

‘What’s the name of the agent?’

‘Glass Tower Services. They’ve an office in Summertown, but I think their headquarters is in London somewhere. They arrange for the purchase of properties for overseas clients like this one, and then run them for them. I usually deal with a lady called Heather, but we’ve also never met, only spoken on the phone. I imagine they come to check we’re doing the job but I really don’t know.’

Leo nodded to Harry, who went out to contact the agent.

‘Thank you. Please, carry on with what happened.’

‘I decided to turn the soil before putting down the bark, take up a few stray bits of self-seeded couch grass and herb Robert – there’s not much in a garden like this so I don’t have to do it very often. I worked my way towards the holly tree – in fact, I almost stopped before reaching it but there were some holes that made me keep going. Something had been digging up the border.’

‘Any idea what?’

‘A dog maybe, or fox. I think we can guess why now. I was just going to even it out. It only took a couple of spadefuls and I came across a shoe. It struck me as odd, as this garden was completely scraped clean and new topsoil laid after the building work was done, so it couldn’t be a discard from years back.’

‘Do you know when that was?’

‘About eight years ago? It was bought by developers from one of the theological colleges. It used to house students but Luther Hall sold it to sort out problems with their pension pot – a little goldmine it turned out to be. Anyway, the developers renovated it from multiple occupancy back to a single family residence and that was when Mr Chernov bought it. He had kids at a private school near here so used it when he visited them.’

Leo looked around the many-roomed house with its exclusive furnishings and fittings. ‘In effect, it was an occasional weekend place?’

Mrs Green cradled her mug. ‘I know. Crazy, isn’t it? One has to wonder where the money came from.’ She gave a cough in which Leo thought he heard the word ‘Putin’. He had to smile. ‘Still,’ she continued, ‘I’d prefer to be me with my little cottage in Eynsham rather than an oligarch with so much money they know the price of everything and the value of nothing.’

Leo agreed with that. What was the point of owning a big plot of land like this that you didn’t even keep as a garden? ‘You found a shoe?’

Closing her eyes briefly, she swallowed against bile. ‘Yes. I knelt down to pull it out and realised it was still attached. That was when I called 999.’

‘And you did no more digging?’

‘I didn’t disturb the body any further, Inspector, I promise. I watch the TV. I know that the best thing a member of the public can do when they find something is stop and report it.’

‘You did exactly the right thing. I think that’s all we need from you now but if you’d leave me with your details in case we have follow-up questions?’

She felt in the pocket of her corduroys and pulled out a card with a marigold logo. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Green. Before you go, do you know any of the neighbours?’

‘Round here?’ She gave him an incredulous look. ‘They’re not very friendly and hardly my type. I think next door is a study centre for artificial intelligence, Lord knows what that really means, and beyond that there’s a family – Asian of some sort. Hong Kong Chinese maybe? There’s a little man in a big college-owned house who says hello – not sure of his name. Paul Something. The house is in flats and he keeps the graduate tenants in check. Then there’re the Prices at fourteen opposite – formidable couple, influential locally. They run the North Oxford Protection Society. They don’t talk to my kind.’

‘Your kind?’

‘Non-resident staff. They think houses like this take away the distinctive character of the area. They see me as the enemy. Oh, there is one exception in the red house that shares the boundary at the back. There’s a really sweet girl who’s just started house-sitting, taken over from the last one. He rarely said a thing beyond hello even when I offered him cuttings. Anyway, this nice one always says hi and stops for a chat when she sees me, unlike everyone else round here.’ Mrs Green smiled. ‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she, because she’s normal.’

‘Normal?’

‘Not stinking rich. It insulates people, money. Makes them feel better than the rest of us.’

‘And yet you took the job?’

‘Do I look stupid? Ridiculous amounts of money for keeping the lawn like a bowling green – it’s a good gig.’ She got up and put the mug in the sink. She gave it a quick rinse and turned it upside down on the drainer – possibly the first time it had been used, from the look of the sparkling surface. ‘But money can’t buy you everything. Doesn’t stop there being a body buried at the bottom of the garden, does it?’

As a final word, it was a good one, thought Leo, watching her drive off in her flower-decorated van.

Chapter 2

Jess

I was in the middle of unwrapping the crib scene from the tissue paper when the realisation struck me.

‘I’m officially single. Consciously uncoupled – or decoupled, like a railway carriage. In the sidings.’ I stared down at the baby in the manger and wrapped him back up again. Too soon. He wasn’t due for four weeks.

‘What’s that, dear?’ My colleague, Jennifer, grappled a rope of Christmas lights, like a little tweed-clad Tarzan wrestling a skinny python. The snake was winning.

‘I’m thirty-one, but for the first time, I’ll be alone at Christmas.’ I placed Mary in the stable behind the empty crib. The pieces were an exquisite hand-carved set from Switzerland, gift of some Victorian benefactor. Anything more modern or plastic wouldn’t fit in these surroundings so it was brought out from storage every year and I had been given the responsibility of arranging it. This was what my life had become: temp job holder of lowly positions, aspiring private investigator, relationship disaster area – all wrapped up untidily like the Secret Santa no one claims.

‘Oh, Jess, but what about your mother – and your sister?’ asked Jennifer. ‘Can’t you spend it with them?’

‘You mean tag along on someone else’s Christmas? Sorry, but that’s a kind of torture for me. They don’t mean to but they treat me like the family failure.’

‘I’m sure they don’t see you like that.’ Jennifer didn’t know my relatives. My silence must’ve tipped her off that her optimism was misplaced. ‘What did you do last year?’

‘Last year I had a guy, Drew, and we did the cute couple Christmas thing – his-and-her stockings, breakfast in bed – it was lovely, but then it all became very George Michael.’ Drew was now in a relationship with his yoga instructor and spending his Christmas in the Austrian alps. I wasn’t bitter and jealous, no, not at all.

Jennifer wriggled free of the electric cord. With her spiked white hair, she looked like she had been electrocuted, but fortunately the tree lights weren’t plugged in yet. ‘Oh, Jess, I remember exactly how you feel. When I was in my twenties I lost the man who I thought was the one for me, and I struggled for a few Christmases. But then Neil came along, and the twins, and now the grandkids. George Michael was right – save it for someone special.’

She didn’t really know, did she? I thought darkly. When she’d been alone there’d been no Instagram, no Snapchat, no Facebook telling her every other second how fabulous everyone else’s life was.

Jennifer gave up on the knot and plugged in the lights to check they were worth the bother. LED bulbs flashed in a frantic twinkle. ‘Jesus! Sorry, Lord.’ Jennifer bobbed a head at the cross that hung over the altar of the college chapel.

‘That’s not very St Nicks, more Ibiza nightclub.’ I found the control and switched to constant. Why was that the seventh setting? So easy to overshoot and go back to the disco beat. Did the makers do that on purpose to annoy, a kind of passive-aggressive payback for having to sell Christmas stuff all year round? ‘I think this one, or the slow fade setting, is better.’ Bothered by loose strands as I stooped, I plaited my hair away from my face, securing the end with an elastic tie I kept on my wrist. Thanks to my blonde colouring, I’d always been one of the angels in my primary school nativity – a bit of serious miscasting. ‘Explain again why we do this and not the students? I mean, it’s for their benefit we decorate the college so early, isn’t it?’

‘Thanks to our eight-week terms, they’ll all be home before Christmas really arrives. I think of it as our Advent decorations.’ Jennifer turned off power to the lights and began the painstaking task of sorting out the snarls. ‘I don’t put up my own decorations at home until mid-December. What about you?’

‘Not sure I’ll bother this year. It’s not exactly my house, is it?’ I pulled a face at the glum-looking shepherd. Life must’ve been tough out on the hillsides to make him look quite so stressed. Silly sheep, predatory wolves and then an angelic choir: it must’ve been a strain to keep track of everything.

‘Oh, but you must!’ Jennifer sounded scandalised. Over the month we had worked together, I knew that Jennifer saw the holiday season as one treat after another.

‘Why? Who’ll even know? It’s just me, Flossie and a Tesco turkey-meal-for-one.’

Jennifer gave a humph of disapproval. ‘You’ll know, that’s who. And I said that you were welcome to join us. And what about your friend Cory?’

And feel like the fifth wheel? ‘No one will want me barging into the midst of things. And Cory is trying it with her ex-husband there, for the sake of the kids. I’d just complicate things. It’s a family day. I’ll be fine.’

‘I don’t like to think about you like that! You, alone with that scruffy mutt of yours.’

‘I’m in the most fabulous house in Oxford, so don’t pity me. And Flossie’s not a mutt.’ She totally was but someone had to fight Flossie’s corner. A cocker spaniel, with the biggest brown eyes ever, Flossie had had the misfortune to belong to a killer. I’d adopted her, then left her temporarily with my ex-boyfriend’s parents, and finally bitten the bullet to find a housing situation that would allow me to resume my responsibilities as her owner. Cory said taking a house-sitting job from a concierge agency so I could keep Flossie with me in Oxford, had been a blatant attempt to fill the yawning void left by my lack of significant other. She knew me so well, but so what? I could no longer bear my own company and thought I could at least give the dog a lucky break. It was a bit of a lucky break for me too, being paid to do little more than occupy a mansion. There was money in that – who knew?

A twist of old newspaper unravelled to reveal the innkeeper and his wife, both with the wide-eyed surprise of people shocked out of their humdrum lives by events beyond their control. Something about their united stance reminded me of my sister and her husband, who looked on my harum-scarum life with similar horror. They loved their quiet existence on their Cotswold farm and there was no more devoted couple in England. They looked after their kids and our mother too – quite the little family support network.

Next I unwrapped Joseph, the poor neglected hero of the piece, putting up with so many shenanigans. ‘And I don’t know about the self-partnering thing the celebs are doing. I can’t stand myself most of the time so to be stuck with me? That sounds a really bad idea.’

Jennifer frowned at a particularly challenging tangle of wire. ‘Self-partnering? What’s that?’

‘It’s the way to describe yourself that isn’t as negative as single.’ Joseph wouldn’t stand straight so I wedged him against the wall. Age catching up with him, I decided.

‘In my day we used to say young, free and single – not self-partnered. Ah-ha!’ With one last pull the lights became a single strand. ‘Behold: my untwisting genius!’

‘Well done. You’re amazing.’ However ‘free’, as Jennifer suggested, that felt to me a little too much like the freedom to be lonely.

‘Ladies!’ The chaplain flapped into chapel in his white surplice, approaching like a heron landing on the stretch of river that flowed through the college grounds. The Reverend Sanyu Masane, originally from Uganda but for the last twenty years a popular fixture of the Oxford scene, lit up the place with his warm smile and overflow of generous spirits. He had large ears and a broad face – an indomitable presence. ‘Thank you, thank you!’

The shy figure of the college organist accompanied him, Sanyu’s slender shadow. Errol, a state school boy from Hackney, had found his way, much to his surprise, to an Oxford organ scholarship at St Nicholas’ College, thanks to his musical brilliance and sponsorship by a generous rapper. I had befriended him since we had both arrived at the college in October and had felt equally at sea in the St Nick’s culture. He was still finding it hard to fit in; not very surprising, perhaps, as the majority of his peers were white, middle-class and confident, the kind that did well in the rigorous selection interviews. These young students, no matter how well meaning, would find it hard to imagine what Errol had overcome to get here. Some of his stories had shocked me, which was a surprise as I’d spent some of my teens living on the streets and thought I’d seen it all.

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you two angels helping me get ready for the carol service,’ continued Sanyu. ‘Most wonderful time of the year? Busiest time of the year, I would say.’ He went into a peal of laughter, richer than the chimes of the bells in the college tower. ‘Do you want help with the lights, Jennifer?’ Sanyu dived for the end that Jennifer had just wrestled free, getting it caught up in the skirts of his robe.

‘Actually I don’t need … well, if you want to reach to the top and fasten it there?’ Jennifer evidently gave up her brief flirtation with the idea of keeping accident-prone Sanyu far from the electrics and decided he could be made useful by reaching the top of the tree without the stepladder.

‘Of course, dear lady, of course!’ He promptly stood on some of the bulbs in his eagerness. There was a crunch.

‘Never mind, Sanyu, we’ve more,’ said Jennifer in a resigned tone. She turned back to the boxes the porters had brought out of storage for them. ‘Somewhere in here.’