Before we get into part 3 (of 4) of spooky crime tale Untouchable, I have a bit of book news – and not one of mine this time!
Keith Nixon’s Solomon Gray series of crime novels has been a crime fiction fan favourite for six years, since the first in the series, Dig Two Graves, hit the shelves back in 2018. That one has over six thousand reviews now!
Keith has just published A Last Lonely Breath – book nine in the series – and it doesn’t disappoint.
I was lucky enough to read this early, as Keith kindly hired me as editor, and I can confirm it’s another winner. Highly recommended!
And now, on to Untouchable.
Untouchable part 3
Matthew and Rebecca finished their tea, then Rebecca headed back up to her room and Matthew went into the preparation area. He wasn’t sure whether it would work, as Constance was no longer on the premises – or even, in real terms, in the world, as her remains would have been cremated by now – but it was a place in which she had previously appeared to him.
He stood in the space, taking a moment to compose himself, then said, ‘Constance Trueblood, please show yourself.’
He waited, but nothing happened.
‘Constance Trueblood, I wish to speak with you.’
Nothing happened for several minutes, but Matthew was a patient man, and so he bided his time. After a while he was rewarded; the atmosphere chilled and he shivered.
‘Hello, Matthew,’ said Constance. ‘Thank you for the service. Under the circumstances, it is far more than I could have hoped for.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘I wish it had not been necessary to hold it in secret.’
‘Even so … and it was a comfort to see Mum, and for her to be there.’
‘You spoke with my daughter earlier tonight,’ said Matthew. ‘You told her that the two of you have a lot in common. What did you mean?’
Constance shimmered in her black and lilac dress, the lilac scarf covering the weal in her neck, her feet hovering several inches above the floor. ‘I meant that we had both lost our families.’
‘Do you know the name of the person who killed you and yours?’
‘I think so.’
‘Tell me,’ said Matthew.
‘It’s a woman. She’s called Alison and she worked with David. She had a crush on him, but he rejected her.’
‘She made a pass at him?’
‘Yes, on a teambuilding course. They were away from home overnight and she went to his room.’
‘But he didn’t want to know.’
‘He loved his family. He loved me. Besides, he said she gave him the creeps. He told me some of the people in the office called her “The Beast”.’
Next evening, Matthew met Conrad for a drink. After they’d chatted generally, Matthew broached the subject of Constance Trueblood.
‘I don’t think she did it,’ he said. ‘I think she’s wrongly accused.’
Conrad shook his head. ‘The evidence might be circumstantial, but she’s guilty. If not, why wasn’t she stabbed, same as the others?’
‘Because the killer wanted to frame her.’
‘Why would somebody hell-bent on destroying a family care about that? And why would someone who wasn’t a family member want to wipe them all out?’ He finished his pint. ‘In these cases, it’s almost always a member of the family who snaps and goes crazy. Admittedly, it’s usually a man, but that doesn’t mean women don’t kill.’
He got up to go to the bar. When he returned with a fresh round, Matthew said, ‘Can you remember where her husband worked?’ He’d forgotten to ask Constance.
‘Some insurance company … let me think …. they have an ad on the TV at the moment, with that woman who used to be in those old black and white films …’
‘New Life?’ said Matthew.
‘New Life, that’s the one.’
Mathew nodded, and filed the information away for later.
‘Hello, New Life; how can I help you?’
‘Oh, hello. I want to buy some insurance and someone who works for your company did a great job for a friend of mine. Alison … I’m afraid I don’t know her last name.’
‘Let me check the staff list.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘The only Alison I can see is Alison Beeston. Could that be her?’
Alison Beeston – The Beast. ‘Yes, I believe that’s her.’
‘Hold on and I’ll connect you; you can make an appointment with her direct to discuss your options.’
By the time Matthew finally hung up, it had been arranged that Alison Beeston would call at the funeral home at eleven the following morning.
Matthew was waiting in the reception area, pacing nervously, for almost ten minutes before Alison Beeston opened the door and entered the premises.
‘Mr Goodsir?’ she said, when she saw him waiting.
‘Yes, and you must be Miss Beeston.’ They shook hands.
‘Please, call me Alison,’ she said.
‘Shall we go through to my office, Alison?’
She nodded and Matthew led the way. ‘Please, take a seat,’ he said. ‘Can I get you some tea or coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
He sat behind his desk and she took the chair in front. As she put her briefcase on her lap, opened it up and took out her papers, he took the opportunity to take her in. She was tall and muscular, her hair dyed blonde and cropped in a pixie cut. She wasn’t ugly, but there was something in her eyes that made him uncomfortable. She wore her business suit like a badge of honour, something to show she was superior to the rest of the world.
‘So, Mr Goodsir, you say you’re interested in life insurance?’ she said. She clicked the briefcase shut and stood it on the floor by her feet.
‘Yes. Few are more acutely aware than I of the need for adequate cover.’
She laughed, a snortling affair that set Matthew’s nerves on edge. ‘I’m sure that’s true,’ she said.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘how long have you been in this line of work?’
‘Oh, let me see … I’ve been with my current employer for six months, and before that I was with Life Assured for a year. I started at Secure Futures eighteen months before that. That’s where I learned the ropes.’
Secure Futures was where Matthew’s son-in-law had worked.
‘So, about three years, then,’ he said. ‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘I suppose so.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a job, everyone has to work at something.’
Matthew swallowed. ‘And what about outside of work. Have you a family?’
‘Just Mum and Dad, no husband or kids yet.’ She laughed, which seemed inappropriate. ‘I keep trying, though.’ She shivered suddenly. ‘Oh, there must be a draught,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Matthew, looking at Constance, who’d appeared behind the woman, ‘it’s an old building and there are odd chills in it.’
Constance looked anguished. She nodded – this was her murderer, the killer of her two little girls and her husband, and of his parents, too. Then her expression changed to fury and she swiped the papers from Alison’s lap. They flew away from the woman, then fluttered to the floor.
Alison gave a startled ‘Oh!’ then reached to collect them. As she did, they moved further from her grasp.
‘Must be some of those odd draughts,’ said Matthew. He smiled at Constance.
Alison finally managed to collect her papers and she sat down opposite Matthew again. She looked flustered. Constance loomed over her and she shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself.
‘Are you okay?’ said Matthew.
‘I feel … peculiar,’ said Alison.
‘Perhaps we should leave it there, then,’ said Matthew. ‘You look as though you should be at home, resting.’
She looked at him, bewildered, as her briefcase fell forward, the locks snapped open and the lid flew up.
‘Very odd draughts,’ said Matthew.
Alison flung her papers in the briefcase, closed it and stood up. ‘I should go,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you.’
Matthew nodded.
She stared at him for a long moment, then said, ‘Have we met before?’
He shook his head. ‘No, not as far as I’m aware.’
‘You look familiar.’ She shook her head as if to clear it, then scurried out of the building.
Safe in her car, Alison Beeston started to feel a little better. She had no idea what had just happened, but knew nothing about it was normal. Still, it was a funeral home, she supposed it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that it was haunted.
As she drove back to the office, she wondered about Matthew Goodsir. He had definitely looked familiar. She was sure she knew his face from somewhere.
It niggled at her all afternoon, then the penny dropped. As soon as she got home that evening, she pulled out a box from under the bed. In it was as much of the newspaper coverage of her deeds as she could lay her hands on – clippings from the paper and printouts from online news sites. She flicked through them until she came to the one she wanted: John Falstaff. And there, in the article, was a picture of Falstaff’s father-in-law, Matthew Goodsir. Bingo!
Alison sat back, wondering what it all meant. Was it a coincidence? Or could he be on to her?
Matthew was also doing some checking up. He searched online for information about Alison Beeston and also about the companies she’d worked at. He learned that, as well as working with David Trueblood when he and his family were slaughtered, a young couple with a baby had died in suspicious circumstances when she was at Life Assured. The man would have been one of her colleagues. The family had been driving when the brakes on their car failed. They ploughed through a red light and were hit by a lorry.
He sat back in his chair. Alison Beeston was a monster. She had killed the Truebloods and, he now suspected, she had also been responsible for the deaths of this other couple, and their baby. His blood ran cold; she was at Secure Futures at the same time as John, his son-in-law. Was it possible that the fire that devastated his own family was no accident? Could she have been responsible for it, because she’d made a pass at John and had been rejected by him?
Next day Matthew arranged to go to the police station to meet with Conrad.
‘Why do you want to see the report?’ Conrad asked him. ‘It won’t do you any good, it’ll just stir up old memories. Bad memories.’
‘I just need to be sure about some things,’ said Matthew. ‘I’ll make sure you get it back tomorrow.’
‘Okay; let me know if there’s anything I should be concerned about.’ He handed over a large manila envelope.
Back home, Matthew went into the office and sat behind his desk. He took three deep breaths, then opened the envelope and took out the report.
The fire officer had been thorough. Matthew read that the fire had started when a candle, left unattended, had set light to a newspaper that had been carelessly placed too close to it. It spread rapidly, perhaps as a result of a further pile of newspapers catching light, then a bookcase. There were no traces of any accelerants. The number of books and bookcases were considered to be an element of the rapid spread, and the fact that there were bookcases in the downstairs hall was thought to have contributed to the staircase becoming all but impassable.
The coroner had been equally thorough. Sarah Goodsir and John Falstaff had been found unconscious in an upstairs bedroom; the cause of death in both cases was smoke inhalation.
Dora Falstaff had been found dead in the downstairs sitting room. The ultimate cause of death was smoke inhalation, but she had also suffered a blow to the head. The blow had left a round dent in her skull, and was believed to be the result of her falling while trying to put out the fire, but whatever it was she had fallen on had not been identified. It was presumed to have been destroyed by the blaze.
There was no sign of foul play, nothing to read between the lines, no petrol poured through the letter box, followed by a match to set it alight, nothing that suggested the incident was suspicious.
Matthew sat back. He remembered Peter at the time saying, ‘I saw Dora put the candle out, Grandpa. It was in the hearth, we put candles in the hearth for safety. Mum insists. And I saw Grandma put the newspaper on the coffee table when she finished the crossword.’
Could Peter have been mistaken? Or could the candle not have been fully out, could it have been rekindled, perhaps by a draught? Could that same draught have wafted the newspaper over to the flame, then fanned the flames once they caught?
It all seemed very unlikely. But then, the alternative was equally unlikely; that somehow Alison Beeston, a colleague of John’s who had perhaps had a crush on him, made a pass and been rebuffed, had found out where he lived then gone there with the express intention of killing him and his family.
There were too many questions: how did she start a fire that looked like an accident to experienced fire investigators? How could she have got in undetected, as she must have been inside to set the fire? How did she get away? How was she not seen or heard by anyone?
Rebecca and the children had turned in for the night and Matthew yawned and stretched. He was ready for bed, too. He turned off the television and switched off the light, then headed through to the kitchen with his teacup.
As he walked down the hallway, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, just in time to see Alison Beeston raise a heavy vase, and he ducked, just in time to avoid it hitting him on the head. It hit his shoulder instead, and he grunted in pain.
He threw his empty cup at her and she dodged it; it broke on the wall behind her and the shards fell to the floor.
‘Dad? Are you okay?’ Rebecca had heard the noise and called downstairs to him.
‘Stay in your room!’ he shouted. ‘Call the police – there’s an intruder!’
While he was distracted, Beeston took the opportunity to pick up the vase and bring it down hard on Matthew’s head. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious, and she fled.
Later that night, Rebecca sat beside Matthew’s hospital bed. He was unconscious, and had been since he was found on the floor in the hall.
The children were at home, being babysat by Rebecca’s friend, Joyce, but she doubted they were asleep. They would be worried about their grandpa.
She sighed. How on earth could this have happened? Who would want to hurt Matthew? Nothing had been stolen, so it didn’t seem as though robbery was the motive. She wondered if it could be connected with his handling Constance Trueblood’s funeral. She knew Matthew was completely convinced of Constance’s innocence, but the same was not true of their neighbours or Conrad Pike.
Conrad joined her and squeezed her shoulder. ‘Come on, Rebecca, you can’t do anything here. I’ll take you home. Try and get some rest. He’s in safe hands.’
Rebecca knew he was right. She hated to leave her dad, but the children also needed her. After everything they’d been through, they needed her now more than ever.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I can always come back tomorrow.’
The chair whirred and she followed Conrad out of the room, then out of the hospital.
Matthew slept on, deeply unconscious.
Rebecca visited every day, and spent hours at his bedside. There was no change. The nurses cared for him, kept him hydrated, monitored his heart, but Matthew was lost to the world.
On the third day, Rebecca was at her usual place at his bedside and the children were with her. They’d brought reading books, colouring books, and their tablets, but they were still getting restless.
A nurse came into the room. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘You must be Mr Goodsir’s daughter.’
‘Yes, I’m his daughter and these are his grandchildren.’
‘I’m Al. I’m just off duty, but I wanted to pop in and see if Matthew was awake yet.’ She looked as though an idea had just struck her. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I take these two to the canteen for a Coke?’
Peter and Grace looked hopefully at their mother, scenting freedom, if only for a short while. They weren’t heartless children, they loved their grandfather, but they also needed to stretch their legs and have a change of scenery.
Rebecca smiled. ‘That would be very kind of you,’ she said. ‘I think they’re bursting to get out of this room.’
‘Well, don’t you worry, they’ll be safe with me, and you can stay with your dad for a bit longer.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rebecca. The children jumped to their feet and Rebecca picked up her bag. She took out her purse and found a twenty-pound note. ‘Get something nice,’ she said. ‘Treat Al to something nice, as well.’ She smiled at the woman.
‘Shall we bring you a sandwich back, Mum?’ said Peter.
‘Yes, please.’
‘We’ll see you again soon,’ said the nurse, and the three disappeared down the corridor together.
Matthew was walking along a beach. The sand was a fine white powder and the sea a deep azure blue. In the distance, he could see someone walking towards him, and as they drew closer, he realised it was Sarah, his wife. He broke into a run, desperate to close the distance between them.
‘Sarah!’ he cried, as he skidded to a halt. ‘I can’t believe it’s you.’ He took her hands in his and kissed her fingers.
‘Matthew, my darling, you can’t stay here.’ Sarah embraced him, holding him close. ‘I wish you could, but there’s danger. You’re needed back in the world.’
‘Back in the world? I don’t understand.’
‘You’re in hospital, in a coma.’
‘I remember being attacked, but …’ He shook his head. ‘Then I was here, and I found you, my dear.’ He looked around, took in a breath of fresh sea air. ‘Why can’t I stay? I want us to be together and this place is wonderful.’
‘You need to wake up. That woman, The Beast, has taken the children. She’ll kill them, Matthew.’
‘But, how could she? Aren’t the children with Rebecca?’
‘There’s no time for questions. Go back. Go back now!’ She shouted the last word and slapped his face as she did so.
Matthew gasped, the shock rather than the pain propelling him into consciousness. He sensed Sarah’s apology as he struggled to open his eyes, felt rather than heard her promise that they would be reunited soon.
‘Dad, you’re awake!’ Rebecca’s face lit up when she saw him open his eyes.
‘Hello, sweetheart.’ He felt groggy and disorientated, remembered Sarah had said something about the children. ‘Where are Grace and Peter?’
‘One of the nurses offered to take them to the canteen. We’ve been here all day, they were getting restless, but I didn’t want to leave you.’
‘This nurse … what did she look like?’
‘She’s tall, medium build, cropped blonde hair.’
Matthew’s heart sank. ‘Alison Beeston,’ he said.
‘She said her name was Al,’ said Rebecca. ‘Who is she? Do you know her?’
Matthew nodded. ‘She sells insurance. And kills people.’ He unhooked the drip from the cannula in the back of his hand and started to climb out of bed.
‘She … what?’
‘There’s no time for explanations now. We need to get down to the canteen for the children.’ Still just in his pyjamas, Matthew hobbled out of the room and to the lift. He smacked the button and the door opened straight away; he stood aside to let Rebecca wheel in and then stepped in beside her. The doors were already closing; she’d hit the button for the ground floor the instant it was in reach.
‘Dad, you’ve got me scared.’
‘We should be scared, love. That woman’s a monster.’
The lift reached the ground floor and Matthew squeezed through the gap as soon as there was room for him. Rebecca was right behind him as he ran into the canteen. He looked around frantically; they were nowhere to be seen. He went to the counter. The woman was already eyeing him suspiciously.
‘Have you seen two children, a boy and a girl, and a woman with cropped blonde hair?’ he said.
‘They left about ten minutes ago,’ she said. ‘The woman got them what they wanted and they sat down over there,’ she pointed to a table. ‘Then she went out for a couple of minutes, and when she came back she told them to hurry up, and they all went out together.’
‘I don’t suppose you heard them say where they were going?’
She shook her head. ‘Is everything all right?’ she said.
‘Have you got your car here?’ Matthew said to Rebecca. She nodded. ‘Wait here for me, I’m just going to go and get dressed.’
‘Why have we come here?’ said Peter.
‘Your mum asked me to come and check on the house,’ Alison said. She drove past the front elevation, then parked around the corner. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go in.’ She took her handbag and a carrier bag from the passenger seat and got out of the car, then opened the back door to let the two children out.
‘How will we get in?’ asked Grace.
Alison took a key ring out of her pocket and shook it, making the keys rattle. ‘Your mum gave me a key,’ she said.
‘When?’ said Peter.
‘When I left you in the café and went to speak to her; she gave me the key and she said to bring you here.’
Peter and Grace shared a look; this was odd. Grace slipped her hand into Peter’s and he held it tightly as Alison shepherded them up the path.
The house loomed over them, a blackened, ruined hulk. The glassless windows were devoid of reflection, dead eyes that stared at them balefully, the front door a smoky maw that laughed at their grief. Holes in the roof were black-edged, slates and glass smashed on the ground around the building. The grass was overlong, the garden having become overgrown; it was the first time the children had been there since that fateful night fire ripped through their home.
They stopped at the door and, as Alison fitted the key in the lock and turned it, Grace whispered, ‘I don’t want to go in there.’
‘Me neither,’ said Peter.
‘Tough,’ said Alison. ‘Your mum said you have to. Come on; chop chop!’
Matthew jogged back to the lift, relieved he was feeling more mobile than when he had first scrambled out of his hospital bed. He stabbed the call button, then waited impatiently as the numbers counted down to the ground floor.
As soon as the lift had emptied and he was back inside, he pushed the button for the floor his room was on.
‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered, as it seemed to take an age to creak upwards through the storeys.
‘Patience, dear,’ said a voice, and he looked round to see Sarah was standing next to him. Constance was with her.
Matthew was lost for words. He’d always expected to see his wife again and now, after the vivid dream he’d had prior to waking up, here she was.
‘My darling,’ he said.
Sarah put a finger to her lips. ‘Hush. You must listen. We know where the children are, and they are in grave danger.’
I hope you enjoyed today’s newsletter. If you did, please spread the word. And don’t forget to check out Keith Nixon’s Solomon Gray series!
Thanks for reading and see you next time.
