Gemma Makes Her Mark, page 8
Anne had obviously enjoyed his visit and lapped up the compliments about her figure and sense of fun. He’d left promising her a good time the following weekend at her party and also that he would make sure he spent plenty of the evening with her. Even though that would be to take care of what she drunk and what it contained, he also felt a kind of almost charitable warmth toward her too. On his drive back to Petworth that afternoon it had struck Mark that loneliness was perhaps the worst of states to have thrust on you; and even if him helping alleviate that a little might not justify everything that followed, it did have some merit, surely. Anne had looked happy and whatever the motivations and outcome, he was sure that she would enjoy herself along the way. Maybe it was possible to rationalise everything; it might not quite be utilitarianism, perhaps more accurately what he recalled had been termed ‘rational egoism’ back in the late nineteenth century by some philosopher whose name escaped him.
Saturday 26 September 1981
It had all gone pretty smoothly and to be fair quite enjoyably too. Gemma was sitting on the back patio overlooking the garden with another glass of wine in her hand and feeling pleasantly out of it. It was approaching mid-night and Mark, Anne and two remaining guests, the neighbours from next door but one, had joined her and were enjoying the surprisingly mild late summer night. Two weeks since it was last full, there was only the slightest crescent of the waning moon apparent between the intermittent clouds that were drifting from right to left, slowly and noiselessly but also apparently purposely. Although the Seadons were retired and must have been approaching their seventies they had kept going as long as anyone and were telling Gemma’s mother they had had their best night out for a very long time. As it had turned out there’d only been a dozen or so there – two more couples from Lynch Lane plus a couple of Anne’s new golfing buddies along with their husbands – but everyone had appeared to enjoy themselves.
Gemma let the conversation and cigarette smoke drift over her. It had got to the stage of the analysing the guests who’d left and who were now being unpicked one by one – as loud, unsophisticated, boring, along with an occasional ‘quite pleasant really’. She let them get on with it; after all, gossiping had always been her mother’s favourite pastime. Seeing Mark in action had been something of an eye-opener for her; he really was a very smooth operator and Gemma could see things working out pretty much as she had hoped for.
She and Mark had arrived earlier that afternoon to get the nibbles and drinks ready. The idea of a buffet had appealed to Gemma’s mum but it did leave a problem for Mark. In the end he had decided to leave the food un-tampered with as it would be too difficult to check who picked up what, and too many bouts of unexplained illnesses might have been awkward to explain. However, he had kept a close eye on Anne’s drink. Somehow he had managed to spend virtually the whole night rarely wandering less than a few feet away from her, but also had never looked as if he was doing anything other than mingling and hosting. Gemma had made a point of watching him filling Anne’s glass but even though she knew what he was up to she had only once caught him shielding the glass and fiddling in his jacket pocket for a little extra. Of course she was pretty sure that no one, not even her mother, knew about Mark’s past. It had been over six years ago and there was no reason for anyone there or anywhere really to make the link. Gemma had never had the type of mother-daughter relationship that involved discussing boyfriends or partners. It had helped, too, that Anne had never shown the slightest interest in her daughter’s work with criminals, aside from wondering why she even bothered to work at all. As far as Anne was concerned Mark was just a nice, articulate and attentive man who was her daughter’s new and, given his charming manner, hopefully long-term boyfriend. She also liked it that he was a good deal older than Gemma: it helped develop a little empathy between herself and him.
Gemma and Mark had decided to stay over in Farnham as part of the plan and also because they were both well over any breathalyser limits. Mark had a thing about the morning after breakfast being a good opportunity to build on whatever he might have added to the drinks and food the night before; a fry up provided excellent camouflage for masking the bitter taste of ricin and thallium, while any odd tastes would be likely to be put down to the previous night’s excesses. They even had a choice of rooms, too, as Ruth hadn’t made it in the end. Her excuse had been a migraine but even though Anne was apparently her best friend it had hardly been unexpected – it was only on rare occasions that Ruth managed to get out of London and she seldom made any effort other than for herself.
Rousing herself from her reverie Gemma could see that her mother looked well the worse for wear; mind you, Mark had made sure she’d drunk plenty and given the mixtures he’d prepared her drawn look was hardly surprising, nor was the fact that she was complaining of a nagging stomach pain. The heavily applied make-up had worn off and what was left behind was less than impressive; maybe ‘haggard’ was a bit unkind but certainly ‘gaunt’ and ‘faded’ were appropriate descriptors. The top Anne had chosen for the previous night was too low cut. It hadn’t been too obvious earlier on but by the end of the evening the revealing of protruding collar bones and below them a heavily furrowed décolletage was quite off-putting. The image in Gemma’s mind resembled a re-working of Harry Beck’s famous London underground map, with all the lines leading to increasingly emaciated breasts that were drooping at an alarming angle. Gemma realised how little she cared for her mother, and how much she resented her, and how much she wished things had been different; the posh house and all the trimmings couldn’t make up for the lack of affection and love she had craved.
Eventually the Seadons had said their goodbyes and left. Mark had propelled her mother up to bed. In spite of her state, Gemma had heard her telling Mark that she had had a great night and, in a drunken slur, that he was too good for her daughter.
Gemma had called up to Mark: ‘Let’s have a last drink down here before we tidy up a little.’
She hoped he had thought to bring a joint or two; she’d never been a heavy smoker but sometimes it did just feel right. He didn’t disappoint and he seemed full of himself as well.
‘Well, I think that’s started things; if we hang around and prepare her breakfast then we can leave it for a week or two and work out a timetable. Do you fancy a little smoke before we go to bed?’
Gemma beckoned him over and put her arms round him.
‘You were great, Mark, and I was hoping you’d have a joint ready. We – well, really you – deserve it.’
Tuesday 6 October 1981
Since the evening at her mother’s Gemma had found it increasingly difficult to keep a focus on the day job. The driving to and from Littlehampton, the paperwork, the interminable hanging around at various courts, the hopeless and hapless offenders, and alongside all of that the idiots she had to work with – it had never been how she had envisaged her life panning out; and she was determined that it couldn’t go on for much longer. Seeing how Mark had taken to his new, really renewed, role had made her realise that it could be for real; things could work out the way she had occasionally imagined. Although Gemma had never had a clear or detailed plan in mind, she could see herself getting her revenge, and her dad’s, and perhaps a good deal more besides. Meanwhile, she knew she had to keep everything else as normal as possible, to carry on as the supposedly dedicated junior probation office keen to make her way in a chosen profession. She realised she had to keep herself above any future suspicion, to keep up the image, just in case. That didn’t mean she couldn’t help keep Mark on track and help with the practical side of things, too.
Now that it was all out in the open between them, a good deal of their time was spent discussing progress and strategies. It had given Mark and her a closeness which Gemma was enjoying more than she had thought and which he seemed pretty happy with too. Maybe it was the thrill of danger, the allure of engaging in something which was so beyond the bounds, so callous and calculating too; it was little surprise that crime could be so addictive. They had agreed the do at Anne’s had been a good start and that Mark’s approach of regular and varied doses was the only way to make it all seem natural. She had been amused by the fantasy he’d told her he’d had after his previous efforts with his in-laws: essentially it involved him being given the sobriquet of ‘The Cocktail Murderer’ and being accorded similar notoriety to the most infamous of villains. Gemma wondered if he really believed a place in history beckoned.
As it was, and for the next stage of things, Mark wanted to add to the mix by getting hold of some more conventional but illegal drugs before the promised night out in London with Anne. He had arranged to meet up with his former colleague Craig later in the week to see if Craig could help him make contact with that market. Meanwhile Gemma was pursuing an idea she had about one of her current clients, Roger, which she reckoned could potentially add an extra element to Mark’s cocktail approach. Knowing she had an official appointment with Roger scheduled for later that day had given her a little more enthusiasm for the drive down to work that morning.
It was surprisingly warm for early October and she had put on a low cut strap dress and ankle sandals, and more lipstick than she usually wore for the office. She felt good and knew she looked good. She had always been well aware of her ability to manipulate older males. Typically pervy, in spite of his pro-feminist posturing and self-righteousness, Mathew hadn’t been able to lift his eyes as far as her neck when she had breezed into the office earlier; and her boss Gregory had been embarrassingly but quaintly incoherent when he’d hovered around her desk, seemingly with some memo which he’d never even got to deliver. Even Lizzie told her that she looked summery and full of life.
She was reading through Roger’s file with more care than she would normally have done when the internal phone buzzed and Lizzie spoke.
‘There’s Roger here to see you, Gemma.’
‘Thanks, send him in please.’
Roger must have been in his late forties if not older, judging from the details he’d provided as part of his mitigation when he was sentenced at the local magistrates’ court a few weeks back. Apparently he had been conscripted for his two year’s national service from 1949. An army background, even from some time ago, usually helped impress magistrates and he had been lucky to be given a two-year suspended sentence for cultivation of marijuana, which he had claimed was for personal use even though there was enough to last him a couple of lifetimes at least. Tall and thin, with piercing blue eyes, he looked like, and probably was given his offence, an ex-hippy as well as ex-soldier. One of the conditions of his suspended sentence was that he would be supervised by a probation officer and that task had fallen to Gemma.
The bell on her office door tinkled as Roger pushed it open; he did a double-take.
‘Bloody hell Miss, you look good; makes these visits a real pleasure, you know.’
Gemma had taken to him on her first contact immediately after the court case, not for any particular reason other than that he was more articulate and easier to talk to than most of her clients. And to be fair, with those eyes, he reminded her of Peter O’Toole, which wasn’t a bad comparative. She decided to get straight on with her ploy. She never doubted he would fancy her anyway. As with so many local cases, probation and police officers, court staff and local solicitors generally knew one another, had established decent working relations and were happy to share information. In this case, Gemma had managed to read up more than usual on Roger’s background from his solicitor’s unofficial notes. As well as the army background he had held a variety of jobs including farm work and as a crew hand on a fishing trawler; he had lived on what appeared to be some sort of small holding for many years and apparently was a keen naturalist. It was just an inkling of an idea but Gemma remembered one or two of the supposedly cooler students at her university had either found or bought magic mushrooms; these were apparently quite common and, as well as giving a decent buzz, were also potentially poisonous, or at least might be mistaken for mushrooms which were.
‘Look Roger, we both know you’re not going to change your habits of a lifetime but that with some care and common sense you’ll probably not get in trouble again. However, you’ll have to at least consider other ways of enjoying yourself. You don’t have to break the law, you know; and you know I’ll have to write regular reports on how you’re doing for the next two years. So you will have to be straight with me right from the start.’
She decided to trust her instincts and push on.
‘I shouldn’t be saying this but I’ve read up on your situation and personally I don’t mind what you get up to or what you find when you’re out and about in the countryside, but it would be wise not to grow anything you shouldn’t at your own place, that would be asking for trouble. You do realise that your suspended sentence can easily be revoked and you could actually end up in prison?’
Roger seemed to see what she was getting at. Either she had been too obvious or it was something he was already more than familiar with: probably the latter, she fancied.
‘It’s a fair point, and you know, funny you should say that, because there are lots of natural things you can find that are just as good as dope and not illegal either. You may be surprised to know that I’m pretty clued up on all sorts of different plants and even mushrooms and I know where the best places to find them are. And if they grow in the wild, what could be more natural?’
She wasn’t surprised; her instincts were usually never that far out.
‘You shouldn’t really be telling me, Roger, but I’m glad we’re being honest. We need to be if we’re going to get your supervision right. And you know, I’d like to think that I’m not just your probation officer.’
For a moment Gemma wondered if she’d gone too far. Maybe she should play it reasonably straight for now, or strike a balance at least. She needn’t have worried; Roger was warming to her plan without realising it was one.
‘Come on Miss – actually, can I call you Gemma? I know that’s your name. As I said, these things aren’t illegal, they can be dangerous but I know what’s what in that area. And you know, it’s really nice and even therapeutic foraging in nice woodlands, I often go to the New Forest, it’s beautiful down there. And come to think of it, you’re right, there’s no need to risk growing things in my own back yard, that would be stupid.’
This was going to be easier than she’d thought or expected.
‘Well, as we’re going to be meeting up for a couple of years and as I do want us to have an honest working relationship, you can call me Gemma if you like, but only when there’s just the two of us, of course.’
She carried on.
‘And yes I agree the New Forest is amazing, even if I don’t know it as well as you, I love it too.’
Roger was clearly in his element.
‘Look, I know we’ve got to be professional and everything but you’re not working all the time, why don’t I take you down to some of my favourite spots sometime?’
Gemma was well aware it was straying well beyond the professional, but then she had no intention of being professional for that much longer anyway. Nonetheless, she knew that she had to be the one pulling the strings. Feed them the ideas and then let them imagine they were the ones in charge – that was how it was with Mark too.
‘Well, I’ll see Roger, but you know, it might be a nice change. The thing is, it might put me in a compromising position, though.’
Roger was hooked and Gemma realised she’d have to make sure he wasn’t expecting too much, and also she’d have to deal with Mark’s jealousy, but it would be great if she could get hold of some pretty deadly mushrooms. And so what if Roger fancied her? He wasn’t too bad looking in a weather-worn kind of way and to be fair a bit of flirting wouldn’t be too unpleasant. Oddly enough, and somewhat tangentially, she remembered reading something about a new religious cult or sect, the Children of God she thought, which encouraged female members to flirt with potential recruits as a way of getting them involved – something like ‘flirty-fishing’ it had been called.
Meanwhile Roger was well away with planning it.
‘There’s loads of fly agaric around, they’re like the magic mushrooms, you know, but better, and then there’s some to avoid, death cap in particular. The thing with amanita mushrooms, which is what they are, is the slight differences that you have to be aware of. Also how to prepare and cook them, they’re ten times more poisonous if eaten raw, you know.’
‘Well, it would be interesting, Roger, and fun too. I’ll see when I’m free and maybe in the next week or so and we can coincide it with our next session. I’ve got another meeting to go to now so let’s arrange that next session, maybe two weeks today?’
‘Sure Gemma, that sounds nice, but you know October’s a good month, the best really, before it gets too cold. Next week would be good, better in fact. Maybe we could bring the next meeting forward a little?’
Gemma didn’t want to look too keen but that made sense and the sooner she got something the sooner she could help Mark to push on with things.
‘Well yes maybe, let me check a couple of dates and get back to you, I’ve got your phone number here. And, Roger, just a nice trip out into the countryside: nothing else, Ok?’
‘Sure thing, Miss, or Gemma if I may. I understand and you can trust me, I’m not a grass or anything, this would never go any further.’
Although it wasn’t just that she had been alluding to, she believed him. He actually did seem to be a genuinely nice man, if slightly unconventional.
