The Botanist

Am I a psychopath? It’s not my specialism, but I’ve never thought I fitted the profile. It’s a shame, it could help keep me out of prison if they arrest me. Only they won’t find out. If there’s one thing that’s not going to happen, it’s me going to jail.

If you met me, you’d never guess what I’ve done. I’m one of the invisible. Women of a certain age, conventionally dressed, going about their business, shopping, gardening, on their own after spending years looking after aged parents, nothing to catch your eye. You’d never look at me and wonder if I was a killer. It was a long time ago, mind you, and I don’t dwell on it. I was a different person then, in crisis, and when you’re in crisis you get on and do what needs to be done. And if what needs to be done is murder, you do it. I don’t like to think about it now, even though it all made perfect sense at the time. I put it behind me a long time ago and got on with life. I had enough to keep me occupied with a full-time job and a small child to look after, and then Mother to take care of. They’re both gone now of course, and all that keeps me busy is the garden and the crossword.

Like it or not, I’ve had to think about it again since the letter arrived about the gas pipes. They’re going to dig up the garden, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. And I know what they’ll find when they do. I thought about moving it, but it’s too heavy for me now and digging it up could give me a heart attack. I’ve had to make other preparations, and that’s what I’ve done. Six weeks they said, before the men come. Seven days to go and I’ve one last job to do.

***

A sense of dread, of premonition. It’s a beautiful September morning, but there’s a black cloud in my mind that the early sun can’t shift. It’s not like me to be jittery, but I couldn’t decide what to wear when I got up, and I feel as if I’ve had four cups of coffee rather than just the first sip. I’ll feel better if I’m in control so I put on my gardening clothes, knowing exercise will help to clear my mind before I get on with the final preparations.

A soft wind’s blowing in the garden as I walk round, deciding which plants to cut back. When I reach the orchard, I find a pair of doves perched on the bird table waiting to be fed. Mother loved this spot. A worn iron bench with a view over the Westwood pastures. She said it freshened her up for the day, and I think of her every morning when I sit here with my coffee. It does me good to remember her in the place she loved best. I could linger, listening to the birds and savouring the view along the path towards the house, but I’ll feel better if I get on with things. Now my plans for the garden are settled, I turn my mind to the other big job for the day, mentally ticking off all the items I’ll need, and feeling better for doing so.

I’m walking down the path towards the house when I hear the rumble of a truck approaching. I wonder what it’s doing here, before it hits me. Surely not. They said next week. I know they did, because I’ve been reading the letter almost every day. It must be here for some other reason. But no, the doorbell rings as I put my mug in the sink. I can’t believe it, but I know there’s no other reasonable explanation. They must be here early. My mind racing, I hunch my shoulders and answer the door with a deliberate lack of haste. I can do this. I just need to adapt my plan to the situation. It’s important to establish the right impression from the start, and at least I’m wearing my gardening clothes. They’ll give me a nicely dishevelled look. The police are bound to ask them about me, and I don’t want them saying I’m anything other than a sweet little old lady. I open the door with a puzzled expression on my face to find a burly workman standing on the step, in overalls with Northern Gas written on them and clutching an ID card. There’s a kind look about his middle-aged face, and even though I’m in a panic, I feel sorry for what he’s going to have to witness. A similarly dressed, lanky younger man is getting out of the cab with an uncertain air. I hope it’s the older one who’ll be operating the digger.

‘Morning, love, we’re from Northern Gas. Expecting us, were you?’ I’m used to being everyone’s love, you can’t avoid it round here. I don’t make a thing of it, although it would be nice to get a bit of respect now and then.

‘No, I wasn’t. The letter said you’d be coming next week.’

‘Oh.’ He stops in his tracks and unbuttons his outside pocket. ‘Well, they told us to come today. Look, here it is, written in black and white. We have to do what the boss says or it’ll muck up the whole schedule. They must have finished a job early last week and brought yours forward.’ He pulls out a creased sheet of paper which I can see has today’s date written on it, together with my address. I could make a fuss and tell them to come back next week, but I know this would only arouse suspicion later on, so I give in.

‘I suppose you’ll have to get on with it now you’re here. What do you need to do first? I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I hope it won’t make a lot of mess. I’m very proud of my garden, you know.’ I put on my best fussy old woman act and it looks like I’ve made his day. He can’t wait to be helpful and reassuring.

‘Don’t worry, love, we’ll be careful. I can’t guarantee no mess, but we’ll do our best, and that’s a promise. Now, we can bring the digger through the front garden and down the side of the house if you want, but I’m guessing you’d rather we took down a bit of fence and came through the back from the Westwood? We’ll put it all back together afterwards, good as new.’

‘Yes please, that does sound sensible. Do you know where you’re going? I don’t want you trampling down more of my garden than is really necessary.’

‘Oh, yes, we’ve got a plan and Mr Grey from the council’s here to make sure we get it right. He’s a surveyor you know, real clever. They’ve sent him along today ‘cos it’s complicated. You know, with the pipe going under your property. Doesn’t happen often, you know.’ He sounds rather pleased with himself, and I wouldn’t mind betting he thinks he’s been specially chosen for this complex job.

‘Oh, all right, I suppose that’s a good idea. Shall I put the kettle on? I know how you workmen like your cups of tea.’

‘Now that would be great. Mine’s a tea with two sugars, and young Patrick likes a coffee, white no sugar. I don’t know about Mr Grey, but I expect he’ll let you know.’ Mr Grey is approaching, although he’s not dressed to suit his name. It’s what they call ‘smart casual’, and he resembles Prince William in one of those family pictures they like to take to make them look normal. He’s clutching a clipboard and doesn’t seem interested in making eye contact while he’s got that to look at.

‘Good morning, er, Dr Templeton, isn’t it? I’m Matthew Grey, council surveyor. I’ve got the plans of your property and the pipe system, and I’m here to make sure we cause the minimum disruption possible to your property. We’ll make good afterwards, new fence, turf and so on.’

‘That’s kind of you, but it’s not helpful of you to have arrived without any notice, and I don’t think you’ll be able to replace my wild garden very easily. It’s been left to its own devices for over thirty years. You won’t fix that in a hurry. I suppose it’s too late to ask if there’s really a need to do all this?’ He looks up, startled at my abrupt tone, and his expression suggests he might be about to make more of an effort.

‘I’m afraid it is too late, Dr Templeton. We don’t dig up people’s gardens without good reason, and if those pipes aren’t replaced soon, they could leak and cause an explosion. You wouldn’t want that, now, would you?’

I’d warmed to him for using the correct title, but his patronising tone is already annoying me. Does he think my brain’s gone soft because I’m retired? I decide not to offer him a drink after all and stomp off to the kitchen. He’s left looking surprised on the doorstep, not sure what to do next. Good.

Matthew Grey eventually follows me through, and I point him in the direction of the garden. He’s quick to get his bearings, and it’s not long before he’s waving at the workmen over the back fence to show them where to go. My heart sinks a little as I see it’s exactly where they had told me it would be. I’ve not been able to prevent myself from hoping they had it wrong and all my worry and plans were for nothing. But they hadn’t got it wrong. It’s exactly where they said it would be. The gas pipe runs under my garden. Under my precious wildflower garden. And under the body.

I turn back and decide to wash up the breakfast things and give the kitchen a bit of a clean before putting the kettle on. It will give them time to get started and me a chance to think. I don’t think I’ve said or done anything unusual in the circumstances, and I need to stay calm. There’s some banging first, which must be the fence coming down. I run the water in the sink ready to give all the surfaces a good wipe down and put the radio on to drown out the noise. Once the washing up bowl is full, I leave the radio to chunter away to itself and go to the living room and the desk where I do my paperwork. I take out the little pouch and the small book and place them inside a brown envelope. I don’t want to leave them where someone else might look, and I decide they’re best off in my handbag for now. Once that’s done, I return to the kitchen and clean every worktop until it shines. I’m tempted to have a go at the oven while I’m at it, but I have to acknowledge that if I leave it any longer, they’ll be coming in to ask where their drinks are.

I’m getting out the teabags and instant coffee – I was never interested in fancy kitchen appliances, and don’t go for clever coffee machines or teapots – when the digger starts. I keep my hand steady as I get the milk from the fridge, pour the water from the kettle, stir in the sugar. I hesitate before taking it outside. I don’t want to spill it from shock, but it’s more than half an hour since they arrived, and I know it will look odd if I don’t go out soon. I’m halfway down the path when I hear the shout. It’s not too alarmed so I don’t have to drop the mugs, which is good as I’d not thought to use old ones, and I carry on towards the chaos that used to be my wildflower garden.

The fence is down and there’s a big hole stretching halfway across the width of the plot. The older one is climbing down from the cab of the digger, looking cross.

‘What’s the matter? What are you shouting at me for?’ He’s yelling at Matthew Grey, as he comes around the back of the machine from the far side. The surveyor isn’t yelling back though, he’s gone pale and is pointing at the earth in front of the digger.

‘What is it? Don’t tell me we’ve hit the pipe? We’re only going in shallow to start with like I told you. It’s all a lot of fuss…’ He trails off as he sees the surveyor’s face. ‘Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. What’s the matter, mate?’

The younger one, Patrick, has already climbed down and is standing by the digger.

‘Jim, there’s something there. In the earth. Look.’ Jim finally sees it. Caught in the digger’s teeth is a wad of plastic, the end of a bigger piece of plastic. And tipping out of it, as if to wave hello to us all, is a human hand.

***

‘Come along now, Dr Templeton, sit yourself down and you’ll soon feel better.’ Matthew Grey has been quick to take charge and is responding perfectly to my agitated state.

‘Oh, thank you Mr Grey, it’s so silly of me. I’ve seen enough dead bodies in my time, but it’s not at all the same when it’s your own back garden.’

‘Of course, please try not to distress yourself. Put your head down between your knees if you feel faint, Dr Templeton.’ He’s lucky the circumstances aren’t different, or I’d have been tempted to hit him at this point, but I nod gratefully and take some deep breaths for good measure.

Jim and Patrick are hovering outside the kitchen door, the latter as white as a sheet. I hope he’s not going to throw up all over my nice clean kitchen floor, and barely manage to stop myself jumping up to get him a bowl.

‘Er, would it be all right if young Patrick sits down, love?’ Jim asks. ‘I think he’s feeling a bit woozy. It’s the shock, you know.’

‘Oh yes, come in, come in,’ I say. ‘There’s a bowl in the cupboard over there if you think you might need it, dear.’

‘Thank you, Miss,’ he says, sitting down with a shudder. ‘I’ll be OK, but a glass of water would be nice.’

‘And maybe some strong sweet tea,’ Jim says. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to have, isn’t it? For a shock?’

‘Yes, yes,’ says Matthew Grey. ‘All in good time. We need to call the police first, don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, of course.’ I keep my voice weak and wobbly. ‘I don’t suppose you could do it, could you, Mr Grey? I really don’t feel up to calling them myself. I’m afraid I’m in too much of a state to know what to say to them.’

‘No problem, only too glad to help.’ He seems delighted to undertake this important task. He goes into the garden to make the call on his mobile and then returns to fuss around the kitchen making sugary tea and rooting out the biscuit tin. I hate sugar and I don’t much like tea, but I decide it’s best to drink it in the circumstances. As I take the mug from the surveyor, I consider whether I should let him take over entirely. I’d not anticipated having someone so competent in the house. It could be an opportunity to reinforce my innocent little old lady status. On the other hand, I’m desperate to see the body. What state is it in? Is there any hope of it being too decomposed for identification? I’m furious with myself for not having removed the plastic sheet before burying it. Why did I leave it on? I wasn’t in a panic at the time, so maybe I simply forgot. Or perhaps it seemed neater not to have to dispose of it? It’s so long ago that I can’t remember.

I decide my perceived helpless is more important than my need to see the body. I’ll just have to wait to find out about its condition. I could always ask – tremulously, of course. I don’t stir when the bell rings, but stare into the distance with what I hope is a shocked expression and let Matthew Grey answer the door. He’s back quickly with two uniformed policemen who go out to the garden and then come back at once, saying now they’ve confirmed that there is in fact a body on the premises, they’ll call in the detectives. They must have been waiting on standby, because the bell rings a second time less than twenty minutes later and Matthew rushes to answer it again.

He doesn’t come back for a while. Perhaps the police are asking him questions already. Are they asking about me? They must be. If they were talking about anything else, they’d come through at once. I try to imagine how he might be describing me. An ordinary old lady, I hope, not that I regard myself as old, but I must be the same age as his parents, which would make me elderly in his mind. My being a doctor didn’t stop him being patronising, and with luck the police will be the same. I suppose he’ll say I’ve got my marbles but I’m in shock right now. It’s true, in a way. I knew what was going to happen, but it’s a strange feeling now it has. The tea doesn’t taste as wrong as it should, and I was grateful for Jim’s clumsy efforts to protect me from the ‘horrors’ as he put it. I almost feel like the person I’m pretending to be. I suppose that’s good, isn’t it?