Distant Voices

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Who is that?’ it asked suspiciously.

  ‘It’s Kate Parrish. I must speak to Richard.’

  There was an infinitesimal pause. Then the voice asked: ‘Where are you calling from, Miss Parrish?’

  ‘Never mind where,’ I said. ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘I must know where you are Miss Parrish,’ the voice went on relentless.

  ‘No chance. Look, just tell him I’m sorry. But if he’d explained what had happened perhaps it would have been better!’ I said, my hurt and anger slowly building as I realised that he had deliberately let me go on thinking the worst. ‘Tell him I’ll mail the car keys!’ I hung up.

  My hands were still shaking as I pushed away the phone. Why had he not told me? Why had he let me go on thinking the police were after him?

  Miserably I preceded Chris into the living room, then I stopped dead, jolted from my thoughts. A woman’s clothes were scattered over the carpet.

  ‘Oh hell, Chris! You’ve got someone here.’

  ‘Top marks!’ He reached into the pocket of his robe and brought out a pack of cigarettes.

  Strangely I found I didn’t mind. I smiled at him apologetically. ‘Chris, I don’t want to cause any hassle. I just had to have somewhere to go tonight, somewhere he couldn’t find me. Tomorrow I’m flying back home.’

  Behind me I heard the door open. A tall blonde girl appeared, swathed in a bed sheet. She gazed at me in silence.

  I sighed. ‘Sorry to intrude,’ I saw awkwardly. ‘Look, can I just fix myself some coffee, then I’ll go.’

  ‘Hell, no. You can stay,’ Chris said at last. ‘If you don’t mind the couch.’

  Maggie turned out to be very nice. She made me coffee and then made up a bed on the couch. I fell into it without bothering to undress and was asleep in seconds.

  I slept, too, most of the way back to London and was still too desperately tired when I reached home to do any thinking.

  My faith in Richard had not been strong enough. I had not believed in him at the end and he had seen the terror in my eyes. I did not even know if he had loved me, but if he did, it was my own fault that I had lost him. My own fault that I would never see him again without both of us realising that for a few short hours I had believed him a murderer. And this was something I could not bear to face, and something I could forget only in the oblivion of sleep.

  When at last I let myself in at Kingley Farm I looked round in disbelief. Was it really only the day before yesterday I had scribbled that quick note to Mrs Dawson, packed my bag and left? I tried to count up the hours on my fingers and gave up.

  ‘Is that you Miss Kate?’ Mrs Dawson called from the kitchen, just like any other day when I came in from a ride or from the garden. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on for tea, my dear.’

  I went into the warm, sunny room and stared round. It was full of flowers and the smell of baking, and after the nightmare I had lived through in the last day or so the sheer relief of being home made me want to cry.

  There was something I had to do, though, before I could rest. I waited until Mrs Dawson had gone outside to hang some sheets in the sun, then I grabbed the phone.

  A secretary answered. Yes, she said. Mr Conway was still at the Manor.

  ‘Kate?’ He came on the line slightly breathless. ‘Thank goodness. Are you home?’

  ‘Never mind where I am,’ I said, automatically cautious, though it could not matter any more now. ‘What has happened to Sara?’

  ‘She’s in hospital. A complete nervous breakdown. Your police came and interviewed her, but they say it’s up to you whether you want to press charges.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said hastily. I hesitated. ‘Dave? Have you heard from Richard?’

  He laughed. ‘I have indeed. I gather you kidnapped his Merc!’

  I wondered what else Richard had told him.

  ‘Kate,’ he went on. ‘Do tell me where you are. I want to see you.’

  ‘You and who else,’ I retorted. ‘I’m in Scotland, Dave, so tell Richard to forget it for now, okay?’

  Of course he would find out where I was within seconds if he wanted to, but I wanted a breather; the chance to compose myself, and put my thoughts in order.

  Richard’s face was still haunting me as I walked up to the marshes, climbing through the double threads of barbed wire which surrounded them and wandering in the gold and peace of the English summer, but I thought perhaps I was winning. I would be able to put the memory of what might have been behind me.

  I was still thinking about him so much that when the phone rang that evening for a moment I was convinced it would be him. I almost did not answer it at all, then at last I picked it up and waited cautiously for someone to speak.

  ‘Kate? Kate, are you there? Hello?’ A familiar voice crackled over the wire and I found I was breathing again.

  ‘Pa! Are you all right?’ I had phoned him that morning as I phoned him every morning.

  ‘I’m just fine, Katie. The doctors are very pleased with me.’ His voice sounded strong and confident. ‘But I’d be better if you came over here again for a few days!’

  It seemed a wonderful idea. Joyfully I put down the phone. I had lost Chris; I had no hope of Richard, but at least I still had my father.

  He was propped up in bed when I reached the clinic at last, his colour better than I could remember seeing it for years, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.

  I kissed his forehead. ‘You look very pleased with yourself,’ I said, laying the huge bunch of freesias which I had brought him on the bed cover. ‘I expected to find you looking pale and interesting and you sit here looking as if you could beat me in straight sets at tennis!’

  He laughed. ‘I feel as if I could,’ he said softly. ‘I have a surprise for you, Katie, my love,’ he went on.

  ‘Oh?’ I looked at him suspiciously, but he merely went on grinning at me. ‘No,’ he said, maddeningly. ‘Not yet. Tonight.’

  And with that I had to be content for the time being. I returned to the clinic at seven, having been lucky enough to secure a room at the inn after a cancellation, and went straight up to my father. He was sitting in a chair beside his bed, dressed in a new silk dressing gown and on his knee was a box wrapped in gold paper and tied with scarlet ribbon. I eyed it. ‘No one told me it was Christmas,’ I said with a smile.

  He beamed at me. ‘Well, it is,’ he replied. He held out the box to me. ‘Open it and see.’

  I took it and shook it gently. It felt as if it were empty. With a suspicious look at my father I began to untie the ribbon and peeled off the paper. Beneath it was a plain white box which, when I took off the lid, was empty save for an envelope. Behind me the door opened and I heard someone enter, but my attention was on the envelope on my knee and I did not look up. As I tore it open I glanced up only once and caught sight of my father’s face. He looked radiantly happy.

  I could not make head or tail of the closely typed pages which I drew from the envelope. ‘What is it?’ I asked bewildered.

  The voice which answered was not my father’s.

  ‘It is a deed making you co-trustee of the Kingley Marshes Sanctuary,’ Richard said softly from the window seat behind me.

  For a moment I did not move, then, slowly, I turned and look at him. ‘How did you know I was here?’ I asked when at last I had found my voice.

  He smiled enigmatically. ‘Shall we say I guessed,’ he said.

  My father chuckled. ‘Rubbish. He came and told me to call you.’

  ‘And you did?’ I swung back to my father.

  ‘Of course.’ Pa was looking Very pleased with himself.

  ‘I told him the whole story Kate,’ Richard said, standing up. ‘Even the sorry tale of how I bullied and frightened you. I’ve apologised to him and now I want to do the same to you. I should have realised you would be terrified. It was unforgivable of me.’

  I could feel my checks beginning to burn. ‘I was not terrified!’ I denied hotly.

  Smiling unrepent
antly he bowed slightly. ‘You were apprehensive, should I say. But I still want to apologise.’

  ‘So I should hope,’ I said, beginning to recover from my shock. ‘You are the most overbearing, tyrannical, unscrupulous man I have ever met.’

  He laughed. ‘To all that I plead guilty,’ he said. ‘And I promise, I will try to reform.’

  ‘And you must let the man take you out to dinner, Kate,’ came my father’s voice from his corner. ‘Alas, I cannot join you as yet, but I dare say you will find enough to talk about without me there!’

  He was right of course. But there were still several things that bothered me enough to make me pause, once we were outside on the beautifully raked gravel on the forecourt of the clinic.

  ‘I know what you are going to ask, Kate,’ Richard said, facing me and taking my hands. ‘I never even hinted to Edith that she do that terrible thing. You must believe that. Jacqui had everything to live for at the end. She had agreed to go away for a cure, and she had met someone I believe she could have loved. I had nothing to gain by wanting the poor girl dead.’

  I did believe him. But there was something else.

  ‘And Sara,’ I said softly. ‘I saw her bruises.’

  The sadness on his face vanished and I saw a malicious twinkle appear in his eyes. ‘Still afraid I might beat you?’ He tucked my hand comfortably beneath his arm and began to walk towards the car. ‘Well, I must confess that, much though she deserved it, I didn’t lay a finger on her. Those bruises, Kate, came from a fall she had when she was drunk.’

  I should have guessed.

  ‘Any other problems, ma’am?’ He was opening the car door for me and helping me in. ‘Because if there are I would rather sort them out now. This meal is going to be one which is not interrupted by telephone calls, or quarrels, or trans-Atlantic flights or you falling asleep and setting fire to yourself in the candles.’ He leaned down to tuck my skirt out of reach of the door and I felt his lips brush my hair.

  I pretended to think. ‘Actually, there is one other thing that’s been worrying me,’ I murmured demurely, hoping he could not see how fast my heart was beating at his touch. ‘I don’t like the colour of your Rolls-Royce.’ I looked up at him, my eyes wide. ‘I really don’t.’

  Taking several paces back he looked at me hard, then he shrugged. ‘I can see you’re going to be a tough lady to please,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Okay, we’ll get a new one on our wedding day, and you can choose the colour. How does that appeal?’ So saying, he climbed into the driving seat of the hired car and we set off down the road towards the mountains.

  Networking

  ‘That’s it. That is absolutely it!’ Denzil Johnson threw the front door of his flat shut behind him, sent his briefcase skidding up the polished pine floorboards and headed for the bottle of Scotch. He poured himself a hefty dose.

  ‘Meg! Meg? I’m home.’

  His wife put a cautious head round the door. She smiled nervously. ‘I know, darling. I heard your key in the lock. Bad day?’ Her face registered careful sympathy.

  ‘Bad! Bad? It was bloody terrible!’ He flung himself into a chair, swallowing the Scotch down with ostensible effort as if he disliked the taste.

  Meg emerged further, ready to retreat if necessary. Her husband’s adrenaline count had to be treated with caution these days. One approached him rather as one might the dial on a jammed steam engine.

  ‘Was it Carter again, Den? The man’s a swine. A perfect swine.’ Coming from her, the epithet sounded genteelly judicious in the extreme.

  Denzil was still fuming. ‘Him and just about everyone else in that firm. They’re unethical, Meg. They’re immoral. If they don’t want me on their staff why don’t they say so? Why don’t they transfer me, or make me redundant and pay me the whack they damn well owe me instead of this endless war of nerves. More Scotch.’ He held out his glass.

  Meg unscrewed the bottle slowly. ‘Shall I put some water in this time, darling?’ she asked hopefully.

  He shook his head violently. ‘No way. Milk and water – that’s been my trouble all along and that’s enough. Never again. I’m going to fight them. From tomorrow I’m going to fight. They can’t do this to me Meg. Either they employ me or they transfer me to Bristol or they make me redundant. They are not going to chase me out. It’s happening all the time, now, you know: putting pressure on people to make them resign. It’s appalling! I’m going to fight, and fight all the way.’

  His wife walked over to the window and drew the curtains against the glare of the recently lit street lamps outside. The table was already laid for supper but she ignored it with a sigh.

  ‘TV darling, or are you going jogging this evening?’ she asked in a conciliatory tone.

  The tone did not this time have the desired effect.

  ‘Neither. Hell, neither! I mean it this time, Meg. I’m going to fight. And before anything else I’m going to put the fear of God into those guys at work. What I need is a good QC.’

  ‘Oh no, Denzil.’ She was alarmed suddenly. ‘We can’t afford to take anyone to court, you know we can’t.’ She picked up the Scotch again. It was for herself this time.

  He laughed wryly. ‘Oh no, not to take them to court. Or a tribunal. I just want someone to talk to them. Someone who will shake them into taking me seriously. The very words “Queen’s Counsel” will terrify them. Terrify them.’ He repeated the words, almost lasciviously.

  Meg took a sip of neat Scotch. He didn’t usually go this far. His fury was usually dissipated after a drink and a daydream, while she steamed the potatoes, about the lovely garden they could have if Carter would only recommend him for a transfer to the Bristol branch.

  She swallowed. ‘You’d have to pay him, darling.’

  ‘So, I’ll pay him if I must. But surely we know one, don’t we? Doesn’t your mother know a QC? She knows just about every bloody person in London!’

  He put down his glass and set about loosening his tie, slipping it noose-like upwards over his head and leaning back at last in his chair, his eyes closed. A muscle twitched spasmodically in his cheek.

  Meg looked at it, worried, unsure as to whether or not to take him seriously this time. She decided he probably did mean it, for he had thrown her a challenge and she knew it. And family solidarity demanded that her mother know a QC.

  She glanced at the phone. No, she wouldn’t do it now. Perhaps later, when he was in the bath. She didn’t want him to overhear the conversation, larding it with provocative comments from the wings, antagonising her mother before she had consulted the inimitable address book which lodged somewhere in the deeply recessed memory banks of her brain.

  He had opened his eyes and was watching her. For the first time he had noticed her wan, tense expression and he frowned as he leaned forward.

  ‘Meggie, I’m sorry. I’m a boar. Go on, tell me. I’m so obsessed with the office I can’t think about anything else. How was the dentist?’

  She smiled radiantly. ‘The dentist was last week, Den.’

  For a moment his face fell. Then he laughed. ‘Forgive me?’

  ‘Of course I forgive you. Shall I go and put the food in the oven now darling?’ She dropped a paper-light kiss onto the top of his head. In spite of everything, she noticed, his hair was as thick and boyishly ruffled as the day she had first met him.

  It wasn’t until he was safely in the bath that she rang her mother.

  ‘Mummy? It’s Meg. Do you happen to know any QCs?’ She frowned as her straightforward query was greeted with an outburst of near hysteria.

  ‘No dear, no one has murdered anyone. Yet. I just wanted to know. For Denzil.’

  She turned, the receiver still pressed to her ear, and parting the curtains she gazed down at the dark street below. It had begun to rain.

  ‘No Mummy. Uncle James was a solicitor. It’s different. And anyway he’s dead.’

  Her mother was obviously scraping the bottom of the barrel. She decided to cut short the flow of reminiscence which had
been let loose the other end of the line before it reached her mother’s last parking fine outside Harrods – a case which had in any case been undefended, and undefensible.

  ‘Look Mummy, I must ring off. There’s someone at the door –’ time-worn, time-honoured excuse, ‘– if you think of anyone let me know, there’s a dear.’

  She hung up and took a deep breath. It wasn’t often her mother was stumped for someone who knew someone …

  If only there was some other way she could help Denzil in his war with Carter. Moral support from behind the lines did not seem to be of much use at the moment.

  She had a sudden brainwave and dialled before she could change her mind.

  ‘Mary? It’s Meg. Yes, I know, hasn’t it been ages? You must come and have dinner with us soon.’ She blanched visibly. ‘All right, next week. Yes, that would be nice. Look Mary, didn’t you go out with a barrister before you married David? Do you still know him by any chance?’

  Her lips twitched imperceptibly at Mary’s indignation.

  ‘No, of course not. No, well, we wanted a QC and I remembered … what? Oh no, I don’t think Denzil wants to use his solicitor. It’s not that kind of legal thing. We want a QC who’s a friend.’

  She hung up wearily and reached for her diary, cursing her own weakness. She had let them in for a boring dinner party and achieved nothing into the bargain.

  She jumped as the sitting room door opened. Denzil appeared, wrapped in a bathrobe, glowing gently from the bath.

  ‘Meg. I’ve had an idea. There’s a chap I was at school with. I’m pretty sure he was a QC last time I heard. I think I’ll give him a buzz.’

  Meg lowered her eyes and shut her diary. ‘That’s a good idea, darling.’ She hesitated. ‘Den, why a QC? What’s wrong with asking our own solicitor?’

  He was rifling through the phone book. ‘Doesn’t pack enough wallop,’ he commented absent-mindedly. ‘Need the real thing for those bastards at the office.’

  ‘But I gather you’re only supposed to get an introduction through a solicitor, darling.’ She did not dare tell him yet about the dinner party.

  ‘Rubbish. Straight to the top, that’s my motto.’ He ran his finger down a page, squinting.