Julia felt relief. Genevieve’s money was just a helping hand. Ruth was wrong. Brandon wasn’t a manipulative freeloader, just a guy who wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was the same as his night with Julia, they were young and single, and where was the harm? It was only what ninety-nine out of a hundred men would have done in his situation.
‘Do you always get up this early?’ Brandon asked. ‘I don’t know how you manage it.’
‘You’ll have to if you’re working in London,’ Julia said.
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘And didn’t you just move from London?’ she asked.
‘Er … yeah. It’s nicer here. Greener.’
He was insane. Julia would kill for a job in London and live there in a shot. But she wasn’t living rent-free.
‘Would you care if I moved?’ he asked.
‘Makes no difference to me.’
She could tell he was looking at her, but her eyes were turned away and she couldn’t see his expression.
‘What did Ruth say about me, the other day?’
She wasn’t getting into this with Brandon. The less she had to do with the house soap opera the better.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
He stopped walking. Julia carried on for a few strides before stopping too.
‘The thing the other night,’ Brandon said.
‘Forget it,’ Julia said.
He looked taken aback, then hurt. Had he expected her to beg to be his girlfriend – demand he take her out to dinner? She looked at him with his ancient shorts flapping around scabby knees, his belly poking out over the top like some fifty-year-old – and that cap, squashed over his head. Pearl was right, it was all about ego. He certainly didn’t want her as a girlfriend. He just liked the idea of being a heartbreaker.
‘Yeah, well, we’d both had too much to drink,’ he said. ‘The thing is …’ He still hadn’t moved. ‘It’s best if you don’t tell Genevieve.’
‘Why would I tell Genevieve – or anyone?’
Was it anger that crossed his face?
‘You might,’ he said. ‘Girls usually talk.’
‘I thought it was boys who went bragging.’
Julia started walking again. He jogged to catch up and tapped her on the arm.
‘Hey, I’m not like that,’ he said.
‘Good.’
‘Look, I’m sorry if you think, well, I’m not sure what you think. I had a good time the other night. It doesn’t have to be any more than that, does it?’
He’d pulled his hat over his eyes and she could only watch his lips move.
‘No,’ she said.
They’d reached the end of the road. The station was to the right and Julia’s work to the left.
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ she said. ‘And good luck.’
‘Eh?’
‘With the interview.’
‘Oh yeah,’ he said.
He raised a hand in farewell. Julia picked up her pace. As she made a left-hand turn, she saw Brandon walking back up the road towards home. She pulled herself into a hedge, so she was almost hidden. He glanced her way, but she was sure he hadn’t seen her. She should have guessed – his scruffy clothes, his surprise at her wishing him luck – he wasn’t going to London at all. How could she have been so stupid as to think for a minute he was sincere? She’d not trust him again. She should never have trusted him in the first place. From now on, she’d be on her guard for Brandon Wells.
Chapter 28
2017 – Guildford Police Station
I lie awake all night on my narrow cell bed until dawn arrives in the form of an electric light flickering to life. I sit up and rub my shoulders, sore from the unyielding mattress. Tea, cold toast and a microwaved full English are thrust into my room for breakfast. I manage the tea before a constable comes for me.
Shazia is waiting in the consultation room, her eyes bright and eager.
‘Warren and Akande aren’t looking too happy,’ she says. ‘Gideon and Alan must be sticking to the same story and they’ve not made me aware of any more evidence. They’ll ask you some more questions, but keep you cool and remember what I told you, “I don’t remember” and “No comment”.’
The night in the cells has concentrated my thoughts. As Shazia said, electric dawns and cold, soggy toast will be my life if Akande has her way. I will remain impassive, I don’t remember, no comment.
Akande’s puffy eyes speak of sleep deprivation equal to mine. She must have been up late, combing through evidence, finding proof of the absolute necessity of incarcerating me. Warren’s pouchy eyes mean nothing – he always looks as if he’s been pulled in from a late-night session down the pub. He goes through the formalities before saying, ‘Can I take you back to something we discussed before?’
He sounds friendly, too friendly. I don’t trust him.
‘What’s that?’ I say.
‘I explained previously that because of the location of Brandon’s grave and his last known communication, on Saturday 27th August 1994, we concluded he was killed around that time.’ He leans back in his chair with a satisfied air. ‘There’s also the fact that all his personal belongings disappeared, along with the forty-five thousand pounds in cash we know Mrs Pike withdrew from her account a week or so prior to that.’
‘This is all circumstantial,’ Shazia says.
Warren raises his hand to halt her. ‘It’s a little more than that.’ He draws out a clear plastic folder with a photograph in it. ‘I remember you saying you didn’t have a camera at the time. Something you have in common with Gideon and Alan.’ He flicks his eyebrows skywards to indicate scepticism. ‘Fortunately, someone in the house not only had a camera, but was a bit of a hoarder too.’
He withdraws the photograph and places it in front of me.
It’s Genevieve’s lounge. Gideon, Alan and I are sitting on the sofa, smiling. Brandon leans on the arm, a beer can in hand, looking down on the group. I remember the beige sofa with its thick cushions, a dust magnet Genevieve managed to keep spotless. Solid teak side tables, ornamented with Aztec masks, Gambian carvings and Malaysian vases. The heavy lamp, which one of her ‘gentlemen friends’ brought back from Morocco, is too large for the table it’s perched on and looks as if it’s about to topple over. Just in front of the sofa lies the cream and red rug with geometric patterns that sat at odds with the naturalistic designs from further afield. And against the wall stands a small oak bureau with desk tidy containing pens, pencils and a pair of scissors.
Often, I kid myself that I’ve not aged so much. The girl staring at me from the sofa tells a different tale. Her hair is naturally dark and glossy, her cheeks plump, her body lithe and strong. Her smile comes from a moment of glee, not tinged by regret of the past or fear of what’s to come. Alan still has hair on his head rather than his face, and Gideon – Gideon is the least changed. He’s only grown greyer and sterner, the pretence of amiability peeled away.
There we all sit, in our early twenties, not knowing that our best years were nearly behind us. In a few weeks Brandon would be dead and Gideon, Alan and I would spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.
Since I left Guildford, guilt, anxiety and dread have been woven so deep within my thoughts their presence has gone unnoticed, until I see the photograph and have a sudden flash of who I used to be. The lightness of joy in everyday events, the anticipation of what adventures the future would bring. I would do anything to return and unpick the threads that led me to this interview room in this police station. Tears well up and roll down my cheeks, unchecked.
‘Something amiss?’ Warren asks.
‘I was so young,’ I say.
Akande rolls her eyes.
‘What else do you notice?’ Warren says.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and lean over the photo. It was taken at the far end of the lounge, opposite the French doors. The glare and our light summer clothes suggest the day must have been a hot one. Didn’t
we have a barbecue? I can’t think of another time we all socialised together or sat in the lounge, which was usually off limits.
Lucy must have been behind the lens because she’s not in the photo. It’s not impossible that Genevieve took it, but Warren’s comments about how the picture was obtained make me think it’s Lucy. Surely no one would still be hanging on to any of Genevieve’s photos. Hers must be the second shadow that falls across the floor in front of the sofa.
‘I can’t see anything strange,’ I say.
‘Here’s another photograph,’ Warren says. ‘It was taken later, when Genevieve’s estate was being valued.’
He pushes it across the table. I can see straight away what he’s after.
In the second photograph, the light is cold and grey. It turned chilly that September. No one’s crowded onto the sofa and the room looks dead and bare.
‘Can you see the difference?’ Warren asks.
‘The room’s empty,’ I reply.
‘And not just of people,’ Akande says. Her look says she’s not buying my feigned ignorance. ‘Care to look at it again?’
She pushes it right under my nose. I push it back.
‘I’m sorry. I’m very tired. I couldn’t sleep in that cell. If I’m missing something—’
‘If I’m missing something.’ Akande copies the cadence of my speech with extra whine. ‘Come on – my five-year-old could spot the difference.’
‘Angela,’ Warren says as a warning.
She leans back, crosses her arms and glowers at me.
I’m drunk with tiredness, the interview and pictures achieving what counting back from one thousand and imagining a relaxing walk along a sandy beach could not. If I put my head on the table now, I’d sleep for a week.
‘My client’s obviously exhausted,’ Shazia says. ‘If you could get to the point.’
‘The point is, Ms Winter, that two items are missing.’
Warren moves his finger between two empty spaces on the photograph.
He says nothing, expecting me to fill the gaps. I’m not going to tell him which items are missing, despite Akande’s assertion that a five-year-old would spot the discrepancy. Warren pulls the first photograph from me and positions it with the middle three fingers of his left hand. With his right he points a pen.
‘This.’ The pen lands on the marble-based lamp with ornate metal work winding around it, creeping up to a bottle green shade. ‘And this.’ The rug.
‘I see,’ I say.
‘Do you?’ Warren asks.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Oh please,’ Akande says.
Warren throws her another look. ‘This lamp may look exotic, but it wasn’t a one-off. We’ve found matching models. And the rug is from IKEA.’
My throat tightens, my breath becomes quick and shallow. I know what he’s going to say. Everyone in the room knows.
‘The reason we’re certain Brandon was murdered is because his skull was smashed in with a heavy object. Tiny fragments of gold leaf and chips of marble were driven into the bone. Both came from this make and model of lamp, which disappeared at the same time as Brandon. We didn’t need microscopes for the next discovery. His body was found wrapped in bin bags and rolled up in a rug. This rug.’ He taps the pen on it. ‘It was heavily stained with blood.’
He pushes the photograph back towards me.
‘I think you can tell me how it got there,’ he says.
Chapter 29
1994 – Guildford
During the hot weather, work was a cruel imposition. Julia resented every second she spent shivering in the office air-con. She refused to wear a jumper on principle – it being summer.
On Wednesday, her boss spent most of the afternoon on the phone, squabbling with his wife, before leaving early to continue the argument in person.
‘I’m not staying, if he’s not,’ Fraser said.
‘Me neither,’ said Bee.
Julia followed suit. Back home, she put on shorts and a T-shirt, took a bath towel and laid it on the lawn in the back garden. She decided against a bikini. Brandon might think it was for his benefit. She’d been effective in avoiding him, and he’d not sought her out. It was as she thought, an insignificant one-night stand. It meant nothing. In time, they’d become inured to one another, treat the whole situation in an adult manner. Not like Pearl and her former housemate, Justin. She lay back on the grass and watched the perfect sky above – not a cloud, not even a bird disturbed the solid blue.
‘Want some wine?’
Julia lifted her head from the ground. Lucy was on the terrace, a bottle in hand.
‘No, thanks,’ Julia said.
There had been enough of that recently.
Lucy poured a glass for herself and joined Julia on the rug. She peeled off her T-shirt to reveal a sea green bikini. Her stomach was flat and dipped just below her ribs. Julia’s should be like that. She used to run three times a week with Christian and do sit-ups on the lounge floor. Lack of exercise and too much booze had undone much of its effect. She was aware of the waistband of her shorts digging into her and, in general, her dresses were too tight and becoming uncomfortable. She needed to do something about it, go on a diet – tomorrow.
‘I’ve got some news,’ Lucy said.
Julia rolled onto her front and propped her head up on her hands.
‘What?’ she asked.
Lucy looked over Julia’s shoulder.
‘It will have to wait.’
Julia turned. Genevieve was coming down the steps towards them, a drink in her hand and a dreamy expression on her face. She was wearing capri pants and a flower print blouse. Before she even sat down, she said, ‘I’ve had the most dreadful day.’
‘What’s happened?’ Julia asked.
‘Edward took me to Chichester,’ she said with the melodrama of a rejected Ophelia.
‘I didn’t realise Chichester was such a distressing place,’ Lucy said.
‘Oh, it’s lovely but the theatre. That performance. No. No. No. How can anyone expect me to pay for that?’
‘I thought Edward paid,’ Lucy said.
‘That’s not the point,’ Genevieve snapped. ‘It’s not the play. It’s the actors – well actually, the actresses. Any dumpy thing who can remember her lines seems to get a role these days. No glamour. No enunciation. Dreadful. Simply dreadful. I’ve thought about going back on the stage, but with my classical training I may not be in the current style.’ She took a long sip of her drink and sighed. ‘Really, I don’t know why I go to the theatre these days. One production is as dreary as the next.’
Lucy was smirking into her drink.
‘I guess it’s like a second marriage,’ Julia said. ‘A triumph of hope over experience.’
‘Really, Julia. You mustn’t say such things,’ Genevieve replied. ‘A second marriage. The thought makes me shudder. A second marriage is a triumph of stupidity not hope.’
‘Were you ever married, Genevieve?’ Lucy asked.
‘You mustn’t ask me. I don’t want to talk about it. The whole thing was just too ghastly.’
Genevieve put her drink down on the grass and seeing that neither Julia nor Lucy were going to ask, she continued.
‘His name was Harold Pike – so very handsome, so charming, asking questions seemed unnecessary. I thought he was suave and sophisticated. He was just a spiv. We ended up living in a hovel in Notting Hill. Appalling. It wasn’t rat-infested, but we did have mice. I was only seventeen, too stupid to realise there was a whole world out there – and we didn’t even explore London.’ Here Genevieve leant forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And of course, he was totally incapable of fulfilling me sexually.’
Lucy could no longer hide her smirk. She looked at Julia who, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch, turned away.
‘I’ll always remember the day I realised it was over,’ Genevieve said, ‘nineteen sixty-six, the day England won the World Cup. We didn’t have a television and Harold had been to
a friend’s to watch the game. Of course, he came home drunk demanding his conjugal rights. Well, I knew what drunken sex meant and I told him straight, it wasn’t happening. I found it distasteful. He told me it wasn’t his job to fulfil my sexual requirements, it was his job to provide. I was there to meet his needs. I didn’t call renting that filthy flat “providing”. And I’ve loathed football ever since.’
‘So, you wouldn’t advise lying back and thinking of England?’ Lucy said.
Julia couldn’t stop her shoulders from shaking.
‘What’s that about England?’ Genevieve said, looking around her, a little confused.
Julia managed to compose herself sufficiently to say, ‘I’m starting to understand why you wouldn’t marry again.’
‘I would have married Auguste, but he wouldn’t marry me. It was all his wife’s fault. She deliberately got in our way.’
‘How unreasonable!’ Lucy said.
Julia avoided making eye contact. She wasn’t going to be able to keep a straight face much longer. Genevieve downed the last of her drink, vodka most likely.
‘The whole thing reminded me of that terrible music hall song Harold was always humming, about a woman waiting outside a church to get married, when she receives a note from her fiancé, “I’m afraid I can’t marry you today, my wife won’t let me.”’ Genevieve sang it in a tinkling little voice. ‘Well, that was Auguste. He couldn’t get away from his wife. And when I went to his house to have it out with her, Auguste was furious. He wouldn’t speak to me after that. Even when Dominic came along.’
‘That’s the drawback with married men,’ Lucy said. ‘Those pesky little wives.’
Genevieve ignored her comment and, instead, looked down at her glass. ‘I think I need a top-up.’
‘She needs something,’ Lucy said when Genevieve was out of earshot.
‘Lucy, don’t,’ chided Julia.
‘Come on, she’s a fruitcake.’
‘I feel sorry for her.’
‘Me too. But there’s only so much you can put up with. And all that rubbish about being a classically trained actress. Ruth said she used to work as a hostess in one of those dodgy Soho nightclubs they had in the Sixties. Hostess – you know what that means. Mandy Rice-Davies, that’s all I’m saying. Genevieve’s only complaint is she backed the wrong horse. Landed a small-time crook instead of a cabinet minister.’
The Verdict Page 13