by M. B. Shaw
‘It was so simple in the end,’ he said. ‘He was heavy, but I didn’t have far to carry him. Tying the stone on was easy. So was sliding him into the water. He never stirred, not once. It was over in moments. I’d studied the currents and the weight and all of that beforehand. I had no reason to believe he’d pop back up again the way he did, like a bad penny. Or an unflushable turd,’ he added wryly. ‘The suit meant I left no fibres, no hair, no footprints. The whole thing was…’ he searched for the right word, ‘satisfying.’
Iris looked at him aghast. ‘Satisfying?’
He wasn’t even boasting. In his mind, he was simply stating a truth, to someone he trusted. Someone he seemed to believe would understand. As if what Graham had done could ever be understood. As if it could ever, ever be excused.
‘It was a shame, what happened afterwards,’ Graham went on, apparently oblivious to Iris’s reaction. ‘Poor Lorcan. Such a darling, innocent child. I feel terrible that he was the one to find Dom. I can only imagine how terrified he must have been.’
‘He’ll never get over it,’ Iris said with quiet anger.
‘No,’ Graham admitted. ‘I don’t expect he will. Then again, who knows what really goes on in Lorcan’s mind? I panicked a little bit when he started talking about seeing a “white ghost” in the woods on Christmas afternoon. Clearly that must have been me in my overalls. I bought a set for me and a set for Ariadne to sculpt in. That was a nice touch, I thought: the gift.’ He smiled. Iris felt her blood run cold. ‘But of course the moronic police never picked up on it. Who’s going to trust the word of a traumatised boy when they have a murder to solve? Not to mention so many easy, lazy suspects to choose from.’
Iris stood up and walked to the window. It was dark outside now, and she had to press her face right up against the glass to see anything beyond her own reflection.
To her surprise and dismay, Graham walked up behind her, pressing himself against her and dropping a tender kiss on the back of her neck.
‘I’m not sorry I killed him, Iris. I’m sorry I had to lie to you about it. But Dom Wetherby deserved to die.’
Iris spun round, her face a picture of anguish.
‘You don’t get to decide that, Graham! Who deserves to die and who deserves to live? That wasn’t your choice to make. And even forgetting about Dom for a minute, you were prepared to implicate Ariadne…’
‘I told you. I had good reason for that.’
‘And Ian! What about Ian? My husband, whom you barely know.’
‘I know enough.’
‘No, you don’t!’ Sobbing, Iris pounded a fist against Graham’s chest. ‘You would have let Ian go to prison, for life, for a murder he didn’t commit. A murder you committed! And then what? Marry me? Live happily ever after? What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘Iris, listen to me.’ Graham put both hands on her shoulders, not threateningly but firmly, willing her to look at him. ‘Ian was a bully and a drunk. He treated you appallingly for years, then tried to rip you off financially in the divorce he caused. Why shouldn’t he be in prison, hmm? Why shouldn’t he be punished? He’s a bad man.
‘Dom Wetherby was a bad man, too. The worst. He drove my brother to suicide, stole his work and lived off the profits like a king for the rest of his miserable, lying, cheating, rotten life. I’m not like Dom, Iris. And I’m not like Ian either. I’m not a bad man. I’m not a bully or a liar or a cheat.’
‘You’re a murderer!’ Iris reminded him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘No,’ said Graham. ‘I avenged my brother’s death. It’s different. Iris, please. I love you. I love you so much.’
‘I thought we had a future together,’ Iris whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. ‘I really did.’
‘So did I,’ Graham said eagerly. ‘And we still do. We still can.’
Her eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Think about it,’ said Graham. ‘You’re the only one who knows. The only one who figured out the truth. If you didn’t go to the police … we could destroy that photograph.’
‘No,’ Iris mumbled, shaking her head.
‘Or give it back to Marcus, or to Rachel. Cant would never put the pieces together, never in a million years. We could carry on with our lives, just as we were.’
‘And what? Let the police pin it on Ian?’
‘That won’t happen.’ Releasing her, Graham waved a hand dismissively. ‘They need proof, something substantial or physical to make it stick. Trust me, Iris, the case will be closed unsolved. No one needs to go to jail here. You did what you set out to do. You solved the riddle. Even with me beside you, doing my best to misdirect you. You did it, Iris. But do you really want to throw away our future together? Everything we’ve hoped for?’
Taking her silence for acquiescence, or at least possible wavering, he walked back to the table and picked up the ring.
‘We could still be married, Iris. We could still be happy.’
Behind Iris, the door opened. DI Cant, flanked by three armed constables, walked slowly in. ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Cant said quietly to Graham.
There was no scene. No shouting, no struggle. Instead, Graham gave a last, long look to Iris that was at once sorrowful, defeated and forgiving. ‘You already called them.’
‘I had to,’ said Iris, her throat dry as dust. Part of her wanted to add, ‘I’m sorry,’ but when the time came, she couldn’t do it.
Graham nodded. He made no move to run or resist when Cant’s men handcuffed him.
‘Graham Feeney.’ The words rolled off Cant’s tongue. ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Dominic Wetherby. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you omit to mention something you later rely on in court.’
Iris turned her head as Graham was led away, out to the waiting police car.
DI Cant lingered for a moment. ‘Thank you, Ms Grey.’
Iris stared at the flagstoned floor. ‘You got it, then?’
‘Oh yes. Every word. Although something tells me he’ll be happy to give us the same statement himself. He’s a cool customer that one, isn’t he?’
Iris sank down onto a kitchen chair. All of a sudden her knees felt weak.
‘Will you be all right?’ Cant asked. ‘I can get a PC to come and sit with you if you like?’
‘No, thank you,’ Iris said firmly. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Cant left and the kitchen and the cottage returned to an almost deafening silence.
Iris sat for a long time in the dark.
I’ll be fine.
Only of course she wouldn’t.
At that moment she knew with complete certainty.
She would never be fine again.
PART
THREE
Chapter Twenty-six
Iris sat behind her easel at the top of the rise, looking down at the bucolic scene below. Mill House glowed golden and warm in the late May sunshine, shimmering slightly through a haze of early summer heat. Beside it, the River Itchen flowed lazy and sluggish, turning the wooden waterwheel at a slow, steady pace. From where she sat, Iris could just make out the roof of her cottage on the far side of the river. Much clearer and more detailed was her view of Mill House’s walled kitchen garden, and the big lawn that lay between the front door and the gate out to the lane.
Lottie, Marcus and Jenna’s daughter, was playing some form of tag on the grass, her shrieks of laughter carried on the breeze as her blonde plait flew behind her like the tail of a kite. She and Lorcan, also giggling, were running away from Billy, who was almost unrecognisable in preppy knee-length shorts and a Hackett T-shirt, and with his hair cut short. He’d returned home to the Mill almost three weeks ago now, after a long spell in a London rehab, and seemed far happier and calmer, albeit in a numb, medicated sort of way.
Not that Iris had had much to do with Billy since he came back. She’d been too busy packing up to leave for Scotland, where her next job – a commission to paint a rich laird’s youn
g socialite wife – awaited her. But on the few occasions their paths had crossed, Billy had made no further mention of the things he’d told Iris back in February, about Ariadne’s abuse of him as a child and the anguish of not being believed.
Perhaps he made them up after all, Iris wondered now, dabbing flecks of deep purple onto her canvas in an effort to capture the riotously flowering buddleia, smothered with butterflies, beside Mill House’s front door. He had been very confused back then, his mind addled from a mixture of anger, grief and, it now emerged, a chronic addiction to pain pills. Whatever the truth, there could be no denying he seemed markedly happier now than he had before he left the Mill, calmly accepting his mother and brother as trustees of his interest in Dom’s will and submitting meekly to their decisions.
Iris continued to paint and watch as various Wetherby family and friends drifted in and out between the house and the garden. Schools around the country were off for half-term, which explained Marcus and Jenna’s presence in Hazelford. Less clear was why Ariadne’s father, Clive, should suddenly have turned up. Perhaps he wanted to see his great-grandchildren. Or perhaps not, as he was certainly doing an excellent job of ignoring Lottie, settling down into an old wicker bath chair under the shade of the big sycamore, while she tore past him, with a large glass of Pimm’s in his hand and his nose firmly jammed into an old copy of Horse & Hound.
Iris couldn’t help but think back to what Harry Masters had told her about Clive – well, not told her exactly but hinted – about Ariadne’s father abusing her, perhaps beginning a terrible cycle. Had that all been fantasy as well? Certainly from up here, at a distance, the Wetherbys were putting on a convincing performance of being a happy family. Albeit one still recovering from a hideous trauma.
Ariadne wandered out with a tray of drinks for the children, helped by Marcus. He’s aged, thought Iris, watching Dom’s eldest son hover attentively at his mother’s side. While Ariadne looked far better than she had a few weeks ago, plumper and softer and visibly more relaxed, Marcus seemed to have suffered the opposite effect. Even so, he, too, was back in the fold, stepping forward to hand out refreshments to his brothers and daughter, an integral player in the new-look ‘Team Wetherby’. Only Jenna struck a jarring note, hanging back under the shadow of the portico, removed from the rest of the happy group.
Looking up, she caught Iris watching her and waved, beckoning Iris down.
Leaving her paints, canvas and easel where they were – it was too glorious a day not to keep painting – Iris wiped her hands on her apron and walked down the steep slope leading to the garden.
‘I thought it was you.’ Jenna kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I didn’t know if we’d see you. Ariadne said you were giving up your lease on the cottage?’
‘Yes,’ said Iris. ‘I have a new job coming up, quite a big commission in Scotland. After the exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, I got a number of offers. And, you know, it was time for a change.’
She cringed at the forced heartiness in her own voice. As if a bright smile and a pull-your-socks-up attitude could heal the deep wounds of the last few months. And before that, the last God knew how many years.
‘Can I come and see you? Privately?’ Jenna whispered. ‘I could get over to the cottage after lunch if you’re free.’
For the first time Iris noticed Jenna’s nervousness. Even as she spoke, she maintained a fixed smile, directed in the general direction of Marcus and Ariadne. She was behaving like a spy at a dead drop, passing secrets to the enemy.
Except that they were supposed to be past secrets now. Graham had confessed and pleaded guilty to Dom’s drowning, allowing for a swift sentencing and closure. For the briefest of moments, scandal had whirled around the possibility that Dom Wetherby might have ‘stolen’ the idea of Grimshaw, or part of it, from his killer’s brother. But when the judge dismissed this idea and no evidence was ever put forward to support it, the spark of interest soon fizzled and died. The news cycle moved on and the press dropped the Dom Wetherby murder story. It was over.
‘Of course,’ Iris told Jenna. ‘Not a problem. Around two o’clock?’
Jenna nodded, scurrying away to join Marcus and Ariadne, who turned and waved to Iris.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Billy called out to her. ‘This is elderflower, but there’s Pimm’s inside.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Iris, who was beginning to feel more and more fake, as if she’d wandered onto a film set, possibly The Stepford Wives. ‘I’d better get back to work.’
She turned and hurried back up the hill, hot and bothered and impatient now to talk to Jenna alone. Something was obviously eating at her, something that she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – tell Marcus.
* * *
‘Wow. So you’re really going, then?’ Jenna cast an eye over the crates and packing cases lined up against the wall in Iris’s tiny sitting room. In the largest one, marked ‘Fragile’, she could see Iris’s treasured doll’s house, with scores of tiny bubble-wrapped figurines and pieces of miniature furniture stacked in neat rows along the top. ‘When does this new commission start?’
‘Not till July,’ said Iris, removing a folded pile of laundry from the sofa so that Jenna could sit down and opening the windows to let whatever breeze there was outside into the stiflingly hot cottage. ‘But I want to get settled up there. Find a place to live, explore the area a bit.’
‘So I see,’ said Jenna, holding up a copy of The Rough Guide to the Scottish Highlands from the coffee table. ‘Are you excited?’
Iris poured them both a glass of iced lemon squash and considered this. ‘I suppose I am, in a way.’ She sat down next to Jenna. ‘I need a new professional challenge. And the last year’s been so intense.’
‘Has your divorce been finalised?’ Jenna asked tentatively.
‘Yes, thank God.’ Iris leaned back into the soft sofa pillows. After Graham’s arrest, Ian had been so relieved and grateful to Iris that he’d dropped all of his punitive financial demands and allowed the divorce to go through uncontested and lawyer-free. As a result, Iris was now sitting on a small nest egg of savings. Their Clapham flat had sold almost instantly and for above asking price, a welcome bonus in what had been a very hard year for both of them. Ian and Iris had gone out for a drink to celebrate, a small moment of shared happiness that had offered a glimpse of what might be possible between them in the future. Civility, at a minimum. And perhaps, one day, even friendship.
‘And what about Graham?’ Jenna asked.
Iris’s face fell.
‘Have you heard from him since the sentencing?’
‘Yes. Two letters.’ Iris grimaced. ‘That’s been hard. He asked me to come and visit him.’
‘And you don’t want to?’
‘Eeeeugh.’ Iris put her head in her hands. ‘I do and I don’t. I mean, I still care for him. You can’t just switch all those feelings off, can you? But I can’t forgive what he did either. I mean, poor Dom.’
‘Yes.’ Jenna looked away, out of the open window. ‘Poor Dom.’
Sensing the change in mood, Iris seized the moment. ‘So what is it, Jenna? What did you need to talk to me about?’
‘Oh God.’ Jenna put down her glass and reached for her handbag. Iris noticed that her hands were shaking. ‘I didn’t know if I should say anything. I mean, I did know. But things have just started to get better between Marcus and me, just started to heal, and I couldn’t bear…’ Her words trailed off. Pulling out some neatly folded papers, she handed them to Iris. ‘You can read for yourself. These are photocopies. I found the originals quite by accident when I was cleaning up in the spare bedroom. Lottie spilled some juice on the carpet, and when I lifted it to clean it, a loose piece of floorboard came up. I found an old diary of Dom’s and a stash of letters inside.’
‘Where are the originals now?’ Iris asked, still reading the papers in her hand.
‘Still there,’ said Jenna. ‘After I copied them, I put them back.’
She
waited anxiously for Iris to finish reading. When at last Iris looked up, aghast, Jenna asked, ‘What should we do?’
We? thought Iris. You found them!
‘I could give them to the police, I suppose,’ Jenna said miserably. ‘I could ask them not to tell Marcus. But would they do anything?’
‘I highly doubt it,’ said Iris. ‘The case is closed. Cant isn’t going to open up a fresh can of worms based on this.’ She waved the papers. ‘Nobody is.’
‘So what, then?’ Jenna looked at Iris pleadingly.
Iris sighed.
She could walk away if she wanted to. Make this Jenna’s problem, or the police’s, or somebody else’s. Anybody but hers.
She could go to Scotland and pretend she’d never seen what Jenna had just shown her. She could leave Dom’s secrets where they’d been all these years: buried, along with the dead.
It’s not my responsibility.
None of this is my responsibility.
But she already knew it was hopeless, just as Jenna had known when she came over here.
‘All right,’ Iris said at last.
‘You’ll look into it?’ Jenna’s relief was palpable.
‘I don’t know if I’ll find anything,’ said Iris, checking her enthusiasm. ‘I probably won’t. It was so long ago, Jenna. But I’ll look. I’ll go back to Oxford.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
Iris reread the letter for the hundredth time as her train rattled through the Oxfordshire countryside. It was another unseasonably hot day and all the carriage windows were jammed open, so that the papers fluttered and danced on the table in front of her, the corners curling up and struggling for escape beneath Iris’s pressing hands.
Marcus Feeney’s handwriting was bold and forceful, his distinctive loops and flourishes echoing both the confidence and anger of his tone.