The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them?

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘OK?’ Deira glanced at her.

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Will we take the photo now?’

  ‘Why not.’ Deira nodded. ‘Be sure and get the full name of the café.’

  Grace pulled out her phone and took a couple of snaps. She showed them to Deira, who agreed that they were perfect for uploading.

  ‘Would you mind taking one of me too?’ asked Grace. ‘It’s another way to prove to my children that I’m doing fine on my own.’

  ‘Why would they think otherwise?’ asked Deira after she’d taken the photo and handed the phone back.

  ‘We all struggled in the weeks immediately after Ken’s death,’ said Grace. ‘It was very difficult for everyone. I think they expect me to keep on struggling. After all, we were married for a long time, and the children can’t imagine me without him.’

  If Professor Harrington really had been as controlling as sending his wife on the treasure hunt implied, Deira could understand their concerns. Yet it was clear that despite her husband’s influence, Grace was a very independent woman. Had she simply hidden that aspect of her personality from her family? Or had it lain dormant all the years she was married? Did men change you in ways you didn’t know? Had Gavin changed her?

  ‘Let’s go inside.’ Grace broke into her thoughts. ‘We can get some food and I’ll forward the pic to the kids.’

  The interior of the café was decorated in a belle époque style, with elaborate high ceilings, polished wood panelling, gold-coloured fittings and large mirrors. The lights were mellow white in large round shades. Some were wall-mounted, some were set into the marble-topped counter, and others hung from the ceiling.

  ‘It’s fabulous, isn’t it?’ said Grace. ‘It’s exactly the kind of place where writers should write! I can see Simenon coming in here, ordering a cognac and scribbling away in his notebook.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Deira.

  ‘What would you like to eat?’ asked Grace.

  ‘I’m fine with a coffee. I’m not hungry.’

  Grace raised an eyebrow, but ordered coffee for two and, for herself, a toasted sandwich that turned out to be larger than she’d expected. She offered Deira half.

  ‘Half of half,’ said Deira.

  Grace grinned at her and cut the sandwich.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Now that we’ve got the photo, let’s think about the last part of the clue. Brigitte, who is possibly Bardot. You didn’t find anything in your posh shed, by any chance?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ Deira shook her head. ‘By the way, calling it a shed is a bit harsh. It’s very comfortable. Isn’t it weird how things turn out?’ she added. ‘I was expecting another night in Nantes stressing out about the car, yet here I am sitting in a lovely café with you and staying in a quirky hotel that puts guests in luxury sheds.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your car, but I’m glad you’re travelling with me,’ said Grace. ‘It’s making it a lot more fun.’

  ‘It is fun,’ conceded Deira. ‘At least until Gavin finds out about the Audi.’

  ‘You might hear back from the insurance company ahead of him finding out,’ said Grace. ‘Don’t worry about it until then.’

  ‘I’m only worrying intermittently.’

  Once they had finished eating, Deira suggested they should go back to the hotel and continue their investigations there.

  The area around the port was busier now, with even more people gathered around the stalls. Deira and Grace could see that as well as selling bric-à-brac and local produce, there was an entire street of stalls devoted to second-hand books.

  Deira liked second-hand book stalls, and second-hand book stores too. While she usually bought her books new, or downloaded them onto her iPad, she loved knowing that previously read books were getting the chance to be read again.

  ‘Ken built up a library of old books,’ said Grace as they approached the first stall. ‘His parents were big readers. When they died, their collection was shared out among the family and he added to it over the years. I’ve never heard of half of the authors myself, but I presume they’re well known.’

  ‘Did he have many brothers and sisters?’ Deira picked up a translated edition of an Agatha Christie mystery.

  ‘Two brothers,’ replied Grace. ‘Paul was a good bit older and he passed away before Ken was diagnosed. Dessie is older by a couple of years; he took early retirement a while back and lives in Spain with his partner. It was partly because of him that we bought the apartment near Cartagena. He was always going on about the great lifestyle he and Margaret had. But Ken would never have dreamt of retiring there. He liked his life at home.’

  While Grace was speaking, Deira picked up another book. ‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘It’s a Maigret case.’

  The cover was dark green, with the title Maigret et le Corps sans tête written in green print on the front, and Simenon’s name underneath.

  ‘Maigret and the Headless Corpse,’ translated Grace. ‘Yuck.’

  ‘There’s a complete collection of them,’ Deira said as she investigated the books on the stall.

  ‘Are they all in French?’ Grace leafed through the one she was holding. She could translate fragments but she knew she’d never be able to read it.

  ‘Afraid so,’ said Deira. ‘They’re great, though, aren’t they?’

  ‘Is the Lock 14 one there?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Not that I can see. But maybe the title is different in French.’ Deira took out her phone and did a search of Maigret titles while Grace returned the book and moved to the next stall, where the novels were rather more literary.

  Deira joined her as Grace was flicking through an even older edition of The Sun Also Rises than the one she’d brought with her.

  ‘More Hemingway?’ Deira grinned. ‘You’re a glutton for punishment.’

  Grace made a face. ‘I’m trying to be cultural. Any luck on the Maigret?’

  ‘Yes.’ Deira waved a slim paperback under her nose. ‘The Crime at Lock 14 was originally called Le Charretier de la Providence, whatever that means.’ She handed the book to Grace. ‘Et voilà. Here you go.’

  ‘You found it! Did you buy it? How much do I owe you?’

  ‘It was cheap as chips, so don’t even think about it,’ said Deira. ‘Just add it to your collection.’

  ‘My collection of books I won’t read.’ Grace laughed. ‘This would be beyond me.’

  ‘You know, Grace, I don’t think anything is beyond you,’ said Deira.

  The older woman smiled, then shook her head.

  They walked back to the hotel in companionable silence.

  On their return, they went to reception to pick up the keys to their rooms. The white-moustached receptionist had gone, replaced by a young woman who gave them a bright smile and wished them a good evening.

  ‘I like proper keys instead of cards,’ remarked Grace. ‘They’re more— Oops.’

  The key, which she’d been swinging from its wooden fob, slid out of her grasp and clattered onto the floor. There was a flurry of caramel fur as a large Labrador dog that had been asleep on a beanbag beside the desk leapt up and ran after it. He collected it in his mouth and returned it to Grace, even as the young female receptionist was calling to him. ‘Non, non, Brigitte!’

  The dog ignored her, but Grace and Deira exchanged glances.

  ‘Brigitte?’ said Deira, while Grace took the key from the dog’s mouth, patting her gently on the head and thanking her first in English and then with a couple of mercis. She glanced at the red leather collar around the dog’s neck.

  ‘Her name is Brigitte,’ she told Deira.

  ‘Wow. The dog . . .’ Deira turned to the receptionist, who was clearly relieved that the guests weren’t upset by the sudden game of fetch and were still petting Brigitte, who was looking pleased with herself. ‘When did you get her?’

  ‘She came here before me,’ replied the receptionist. ‘She belongs to the owner. She has her own photo, look.’

  And there, on the wall behind
reception, was a small wooden plaque: Bienvenue Brigitte. 8 Août 2015.

  ‘That’s the answer.’ Grace turned to Deira, her eyes shining. ‘The eighth of August: 8!’

  ‘Hopefully we would’ve got there eventually, but we’ve caught a lucky break,’ said Deira. ‘Do you want to get the laptop?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Grace. ‘Wait here.’

  Deira took over the petting of Brigitte while Grace went to fetch the computer. The dog accompanied them to the large, squashy sofa in the reception area and rested her head on Deira’s legs while Grace called up the files.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Here we go.’

  She began by uploading the photograph of the café. Once again there was a nerve-racking wait while the progress bar moved slowly across the screen, and another nervous moment before the message that the photo was a match appeared. This time the number for the password was 7.

  Grace closed the screen and clicked on the document file. ‘7148,’ she said. ‘We’re in agreement?’

  ‘Go for it,’ said Deira.

  Grace took a deep breath, then entered the numbers.

  ‘Password correct’ appeared on the screen, followed by Ken’s message.

  Well done, Hippo. I’m very impressed that you’re ploughing ahead. I always knew you had it in you. Your reward is the letter R. I’m going to give you a break now. There’s no clue for Bordeaux in the folder, just the details of your hotel. We didn’t ever spend enough time there for me to come up with anything useful. But I wanted to talk to you a little before you head to Pamplona. So follow this link to the video I’ve made. When it’s finished, you’ll get the clue. Bonne chance. Or buena suerte. Whichever you like! By the way, isn’t Brigitte a beauty? I bumped into her when I was out walking in La Rochelle the last time we were here. She reminded me of Brett and I followed her home. I had a lovely talk with the owner of the hotel; that’s why I booked it for you. Anyway, talk soon!

  Grace glanced at Deira, who’d also been reading the document. ‘Brett was our dog,’ she said. ‘We had her for years. He never bloody walked her. None of them did.’ She looked back at the screen. ‘Oh well, I guess I should click on the link.’

  ‘In private,’ Deira told her. ‘I’ll go to the remise and you can give me a shout when you’re ready.’

  ‘OK.’ Grace nodded. ‘But I doubt he has anything to say that you couldn’t hear.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Deira as she got up from the sofa, ‘his message is for you. We’re not in a rush, so take your time. I’ll see you later.’

  Grace nodded again, then, after patting Brigitte on the head once more, walked to her room. Deira watched her as she went.

  She hoped that the late professor had something nice to say to his widow. But she wasn’t entirely confident about that.

  Chapter 18

  La Rochelle, France: 46.1603°N 1.1511°W

  Back in her room, Grace sat in the small armchair with the laptop open on her knees. She hadn’t yet looked at Ken’s video. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  There were, of course, plenty of other video clips of her husband over the years. Aline had played a lot of them on the night they’d had the closure dinner, streaming them to the TV so that they could watch themselves on family holidays, birthdays, Christmases and other family occasions. There were videos in which he’d appeared fleetingly or unknowingly as he’d walked into shot when someone had been recording something else. And there were excerpts of lectures he’d given at seminars he’d attended, where his love for his subject shone through his occasionally dry presentations.

  So Grace had plenty of means whereby she could see and hear her husband at any time she chose; but those videos were of the Ken she’d known all her life. This clip was something new. And she didn’t know if she was prepared to see and hear her late husband saying something new. She wasn’t sure how she felt about watching a recording he’d made without telling her. She was afraid that the entire clip might be a justification for his actions – Ken explaining why he was going to do what he’d done, rationalising his decision, telling her why he was in the right. It would be unbearable to hear him talk like that when she’d gone through agonies of guilt and self-recrimination and wondering if she could have made a difference. She’d replayed those last months again and again in her head, asking herself if she’d said anything that could have caused him to think she’d be better off without him. She’d wondered if, deep in her heart, she’d even thought that herself. Because of course looking after Ken had been hard. He’d fought against the limitations of his illness and he’d fought against her efforts to help him. At the same time, when he needed her, he expected her to be there straight away. There had been days when she’d been hurt by his dismissal of her offers to do things for him or frustrated by his insistence in pushing her away, and others when she’d been exhausted by his demands. There were times, which she now bitterly regretted, when he’d called for her and she’d pretended not to hear, because she didn’t have the strength to cope. The truth was that Ken had always been a demanding sort of person, and she’d often pretended not to hear him when he was in the fullness of his health too. He’d always expected her to fit her life around his. He hadn’t behaved any differently when he was ill. She’d tried not to behave differently either.

  Perhaps that was the problem.

  She stared out of the window, across the hotel gardens toward the sea. Had she been a bad wife? The fact that she was even asking herself the question made her think the answer was probably yes. And that knowledge shattered her, because being a wife and mother had been the most important part of her existence. She’d given up her career for it, after all. She might not have ever changed her name, but she’d stopped being Grace Garvey and become Grace Harrington in every other way.

  She took a deep breath, hesitated once more, then finally tapped on the link.

  It was disconcerting to see him there, sitting in his office chair. The window blinds behind him were tilted almost closed, but the lamp on the desk was lit and threw shadows across his face. He didn’t look ill. But that was the thing – a lot of the time he’d actually looked perfectly fine. It was only when he moved, and sometimes when he spoke, that it was evident he wasn’t a well man.

  ‘So, Hippolyta, cherie,’ he said. ‘You’ve got as far as my video. I said in my note that I was impressed, and I am. Although, to be fair, the clues weren’t that difficult and you had plenty of guesses. I didn’t want to make it impossibly hard for you. Did Aline come with you? I half thought she might, and of course that would have made it all a bit too easy, because despite her innate laziness, she has a quick brain. So do you, Grace, but you don’t always use it.’

  Grace pressed pause. If all he was going to do was damn her with faint praise, she wasn’t going to listen to him. He’d done it a lot over their lives together, telling her that she was clever but that she never took advantage of it. And then he’d say that she didn’t really have to, because her beauty was her passport to whatever she wanted anyway. And that he didn’t really like women who were too clever. Not that women shouldn’t be clever, he’d add, just that the clever ones tried to show off too much. They were too loud about it. Too shrill. Too strident.

  I was never strident, thought Grace. I had nothing to be strident about. She took another breath, then pressed play again.

  ‘If you’re watching this, it’s because I’m no longer around,’ said Ken. ‘It’s a weird kind of thing making a recording that you know people will only see after you’re dead. It should be liberating, but being honest, it’s not. On the other hand, if I am still around and I’m on the trip with you, you’ll never get to see it. And now I’ve said something silly, because I’m talking to you about something that may or may not have happened. I’m sorry for such a clumsy sentence, Hippo. If I were writing you a note, I’d be far more eloquent. But it’s easier for me to talk than write now.

  ‘So, if I’m talking to you, it has happened: I’m very definitely
dead and we’ll have to get on with it, won’t we? I hope you’re enjoying the treasure hunt and that it’s making the trip more fun for you. However, as well as being fun, it could be important to your future. The letters are the key. Once you have them all, you’ll understand, and you’ll be able to unlock the treasure. Have fun in Bordeaux – I’m sorry we never got to explore it. The next clue is for Pamplona, and if you click the link at the end of this video, you’ll see it. Don’t let me down, Hippo. Don’t let yourself down. Good luck.’

  The video ended.

  Grace stared at the blank screen.

  Seeing him, hearing him speaking to her in the way that he always had, feeling as though, despite his words, he wasn’t really dead at all but could at any moment walk into the room had been disconcerting.

  She’d been in love with him when she’d married him.

  They’d endured for nearly forty years.

  She missed him.

  Yet despite those forty years she wondered if she’d ever truly understood him.

  Even though she knew that Grace had to see the video on her own, Deira was worried about how the older woman would react to whatever it was the professor had to say. Despite Grace’s outward calmness and self-assurance, Deira knew she’d been jolted by the realisation that her late husband had left her a video message, and she hoped that whatever he had to say was warm and loving and would allow Grace to move on with her life.

  We’re like two injured soldiers, Deira thought. Limping along and telling each other that we’re OK, but feeling deep down we’re probably not. She rubbed her bruised ribs, then cradled her arms across her stomach and closed her eyes, thinking of Gavin and Afton and of the baby they were going to have together. Once again she was almost overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all.