by Penny Kline
‘Good morning, Madam, this is Julian. Unfortunately, there is a problem with your computer.’
‘No, there isn’t. Liar! Bugger off . . .’
Jon took the phone from her hand. ‘Best to say nothing, just ring off.’
‘D’you think I don’t know that?’
He put her phone down on one of the drawings and she snatched it up, as though he had committed a mortal sin.
‘I’d better go.’ His hand was on the door. ‘Maeve should be fine to come to her next class.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Erin?’
‘Now what?’ She could hear the cat mewing. ‘I have to feed Miss Havisham.’
‘I just wanted to thank you for Maeve’s classes. They’ve been really good for her confidence. As well as learning how to draw.’
‘You came here to tell me that?’
He was straightening Ollie’s desolate black and white photograph of sand and sea. ‘I wish I could do more to help.’
‘Yes, well nobody can, apart from the doctors and nurses. One of the nurses . . .’ But she had no wish to tell him about Andrea. He pretended to care, but Claudia’s death meant nothing to him. Neither did the baby.
Someone was leaning on the doorbell. Erin ran down the two sets of stairs, missing her footing and almost falling, grabbing the banister rail, then wrenching open the door.
It was Lara.
‘I’m sorry. Your sister. She is better?’
‘No, I told you before, she’s in hospital.’
‘But she will be home again soon?’
Jon had joined them and was staring at Lara, as though he had seen her before but forgotten where it was. ‘This is Lara,’ Erin said, ‘she’s a friend of Claudia’s.’
‘Please. Clowda helped me. It is difficult. The university . . . They say I need—’
‘You’re a student?’ Jon had taken over and Erin was happy to leave him to it. ‘Which department are you in?’
Lara licked her lips. ‘You are Clowda’s husband?’
‘No. I work at the university. If there’s a problem, you should talk to your tutor. If you like I could . . .’
But she was edging away and, with once quick glance over her shoulder, she broke into a run.
‘You’ve met her before?’ Erin said.
‘Don’t think so but I doubt she’ll bother you again.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I expect Claudia gave her money.’
‘Why would she do that?’
He shrugged. He was lying. One mention of the university and the girl had panicked. She had been involved with Claudia in some way, and Jon knew what it was about, but was denying it. And nothing she said to him would make any difference.
After he left, she pulled out a drawing, but found it impossible to work. Her stomach churned and her head was full of unanswered questions. She was angry. Angry with Jon, and with Lara. At least Jon was right when he said she was unlikely to return. She had looked terrified, in a total panic. Stop thinking about it. Whatever Claudia had done, or not done, it made no difference now. If Lara did turn up again, she would tell her the truth. You’re wasting your time. Claudia’s not going to get better. Her brain is dead.
Fighting off feelings of frustration, she paced up and down, concentrating on her immediate surroundings. The loft would have made a good bedroom – she liked the way the wall sloped over her bed – but, as a living space, it was starting to feel claustrophobic. Her plan chest, easel, and art materials took up at least a third of the room, and much of the stuff she had brought with her from London was still in boxes, piled up in a corner. It was crazy that she was stuck up in the loft when the rest of the house was empty. But she had no intention of moving into any of Claudia’s rooms. Not until Ollie came back, and she had convinced herself the accident really was an accident. Not until the baby had been born.
Chapter 17
When she left the house, the students had been arriving in dribs and drabs, not that she expected them to take any interest in the tenant in the basement. Mainly girls, and a boy with grey flannel trousers and a tweed jacket, a misfit if ever she saw one. Stella wondered what they were all studying. She could ask them, of course, turn on the charm, and it could be that one of them was his department, could even have him as their tutor.
She knew that he cycled to work, but that was not a lot of use. No name in the phone book so there was nothing for it, she would have to hang about outside the university again. If she left her car on a meter, she would need to keep feeding it the exorbitant charges, so it might be better to walk. No, that was no good. When he came out – if he came out – he would cycle off at his usual pace and she would be unable to keep up.
Calling in at a local supermarket, she had bought two bananas, a bag of Satsuma’s, and a steak and kidney pie. She paid the boy on the checkout a twenty-pound note and asked for the change in coins. Now, her car was parked a short distance from the entrance to the department, with its glass doors, and a turnstile beyond. How long would she have to wait? It was four in the afternoon and in all likelihood he worked until five or half past. Where were the bikes kept? She spotted them straight off. Row upon row, padlocked to shiny, metal bars.
Head down, counting coins, she caught a glimpse of a tall figure wearing a yellow jacket. No one was that lucky, but maybe three planets were in conjunction, or some such crap. Stella was a Scorpio, resourceful, suspicious, and unyielding. Scorpios had other characteristics too, but those were the ones she remembered. Not him. As the yellow jacket drew closer, she could see he was old, past retirement she would have thought, or did academics carry on until they dropped. A straggly beard and bags under his eyes. Head of department, or there something called an Emeritus Professor. Universities looked after their own.
A couple of students came through the doors, one with white blond hair, the other dark-skinned, and wearing a navy blue hoodie. If she asked them, it was possible they would know whether or not he was in the building. On second thoughts, it was important not to arouse suspicion. The student she had spoken to on her first visit could have reported back. This woman was looking for you, wanted to know where you lived.
Holding a map in her hand – the traditional “prop” of the tourist – she chose a spot, close to three green wheelie bins, and resigned herself to a long wait. What kind of a private eye would she make? At one time, the idea had appealed but she could see it meant hours of boredom, about as glamorous a job as an actor, waiting all day for a one-minute scene.
It was a cold, dry day and had been a relief to emerge from the musty basement flat and breathe in fresh air, or air as fresh as city air ever was. Further down the road, a man was swinging his leg over an old-fashioned bike and, as she watched, he shrugged his arms through the straps of a backpack. Where had he sprung from? So many of these university people dressed the same, but she had to make sure.
Running back to where she had left her car, she was in time to see him struggling up the steep hill, slowing down to allow a woman with a dog to cross over, then setting off again, pedalling slowly, so slowly she would catch up with him in a few seconds. It was him – she was almost certain of it – and a moment later he turned his head to check what was coming up behind him, and this time she was able to see his face properly.
Almost before she had time to catch her breath, he had thrust out an arm and made a sharp turn to the right. Stella followed, crawling along, keeping her distance, but never letting him out of her sight, past large imposing buildings, then left between rows of shops. Now it was downhill and he was gaining speed. A van pulled out from a road and she had to brake sharply. Her view was blocked and there was no way she could overtake, but she was in time to see him turn right and slow down in a tree-lined road. Was this where he lived? Taking the next turning on the right, she made a U-turn, retracing the route, then left and left again and there he was, standing outside a large semi-detached house. He was searching in his pockets. For a padlock for his
bike? Now he was wheeling it into the garden – the front door seemed to be round the side – and when, after a brief wait, it opened, she heard a woman’s voice. He must have forgotten his key.
It was a resident parking area but she had no intention of leaving her car and if anyone came checking she would start the engine and move off. In a nearby house, someone was practising on a drum kit, a child by the sound of it, or an adult who could do with some lessons. Through the open window of her car, she strained her ears, listening for snatches of conversation, frustrated that it was inaudible above the beat of the drums. The drumming stopped and she heard a woman’s soft voice. Then a deeper one. And the front door slammed shut.
Taking her street map from the glove compartment, she spent a few minutes checking where she was and noting the names of the roads. What next? He might not come out again until the following day. But she had seen him, and knew where he lived. Best to return to the basement and design a proper plan.
Stuffing two mints in her mouth, she studied the route from the university. She was getting to know the city, or at least a part of it. How long had he lived here? And why had he never let her know where he was? The promised letters had failed to materialise and it was not because he had forgotten. He was not the forgetting type.
She needed to know his habits, and the habits of the other occupant of the house. It would take time. Still, with so little to go on, she could have spent far longer tracing him. Fortune favoured the brave, but she had not needed courage, just the determination to stick it out in the gloomy basement flat and be patient, something that never came easily. For the first time for days, she felt starving. Her nervous system must have calmed down. Even the craving for a cigarette had abated a little.
Holding out her hand, she noted with satisfaction that it was steady as a rock. She was in charge, in control. But as she started the engine, and released the handbrake, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. He was leaving again, wheeling his bike, his wife was with him, but had her back turned. They were arguing, the kind of argument when people want to raise their voices but are afraid someone will overhear. He had been in the house less than ten minutes. What had happened? Something that made him storm out. Nothing to do with her – how could it be? He had no inkling she was in the city. Nobody knew, apart from the negligent landlady.
Impossible to hear what the argument was about, but she still felt a small degree of satisfaction. Married people always argued, one of the reasons she was never going to fall into that trap. The mints that had been meant to last, had been crunched up. She found two more, and waited, holding her breath. But the two of them were back inside the house. Argument resolved, at least for the time being. Tomorrow she would return, bringing provisions, preparing herself for a long wait. It would be worth it.
Chapter 18
Her current illustration was completed and, on an impulse, Erin decided to drive to Maeve’s house in the hope of meeting her mother. At this time of day, both Maeve and Diana were likely to be in. Was it idle curiosity or a wish to reassure Diana she was not a bad influence? But the real reason was because it was just possible she might discover what it was that Jon was keeping from her.
She had the address and thought she knew how to find the road but she checked, just in case, and was surprised to find it was in walking distance. Jon always brought Maeve in the car but that was because he picked her up from school, dropped her off, and returned to the university. Diana could have brought her, but for some reason she never did. Perhaps she was one of those reclusive people who disliked leaving home. Except Jon had said she worked part-time in a health food shop.
As she walked past Claudia’s car, it occurred to her she ought to take it out for a spin or the battery would go flat. Were the car keys in her desk? Claudia had driven badly, talking too much and not looking in the mirror, and her car had several scrapes and a dent in the passenger door. Once she had knocked a student off his bike. A shouting match had followed – Erin had been with her in the car at the time – but Claudia had apologised and the student had agreed it had been a bad plan, trying to overtake on the left. No harm done. The two of them had shaken hands. But could there have been other incidents, ones that had not ended so amicably?
She should have phoned Diana before she set out, but she wanted to surprise her. Why? Because she was afraid she would say she was busy, or about to go out, any excuse to put her off? From remarks Jon had made, it was clear she was very protective of Maeve, and fairly strict too. In fact, Erin had gained the impression she treated her like a much younger child, and there had been a battle to allow her to come to the classes. And now she thought Erin was corrupting her, allowing her to talk about unsuitable subjects, and answering questions she should have side-stepped.
Her phone beeped. The hospital? No, they would have phoned, not sent a text. Living off her nerves was bad for her, exhausting, but there was not much she could do about that. The text was an invitation to upgrade her car breakdown membership. Some hope. The standard one cost a fortune, exploiting drivers’ fear of being stranded on the motorway, or miles from anywhere in a dark lane.
Was she going in the right direction? Maeve had described the house in her usual fashion. Dad thinks it’s ugly but Mum likes it because it’s easy to keep clean. There’s a steep hill and you can see the school I’ll be going to next year. They’re not old houses like yours but they’re detached. That means they’re not joined to another one.
Earlier, it had been cold enough to have both heaters on in the loft. Now it had warmed up a little but she still needed her scarf and gloves. What had happened to the clothes Claudia had been wearing, her red coat and the purple beanie? The hospital had given them to her in a bag but she had forgotten what she did with them. Put them in Claudia’s bedroom, or the cupboard where she had kept her coats, umbrellas and a jumble of shoes and boots? Much of what she had done immediately after the accident had been wiped from her memory. She had acted like a zombie, too shocked to think what she was doing, too worried in case the hospital decided Ollie should be allowed to make the decision about the baby.
She ought to be thinking about what she was going to say to Diana. First, she would tell her how hard Maeve worked, and what good progress she was making. She always took her drawings home with her but did Diana look at them, or were they put in a drawer, or thrown away with the rubbish? Maeve had never mentioned any appreciative comments her mother had made.
When she checked the map, she had failed to spot a footpath that made the distance between Claudia’s house and Maeve’s even shorter. Small children were being pushed on swings, and dog walkers, who were not allowed in the play area, were exercising their pets, some on leads, others free to run about. A tiny terrier – so small you could almost have put it in your pocket – raced up to Erin and veered away and a small boy with a runny nose stopped to stare at her as though she was some strange species he had never come across before. One day, Claudia’s baby would be that age. Would she be taking her to the park, holding her steady on the roundabout, or would she have been handed over to a couple who wanted to adopt? When she was born would she be all right? Might she have brain damage? Would she be alive?
She carried on over a railway bridge and along a path next to a strip of grass and several detached houses with large front gardens. Two joggers passed, out of breath and with patches of sweat on their vests. It was hardly the day for such light clothing, but some people made a point of showing how hardy they were. The postman that came to Claudia’s house wore shorts, whatever the weather.
Up the hill, and, if she had not lost her sense of direction, one of the turnings on the right should lead to Maeve’s road. Erin thought of it as Maeve’s road because Maeve was her friend. Was Jon a friend? The tension between them was his fault, because he was secretive. He knew something – something about Claudia that was so bad he wanted to protect her from finding out?
Still speculating about what Claudia could possibly have done
, she heard a squeal of excitement and saw Maeve running to greet her. ‘I thought it was you.’
‘Oh, hello. I was out for a walk and I had a feeling I might be quite close to your house.’
‘I was talking to him.’ She pointed to a cat, sitting on a wall. ‘He’s not ours, we haven’t got any pets. He’s called Rex and he lives at number twenty-seven. Mum was gardening but she got cold. She’s in the kitchen now, tidying. Come on.’ Maeve raced on ahead, calling over her shoulder. ‘She wanted to know what you look like and I said you were nothing like Claudia.’
‘You’re feeling better then.’
‘Oh that.’ Maeve’s hand moved up to her fringe. ‘Dad fusses. I wasn’t really ill. Only a sore throat and it was gone by the evening.’ She shouted through her front door. ‘Mum, Erin’s here! Mum!’
Diana came through the front door, pulling off her rubber gloves, and Erin found it difficult to disguise her surprise. What had she expected? An adult version of Maeve? Tall, slim, with brown, shoulder-length hair and dark eyes with enviably thick, dark lashes, she could hardly have been more different, apart from her nose which was small and slightly upturned. Perhaps Maeve looked the way she did because of her syndrome. No, not syndrome, just a mildly faulty gene that was more than compensated for by her determination.
Diana was wearing jeans and a yellow cable-stitch sweater, expertly-knitted, like Maeve’s always were. No make-up or jewellery, and Erin remembered Maeve complaining how her mother had refused to let her have her ears pierced.
Maeve was hopping up and down. ‘It’s Erin, Mum.’
‘Yes, I heard you, darling. Come in, Erin, it’s lovely to meet you at last.’
‘I was out for a walk. I came through that park, the one with a children’s playground, then a railway bridge.’
‘We go there often, don’t we, Maeve?’
‘You’re sure it’s not inconvenient?’
‘Quite sure. Give me your coat and scarf. I’ve been in the garden, getting rid of a euphorbia that made my skin come out in a rash. Maeve talks about you so much it’s ridiculous we haven’t met before. Come along through, we spend most of our time in the kitchen, don’t we, darling?’