by Vera Morris
THE
TEMPTATION
VERA MORRIS
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2018
www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © Vera Morris 2018
The right of Vera Morris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
ISBN 9781786152763
eISBN 9781786152510
I dedicate this book to Trevor, with love, and to the friendly and kind people of Aldeburgh
No man knows what he will do till the right temptation comes.
Henry Ward Beecher
David, Age 10 years
I hate speaking to people. Why do they want me to? She’s the worst. She goes on and on. Pushing her face close to mine. Speak to me, David. I’m your mother. I love you. I love you. We went for a drive and walked by a river, there’s a bridge. I like it; the way it’s made, the stones fitting together. When we come back home she touches me. Her hand pats my cheek. I hate it. It makes my flesh creep and I feel sick. Leave me alone. I push her. I run up the stairs to my room. I close the door. I’m all panty I can’t breathe. I sit on the bed. If she comes up, I’ll run away. I sit and listen. Nothing. I feel better. I’m alone. I like to be alone. No one to try and make me speak or touch me.
I go to my desk. I put paper on the easel and I take out a pencil from the drawer. I sharpen it to a fine point. Then I sit down. I hold the pencil in my hand. I feel good. I am happy. I see the bridge over the river, I see all the stones, I see the water running, the plants growing on the banks. I can see it all.
I put the tip of the pencil on the paper and I draw. First the bridge. This stone is shaped like a wedge, next to it is one like a coffin. I draw and draw. I can’t stop. I mustn’t stop. I can see the water dancing, the smooth boulders and pebbles lying on the river bottom, the water-weed moving from side to side. I draw and draw. Then I stop. It is finished. I like it. It’s good.
It’s all I want to do. I don’t want to have lessons with the tutor. I don’t like him. Why do they want me to talk? If I talk, they talk back. It goes on and on. I like talking to myself. I laugh when I say things to myself and they can’t hear me. I know lots of words. I like saying them to myself. I practise the words in my room, whisper them into my pillow. It’s my secret. I like secrets.
Chapter 1
Monday, March 8, 1971
Frank Diamond stopped the Avenger GT at the entrance to the Pemberton’s house. He shouldn’t consider taking this case on. Were they ready for this? Laurel hadn’t said no, but anything to do with children, well, it was too soon after the terrible revelations at Blackfriars School.
He looked round; it seemed a prosperous area of Aldeburgh, as he’d been expecting; a quiet road above the High Street; houses set back from the road with tall hedges giving privacy, pavements clean of debris and the only person he could see, a woman pushing a well-sprung pram.
He drove onto a gravelled drive which curved towards a three-storied, brick house, built in the 1900s, he guessed, definitely pre-First World War. Several twisted mock-Tudor chimneys pointed to the cloudy sky like the arthritic fingers of a doom-laden prophet. It was strange, sometimes when you first saw a house you sensed the house was saying something to you. His first glimpse of his cottage, a few miles from Dunwich, braving the North Sea on top of Minsmere cliffs, said welcome. The Pemberton’s house presented a cold unfriendly face; it said go away.
He slid out of the car, picked up his briefcase, and locked the door. He glanced at the Avenger and sighed, as an ex-lover might sigh when he looked at his present girlfriend and thought of the one who’d gone before. He’d sacrificed the blue Mustang: it was too conspicuous for a private detective.
The oak front door was opened almost as soon as he’d released the bell-pull.
‘Mr Diamond?’ asked a woman, neatly dressed in a white blouse and navy skirt. She was tall, about five feet seven, with dark, permed hair and thick brows.
‘I am. Mrs Pemberton?’ Frank asked.
The woman smiled and shook her head. ‘No. I’m Ann Fenner, Miss Ann Fenner, housekeeper.’
This huge pile and servants as well? He didn’t know solicitors earned that kind of money. No need to worry about non-payment of fees.
Miss Fenner led him into a spacious hall; there was a wide staircase leading to a double minstrels’ gallery. ‘Please take a seat, Mr Diamond. I’ll let Mr and Mrs Pemberton know you’re here.’ She seemed very composed and efficient.
The upright hall chair was uncomfortable. He sighed, not looking forward to this interview. The case was nearly two years’ old, two years’ cold. Was there anything more he, Laurel and Stuart could do? Go through the motions, take the money – a very generous sum – and then, after a suitable period, give their sincere regrets they’d made no headway? He didn’t want to do that. He should have refused the case after he’d looked into the background, but the mother’s tearful pleading over the phone made refusal impossible
Miss Fenner reappeared. ‘Mr and Mrs Pemberton are in the library. Can I take your, er … coat?’ she asked, eyeing his leather jacket.
He wondered if Stuart was right, perhaps he should buy some clothes more suitable for meeting clients. If he did, he’d have to get a short back and sides as well, and he wasn’t having that.
‘No, thank you.’
Miss Fenner, showing the first signs of any emotion, looked relieved. She opened a door on the left of the hall. ‘Mr Diamond,’ she announced, remaining in the room.
A tall, lean, moustachioed man rose from a leather chair and offered his hand. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Diamond. I’m Adam Pemberton.’ He was dressed in a well-cut tweed suit, with a green tie that looked like a badly knitted piece of string.
He led him towards a woman who’d remained seated. ‘Carol, this is Mr Diamond.’
He judged Carol Pemberton to be in her early or mid-thirties, at least ten years younger than her husband. She was one of the most beautiful women he’d met. Like a refined Elizabeth Taylor. She was tall, not as tall as Laurel, and certainly not Laurel’s build, she was as slender as a poplar tree. Her oval face, with perfectly symmetrical features and deep blue eyes, was framed by black hair swept back in a chignon. He knew he was staring. ‘Mrs Pemberton.’ As he shook hands he tried not to look at her too intently.
Her husband sighed. Probably fed up with the effect his wife had on men. ‘Can I offer you some coffee?’ he asked.
He nodded. ‘Thank you. Coffee’s always welcome.’
Adam Pemberton turned to Miss Fenner. ‘Ann, please see to that.’
‘Thank you for agreeing to look for David. I’m sorry if I over-reacted on the phone. I’ll never give up hope he’ll be found. We’ve heard such good things about you. I just know you’ll succeed,’ Mrs Pemberton said.
Her voice was soft and low, but now he was closer he saw lines were etched at the corners of her eyes.
‘You don’t look like a detective,’ she said, smiling as though she didn’t mind his long hair and leather jacket.
‘Forgive my wife,’ Adam said. ‘She always speaks her mind.’ He indicated a seat.
‘Sometimes it’s useful not to look like a detective.’
Carol nodded, smoothing down the black
skirt over her thighs.
Miss Fenner returned with a tray of cups, saucers, coffee, milk and sugar. Mrs Pemberton poured and Frank drank his quickly. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Adam Pemberton certainly wasn’t, he was fidgety and impatient. Frank opened his briefcase. ‘I’ve studied the police case notes of your son’s disappearance and also those of the detective agency you employed. As you know I was unwilling to take on the case: they both did a thorough job. If my partners agree we take the case, I must have your agreement that if, after a suitable period of time, say a month, no progress has been made, we’ll unfortunately be unable to continue. However, I want to assure you I’ll do everything I can to open up new lines of enquiry, and even if a lead is slight, I’ll follow it up.’
Carol placed her cup on a table and leant forward, eyes shining, clutching her hands together. ‘I do hope they’ll agree. I know you’ll find him; I’m sure if it.’
Adam frowned. ‘Carol, my dear, you mustn’t place such a burden on Mr Diamond.’ His lugubrious face, mouth turned down at the corners, didn’t reflect his wife’s certainty. ‘I must tell you, Mr Diamond, I have given up hope of seeing David alive. I just want to know what happened to him, to find him, and to bury him, so he lies at peace.’
Why is he so sure David’s dead? Most parents never give up hope until they see the lifeless body of their child.
Carol put her hands over ears, closed her eyes and shook her head repeatedly. ‘No, Adam, you mustn’t say that. It’s too cruel.’
Adam shrugged.
Frank waited until she’d regained her composure, then took a notebook and Biro from his briefcase. ‘I know you’ve been asked the same questions many times, but I do need to know about David. I’d like to find out what kind of child he is, and I’d like to see his room and spend some time in it alone. Is that agreeable?’ He looked at them.
Carol nodded her head vigorously, but Adam pulled down the corners of his mouth. He stood up. ‘I haven’t got anything new to say. We’ve been over this so many times, all my answers and thoughts are in the case notes. You say you’ve seen those? I’m sure Carol can answer your questions. I must do some paperwork, I’ve a client to see this afternoon.’
Didn’t he want to find his son? Frank decided it would be more productive to talk to Carol alone; Adam’s taciturn mood might inhibit her words and thoughts. The fact she was extremely attractive had nothing to do with his decision. Who was he kidding?
‘If that’s what you prefer, Mr Pemberton, and Mrs Pemberton is agreeable …?’ He raised an eyebrow.
She nodded eagerly. ‘Shall we go to David’s room? We can talk there.’
‘No. As I said, I’d prefer to spend some time alone in David’s room.’
She looked puzzled, hurt. ‘Very well. We’ll go to the sitting room.’ She looked at Adam, who nodded and she kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you at lunch, dear. Will you stay for lunch, Mr Diamond?’
‘Thanks, very kind of you, but I need to get back to the office. If we take the case. I’ll make arrangements to come back and talk to you, Mr Pemberton, at a later date.’ Not a likeable man. Why had a beautiful, kind woman married such a grump? Money? Some hidden attraction?
Adam nodded and turned towards a large desk under a window.
Carol led him to an over-furnished room; there were several settees, many small tables and Turkish rugs scattered over the polished wooden floor. She pointed to a Knole settee upholstered in green satin.
He balanced on the edge and hoped he didn’t humiliate himself by sliding to the floor.
Carol sat on an armchair opposite to him. She looked beautiful and eager to please. ‘What can I tell you?’
He wasn’t sure how to approach the subject, it could be tricky and he didn’t want to upset her. ‘I need to know everything about David. I’m sure the answer to his disappearance will lie in his own personality. I noticed in the police case notes he has difficulties with reading and writing. Could you tell me more about that?’
She frowned. ‘Why is that important? It can’t have any bearing on why he disappeared. Yes, he isn’t very good with his words, and he’s a great disappointment to Adam, but he’s a very special boy.’
He nodded sympathetically. ‘He looks like you. A beautiful child.’ She blushed, looking downwards. The photographs in the files showed a tall, slender boy with his mother’s colouring, oval–shaped face and dark blue eyes. But the face, although worthy of a portrait by Caravaggio, was not feminine: the chin was strong and the mouth determined. ‘I know this is difficult but I need to build a picture of David. I need to understand him. Tell me about him. When did you discover he had problems?’
She sighed and rubbed her hands over the pencil skirt. ‘He was a beautiful baby, as you can imagine. Adam was so proud. A son and so handsome. He was a quiet baby, everyone said I was lucky; he hardly cried and seemed to sleep most of the time. But as he grew I noticed he didn’t seem to see me, when I smiled at him and made those stupid noises mother’s make, he didn’t react. It was as though he lived in his own world and wouldn’t come out.’ Her fingers were scrunching the fabric of her skirt. ‘We thought he might be deaf, but tests showed his hearing was normal.’
‘When did he start talking?
‘He was almost three before he said his first word. He doesn’t talk very much now. He doesn’t like talking; but when he does talk he makes sense.’ She leant towards him. ‘But he has another way of communicating. David makes up for all his faults by his special gift. He draws and paints. The art teacher at his new school says he’s never seen such a gifted child. I think he’s a genius.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘Look, I had one of his drawings framed for this room.’ She pointed to the wall to his right.
He rose and walked towards it. She followed. It was a pencil drawing of a stone bridge. The execution was excellent, the proportions, the shading, the light glinting off the river flowing between shrubbed banks, spoke of maturity and expertise. ‘David did this?’
Her face glowed at his obvious disbelief. ‘He did. I took him for a drive one day, then we walked along a river bank. We stopped to look at the bridge, but only for a few minutes; when we came home he went straight to his room. When I came up with milk and biscuits he was doing this drawing. He didn’t stop until it was finished. As you see it now.’
‘From memory?
‘Entirely.’
This gift was not mentioned in any case notes. Could it be important? ‘Have you any more of his drawings?’
‘Hundreds. I’ll show you. Most are in his room.’
‘This drawing is architectural. Did he always draw buildings?’
She frowned. ‘Usually, but sometimes he’d sketch people.’ The corners of her mouth turned down, as though she’d a bad taste in her mouth.
He wanted to ask her why she didn’t like these drawings, then decided to see for himself. ‘What about schooling? It must have been difficult to find a suitable school for David.’
She leant back, her shoulders slumped, her eyes briefly closed, as though reliving past difficulties. ‘We couldn’t send him to school at five. Later, Adam wanted him to go to his old boarding school. He has contacts there, he said he’d talked to the headmaster and he thought with one-to-one tuition they’d be able to help him, but …’ She opened her hands, palms upwards, shrugging her shoulders.
‘You didn’t want him to go?’
‘Adam has very strong views. Usually that’s a comfort and a help as I’m afraid I sometimes find it difficult to reach a decision. This situation caused a major rift between us. I knew going to a school at that age, he was only eleven, wasn’t right for him. I don’t completely understand my son, but I love him. I believe he’s a very special boy, with a special gift. In the end, Adam agreed David would be taught at home by tutors who understood his difficulties and his special talent. In return I agreed when he was thirteen David would go to a boarding school, but only if we could find one which suited his special requirements.’
‘Yes, we were lucky, there’s a school about twenty miles from here: Chillingworth. It specialises in taking boys from eleven to eighteen who have difficulty in fitting into the normal educational system.’ Frown lines appeared between her eyebrows.
‘You were happy for David to go there?’
Her mouth twisted. ‘I would have kept him at home, but I could see Adam’s reasoning: David had to learn to mix with boys of his own age. I must admit I fretted after he’d gone. At first it seemed to be working. I wouldn’t say he was happy at the school, but he didn’t complain, and he loved the art lessons; the teacher praised his work and we’d arranged for him to have extra tuition. He uses mostly pen and pencil, and he does like water colours, but he’s not keen on oils. He started pottery and the teacher said he could try sculpture the next year.’
‘He started in the September?’
‘Yes. The first term seemed to go well and he made a few friends. One boy he was especially fond of was Peter.’ She shook her head and frowned, as though she couldn’t understand the friendship.
‘And the next term?’
‘He went back after Christmas without any fuss. But at half-term when he came back something had changed. He clung to me like a limpet and wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Adam was angry at his behaviour.’ She bit her lip and her cheeks flushed. ‘He even wet his bed a few times, which he hadn’t done since he was nine.’
Poor little bugger, he thought. Both the police and the detective agency had made enquiries at the school, but it hadn’t led anywhere. ‘But he went back?’
‘Yes. But when he came home for the Easter holidays he said he was never going back there. There were terrible scenes. When I tried to find out why he didn’t want to go back he would run to his room and wouldn’t speak to me. The day before he was due to go back to school he ran away.’
As she talked a tear slid from each eye. Liquid pearls over alabaster cheeks. She was getting under his skin.