by Susan Lewis
Andee’s eyes sparkled. ‘You and Gina? I’d like to have seen that. What was it?’
Rowzee frowned as she tried to remember. ‘It was a two-hander,’ she said, ‘and she played the character of Ruth who’s a successful writer, and I was her protégée . . . No, it was the other way round, of course, because I’m the eldest. Goodness, what was it called? It started out in America, but it was on in the West End for a while. Helen What’s-her-name . . . Mirren, was in it then. Gina and I had such fun doing it here in Kesterly, and we couldn’t have been bad because we ended up doing a mini-tour of the West Country. Of course it was her everyone came to see. We even did three nights at the Bristol Old Vic. Collected Stories, that’s what it was called. Imagine me forgetting that. Imagine me on the stage with Gina Stamfield! It’s an experience I shall never forget.’
Well not yet, anyway.
Andee was smiling fondly. ‘Have the last piece of cake,’ she insisted, pushing it towards her. ‘And maybe we can do this again sometime.’
‘I’d like that very much. Let’s be sure to make it soon.’
A little while later, after hugging each other goodbye in the street, Rowzee remained on the corner watching Andee walk off down the promenade. Only when Andee had disappeared from view did she cross over to the taxi rank.
No one had suggested taking her driving licence away yet, but she knew it would happen, so she’d decided to start getting used to doing without her car. Her family were probably going to find it a bit odd that she wasn’t driving, but they didn’t have to know too much about it. She could do the grocery shopping online, walk down the hill to get the bus into town, and insist on taking taxis whenever they went out so she could have some wine. Of course, they weren’t stupid, they’d soon realise something was up and if she was forced to tell them she knew they’d never let her refuse treatment, much less even consider making a one-way trip to Zurich.
Was she really going to do that? Was she absolutely serious about it?
Yes, she was. How could she not be if the alternative was being sentenced to the misery of chemotherapy with no chance of a cure, turning slowly and humiliatingly into a vegetable, becoming a terrible burden on her family? Faced with those choices the decision wasn’t hard to make, it was only the courage to see it through that she had to find. And time wasn’t exactly on her side – Dignitas wouldn’t take her if they considered her mentally incapacitated – so if she wanted everything properly sorted before she went over there, she’d better start getting on with it.
Blake was standing between two art nouveau cabinets, hidden from outside view, watching Tyler Bennett pretending to look at a collection of bronze and silver statuettes in the window. The collar of his denim jacket was turned up against the sudden downpour, and his head was down, but the razored carroty hair, the stance, the piercings in one ear, gave him away.
What the hell did he want?
Blake’s eyes went briefly to Graeme’s niece Katie, who was busy with a collector of walking canes; Graeme himself had popped out.
Keeping an eye on Bennett who seemed to be watching Katie and her client, Blake sank more deeply into the shadows, skirted a triform harpist’s seat and disappeared into the workshop. He moved quickly, out into the cobbled lane cluttered with dustbins and parked cars, along to Marsh Street, and up around the block on to the square.
Bennett was still outside the shop, his back half turned towards Blake’s casual approach.
There were plenty of people about, in spite of the rain. Music was blasting out of a café, a human statue was giving up and heading for the arcade.
Blake was only inches from Bennett when the boy caught his reflection in the window and took off like a hare.
‘Stop him! Stop that boy!’ Blake shouted, sprinting after him.
Several people looked, startled, but no one stepped in.
Blake pressed on. He was close, so close. His hand closed around Bennett’s shoulder, grabbed his jacket, pulled him back, almost to the ground.
‘What the . . .!’ Bennett spluttered, as Blake tried to spin him round.
Seizing the boy’s arm, Blake wrenched it behind his back so hard he almost had him off the ground.
‘Get off me! Get off me!’ Bennett howled.
Looking at no one, Blake shoved the boy’s head down and marched him back towards the shop, too fired up to feel surprised at the lack of fight.
‘You’re a nutter, you are,’ Bennett cried. ‘I haven’t done nothing to you. Tell him to let me go,’ he shouted at an elderly couple who’d stopped to scowl in their direction.
‘Blake? What’s going on?’ Graeme asked, about to enter the shop himself.
‘It’s him,’ Blake said breathlessly. ‘The scumbag who screwed up our lives.’
Frowning, Graeme looked at the boy and back at Blake. ‘What’s he doing here?’ he asked.
‘Good question,’ and shoving Bennett in through the shop’s front door Blake spun him around roughly, ready to lay into him again if he as much as attempted an escape.
‘I don’t know what your problem is,’ Bennett muttered, brushing himself down.
Blake blinked in confusion. It was like an optical illusion. He had no idea who this youth was, only that he wasn’t Tyler Bennett. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he exploded.
‘It’s me what should be asking you that,’ the boy retorted testily.
‘This isn’t him?’ Graeme asked Blake.
‘What’s going on?’ Katie wanted to know.
‘This . . . This person,’ Blake said angrily, ‘has been hanging around the shop and I want to know why.’
‘I haven’t done nothing wrong,’ the lad protested. ‘It’s a free world. I can look in any shop I want.’
‘Then why did you run away every time you saw me coming?’
The boy’s rugged face turned crimson. ‘I wasn’t running away,’ he argued. ‘I was in a hurry.’
Wondering if excuses got any lamer, Blake said, ‘We both know you were running away, so what’s going on? Did Tyler Bennett send you? Are you related to him?’
‘Who?’
He looked so gormless, so completely mystified, that Blake turned to Graeme in despair.
Realising he needed to take over, Graeme asked the boy if he was looking for something or someone in particular. ‘Is that why you’re watching the shop?’
The way the boy shrugged surprised both Blake and Graeme, since it seemed to suggest that Graeme wasn’t far off the mark.
‘What’s your name?’ Graeme ventured. ‘I’m Graeme, by the way, and this is Blake.’
Scowling at Blake, the lad said, ‘My name’s Jason.’
‘OK, Jason,’ Graeme responded, putting a friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder, ‘are you from around here?’
‘No.’
‘Then what brings you to Kesterly?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Where are you from, Jason?’ Katie asked kindly.
He regarded her warily, but his manner wasn’t hostile as he said, ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She seemed to mull that for a moment. ‘No, I don’t suppose it does,’ she agreed, ‘but I’ve seen you out on the square a few times lately, and you definitely seem to be focusing on this shop. Do we have something of yours, maybe? Something that might have belonged to one of your family?’
He shook his head.
‘OK, so why don’t you tell us who or what you’re looking for?’ Katie encouraged. ‘We won’t be able to help you if you don’t.’
Seeming to acknowledge that, Jason wiped his mouth with a sleeve as he said, ‘It’s not any of you.’
‘I think we’ve managed to work that out,’ she murmured. ‘Is it someone who used to work here, maybe? If you give us a name I’m sure we’ll be able to help you find them.’
Looking at Graeme, his cagey, light brown eyes glistening with uncertainty, he said, ‘Are you the Graeme what owns this shop?’
‘I am,’ Graeme confirmed.
‘So you’re her brother?’
Graeme frowned.
‘Does the name Sean Griffiths mean anything to you?’ the boy asked.
Graeme shook his head. ‘Should it?’
‘Yeah, as a matter of fact it should, but if you haven’t . . .’ He shrugged and looked at the others. In the end he said to Graeme, ‘I’ll tell you, all right, but no one else.’
As Graeme led the boy into his office for some privacy Blake and Katie watched, as intrigued as they were wary, until finally Blake returned to the workshop to call Andee.
‘I got the wrong person,’ he told her when she answered. ‘The boy who’s been watching the shop? It’s not Tyler Bennett.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just heard back from the Manchester police. Bennett’s serving time for aggravated assault.’
Not surprised, only relieved, he said, ‘Sorry for wasting your time. It seems it’s not only Jess I’m seeing everywhere . . .’
‘It’s OK, no need to apologise. Everything’s always worth following up. I had another long chat with Sadie this morning, Jess’s friend from uni. She still wasn’t able to tell me anything we don’t already know, but I’ll ask you the same as I asked her. When you gave the police a list of Jessica’s friends are you absolutely sure you didn’t leave anyone out? Maybe there’s someone she mentioned only once, in passing . . .’
‘I’ll talk to Matt again,’ he said, ‘but we’ve been over it a hundred times. We told the police everything we know. I swear there’s no one else.’
‘OK, but keep thinking and we’ll get together tomorrow. I’d like to talk to your wife as well. Is she due back any time soon?’
‘I don’t think so, but I can text you her number in Devon.’
After ringing off Blake picked up his tools and returned to work. He was still thrown by the events of the past half-hour, though grateful that the boy hadn’t turned out to be Tyler Bennett. Thank God that part of his life was behind him now; he just hoped with all his heart that one day soon he’d be able to say the same about Jessica’s disappearance.
It was early evening by now and Andee was walking into the flat as her mobile rang. Seeing it was Graeme she didn’t hesitate to click on. ‘Hi, what can I do for you?’ she asked, feeling guilty for sounding more upbeat than she’d have managed had it been Martin or Alayna. They wouldn’t have wanted her to sound in good spirits, of course, they’d far rather think she was suffering for what she was doing to them – which she was.
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Graeme said, ‘there’s something I’d like to run past you.’
‘Of course, be my guest.’ She pulled open the fridge, saw a bottle of chilled wine and felt her spirits lifting even higher. Just what she needed.
‘Actually, it’s a slightly delicate matter,’ he confided, ‘so I was hoping we could meet.’
Immediately intrigued, she said, ‘Would you like me to come to the shop?’
‘Would you mind coming to my home?’
Remembering the nineteenth-century town house backing on to the Botanical Gardens, she said, ‘Are you still in the same place?’
‘I am. I’m sure you already have plans for this evening, so would sometime tomorrow suit?’
Though she didn’t have any plans for this evening at all, she said, ‘That should be fine, but it’ll have to be later in the day, if that’s OK.’
‘You tell me a time.’
She suggested five and said, ‘Is it about Jessica, by any chance?’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘it’s about a young lad called Jason and my sister, Rowzee.’
Chapter Eight
Charles was in the spacious, high-ceilinged library of Burlingford Hall waiting for Andee to arrive. A table was set on the veranda with a flask of hot coffee, a pitcher of chilled lemonade and a plate of home-made biscuits. The veranda on this, the north-west side of the hall, offered a stunning view of the parterre, a feature of the gardens that did as much to pull in the weekend visitors as the many gazebos, follies, footbridges, lakes and orchards. It was where Bill Simmonds was currently busy trimming borders.
Charles felt deeply indebted to the man for staying on after his retirement. They’d known each other for a very long time, more than thirty years, since Bill had worked for Charles’s father, starting out as an apprentice gardener, and going on, over time, to become chief landscaper. It was Bill and his son, Micky, who’d restored and expanded the magnificent parterre before Bill had taken over as estate manager, a position he’d held for the last ten years prior to his retirement.
In many ways Charles still saw him as that, though Micky and his hard-working crew were running the place these days, and doing a grand job of it too. Bill just popped in now and again, which seemed to be most days as far as Charles could tell, to tidy things up, mow the lawns, inspect the trees and keep a general eye on things. Charles had long realised that these sixty-two acres spreading widely and ruggedly at the outer reaches up to the moor probably felt as much like home to Bill as they did to any of the Stamfield family. Perhaps even more so, for Bill would certainly know them better, considering how well he’d taken care of them over the years, and it was obvious that he enjoyed eavesdropping on the visitors’ admiration of the gardens at the weekends.
Noticing Andee stopping her car to have a quick chat with the old fellow, Charles strode out on to the veranda ready to greet her. ‘Andee,’ he smiled, pulling her in to an embrace as she came up the steps to join him. ‘May I say how wonderfully fresh you’re looking on this dreadfully humid day?’
‘You may,’ she twinkled, ‘but I can assure you I don’t feel it.’ She stepped back to get a good look at him. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked cautiously. ‘I didn’t want to say anything at the party, but you seemed tired, or worried? And I’ve heard through the grapevine that you haven’t been well.’
‘I’m fine,’ he assured her, waving her to a chair, ‘but I will admit to having had a few issues with the old ticker over the past year or so, which managed to keep me away from Burlingford.’
He knew she must be thinking that Burlingford would surely be the perfect place for convalescence, but she was too polite to say so.
‘Is everything sorted now?’ she asked.
‘More or less.’ He suddenly realised that asking for her help was going to be even harder than he’d imagined, and now he wasn’t sure he could go through with it. In fact, it was starting to feel like a crazy idea even to have considered it. ‘Tell me about you,’ he said, pouring two glasses of lemonade and passing one over. ‘How’s Martin? I’d like to catch up with him while I’m here.’
‘He’d like that,’ she replied. ‘I know you two always got along, but I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you that we’re no longer together.’
Charles felt genuinely sorry, but perhaps not as surprised as he might have expected. ‘Please don’t tell me he’s gone off to find himself again. I thought he was over that.’
‘No, it’s me who’s left this time. It only happened a couple of weeks ago, so it’s still early days, but I won’t be going back.’
Realising this was probably harder for her than she was allowing to show, he said, ‘You know, if there’s anything I can do . . .’
‘Thank you. We’ll be fine, eventually, I’m sure.’ Smiling, she raised her glass in a salute and took a sip. ‘What about you and Gina?’ she prompted. ‘Is she still in Dartmouth?’
‘She will be for a while. A friend of hers, Anna Shelley, I expect you’ve heard of her, has an art gallery there and Gina’s agreed to look after it while Anna’s touring the Middle East with a production of King Lear. Actually, we popped over to the Isle of Wight for a couple of days which I think she enjoyed.’
‘Only think?’
He smiled. ‘No, I know she enjoyed it. We went to a special exhibition of Julia Margaret Cameron’s work. The Victorian photographer?’
‘I can’t say I’ve heard of her, but I can see it’s something tha
t would appeal to Gina. So how is she?’
Charles found himself nodding before answering. ‘Good, in herself,’ he finally replied, ‘but I guess not so good either.’
Andee frowned. ‘Please don’t tell me the cancer’s come back. I thought she’d been given the all-clear.’
‘She was, yes, almost six years ago now, so that’s certainly something to feel thankful for. She misses Lydia, our daughter.’
Andee blinked in surprise. ‘I remember who Lydia is.’
He laughed. ‘Of course. She’s currently kicking up a storm over Syrian war crimes and making quite a name for herself with the media because of how passionately and eloquently she presents her cases, I quote. Not her, the New York Times. We can’t help feeling proud of her.’
‘You and Gina have done a lot for human rights yourselves over the years, so it’s not hard to see where Lydia gets it from. It’s OK,’ she said, glancing at her phone as it rang, ‘I don’t need to take it.’
‘If it’s urgent . . .’
‘It’s not, I promise.’
As she turned it off, he changed the subject with a gentle sigh. ‘So you and Martin are no more.’
‘Please don’t let’s talk about that,’ she protested. ‘I want to hear about you and whatever it is you’d like my thoughts on.’
His insides tensed. He shouldn’t have mentioned it at the party, should never even have considered involving her when no possible good could come of it, for either of them. ‘Actually, it’s nothing really,’ he said dismissively. ‘I don’t need to bother you with it.’
‘It won’t be a bother. Why don’t you try me?’
He was certain he wouldn’t, and yet was so desperate that maybe he had to. After all, what else was he going to do, who else was there to turn to?
As his eyes went to hers he found her regarding him in the way that had always made him wonder if she was reading his mind. Taking a breath, he made sure to keep his tone light as he said, ‘I know when someone talks about a friend being in trouble that they’re almost always talking about themselves . . . Well in this instance it really is a friend, but because of who he is, his connections, his position . . .’ He glanced down at his glass. ‘He’s being blackmailed and I was wondering if there might be some way of finding out, very discreetly, who’s behind it.’