Chisholm gave a patient smile. ‘Mr Kidd didn’t make any accusations. He was just recounting his memories of the day of the murder and also a conversation he’d had, resulting from his reading of one of his pieces of work.’
‘Which you only have his word for! Kidd is a very cunning man…’ she found herself speechless with frustration. She opened her mouth but then closed it again. What good would it do to say anything more? Kidd seemed to have charmed them all. ‘How long does it take to test the DNA?’
‘Several weeks, I’m afraid. I am putting pressure on the labs to give me results as soon as possible but there’s always a backlog of cases.’
Sarah’s face fell and she went through the rest of the interview in a numb daze, answering Chisholm’s questions about Shona, trying to remember which boys she’d liked, and other details of her interests and hobbies.
When she’d finished, Chisholm put his pen down and looked at her in a kindly way. ‘Thank you very much for coming in and helping us with our enquiries, Mrs Dunbar. Be assured that we will do everything in our power to find the murderer of your friend.’
Sarah accepted his offered hand and allowed him to escort her to the door. She felt totally drained. Sitting in her car, she leant her head forward on the steering-wheel. She felt weak, as if she didn’t have the strength to drive home, and more alone than she could ever remember.
Who could she speak to? The thought of phoning her mother came into her mind, but only very briefly. She hadn’t told her mother about Nick yet, and remembering her hysterical behaviour when Rory died she knew she didn’t feel strong enough to play the role of her mother’s comfort and support today.
Lottie. She took out her mobile phone and tried to call her again. Lottie had gone to the hospital to see her brother, but had looked pale and shaky and had only stayed a short while. Now she wasn’t answering her phone.
She needed the strength of Tom’s arms around her. Tom, come back soon.
Her phone rang – it was Nick.
‘Mum, great news. Olly’s regained consciousness and he’s going to be all right. They’ve allowed me to see him. He has to stay in hospital for a few more days, just to make sure, but I can come home today, provided I’m with someone. Can I stay with you, Mum? Will you come and pick me up?’
Sarah breathed a huge sigh of relief. Nick was going to be all right and he needed her. She drove straight to the hospital.
*
Tom arrived at the clinic and went straight to Betty’s room, nearly bumping into Carl, who was hovering outside the door. Carl was about the same age as him, but since they’d first met as teenagers he’d always treated Tom as an inferior. He had the inborn arrogance of the spoilt only son of a rich Pretoria lawyer, educated at an expensive private college.
He stood in front of Tom, broader but not nearly as tall, with short legs and no neck, barring his way into the room. ‘You can’t go in there. My aunt is too ill.’
Carl’s bullying arrogance annoyed Tom. ‘I got a phone call. They told me to come immediately.’
‘You’ve had a wasted journey then, because nobody’s going in to disturb her last peace now.’
A nurse, a light-skinned Griqua with caring eyes and a determined mouth, stepped out of the room and looked at Tom. ‘It’s good you’ve got here, Mr McIver. Your aunt has been asking for you.’
Carl’s beefy face became even more florid and he opened his mouth to say something, but Tom pushed past him and the nurse blocked the lawyer’s path as she ushered Tom into the room.
Betty looked up at him with something approaching a smile hovering on her lips. Her mouth was moving as she tried to say something. Tom moved closer and lowered his head to her face. ‘Go to Peter Roberts. Something for you.’ The words came out slowly and painfully in rasping breaths.
‘Aunty Betty?’ Tom was not sure that he’d heard correctly. He pressed a kiss onto her spongy cheek and remembered what she’d been like when he was younger. She reached out and held his hand. A breathy rasp came out of her lips. It sounded like, ‘Love you.’
‘Love you, Aunty Betty.’ He held her hand more tightly, then noticed a difference in her breathing. A look of peace came over her face and her whole body seemed to relax.
The nurse, who had been standing in the background, moved forward. ‘She was waiting for you. She couldn’t go in peace until you came.’ She turned to Betty and muttered a few words. All that Tom could make out was ‘Amen’ at the end.
The door swung open and Carl pushed his way in. ‘What have you done?’
The nurse turned round with an air of calm authority. ‘Mr Van Wyk. Your aunt has died peacefully, very happy that she could say goodbye to her two nephews.’
‘I’m her nephew. He’s not part of our family.’
The nurse spoke with quiet determination. ‘I spent a lot of time with your dear aunt and I know she loved you both. Now if you could please leave the room, there are some procedures that need to take place. Then you can both come in again to take your leave of her in your own way.’
The two men left the room. As soon as they were out of the door, Carl pushed Tom against the wall. ‘Right, she’s gone now so you can totally forget anything about being a member of our family.’ As Carl spoke his voice became more heavily accented with Afrikaans and he lost control of his English. ‘And don’t think she have left you money because she don’t. I have the testament and everything is left to me, to our family. Now go.’
Tom turned away and walked down the stairs. Carl had always been a bully, and Betty had showed her distaste for him when he came down for the holidays. He felt a tear coming to his eye; Betty had been his friend and now she was gone.
He walked slowly down the hill towards the centre of town. In some ways he missed Betty more than his mother. His mother had been soft, passive, unassertive, always lost in the sorrows of the past, whereas Betty had been strong, with a fierce sense of loyalty, loud and opinionated, not caring what other people thought. Uncle Gus had been her one true love and she had always stood up for him and his family against the pressure from her sister and brother-in-law. Now Carl had everything and Tom had nobody left in South Africa. Tom went to the Central Beach Bar and drank himself into oblivion.
*
Sarah stood in the kitchen, chopping onions, making creamy chicken and pasta, a special request from Nick. When he was young he’d always wanted that when he was ill. Sarah felt strangely content as she smelled the butter sizzling in the pan and blinked back tears from the onion. She missed having the children at home, missed having someone to take care of.
Nick was lying on the sofa in the snug with the duvet round him, watching the Simpsons. Sultan was lying next to him purring. He’d gone back to childhood. He was laughing at the cartoon, when his phone rang and Sarah heard a couple of words that suggested it was Olly.
‘Mum, Olly’s getting out tomorrow. Can he come here?’
‘Of course.’ Sarah didn’t hesitate. She heard Nick making some arrangements and then he clicked his phone.
‘He can get out after the doctor’s round tomorrow morning. Can you collect him? He has to go home with someone and he really doesn’t want to go to his parents. Apparently the police said something about homophobic crime and once they understood what that meant, they flipped.’
‘Are the police doing something about it then? Have they got any leads?’
‘Oh yes. As well as the CCTV, they’re analysing three different types on blood on my coat.’ He gave a lop-sided grin from the uninjured side of his mouth. ‘I told you that I got a few punches in on them too so perhaps they can get a match from that. Olly and I had to give buccal swabs too, for exclusion purposes.’
Sarah looked at her son’s face. Some of the swelling had gone down, but green and yellow bruising circled both eyes, replacing the purple. He would have the stitches out next week. She hoped he wouldn’t be too scarred; he had been such a beautiful child and as a young man still had fine features. She pushed these
superficial thoughts aside; it was just so fortunate the attack had not been worse. Nick wasn’t certain, but he thought it was a gang of about seven or eight and CCTV footage had confirmed the numbers. With those odds they’d got off lightly.
She stirred the pan and looked at the amount. How many people was she cooking for? She seemed to have forgotten quantities. She looked at the pan again and thought about Lottie. If she cooked lots of pasta and put a bit more cream in there would be plenty for four. She picked up the phone and dialled Lottie’s number again.
Liam answered. Lottie was just lying down but he took the phone to her. Sarah was shocked by the weakness of her voice.
‘I’d love to have chicken and pasta, but I’m sorry Mum, I can’t. I’m really not feeling well.’
‘What’s the matter? Have you been to the doctor?’
‘Not yet, but if I feel like this tomorrow I’ll go.’
Sarah began to suggest remedies but Lottie interrupted her. ‘Sorry, Mum. I’m going to have to go.’
‘Go to the doctor please, and phone me tomorrow and let me know how you get on.’
Sarah put the phone down. She felt so guilty. She’d been worrying so much about Nick that she’d almost forgotten about Lottie. She thought back to Lottie’s accusations; she would always have said she loved her children equally but now she questioned herself. She’d go to Lottie’s tomorrow and take her to the doctor.
She hit her forehead. She couldn’t do it because she’d promised to collect Olly and had to wait for the call. She heard another laugh from the TV room and smiled, pleased that Nick could still be hugely amused by the Simpsons.
And her mother? She hadn’t called her either. Because she felt such a failure on the ‘good mother’ stakes, Sarah picked up the phone, trying to build up some ‘good daughter’ credit.
Her mother took a long time to answer and when she did she sounded distracted and obviously couldn’t wait to get off the phone. Sarah could tell she’d been drinking and wondered how much. She put the phone down and shrugged her shoulders. If her mother wanted to drink, she could.
Sarah looked into the wine rack. There were still a couple of bottles of red. While the sauce bubbled and the water boiled for the pasta, she sat down at the table and poured herself a large glass, gulping it back. Was she becoming dependent on alcohol? Enough things had happened recently to drive anyone to drink. She gave herself permission to have another glass.
She heard Nick laughing with the television again. She knew it was an escape from the events of the present, back to the simplicity of childhood and she was glad he could find comfort there. She thought about offering him a glass of wine but it wouldn’t go well with the painkillers and – she grinned to herself – Nick, being a bit of a wine snob, would certainly not approve of red with the chicken.
She looked at her mobile phone again. Nothing from Tom today. She’d told him about Nick and Olly and he’d sent supportive texts, but since then there’d been nothing. She missed him. She typed in Crap day. Need a cuddle x x x and sent it off quickly before she changed her mind.
*
Tom woke up in the back room of the bar with his head throbbing. Betty, dead. He was amazed how empty he felt. She was the last one, the last connection to his family in South Africa. While his father was in an alcoholic haze and his mother in religious denial, he’d run wild and Aunty Betty had been the one who pulled him up, questioned him, challenged him. She and Uncle Gus were a perfect match; she was bossy and dominant and he was happy to be organised. They adored each other and Aunty Betty had missed him every day since he died.
He tried to raise his head and blinked against the brightness of the sunshine. He thought about how Betty would react to his current state. She’d be very practical, feed him protein and then ask him why he’d been so stupid. You couldn’t fob her off with excuses, she would keep at him like a terrier until she found out what was wrong and then she always had sound advice. Thinking of her, he fried a couple of eggs and then forced himself out onto the beach. His head still throbbed and he had to squint his eyes against the brightness.
Aunty Betty’s death had been peaceful but then her nephew… Tom’s anger welled thinking of Carl’s smug fatness. He hoped the funeral would be arranged quickly. He’d stay for that and then leave South Africa and Carl’s greed behind him.
He must send a text to Sarah.
He felt in his pockets and had a feeling of panic. His phone was not there. He looked around the room and under the sofa, which caused a wave of nausea to wash over him, but it was nowhere to be seen. He asked Jason if anyone had found a phone and handed it in. Nobody had, so they both looked around the bar, but found nothing.
Tom began to feel panicky. When had he last had his phone? He knew he’d sent a short text to Sarah just after Betty died, to say he’d have to stay for the funeral… but after that? He must find his phone – it was his only contact with Sarah.
He thought back to those last moments with Betty, and he knew she’d said something important. It was there, hanging in his mind, just out of reach, but he couldn’t remember what it was; not with the pain and haze of alcohol still misting his head. He took a deep breath and set off along the beach, determined to pound the unpleasant memories of the day before out of his system, before he went to the hospital again to find his phone.
Chapter 27
Sarah walked through Stockbridge towards the Botanic Gardens, glancing into the windows of the charity shops. It was one of those crisp November days with low bright sunshine and sharp clean air. Sarah felt happy and relieved; when she’d phoned Lottie to see how she’d got on at the doctor’s, Lottie had sounded so much better and suggested meeting for lunch at the café in the Botanics. Sarah left Nick and Olly happily cooking together in the kitchen and looked forward to some proper time with her daughter.
As she approached the café, she saw Lottie sitting at a table near the window, her long curtain of hair swinging as she bent over her phone. She saw her mother and stood up; Sarah thought how sweet she looked with her blue tweed coat, her long legs in woolly tights and a tammy perched on the back of her head. She hurried towards her daughter and gave her a hug. Lottie looked pale, her face seemed thinner but her eyes were sparkling.
‘How are you? What did the doctor say?’
Lottie smiled and held up her phone. There was a blurred picture on the screen. Sarah wondered what it was; it looked like a Google Earth view.
Suddenly it clicked. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ she asked.
Lottie smiled. ‘Yes, congratulations, Granny. This is the first picture of your grandchild.’ Sarah put her arms round her daughter and held her tightly, feeling tears welling up in her eyes; after all the terrible things that had happened finally there was some good news.
They sat down for lunch, but neither of them ate much. They were both too excited. Sarah looked out of the window over the mature trees of the Botanics as they talked about the practicalities for the birth, the date, the hospital, how Liam and Lottie’s small flat could accommodate a nursery, and Sarah felt so happy.
Afterwards they walked through the narrow paths of the maze at the rock garden and Sarah was overcome with memories. She used to bring the twins in their double buggy round the gardens, watching their eyes follow the light flickering through the leaves on the trees overhead. It was the one and only thing guaranteed to stop them crying.
Despite the pale winter sunshine it was unmistakeably November in the gardens. Leaves crackled underfoot and Sarah could smell the peppery smoke of a bonfire in the nursery garden.
They walked over the Japanese Bridge. Everything in the Botanic Gardens was more commercialised these days, with a wedding venue at the gatehouse and bridal photo opportunities at this bridge. You even had to pay to go into the elegant Victorian glasshouses now, so different from the days when she remembered escaping showers with the twins there, breathing in the humid peaty air of the palm house and looking at the cacti in the dry cool air of the des
ert house.
She told Lottie how she and Nick used to stand with their noses pressed to the glass viewing panels under the tropical house, watching the fish swim in the pond above. She wondered if they were still there. It was so long since she’d been to that part of the garden. Waves of nostalgia for an earlier, simpler time washed over her, and she was already imagining pushing her grandchild’s pushchair through the gardens, recapturing the happiness she’d felt when her children were young.
Sarah was so excited she wanted to share her news with the world; Nick would be such a great uncle. And, to be truthful, she couldn’t wait to tell Tom, to share her delight with him. She looked at her phone again, but there was still no message from him, nothing since the brief text saying he had to stay longer for the funeral. There had been no new flight details, nothing.
She looked at the giant monkey puzzle tree silhouetted against the gathering dusk in front of her and had a sudden feeling of panic. What if he never came back?
No, she mustn’t worry. It was less than a day since he’d been in touch. It was just that before that they’d been texting every hour. She tried to comfort herself; he’d be busy with the funeral arrangements. But she did miss the ping of her phone and the comforting exchange of mundane messages.
Sarah and Lottie walked back to the flat along the cracked pavements of Stockbridge and Sarah looked again at the windows of the charity shops. She’d loved going to them when the twins were young, picking up Liberty print dresses and Osh-Kosh dungarees at bargain prices. Now she would be able to do that again for her grandchild. Her grandchild. How wonderful that sounded.
As they opened the door of the flat there was the sound of laughter and a female voice. Abigail was sitting in the front room with Nick and Olly; they looked up as Sarah and Lottie walked in.
Abigail stood up and Sarah hesitated. She was wondering about the most appropriate way to greet her when Abigail took the lead by reaching up and giving her a hug. ‘Hi, Sarah. How are you? You look great.’
Sewing the Shadows Together Page 23