‘No! It’s OK, I’m going … Will you tell her I have to see her?’
‘She may not want to see you. I very much hope she doesn’t.’
He had stepped back at the threat of the police; the door slammed shut and he heard her lock it from the inside. At least he’d established that Joyce was not in the house, so was she … What was the woman’s name? Faith? No, Fay. Her husband had said they lived next door but one. There was only one house beyond the Hetheringtons’, so it must be back towards the village … As he ran, he registered what Grace Carstairs had said. Why would Joyce have told her about them? Bewilderment was added to his pounding fright.
‘Randall?’ Fay immediately looked behind him. ‘Is Joyce with you?’
‘No … I wondered if she was here.’ His face was glossy with sweat.
‘She left after lunch. She was coming to see you. Didn’t she turn up?’
‘Yes, but …’ Having established she was not there, he wanted to leave immediately. ‘It’s all right. I just thought she might … If you see her, can you tell her to call me?’
‘What’s happened?’ Alarmed by his agitation, Fay reached for his arm. ‘You look dreadful …’
He backed away, a fearful animal cornered. ‘I’m OK! I don’t want to … Tell her I’ll be at the cottage.’
‘Randall!’ Fay called urgently as he turned, desperate to get away. ‘She’s told me about you. What did you say to her? Come back!’
For a moment she thought of chasing him, but he was already at the gate. She snatched up the phone and hit the first memory button.
Jowett realized that if Joyce’s mother saw him sitting outside the house in the car, she might call the police, so he parked near the crossroads from where the house was out of sight but he could still watch the front gates … or would she go back to the cottage? After twenty minutes, the waiting became intolerable and he drove back to Windhover, now terrified that her mother might report her missing. Everything was out of his control.
*
Her foot bandaged with a strip of material ripped from the hem of her skirt, Joyce had limped along the hedge, then gasped with relief as she saw the tower of St Matthews less than half a mile away; she must have wandered in mindless circles. The stile on the far side of the meadow led on to a bridleway where she often walked, and from there trees would protect her until she was nearly home. Unless she’d dropped her bag after running out, it must still be … but there was a back-door key hidden under a stone by the swimming pool, left in case one of the children needed it. Wincing as pain needled at her foot, she slowly moved on.
The worst memories of all had now returned. Initial confusion at the way it was written, clumsily, as though he had difficulty expressing what he wanted to say; it was as if he were speaking to himself. Then the name of Tannerslade Farm making her cry out, and the sick, heart-splitting chill of disbelief. She could half remember running out of the cottage, but nothing after that until she had fallen. Now she was incapable of thinking of anything except that she needed to be in the safety of her home. If she had met someone and they had spoken to her she would have screamed.
When she reached the road and saw her house, she checked the time; her mother would be watching television. As she neared the gate, she jumped as a car passed and flipped its horn, the driver waving to her through the rear window; she didn’t recognize him, but waved back, then reached the sanctuary of the front garden. Irritated at not being fed, Macavity miaowed and scratched the back door as she opened it, then scampered into the kitchen expectantly. If she didn’t deal with him he’d howl, but the effort was agonizing. Slowly she went upstairs and began to run a bath. Her foot had stopped bleeding, but was inflamed round the wound and she deliberately forced it open again to wash out the dirt. Hot water blanketing her body was a welcome pain that gradually comforted her as she lay with her neck against the padded headrest, feeling sweat gather and dampen her face. She lay very still, conscious only of being secure and warm, wanting nothing but some miracle that would make it last for ever.
The first reality was the water growing cold and she pulled herself up, then concentrated on cleaning herself, stretching to reach the shampoo bottle and washing her hair before standing and turning on the shower to rinse it. She partly dried herself, put on a white towelling robe and went to her bedroom, sitting on the cane stool in front of the dressing-table mirror as she brushed her hair through the blast of the drier. Bathing had become a deliberate process to hide behind, and she extended it to filing her nails and plucking her eyebrows … Face close to the mirror, she saw strains of grief and fright gathered in her eyes. In her apartment on the top floor of the house Grace thought she heard a wail, like someone in pain, above the sound of the television, but decided it was either her imagination or a dog somewhere outside.
*
Joyce felt faint with hunger as she sat and contemplated desolation, but knew her stomach would disgorge anything but the plainest food. Cream crackers, perhaps, and soft cheese; no alcohol, but the balm of camomile tea. As she went downstairs the house felt totally empty, abandoned by life. Ralph was in town — playing with his personal sex toy — Rupert and Annabel away, her mother isolated from her; she had never felt so completely alone. There was no one she wanted to talk to, because she could not even articulate anything for herself She knew she ought to call the police but the thought was overridden by desperation to keep him — but on what terms? Had Fay asked her that morning what she would do for Randall, she had been so obsessed with the thought of him she would have offered anything … If you weren’t prepared even to die for someone, did you really love them? So would she lie for him? If what he had written was the truth, this Giles was the murderer, not him. Why should Randall be punished for that? But until a few hours ago the thought of the subhumans who had killed Ben and Annie, Cheryl, Thomas and Mandy finally being caught and punished would have brought immense comfort. After Tannerslade it had been a long time before she had been able to rebuild her belief that hanging was wrong. Now there were no certainties.
The answerphone showed there were two messages, and she switched it on as she prepared her meal.
‘Hi. It’s Fay at … ten to six. What the hell’s happened? Randall’s just been here asking for you. He looked paranoid. We’re going out for dinner in an hour, but if you can’t call before then, for God’s sake leave a message. If it’s a real crisis, we’ll be at the Cross Keys in Bury. I’ll come back if you want me to and …’ She sighed. ‘Call me as soon as you can, darling.’
The tape clicked and whirred, then her body froze as the second message began. His voice was strained and clipped.
‘Are you there? Pick up the phone if you are.’ There was a silence. ‘OK, if you are there, I understand. Just … don’t do anything. OK? Let me talk to you. I’m still at the cottage. I’m not running away. We can sort this. I wanted to find a way to tell you. Call me back, yeah? Your bag’s here, incidentally … in case you were worried. I’ll be in all the time, and … No, I can’t say anything on this machine. I’m sorry.’
She thought about what she should do as she finished spreading the cheese and making the tea. If she left no reply, Fay would start pressing panic buttons.
‘It’s me. I’m all right, but I can’t talk about it at the moment. I’ll call you in the morning. Don’t worry.’
The silence of the house was oppressive. She put on a CD, chosen without interest, conscious only that it was sound, and began to eat, soaking away sudden, uncontrollable outbursts of tears with the sleeve of her robe. She went to her leather-topped writing table by the window and took out her letter pad, gazing at the garden for several minutes before starting to write. She heard the phone ring, but had left the answerphone on.
Weariness of mind and body greater than she had ever known overcame her as she sealed the envelope, and she had to use the arms of the dining chair to stand up. Sleep, which she would have thought impossible, was beginning to drug her, as though her brain
were turning off. Climbing the stairs was a physical struggle against surrender, and she almost sank on to the thick, soft carpet rather than make the effort of reaching the bed. She was only half conscious as she sat down, the fading remnants of strength pulling her legs off the floor. As she lay curled on her side, the last thing she was aware of seeing was the rose on the bedside table.
*
Jowett flinched back from the window as the car pulled up outside the cottage. It was not Joyce’s, and who else would come to the cottage at nine thirty in the morning unless … It was not a marked police car, but didn’t the CID use …? Then he recognized Fay and was at the door before she reached it.
‘Is Joyce all right? I’ve been trying to call her, but there’s no reply. I was about to go round and —’
‘Don’t do that. She won’t tell me why, but she doesn’t want to see you at the moment.’ This was not the woman who had made him welcome at the pageant, introduced him to her husband and other people, been interested and warm. ‘She asked me to collect her bag.’
‘What? Oh, yeah. It’s in here.’
She followed him inside, a hostile, suspicious presence. He held out the bag like a peace offering.
‘Thank you.’ She reached into the pocket of her skirt. ‘Joyce asked me to give you this.’
He took the envelope. ‘Did she get my message? On the answerphone.’
‘She didn’t mention it.’
‘What’s she told you?’
‘Nothing. That’s what’s worrying me. She told me yesterday that she was hopelessly in love and was ready to give up everything for you. Did you realize that?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Well, that’s how deeply you reached her, Randall. Now she just refuses to say what happened yesterday afternoon … So will you explain?’
Fay had never meant to keep her promise not to question him. When she had gone to see Joyce first thing that morning she had looked desperate, face blotched with weeping, bloated with clinging sleep, but urgent, as if she had been given only days to live. She wanted Fay to go to the cottage, collect her bag and give Randall the letter. She couldn’t talk about what he’d said or done … She’d deal with it … Fay mustn’t worry … It was all right. Demands for explanations had brought impatient anger. It was impossible for Fay to understand. However Jowett might have rejected her, Joyce’s reaction was too extreme. And now he looked haggard as well; unshaven, feverish with tension, anxious about Joyce.
‘I can’t explain.’
‘Well, I can’t help unless one of you agrees to talk.’ She gave a sharp sigh of frustration. ‘Let me make one thing very clear, Randall. You must know enough to realize that Joyce is vulnerable. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I can get very nasty towards people who hurt my friends. Remember that.’
‘I’d never want to hurt her.’
‘Well, you seem to be doing a very good job of it.’
‘Did she say I’d hurt her?’
‘She didn’t need to. But she wouldn’t tell me how — and apparently neither will you. But I’ve known Joyce a long time, and eventually it’ll come out.’ The instant dread in his eyes excited the worst of her fears. ‘For Christ’s sake, what is it? Have you got Aids? I’ll kill you if you have!’
‘No!’ He was starting to cry. ‘Please … I must talk to her. Just tell her that for me!’
‘All right.’ Fay believed his denial; he was in too much of a state to lie. ‘But I’m not guaranteeing she’ll want to see you at the moment. You mustn’t go anywhere near the house. I’ll act as go-between if necessary … Is that it? I just tell her you want to talk?’
‘Yes. She’ll understand.’
‘Well, that’s more than I do.’ She gave a bitter smile. ‘Why the hell didn’t you choose somewhere else to write your damned book?’
‘Has she told you about it?’
‘What?’ Fay was startled by the edge of fear in his voice. ‘No. I’ve said she won’t tell me anything. Why?’
‘It … it doesn’t matter.’
‘It obviously does … Have you been writing all this up as a hard porn novel? Is that how you got rid of her? You’re seriously sick if you did.’
‘It’s nothing like that … I said I wouldn’t hurt her. The book’s just … I’ve told you before. It’s something private.’
Fay glared with impatience. ‘I can’t be doing with this. If one of you comes to your senses, you know where I am.’
Jowett remained where he was as she left, then returned to the window and watched her drive away. The terrors were multiplying. At least Joyce had not gone straight to the police, but how long would it be before Fay coaxed the truth from her? He had no hold on Fay’s heart. He realized he was still holding the letter and tore it open; six sentences, with what looked like a tearstain smudging one line, signed just with her initials.
I feel sick, but I can’t bring myself to hate you. I need time on my own, so please don’t come to the house again.
You’ve deceived me terribly, and at the moment I can’t think straight. Don’t make it worse by running away again. I’m going away for a few days and we’ll talk when I get back. But I can’t promise I’ll still love you then.
He groaned, feeling as though hammers were smashing down six years of lies. He was unable to cope with this. He opened his wallet and took out the business card, then called the number.
‘Lambert.’ It was not the voice last heard on the Moorgate pavement, surprised and insanely friendly. This was the crackling City executive, efficient, impatient, his name snapped out like a challenge.
‘Giles? It’s Randall … Randall Jowett.’
‘Randy?’ The name he’d never liked being called, the tone instantly relaxed, no apprehension because Giles never expected danger. ‘Good to hear from you. Look, I’ve got someone with me at the moment. Where can I get back to you?’
‘No … There’s a problem.’
‘What sort of problem?’ The relaxation vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
‘A heavy one.’
‘Hang on.’ The phone went dead for a few moments, then he was back, tight with aggressive urgency. ‘What the fuck’s happened?’
The call lasted less than ten minutes, by which time Lambert’s ability to bully had made Jowett helplessly admit where he was, why he had gone there, meeting Joyce, what he had realized when he had seen the laptop —
‘You fucking stupid dickhead!’ Jowett winced and jerked the phone away from his ear. ‘Jesus Christ! Are you out of your fucking mind?’
‘I’m sorry!’
‘Sorry!’ His voice was shaking with fury. ‘What fucking use is sorry? Christ, let me think … Where are you?’
‘I’m still in Finch. In the cottage.’
‘You’ve not even had the bloody sense to get out? You’ve got a death wish … No, hang on. Stay there. Don’t do anything. I’ll be there in … How far is it?’
‘About a couple of hours from London.’
‘Right, I’ll be there … say twelve thirty. How do I find you?’
‘Go to the church and turn down the hill … It’s called Windhover, the name’s on the gate … What are you going to do?’
‘Christ knows, but I’ll think of something. Got a pen? This is my mobile; call me if anything happens before I arrive … You’re certain she’s not gone to the police?’
‘She can’t have done. It was yesterday afternoon when she … No. This friend of hers who came just now would have gone for me if she knew. And if she’s not told her, she won’t have told anyone.’
‘So we’re OK at the moment … I hope she was a bloody good fuck, because it could cost you for screwing her. Right. Don’t go out, and don’t call anyone except me.’
Jowett was shuddering as the line went dead. It was exactly like it had been in nineteen ninety, Lambert totally able to control him. But he’d been right; they hadn’t been caught. Perhaps he’d have an answer this time as well.
&n
bsp; Chapter Nineteen
Arms folded, Fay leant against the frame of the bedroom door, anxious, demanding, silently questioning, never taking her eyes off Joyce as she selected clothes from her wardrobe.
‘There’s no need to stare at me like that. I’m not a freak.’ Joyce snatched a linen trouser suit off its hanger.
‘You look like one from where I’m standing. And I’m not leaving this house until you tell me where you’re going.’
‘Just away.’ Hastily folded, the jacket and trousers were laid in the suitcase and Joyce looked round as if checking she hadn’t forgotten anything. Her voice was artificial, detached. ‘I’ll send you a postcard.’
‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll call Ralph and tell him you’re ill.’
‘Don’t do that. It isn’t true, and anyway he’d only start getting concerned if you told him I was dying.’
‘What about Rupert and Annabel?’
‘They won’t be back until next week, and …’ A lock failed to operate and she became irritated. ‘Back off, will you? Please. I need to be on my own for a while. That’s all.’
‘Let me help you with that.’
‘I can manage!’ The lock snapped shut as she hit it with the heel of her hand and lifted the case off the bed. ‘Where’s my sketchpad? I think it’s downstairs. Can you look? Probably on the sofa in the sitting room.’
‘I’m not going to help you unless you tell me.’
‘Then I’ll do it myself … Excuse me.’
Fay rubbed her forehead wearily as Joyce pushed past her, then she followed her downstairs, collecting the sketchpad and a pack of pencils before joining her on the drive.
‘Here you are.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What have you told Grace?’
‘That I’m going away. I’m allowed.’
‘Doesn’t she want to know why?’
‘Not really …’ She put the pad on top of the case. ‘The only thing she wanted to know was that I was going on my own, and I’ve assured her I am.’
She slammed the boot shut and walked towards the driver’s side, activating her key control. Fay took hold of her before she could open the door.
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