‘You’ve read the truth.’ Lambert saw him take hold of her hand across the table. ‘I came here to see if I could sort myself out, but meeting you confused me even more … I’ve never been loved, I don’t know what it’s about.’ He tightened his grip. ‘I can’t stop you going to the police, but if you do, that’s it for me. I’ve read a lot about prison and I know I’d kill myself in there.’
She sighed. ‘I know that as well … So what do we do?’
‘That’s up to you … but I didn’t run away.’
‘No you didn’t.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you for that … I need more time, all right? My conscience is tearing me apart at the moment. I’ll have to see if I can make peace with it. I promise I won’t do anything — but you must promise to stay at the cottage and I’ll come to see you tomorrow evening. We’ll talk again then. Please, please don’t come to the house … Oh, of course, you don’t know about my mother seeing us, do you?’
‘No.’ He looked puzzled. ‘When I went there to find you, she obviously knew something. I was trying to work out why you’d told her.’
‘I hadn’t, but when we were saying goodbye on Monday morning … It doesn’t matter.’ She raised his hand and kissed it. ‘I want to meet you on this, darling. I just pray I can. For both of us.’
Lambert watched her leave, then waited a few moments before folding his paper and following. Jowett found him waiting by the MGF in the market square; he’d seen Joyce drive away and noted the number of her car.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘She wants more time.’
‘What for?’
‘To think … But she doesn’t want to hand me in.’
‘Did she say that?’
‘Yes … Well, not in those words, but I’m certain she doesn’t.’
‘So what does she want time for?’
‘She said she wants to think some more. She’s coming to the cottage tomorrow evening to talk about it again.’
Lambert turned and dropped The Times in a litter bin by the car. ‘How sure are you that she won’t shoot her mouth off?’
‘Positive at the moment … although she could change her mind. But I’m certain she’ll agree if I ask for time to tell Ruth, so we’ll still be OK.’ He unlocked the car and they got in.
‘I’ll give you one thing,’ Lambert said. ‘She may be pushing it, but she’s still a looker. What was she like in the sack?’
‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
Lambert laughed. ‘The guys I work with have a rule that you’re a winner if you’ve screwed more birds than you’ve driven different cars. I’m three ahead. What’s your score, Randy?’
He smirked crudely when Jowett didn’t reply, then stared out of the window as they drove away.
Chapter Twenty-One
The graves stood bare now, but next week there would be flowers on them for the anniversary, not only from Trevor and Janet Godwin but others in the village; Joyce and Fay always bought them together and stood under the yews for a few minutes, recalling and remembering, aware that the pain was fading, before going back to their lives. Now Joyce sat alone on a bench, her attention caught by a pewter tabby cat stalking delicately as it slithered through long grass towards an unaware thrush; she clapped her hands sharply and the bird flew off. The cat’s head flickered to follow the fluttering movement, then it paused to wash before seeing her and trotting over for affection.
‘Villain,’ she murmured, stroking the purring body and rigid tail trembling with pleasure. ‘They feed you well enough at home.’
The nearer headstone was that of Cheryl and the children, pale marble mottled by six winters a visible sign of the decaying bodies beneath the earth. As a child Joyce would have imagined them white and winged in some vaguely defined pastel-coloured heaven; now she thought of them as intangible spirits in an unknown dimension. Were they aware of what had happened, and waiting for her to inflict punishment? Or didn’t it matter to them now? Whatever, there were no signs, no inner or outer voices, telling her what she must do. All the churchyard offered was solitary peace to contemplate what in Jowett’s case was crime and in hers what used to be called sin. But the graves made no demands. The decision, when it came, was neither right nor wrong, but instinctive, and there were no tears as she gazed at Cheryl’s chiselled name, no need for forgiveness. Cheryl would understand that to love someone so deeply was a valuable thing.
The clock struck eleven, and she was aware that she’d been sitting there for nearly two hours. She thought about going straight to the cottage, but wanted more time alone to think about the consequences that lay beyond her decision. Explaining to him, facing painful practical and emotional problems … What was that line from Chesterton? ‘Ruin is a builder of windows.’ Emerging from dark confusion, she sensed the possibility of light.
*
Lambert had allowed Jowett to go out for food, whisky, more cigarettes. He rang the office again, telling them his mother had passed the crisis but remained seriously ill; it might be Monday before he could return. There was no need to call Victoria; she would be grateful that he was out of the house. Was there a lover? Lack of proof didn’t undermine his conviction, and she was devious enough to hide it; they were probably at it like knives once Becky had been taken to nursery … he physically shook images away. The claustrophobia he felt in the cottage was deepened by being in an alien world. In London you were anonymous; still, insular Finch was filled with eyes that watched. He stayed away from the windows at the front in case he was seen and somebody later remembered.
He had lain awake deep into the night. There were weapons — the meat knife in the kitchen was new, the blade leaving a hairline of blood when he had stroked it experimentally across his finger — and neither of them would be prepared. Jowett had accepted his spurious guilt and denials of ever wanting to kill, and the woman was unaware of his presence. Attacking them together would be dangerous, but if one of them came upstairs to use the bathroom … He had read somewhere about how it should be done. Strike hard — the body was remarkably resistant — and upwards, just below the ribcage. Then deal with the other one … sorted.
He thought about possible problems, trying to drive off the returning sense of fear that he might not be able to go through with it. There was evidence of him all over the house; things he had been in contact with, the bed he had slept in. So he would have to wipe every surface he might have touched … Then torch the place. Wait until night, siphon petrol out of the MGF’s tank and soak the bed linen in it, add those old deckchairs and anything else that would burn quickly, pile it all on top of the bodies. The building was old, the timbers dry … and there was a gas oven. The chapel next door was disused and Jowett had told him the couple in the attached cottage were invalids, wife bedridden, husband half deaf. With no other houses around until you reached the church, nobody would know anything until the actual explosion, and the nearest fire station must be miles away. There would be virtually nothing left by the time the police arrived.
Escape. He would start the fire, say around two in the morning, then leave taking Jowett’s Ordnance Survey map and head towards Bury St Edmunds. It would be tricky walking in the dark and he’d have to avoid roads wherever possible, but it would be light by the time he reached the town and nobody would take any notice of a man going to catch an early train. His Saab was parked in an unrestricted zone just outside the town centre. Someone might have seen it there, but why should they connect it with two deaths in Finch nearly fifteen miles away? He could do nothing about that now, anyway. He’d spend one more day away — he had bought clothes and would take one of Jowett’s cases to become just another businessman booking into a bed and breakfast where they’d accept cash and not ask for identification — then back to London. Not as seamless as Tannerslade had been, but then there had been weeks to plan and perfect it; this was being created in emergency.
The weaknesses were tolerable. Nobody knew he had come to Finch; even after the fire, forensic ex
perts might still find traces of another person in the cottage, but he was unknown to them. The only connection between Giles Lambert and Randall Jowett was Cambridge … unless there was something in Jowett’s flat. The police would go straight there; had the prat written down anything else? He’d have to ask him, making it part of the scheme to escape together. The great thing with Randy was that he couldn’t lie. And if there was something … he’d worry about that if it happened.
And afterwards he would just carry on shifting the stuff until he’d had enough. His only regret later would be that it had been impossible to come up with a method of murdering his wife that offered any hope of getting away with it. Unless one day his life brought him into contact with a contract killer; that would be a good way to close the chapter. But that was daydreaming; he must concentrate on the dangers of the next few hours.
He heard a car pull up outside and withdrew into the kitchen, in case it was some unexpected visitor, but then heard Jowett calling, as if anxious to confirm he was still there.
‘You took your time.’
‘There was a queue. It’s a small shop.’
Lambert took the whisky bottle from the carrier bag and twisted the top loose, then half filled a tumbler and topped it up with tap water. Alcohol could be used as a fire accelerant as well.
‘What time do you think she’ll be here?’
‘I told you. She just said this evening.’ Bizarrely, Jowett was putting things in cupboards. ‘Seven o’clock.’
Lambert checked his watch; eight hours of keeping Jowett under control, dealing with his weird conscience. He momentarily thought of simply killing him, getting that over with, then waiting for her to walk through the door, but there was a possibility she might ring and change the arrangements, perhaps not even come. He needed to ensure they were both where he could deal with them.
‘Did you get a paper?’
‘In the other bag. Times and Telegraph.’
‘You should have bought all of them. Anything to pass the bloody time.’
*
Joyce felt comfort in having chosen her road, having made her decision after so much agony. She could even persuade herself that so terrible a secret might bind them together. But the most immediate problem, one she would have avoided if somehow possible, was explaining to Fay. Truth was out of the question but her lies were transparently inadequate.
‘All right, I admit the whole thing’s mad.’ Seeing Fay’s bewilderment moving from impatience to temper, she retreated to defiant acknowledgement. ‘But it’s a damn sight better than what I’ve got. OK?’
‘The hell it is!’ Fay snapped. ‘Where do you want me to start? Your mother’s going to hate you. Ralph is twisted enough to demand the kids, even though he doesn’t want them, so God help those two. You’ve told me before that Ralph controls the money, and he’ll find some high-octane bastard lawyer who’ll make you fight for every penny. I can think of a dozen people off the top of my head who’ll turn on you. And for what? A man years younger than you whom you jumped into bed with but still know damn all about … and how do you know he’ll agree?’
‘He just will. I know that.’
‘Why? Christ Almighty, they’ll all say they love you if that’s what it takes to get you on your back again. Haven’t you learnt that yet?’
Joyce looked down to where she was twisting her wedding ring on her finger. ‘I obviously can’t explain it, can I? Will I lose you as well?’
‘No. Never that. But don’t expect me to cheer … and you’ve still not told me what happened to make you go away. What the hell did he say to you? That was Tuesday, and you looked as if you wanted to kill yourself. Now it’s Thursday, and suddenly he’s the only thing you want in your life.’
Joyce flinched as Fay took hold of her, fingers digging deep and urgently into her shoulders as she cried in frustration, ‘Why are you lying to me? Tell me!’
She replied like a tearful and captured child, head lowered. ‘There’s nothing to tell. What happened on Monday was just a misunderstanding. We’ve sorted it now. It’s all right.’
Fay peered at her, as though trying to see the hidden truth through the tears, then shook her head. ‘No, it’s not. And you know that … but I can’t help if you won’t trust me.’
‘I don’t need help.’
‘Oh yes you do. And when you realize that, just call Auntie Fay.’ She hugged her. ‘OK, no more quarrelling. This is dreadfully wrong, but … Well, I said you might have to crash and burn. Do you want to talk about practicalities? You’re not planning to pack up and walk out today, are you?’
‘Of course not. I must talk to Rupert and Annabel for a start, and Christ knows how many complications there are in this. It’ll take for ever to sort them out … and I’ve got a weekend from hell coming up.’
‘You’re going to tell Ralph you’re leaving him?’
‘Yes. I think he’ll stop short of locking me in the attic, but he and Mummy will get the thumbscrews out.’
‘You know you can always come and stay with us.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And what about Randall? He’ll still be here, won’t he?’
‘No. I’m seeing him this evening and I’ll ask him to go back to London while I … get the worst of it over. He’ll understand.’
‘You mean he’ll back off while you deal with all the shit on your own.’
‘It’s not like that. I’ve got to handle this. He’ll … be there.’
Fay shook her head sorrowfully. ‘I hope you’re right, darling, but all I can see for you in this is grief.’
*
Sultry and slow, the afternoon crawled as shimmering thermals seeped in to shade and Finch took on a greater stillness, stunned by cauldron heat. Only flying insects moved through the fevered air as cats sprawled death-still, and the wet tongues of dogs hung loose; bricks were warm to the touch, as if fresh from baking ovens; blinding with light, the sun appeared stationary and horizons were blurred.
Stripped to a pair of Jowett’s shorts, Lambert sweated as he stood just by the back door of the cottage, unable to venture into the open in case someone saw him. But there would be little point; outside was no mercy of breeze. He rolled a cold beer can across his chest, then swallowed the last mouthful. He should commit the killings virtually naked so there would be no danger of blood on his clothes; another detail in place. Then a bath — the cottage had no shower — before preparing for the fire. A twinge of fear came back, more difficult to wrestle away. Of course there were risks, but not as great as the alternatives; nothing in life was foolproof, but you either made things happen or they happened to you. What was the use of going down without a struggle? He’d become a murderer six years ago and had remained free, so why not again? And if he succeeded this time, there would be no more enemies. He couldn’t lose it now.
He went back inside, then stopped himself as he opened the fridge and reached for another beer. He could handle it, but the heat and three whiskies were beginning to make him feel sluggish — and he must stay calm and prepared for this evening. Apprehension flickered back as he walked through to the sitting room.
‘What the fuck are you watching?’
Jowett lay on the sofa, staring at the television. ‘It’s a game show.’
‘For the brain dead?’ Lambert sat in a captain’s chair, oak briefly cool against his skin, but almost immediately becoming adhesive. Also wearing only shorts, Jowett was in good condition, lean but with a stomach hard and flat, forearms crafted with slender muscle. It would be best if he was first, taken by surprise, not alerted if he heard her scream. And once he was out of the way, she would be weakened by terror when a man burst in unexpectedly, almost naked, carrying a knife blazoned with blood. She would probably freeze, voice choked to silence, unable to move. The soft flesh below the breasts, diagonally upwards, all his strength behind it … No more than a minute from first to second strike. He could do that.
‘What else is on?’
�
�What? Kid’s stuff, I think. Might be something on BBC2. Shall I switch over?’
‘No, just turn this crap off.’ Jowett obediently pressed the control and the cottage became silent. He picked The Times off the floor.
‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘No … Yeah.’ It would help to soak up the alcohol. ‘Some of that cheese and one of those rolls. Thanks.’
Look at you waiting on me. No wonder she can twist you any way she wants.
*
It was a brief calm between storms — and there would be many of those. French doors wide open but curtains closed, the pale sitting room faced west, so the sun was only just touching it and the parquet floor was cool. How much would Ralph fight over what she would want to take? From this room the portrait of herself as a child, her porcelain thimble collection, the silver salver her father had left her, the carriage clock that had been a fortieth birthday present from Fay and Oliver. Mentally she ran over the rest of the house; apart from her clothes and books there were remarkably few things she treasured. Too many of them were associated with Ralph. So little baggage — apart from anguish over the children, which would surely pass as they grew older; there was no reason why she could not continue to be a good mother, if in a different way … And, of course, her share of his guilt.
‘Oh, hell,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Forgive me for that.’
Loneliness was so absolute surely it could grow no worse. Her mother remained frigid with disapproval, impatient for Ralph’s return so that this unpleasantness could be dealt with. Worried and confused, knowing she had been lied to, Fay waited for her to find her way back to sanity, unable to reach her until she did. There was only Randall, scared and pleading, alone like herself, offering desperate — and, to be honest, mad — hope she was able to weave into dreams that she couldn’t allow to be false.
The carriage clock chimed six and she went upstairs to shower and change. Something lightweight and simple — but nothing that made her look desirable. This was not the time for sex, however much she might long for it. They had to talk, to find ground where only they could meet, agree that the past could not be buried but must be accommodated in the heart. She could help by forgiving, and surely once such darkness had been lifted, they could build. But she knew it must not be through compulsion or a sense of terrified gratitude. If Randall did not come to her willingly, she would have to let him go and live with herself … which meant there was a more absolute loneliness.
Victims Page 23