Person or Persons Unknown

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she exclaimed, recognizing the car in the drive. ‘It’s my mother!’

  In confirmation, the letterbox rattled and a voice called through it, ‘Lindsey! Are you there? It’s Mum!’

  She gazed at Jonathan, stricken. ‘What shall I do?’ she whispered in panic.

  ‘I told you, ignore it. She’ll go away.’

  ‘But I can’t – she must know I’m working from home, or she wouldn’t have come. I’ll have to let her in. Stay where you are – she won’t come in here.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lindsey, get rid of her! Time’s getting on! I’ve an appointment in forty minutes!’

  Ignoring him, she ran naked on to the landing and leaned over the banisters. ‘Sorry, Mum!’ she called down. ‘I’m washing my hair. Hang on – I’ll be down in a minute.’

  She seized her dressing gown from the back of the door, ran into the bathroom and, bending over the bath, briefly switched on the shower. As she wound a towel round her dripping hair, she caught a glimpse of her reflection, cheeks flushed and eyes still bright from love-making.

  Without glancing at Jonathan, still on the bed with a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, she pulled the door shut, ran breathlessly down the stairs and pulled open the door. Avril stood smiling on the doorstep.

  ‘So this is how you “work at home”!’ she said. And then, as Lindsey pulled the sash on her gown closer, ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but I’m afraid I can only spare a minute.’

  She stood aside for her mother to precede her up the stairs, praying that Jonathan hadn’t left anything in the sitting room. ‘I had an urgent case to prepare,’ she explained belatedly, ‘which is why I postponed my shower till lunch time.’ True as far as it went, though the shower had been taken before Jonathan’s arrival. ‘Also, I’m expecting an important call at –’ her eyes flicked to the clock – ‘a quarter to two, and I’ve not finished preparing for it.’

  Looking at her mother properly for the first time, and primed by her expectant expression, she suddenly registered the new hairstyle.

  ‘Oh, Mum – you’ve had your hair cut! It looks super!’

  ‘I wanted you to be the first to see it,’ Avril said. ‘I went straight to the office from the hairdresser’s, but they said you were working at home, so I came on here. You really do like it?’

  ‘It’s great!’ Lindsey assured her sincerely, studying the style as Avril slowly rotated for her. ‘You look about ten years younger – really with it!’

  Avril laughed in pleased embarrassment. ‘I’m glad you approve.’

  ‘It’ll certainly stop Pops in his tracks!’

  Avril’s smile faded. ‘I did it for my own satisfaction, not your father’s,’ she said, and Lindsey’s heart sank. Desperately she glanced at the clock again. Jonathan would be getting increasingly restive, and there was no way he could shower while Avril was there – the running water would be a giveaway. As the thought formed, the phone rang suddenly, startling her.

  ‘Lindsey Parish,’ she said into it.

  ‘Get her the hell out! Now!’ said a low voice in her ear. Jonathan, on his mobile.

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ Lindsey murmured, heart pounding. She turned pleadingly to her mother. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ she whispered, her hand over the receiver. ‘He’s a few minutes early.’

  ‘I’ll let myself out,’ Avril whispered back, and, with a small wave, she ran down the stairs and pulled the front door shut behind her. Immediately the shower sounded in the en suite.

  Shakily Lindsey replaced the phone, went through to the bedroom, and tidied the bed. When Jonathan emerged from the bathroom, she was drying her hair.

  ‘Narrow squeak, or what?’ she said.

  ‘Too narrow by half. Does she make a habit of that?’

  ‘Believe it or not, it’s the first time ever.’

  ‘Just my luck.’ He dressed quickly, standing at the mirror to tie his tie.

  ‘She only delayed you by five minutes,’ Lindsey said in mitigation.

  He glanced at his watch and nodded. ‘No big deal, fortunately.’ He kissed her quickly. ‘See you,’ he said, and was gone.

  Ten

  In the days following the newspaper insertion, Rona had received about a dozen calls on her mobile, equally divided between people claiming to have known Gemma, and those recalling families who had emigrated. All of them, to Rona’s relief, could be dealt with over the phone.

  The ones regarding Gemma described her variously as ‘pretty’, ‘moody’, ‘good fun’ and ‘difficult’, depending on the perception of the caller, but nothing significantly new emerged. On the emigrating families, four names came up, two of them more than once, and included several young men who were confidently asserted to be the father of her baby. However, since the rider: ‘as I told the police at the time’ was invariably added, it was clear Rona could discount them. As to the departing families, their destinations varied and emigration dates were vague – ‘It must have been either ’78 or ’79’ being the closest they came. She’d follow them up as a matter of course, but she was not hopeful.

  And that seemed to be that, she thought, discouraged; the newspaper hadn’t been much help after all. Admittedly she still had pointers to Jonathan Hurst and Philip Yarborough, neither of whom she was anxious to pursue. An added worry was how could she alert Lindsey to Jonathan’s connection without arousing her antipathy.

  On impulse, she phoned her. ‘We mentioned a foursome,’ she began. ‘Any chance of it coming off?’

  ‘Could be tricky,’ Lindsey replied. ‘Incidentally, Mamma nearly caught us in flagrante yesterday! She called at the flat while Jonathan was on one of his lunch-time visits.’

  ‘I didn’t know he made lunch-time visits,’ Rona said mildly.

  ‘He does when I’m working from home. Anyway, Mum has a new hair-do to go with her altered image, and she called round for my approval.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Very chic, actually, but she bit my head off when I said Pops would approve, insisting she’d done it for her own benefit.’

  ‘Sounds as though things are no better, then. But about Jonathan – what do you think?’

  ‘Well, weekends are out, naturally. Whether or not he could swing a ‘business dinner’ on Friday, I don’t know.’

  ‘Like to ask him?’

  ‘Yes, I will. Thanks, Ro. Are you free for lunch, by the way?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m off to Hester Latymer’s in an hour or so.’

  ‘Name-dropper!’ Lindsey retorted. ‘Enjoy yourself, and I’ll get back to you about the meal.’

  As Rona replaced the receiver, she thought back to the family group in the park, the children running happily ahead, the parents strolling after them. They’d not looked like a couple in the process of divorcing, she reflected uneasily, and yet again found herself fearing for her sister’s happiness.

  Tom sat at his desk, restlessly tapping his pen. This week, there’d been another notch-up in Avril’s self-improvement programme. He admitted to himself that he’d not expected it to last, and by the end of the previous week it had seemed he was right. Now, though, with her ultra-modern haircut, she looked like an executive of a multinational.

  Her manner was different, too. Last week she’d seemed uncertain and vulnerable, anxious for his approval. Yesterday, there’d been a take-it-or-leave-it air about her, and when – since he could scarcely ignore it – he’d complimented her on the new style, she’d merely shrugged and turned aside with a careless, ‘Glad you like it’, as though his opinion were of no consequence.

  Irritably, he wished she’d at least be consistent. For years now her drab appearance had gone hand in hand with constant sniping at himself and, to a lesser degree, the girls. Consequently, her sudden smartening up had startled him, as had her palpable effort to be pleasant. Admittedly this latter was of short duration – possibly, he thought uncomfortably, because he’d not met her halfway – but instead o
f reverting to type, she’d changed again, acquiring a hard gloss that, intentionally or not, seemed to exclude him. And after briefly relapsing to supper on trays, they were again eating in the dining room. He no longer knew what to make of her, and the fact annoyed him. Whether or not her metamorphosis would make easier the parting he’d decided on remained to be seen.

  The Latymers’ constituency home was in Park Rise, a leafy avenue of substantial houses at the upper end of Furze Hill Park, much sought after for its high position and views over the town. Its paintwork, like that of its neighbours, was a dazzling white against the rose brick, but its exaggerated Dutch gables gave it a character of its own, emphasized by the nameplate, Holland House, attached to the gatepost.

  The gates themselves stood open, but since the circular drive was already clogged with cars, Rona parked outside. Easier for a quick getaway, she thought guiltily.

  She was admitted by a uniformed maid and shown into a large, airy room seemingly full of well-dressed women. Hester materialized beside her and handed her a glass of champagne.

  ‘Rona – I hope I may call you that? – I’m so glad you could come. We’ll all introduce ourselves shortly – I find it breaks the ice at these little gatherings – but in the meantime, come and meet one of James’s colleagues, Lydia Playfair.’

  The MP for Stokely, Rona remembered; she’d seen a by-election poster on her last visit. The woman turned at the sound of her name, holding out her hand with a smile.

  ‘Lydia, this is Rona Parish,’ Hester said, and immediately excused herself to greet the latest arrival.

  ‘Is this your first attendance?’ Lydia Playfair enquired lazily, surveying Rona over a pair of large tortoiseshell glasses.

  ‘Attendance?’

  ‘At a Professional Women’s Luncheon. Hester holds three or four a year.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, it’s my first time; I only met her recently.’

  ‘She always tries for new people, but occasionally – particularly if there’s a cancellation – some of us are recycled.’ Her mouth quirked. ‘I’m on the reserve list. A word of warning, by the way: you’ll be called on in a minute to give a brief spiel. We all will.’

  ‘What about, for goodness sake?’

  ‘Our life’s work,’ said Ms Playfair, and laughed at Rona’s expression. ‘No, not really. Just your name, and a brief account of what you do. No one knows each other yet, so it’s a way of giving us a talking point.’

  Rona was digesting this when someone tapped her shoulder, and she turned to find herself face to face with Magda.

  ‘Hello, fellow Professional Woman!’ she said.

  ‘Magda – how good to see you!’ Rona half-turned to Lydia Playfair. ‘This is—’

  But the two women were already shaking hands. ‘I know who she is,’ Magda said. ‘Lydia patronizes my Stokely boutique – in fact, she performed the opening ceremony.’

  ‘It made a change from supermarkets!’ Lydia said with a smile. ‘How long have you two known each other?’

  ‘From my first day at primary school,’ Magda replied.

  Hester, reappearing in the doorway, clapped her hands, and the buzz of conversation died away.

  ‘Now, ladies, if you would all find a seat, we’ll have a brief introductory session before we go through for lunch.’

  There was a pause, while everyone looked for somewhere to sit. Rona perched on the arm of a sofa next to Magda, and for the first time had a clear sight of her fellow guests, whose ages seemed to range from thirty to sixty.

  ‘Lydia will start us off,’ Hester announced, ‘since she knows the drill, then each of you follow on in turn.’

  Ms Playfair, now across the room from Rona, obligingly did so. ‘I’m Lydia Playfair, Conservative MP for Stokely East.’ She paused, and added, ‘I think that says it all!’

  There was general laughter. Lydia turned to the woman next to her, who said hastily, ‘Cynthia Benson, managing director of Benson Landscaping and Garden Maintenance.’

  They followed on in sequence and Rona tried to memorize names and occupations: Davina Medhurst, a surgeon at the Royal County; Beatrice Collins, head of the local sixth form college; Jacqueline Stone, a barrister. Then, after Magda, it was her turn, and her admission to being a biographer and freelance journalist elicited the usual interested murmurs.

  ‘Right,’ Hester said, ‘now we all know each other, do come through for lunch.’

  The table in the dining room across the hall was laid for eight, and there was a name card in each place. Rona found herself on her hostess’s left, opposite Lydia Playfair and with Cynthia Benson on her own left. Magda, being on the same side of the table, was out of Rona’s sight.

  ‘Whose biography have you written?’ Cynthia Benson enquired, as soon as they’d settled themselves. She was a small, dumpy woman in her fifties, but she’d an attractive smile and her eyes were alert and interested.

  ‘Conan Doyle for one,’ Hester answered, before Rona could speak. ‘It was excellent, as was that on Sarah Siddons. And there’s another, isn’t there, Rona?’

  ‘William Pitt the Elder,’ Rona supplied. ‘I chose him because he seemed less well known than his son.’

  ‘That’s right; but I learned a lot about him from your book.’ Hester started to serve soup from the tureen in front of her. ‘You really make your subjects come alive.’

  ‘If you’re into politicians,’ Lydia remarked, passing the filled bowls down the table, ‘you should do one of James. I’m sure he’d love it! Has he any odd little foibles, Hester?’

  ‘None printable! Except, perhaps, a penchant for quoting A. A. Milne. “The more it snows, tiddly-pom”, and so on.’

  Lydia gave a hoot of laughter. ‘From now on, I shall address him as Pooh!’

  ‘I shouldn’t advise it! Seriously, though,’ Hester added, turning back to Rona, ‘how do you go about choosing your subjects?’

  ‘I think of someone I’d like to know more about myself, then find out if anyone has written his or her biography recently. I say “recently”, because it’s virtually impossible to find anyone of note who hasn’t been written about at some stage, but if it’s a while ago, you can be lucky in unearthing new information.’

  ‘Are you working on one now?’ asked Davina Medhurst, who, sitting next to Lydia, had been listening to their conversation.

  ‘No, I’m wearing my journalistic hat at the moment.’

  ‘She did the Buckford series in Chiltern Life.’ Hester seemed to have appointed herself publicity agent, but Rona, feeling she’d had more than her share of attention, didn’t elaborate. Even so, the subject wasn’t allowed to drop.

  ‘You’re still working on it?’ Cynthia Benson pursued.

  ‘No, I’m – actually trying to find someone’s birth parents,’ Rona said reluctantly.

  ‘There was something about that in last week’s Gazette,’ interposed Jacqueline Stone, adding astutely, as Rona bit her lip, ‘Is that the one you’re involved with?’

  The whole table awaited her reply. ‘Actually, yes,’ she acknowledged quietly.

  ‘The girl whose mother was murdered?’ Cynthia again.

  ‘Poor child,’ observed Beatrice Collins. ‘Imagine being all excited about finding your mother, only to discover she’d been killed.’

  ‘Obviously it’s her father we’re looking for,’ Rona said aridly. ‘But that’s enough about me and my work.’ She turned determinedly to Cynthia beside her. ‘Tell me about landscaping. I’ve only a tiny garden myself, but I’ve always been interested in it.’

  Cynthia hesitated, sensing everyone’s reluctance to let the subject drop, but politeness demanded an answer, and Rona was at last able to withdraw from the spotlight.

  For the rest of the meal – salmon in pastry with green salad, followed by syllabub – the conversation remained reassuringly general, each woman in turn being quizzed on her speciality. Rona had to hand it to Hester – her method was a good means of getting to know people. She learned among othe
r things that Cynthia’s firm did landscaping for the borough council and had been responsible for the layout of several parks, as well as advising on private gardens; that Jacqueline Stone was defending a case at the Old Bailey, and that Davina had successfully separated conjoined twins. An interesting group, indeed.

  Talk continued over coffee in the drawing room, where they sat chatting in small groups, and it was almost three thirty by the time the party broke up and people began to leave, promising each other to keep in touch. Rona wondered how many would follow through that transitory resolve.

  She and Magda left together, and stood talking on the pavement beside Rona’s car.

  ‘You created a stir with your investigation,’ Magda commented.

  ‘Thanks to you!’ Rona retorted.

  ‘I?’ Magda exclaimed indignantly. ‘I never said a word!’

  ‘You started it in the first place; if you hadn’t admitted to knowing me at that office party, none of this would have happened.’

  Magda conceded the point. ‘Are you getting anywhere?’

  ‘Well, we tracked down the maternal grandparents, but they’re no great shakes. Zara didn’t even like them.’

  ‘Nothing yet on the father?’

  Rona shook her head. ‘Still, I said I’d give it six weeks, and I will. Whether or not I find him in that time is in the lap of the gods, but at least it won’t be for want of trying.’

  ‘You should join the Mounties,’ Magda said with a smile. ‘They always get their man! See you!’ And with a lifted hand, she walked along the pavement to her own car.

  When Rona reached home, there was a message from Lindsey to the effect that she and Jonathan would be delighted to come to supper on Friday. She broke the news to Max on his return, and he was less than enthusiastic.

  ‘I’d been going to suggest the cinema; there’s a good film on, and it’s some time since we’ve been.’

  ‘We can go on Saturday,’ Rona said.

  He glanced at her suspiciously. ‘You’re not going to tax him with knowing that girl, are you?’

  She smiled. ‘How well you know me, darling!’