‘What?’
‘He wasn’t even going to take her to the hospital, but I more or less made him.’
‘You – Lindsey, for Pete’s sake slow down! Start at the beginning.’
Rona listened in growing incredulity to her sister’s account. ‘Is she badly hurt?’
‘He says not, but if you ask me, it’s a wonder she’s not dead! He admitted he was upstairs himself at the time.’
‘Admitted, or told you?’
‘Whatever. What should we do?’
‘There’s nothing we can do. Are you sure he took her to the hospital?’
‘Yes; at least, he took her somewhere. I waited at my window till I saw his car leave.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘When I got back, the front door was wide open, as, of course, I’d left it. Anyone could have got in.’
‘In that small cul-de-sac, with you standing at the entrance to it?’
‘OK, OK; I’m just a bit jumpy at the minute. I searched the flat, but all was well.’ Lindsey paused. ‘It looks as though Max was right, doesn’t it? About Philip? Are you going to tell him?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so. Linz, about Hugh—’
‘Oh, and I told Philip you knew Selina,’ Lindsey interrupted.
There was a moment’s silence. Then Rona said, ‘So not only do you appear on his doorstep at a decidedly inopportune moment, but you make references to a past he’d much rather forget. What was it you said, about not wanting to be murdered in your bath? You’re certainly going the right way about it! God, Lindsey, for all we know, he could have killed Gemma!’ She paused. ‘How did he react?’
‘He shivered,’ Lindsey said sulkily, ‘but I left before he could say anything.’
‘Brilliant!’
‘Oh, come on! You said I was in a better position to tackle him!’
‘But under controlled conditions.’
Lindsey gave a snort. ‘You sound like a scientist!’
‘Well, he now knows we’re aware of the Gemma connection.’ As does Jonathan, Rona thought; had she herself been equally irresponsible? ‘Just watch your back, that’s all.’
She was taking a ready meal out of the freezer when, once more, she was interrupted by the phone.
Not Lindsey again! she thought in exasperation as she caught it up. ‘Yes? What now?’
A voice said with mild amusement, ‘Sounds as though you were expecting me!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized automatically, registering that this time it had been her mobile that rang. ‘I thought my sister …’ Her voice trailed off as, belatedly, she identified her caller of that morning.
‘Yes, it’s me again,’ he confirmed. ‘I was wondering if you’d had second thoughts about our meeting? It really would be to your advantage.’
‘I’m sorry. There’ve been so many replies, I had to take the decision to see no one personally.’ It sounded a reasonable enough excuse.
‘Learned anything interesting?’
‘Several things, yes.’ Again, not strictly accurate.
‘Nothing as good as what I have, I bet.’
‘Then tell me. Otherwise, I must ask you not to call again.’
He gave a low laugh that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. ‘Oh, I’ll be keeping in touch, I assure you. Sooner or later, curiosity will get the better of you.’ And he broke the connection.
The next time the phone rang, when she was halfway through her meal, she made no move to answer it. The machine clicked on, and after her own message, Tess Chadwick’s voice filled the room. ‘Hi, Rona. Nothing urgent; I just wondered how things were going.’
She lifted the phone. ‘Sorry, Tess; this is the fourth call I’ve had in about forty minutes, and the last one was a bit dodgy.’
‘How so?’
‘Some bloke wanting to meet me, and not taking no for an answer.’
‘About Gemma?’
‘Yes. He won’t say what it is on the phone.’
‘Then forget it,’ Tess said briskly. ‘I was ringing to see what kind of response you’d had. I presume you saw the letters last week?’
‘Yes; Selina won’t be pleased at being dragged into it.’
‘Did she agree to meet you?’
‘Not only that, I spent the night with her!’ Rona explained what had happened. ‘Thanks so much for the intro, Tess. Once she realized Gemma’s daughter was involved, she was great. She’s even passing on a few of Gemma’s possessions that she’s come across. Nothing vital,’ she added, ‘but it’ll be interesting all the same.’
‘So you owe me a meal,’ Tess said.
‘Which I’ll be delighted to honour on my next visit.’
‘Anything on emigrating families?’
‘Nothing worth following up. Quite honestly, I don’t think I’ve a cat in hell’s chance of finding the father.’
‘Which leaves the murderer,’ Tess said caustically. ‘Is that part of your brief?’
‘It was suggested,’ Rona answered tightly, ‘but I didn’t take it on.’
Tess gave a low laugh. ‘Why don’t I believe you?’
When she’d rung off, Rona tipped the remains of the cold food into the bin and switched on the kettle. Had Lindsey put them both in danger, by challenging Philip Yarborough? Had she, with Jonathan Hurst? This, she reflected, was what both Max and Dinah had warned her against: keep well clear of any murder hunt. And yet, even if she were successful in finding the father, she’d feel she’d accomplished only half her task if the murder remained unsolved.
What could possibly have been the motive for Gemma’s death? None had ever been established. The flat had been searched, but as far as could be seen, nothing taken. Had the intruder been interrupted? Or panicked on finding someone at home? Even so, there’d been no need to murder her. On the other hand, had he – or she – come specifically to kill Gemma, in which case the cursory search was a red herring? But for heaven’s sake, why?
The kettle whistled, startling Rona out of her reverie, and she made the coffee. It had been an eventful day: two calls from this unknown man; lunch with Max and James Latymer; Hugh’s reported reappearance on the scene, then the business with the Yarboroughs – Adele allegedly falling downstairs, and Lindsey challenging Philip over Selina. And it was only Monday! she thought humorously.
‘Come on, Gus,’ she said, picking up her coffee mug, ‘let’s go and watch some mindless television. I’ve had enough of the real world.’
Twelve
The next morning when, having contacted the O’Tooles, Rona set off for Chilswood, she had still not told Max about Adele. It was cold and misty, already more than halfway through October, and her deadline for this project was November the twelfth. Why, she wondered despairingly, had she ever taken it on? At least she’d switched off her mobile before leaving home; she’d no intention of being harassed yet again by her anonymous but persistent caller.
Chilswood was known for its thriving industrial estate, rather than as a desirable place to live. The town itself had been designed in grids of parallel roads full of small semis, each with a patch of garden front and back. To Rona’s jaundiced eye, they seemed to have no distinguishing features.
She pulled up outside that corresponding to the address Selina had given, walked up the path and rang the bell. It was opened by a small woman in a neat jumper and skirt, who gave her a shy smile.
‘Well now, Miss Parish, isn’t it?’ She spoke with a lilting brogue entirely divorced from Selina’s rasping tones. Had her daughter deliberately shed her accent when she made first radio and then television her career? ‘Could I offer you a cup of tea, since you’ve driven all this way?’
Rona returned her smile. ‘It’s not that far, Mrs O’Toole, and I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘Sure, it’s no trouble. Isn’t the kettle already boiling, since you said you’d be here at eleven?’
‘Then thank you, that’s very kind.’
Everything in the house seemed to be as small and n
eat as its mistress, including the elderly man who rose to his feet as Rona was shown into the front room. He was wearing an obviously home-knitted Fair Isle sweater and corduroy trousers and looked, Rona thought facetiously, like a leprechaun, with his red hair and puckish face.
‘My husband,’ Mrs O’Toole introduced – though he could hardly be anyone else. ‘This is Selina’s friend, Miss Parish, Dermot.’
He shook her hand gravely, with an old-fashioned little bow. ‘A pleasure to meet you, miss.’
‘Selina told us you’re looking into that old murder,’ Mrs O’Toole said, pouring the tea.
‘For Gemma’s daughter, yes,’ Rona replied, feeling the need to defend herself.
‘A terrible thing it was.’
Rona took her tea with a murmur of thanks. ‘Did you ever meet Gemma?’
Man and wife shook their heads, and Dermot, seeming to feel an explanation was called for, offered one. ‘Stokely’s a long way from here, Miss Parish, and we’d no car. Selina came home every month or so, but we never visited her.’ He accepted the bun his wife passed him. ‘When the – tragedy happened, we were worried she might be next, and tried every which way to get her out of the flat, but she wouldn’t budge. “It’s my home,” she said.’
‘How long did she stay there after Gemma died?’ Rona enquired.
‘A year or so, wasn’t it, Kathleen? Till she married that chap, anyway.’
Selina’s first husband; Rona wondered who he was, but didn’t like to ask. Had he, she wondered suddenly, been one of the tennis-club crowd? And if so, could that be important?
She said tentatively, ‘I suppose Gemma must have known him?’
‘For sure she would, for wasn’t he her boss at the time?’
‘He worked at County Radio?’ At least that exonerated the group.
‘That’s right.’
In all conscience she could ask no more. In any case, it felt uncomfortably like checking up on Selina, which had not been her intention. Finishing her tea, she rose to her feet.
‘I believe you’ve some things of Gemma’s for me?’
‘Yes, they’re ready waiting on the hall stand. But will you not take another cup, before you go?’
‘Thank you, no. That was very welcome, but I must be on my way.’
Out in the hall, Mrs O’Toole handed her an old shoe box. ‘Not much to show for a life, is it, now?’
‘Nevertheless, her daughter will be pleased to have it.’
She nodded, satisfied. ‘That’s as it should be.’
They stood side by side on the step, waiting to wave her off, and Rona wondered what they made of their daughter’s high-profile lifestyle. She reckoned it had done little to change their own, and perhaps, as Mrs O’Toole had said, that was as it should be.
Lindsey sat nervously in the Gallery Café, watching the street below. Hugh, sounding surprised to hear from her, had not been free for lunch, as she’d suggested, but had promised to slip out for a quick cup of coffee. She wished he’d hurry; she had to be back in her own office in half an hour. Then she caught sight of him approaching from the direction of Windsor Way, watched him glance at his watch and cross the road towards her. Minutes later he appeared in the doorway and made his way over to her table, looking slightly apprehensive.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said as he seated himself. ‘What’s it all about?’
Lindsey waited till the pre-ordered coffee had been brought and poured. Then she looked up and met his eyes, trying to ignore the insistent pounding of her blood. Damn him, why did he always affect her like this?
‘I want to know why you asked after my parents.’
He reddened. ‘Oh God, I hoped you’d forgotten that.’
She leant forward. ‘So there was something! I knew it!’
‘Look, Lindsey, it’s none of my business and I don’t want to be the bearer of tales. If your parents are well, as you said, then fine. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘Not good enough, I’m afraid.’
He said, ‘That was Jonathan Hurst you were with, wasn’t it?’
Her heart missed a beat. ‘You know him?’
‘By sight. We’ve attended some of the same dinners. You two an item?’
‘No,’ she answered with deliberation, ‘we work together.’
He smiled, and she said angrily, ‘You’re changing the subject! What do you mean, the bearer of tales?’
He drank his coffee without replying.
‘Hugh!’
‘I’ve missed you, Lindsey,’ he said.
She caught her breath. ‘There wasn’t much sign of it, the last time I saw you.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Yesterday?’
‘No, in Sainsbury’s.’
After a minute his face cleared. ‘Oh, that was Sally Armitage, the wife of the chap I was staying with while I flat-hunted.’ He paused, and added in partial explanation, ‘I was still angry with you at the time.’
All that jealousy for nothing! Ignoring his last sentence, she said more calmly, ‘Presumably you found one? A flat?’
‘Yes, in Talbot Road. Quite pleasant, and handy for the office.’
Lindsey set down her cup. ‘Hugh, we’ve fenced round this long enough, and we haven’t much time. Tell me what you know about my parents.’
He sighed. ‘You might regret hearing it.’
‘Let me be the judge.’
‘I wouldn’t normally have mentioned it, but I was thrown at seeing you, and casting around for something to say.’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Look, I like your father. I wouldn’t—’
‘What about my father?’
Hugh looked down at the table. ‘All right, but don’t shoot the messenger, OK? I saw him one weekend, at Penbury Court.’
‘So?’
‘With – someone who wasn’t your mother.’
Lindsey stared at him, and something in her expression caused him to lay a hand quickly over hers. She snatched it away.
‘Who was it?’
‘God, I don’t know! His accountant, perhaps – a long-lost cousin?’
Lindsey swallowed. ‘What were they doing?’
‘Walking along by the lake.’ He paused, met her eyes and looked away again. ‘Arm in arm.’
‘Catherine Bishop,’ Lindsey said under her breath.
‘You know about her? All this twisting my arm, and you knew all along?’
‘Suspected, not knew. Rona saw them once.’
‘But – everything’s all right at home?’
‘Not so that you’d notice,’ she said grimly.
‘God, I am sorry.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first broken marriage in the family.’
He said steadily, ‘Nothing is broken beyond repair.’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Stop it, Hugh.’
‘I still love you.’
‘Stop it!’ She drank her coffee quickly, burning her tongue. ‘I must be going,’ she said hurriedly, pushing back her chair.
‘Leaving me to pick up the tab as usual?’
She looked at him quickly, saw he was smiling. ‘Thanks for agreeing to come.’
‘Any excuse, Lindsey. You know that.’
She picked up her handbag and fled.
Out on the pavement, she attempted to clear her head. She hadn’t time, now, to ponder the subtext of Hugh; it was her father who loomed, large and suddenly threatening, in her thoughts. How could he? she thought chokingly. Mum had made an effort – she really had – and all the time … It struck her that she’d not asked Hugh when he’d seen them, but thinking back, it must have been that Saturday Mum was off playing bridge. Before their shopping trip, then; perhaps her new image had made him think again?
She must get back to the office, but she’d phone Rona later, see what she thought. Still turning over possibilities, Lindsey hurried to keep her appointment.
Since she’d stopped on the way back to let Gus have a run, it was one thirty before Rona reac
hed home. She carried the shoe box downstairs and put it on the kitchen table while she took out biscuits, cheese, and a bottle of mineral water for her lunch. Then, with a feeling of anticipation, she sat down and removed the lid.
Her first impression was that what lay inside resembled the contents of a drawer that had been tipped unceremoniously into the box. Which, quite likely, was precisely what it was. There were bottles of congealed nail polish in various colours; a couple of lipsticks, a crumpled bus ticket, an appointment card from the baby clinic. And, as Selina had told her, several airmail letters from Joyce Cowley – or Joyce Grant, as she had then been. Rona hesitated, uncomfortable about reading them, but it was possible she’d find something Selina had missed.
Her guilt was short-lived; there was nothing personal in these letters, and though they all began ‘Dear Gemma’ and ended ‘Affectionately, Mother’, little enough affection was shown in them. Indeed, they could have passed as official accounts of life in South Africa – fauna, flora, politics, climate, and a series of social engagements. Nonetheless, though according to Joyce she’d never received a reply, each one had been read over and over; the ink was smudged, and the thin paper had come apart along the creases. Rona wondered uneasily how Zara would react to this stilted, one-sided correspondence.
Only the last letter showed any maternal concern:
It was good to speak to you the other evening, and to know you and the baby are well. I’m only sorry you didn’t tell me you were expecting her. I must urge you, though, to try to contact the father. He has a duty to contribute to her upkeep. In the meantime, please let me know if there’s anything you need.
Thoughtfully Rona spread cheese on a biscuit. That final letter was dated 17th December 1978; Joyce must have phoned immediately she received the Christmas card announcing Amanda’s birth. She thought of the tanned, muscular woman bracing herself to meet them, and felt the first stirring of pity. Despite her new husband and opulent lifestyle, she would always be haunted by her daughter’s death – and perhaps by that daughter’s loss, long before she died.
It wasn’t until Rona went to the fruit bowl in search of dessert that she noticed the answerphone was registering two messages. She’d been so absorbed when she came in that, unusually, she hadn’t checked. She pressed the button and Lindsey’s indignant voice filled the room.
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