The Decoy

by Florrie Palmer

  Eliza was always surprised when the usually frivolous “party girl” Francesca became a serious down-to-earth friend. More surprising still was that, in such situations, she drank much less than usual. Being the counsellor suited her. This side rarely made an appearance and it made Eliza like her even more. It also explained why the woman was such a good actress. She could touch people’s hearts because she understood the depths of their souls.

  For a short time, the girls played a half-hearted game of Scrabble until giving up. By 10.30pm, the excess apprehension had tired them, and they too were grateful to call it an early night.

  Having shown Francesca where the bathroom was, Eliza took her to the larger of the two spare bedrooms, turned down her bed and opened the window. She made to kiss her goodnight but instead gave her a big hug, saying, “Please try not to worry about it tonight, Francesca. There’ll be enough time for–”

  A powerful screech cut through the air. Francesca jumped. “What the fuck was that?”

  Eliza patted her back. “Only the resident barn owl. Don’t fret, darling, try to get some sleep.” She hugged the unsettled woman again. “Happy dreams. Goodnight.”

  As she left the room, she silently told herself off for the second time that day for not having been careful enough with her words. How could Francesca be likely to have happy dreams in view of the evening’s events?

  Eliza was right. Her friend’s dreams were not happy and neither did she have a good night. Nor, come to that, did Jay.

  8

  23 June

  Both Hamish and Katie were attempting, but failing, to neglect hangovers the following morning. Hamish was up by about eight thirty, allowing Katie to stay in bed a while longer. He made the children breakfast. A dependable chap, she knew he would make a smooth job of cooking for the tribe. A family that tended towards regimen, the Nicholsons always had weekend breakfasts of eggs, bacon, toast, tomatoes, mushrooms and spinach.

  Like Jay, Eliza and Francesca, they had gone home to their house, eaten something and sat up drinking round their kitchen table, but unlike the others, they had drunk at least a bottle of red each.

  Katie had wanted to stay up and discuss what might have happened at the Ryans’ house but Hamish had not. That was unlike him in some ways, but then she had noticed that he wasn’t quite himself lately. He didn’t seem to want to sit up till late like they used to, and was prone to going to bed early these days. It had flitted across Katie’s mind that he might have some sort of illness, but she knew that that was not really it. There was something else. Probably worried about work, she told herself, but a niggle remained in her mind. Had Hamish’s love for the ladies or, worse, a lady, resurfaced? There was something going on, she was sure, just not about what it was.

  Not ready to go to bed, she had stayed up to drink some more red wine, but before Hamish went up, they had agreed that as soon as the time was decent in the morning, Hamish would ring Jay to ask if there was any news. The Armstrongs might have spoken to Rose by then.

  Rubbing half open, gungy blue eyes, Katie got up at about ten o’clock. With no need for a dressing gown in the heat that was already building up in the house, she almost tripped over a pair of sandals and scattered pile of clothes as her soft, chubby body stumbled towards the bathroom. Untidy by nature, Katie avoided housework as much as possible and was always behind with the washing and ironing.

  The house was fairly chaotic, but Hamish, who might have minded once, had long since stopped allowing it to irritate him, apart from the occasions when he couldn’t find any clean pants or milk in the fridge. He did his best to help in the house and it was not unusual to see him hoover, wash-up, tidy up, wash and iron.

  Katie was hugely relieved that it was a weekend with no school. But then she realised that in fact it might have been better if they had been off to school. It would be easier to process whatever was in store regarding the Ryans without the children around the place.

  Dreading what the day might bring, Katie threw on a sleeveless cotton top and shorts and went downstairs. The house was quiet. She found her children lounging in what was still known as the playroom but that now contained a large sofa, a homework table and chairs and a television in place of the earlier mess of toys.

  She attempted to sound bright. “Morning, you two.”

  “Morning,” they spoke in unison without looking up from their iPads.

  “Any idea where Dad is?”

  “Took Homer out,” muttered Melissa.

  “Thanks. How long ago?”

  “Five minutes?” She still didn’t even glance up at her mother.

  Johnny said nothing. He just seemed irritated by his mother’s interruption.

  Katie went through the kitchen to the open French windows and stepped out into the garden. Cooler than yesterday, it was still sunny and warm. She scanned the fields beyond before spotting Hamish behind the big ash tree at the edge of the half acre site. He was talking on his mobile and looked terribly sad. She walked quietly over to his side. As she reached him, he hung up and changed his expression.

  “Who?”

  “Eliza,” he replied. She saw he had been crying.

  “And?”

  “It’s very bad news. Let’s go and sit down.” He led her by the hand to a wooden bench silvered by age.

  “What’s happened?”

  He put a large muscly arm around her shoulders and squeezed her as though this might somehow take away from the pain of the situation.

  “It’s Louise.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “She, she… apparently…”

  Katie looked at him. “She what?”

  “She drowned herself.”

  Her voice was high. “Drowned? Herself? You mean she’s dead? But she can’t be!”

  “She is, the poor woman. She is.”

  “Oh my God! I don’t believe it.”

  She then asked the questions everyone always asks when somebody dies. “How? Where?”

  “In their pool,” his voice cracked.

  “Their pool? But how could that possibly be? It’s not possible, surely?”

  “I know, that’s what I thought.”

  “But, but…” The enormity of the news began to seep in.

  Hamish dropped his head and looked at his trainers.

  There was a long silence during which they both stared at the ground, trying to make sense of the news.

  “But surely you can’t drown yourself? I mean how? And surely… I mean, surely you’d stop yourself?”

  “She couldn’t swim, remember? I don’t know any more. The ghastly facts are that she is dead and it’s horrible and tragic.”

  “What can we do to help?”

  “Jay says Rose has Sinead for the moment and that Louise’s parents have already arrived. Patrick’s are on their way but they’re in the middle of Ireland so that will take time.”

  “And is Patrick at home?”

  “He’s going to spend tonight with the Armstrongs.”

  “We could have Sinead for a while.”

  “We could. I think Melissa would be fine, but given his current state of mind, do you honestly think Johnny would be okay with her?”

  “Probably not. What an absolute nightmare this is.”

  “Nightmare,” echoed Hamish.

  At breakfast with Stella on Saturday morning, Bob McKenzie told the shocked young woman (whose cold had mysteriously gone) of the previous evening’s events. Sitting at the long walnut marquetry table that could be extended to seat sixteen, the daily newspaper open before him, he pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket and called Jay.

  Bob never beat about a bush. “Jay, morning. Any news re the Ryans?”

  In a silk brocade white and silver knee-length kaftan, Stella sat quietly at her place at the table under a large expensive British abstract painting Bob had been encouraged by Patrick to buy. She watched her husband intently. He looked sad and worried.

  “Okay, well give us a ring when you
hear anything. Don’t feel I should call Patrick today.”

  He rang off and looked at Stella across the table. “You’re looking particularly beautiful today, my angel. White suits you. You should wear it more often. And I like your hair that way, my pretty girl.”

  “Thank you, darling. Happy you like.”

  Stella was much younger than the majority of women in Heronsford, and with no children to keep her busy, she must have been terribly bored. She was apparently happy keeping in shape in their gym, shopping in London’s Sloane Street and Bond Street to spend extortionate sums on clothes and hairstyles, encouraged by Bob who liked her “looking her best”.

  The housekeeper made sure the manor was always immaculate and full of flowers arranged by Stella. The place was furnished with a mix of some wonderful and some over-embellished, gilded rococo antiques, as well as a few of the more classical pieces that Patrick had found for them. Bob revelled in throwing large extravagant parties where caterers provided amazing food.

  There was, therefore, little for Stella to do except walk Fritz, the German shepherd, of which Eliza and Katie could tell she was actually afraid. On these walks, she would carry her beloved Chihuahua, Baby, the one thing she had in this foreign place that was her own.

  An hour later, in his office in the house where he dealt with estate matters, Bob got a call on his mobile. “Bloody hell! Oh no! Jesus Christ! However did it happen?”

  He listened to the short reply then murmured, “Yes, the poor guy. Poor kid. What an awful thing. How the hell?”

  A pause and then, “Of course, of course. Anything Stella and I can do? Anything at all?”

  A few more words then, “Okay then, well bye for now and don’t forget, let me know if there’s anything… thanks for letting us know.”

  He put his mobile back in his pocket and went to look for Stella, who was arranging a huge vase of flowers from the floral greenhouse.

  “Stop that, angel. Sit down.”

  Stella laid a spray of blue delphiniums, eucalyptus leaves and white roses on a round Napoleonic table. She sat down on a red and gold silk damask gilded sofa raised on gilt legs. She crossed her own long elegant ones and shifted in her seat. It was obvious something dreadful had happened. Her husband looked shocked, upset and angry. She felt slightly sick.

  Another pause then Bob said, “I have some very bad news. Poor Louise is dead. She drowned in their swimming pool. A terrible thing and a bloody shame. Can’t think how it could happen. All very odd.”

  He leant forward and gripped the side of the table. He was obviously upset.

  “Oh, how dreadful! But why? Why? I didn’t know they had a pool.” Stella looked horrified “That poor child. Such a lovely girl. This is so sad.” She began to cry.

  “I know, I know. I just hope there wasn’t foul play behind this. I mean, it’s just so odd. She’d seemed pretty happy lately. If so, what sort of fiend could do that to such a pretty little darling? Angel, now listen, while it’s very sad, I don’t want you worrying your lovely young head over it. Their families and closest friends will help. I’ve said we’ll do all we can. Our turn will come later.”

  Typical of Bob to worry more about his wife than anyone else. He took her hand and squeezed it hard. “Don’t cry, my sweetheart, don’t cry. I don’t want a sad girl in the house. Don’t I do enough to make you happy, angel?”

  “Of course you do, darling. Sorry,” said Stella.

  23 June

  Fortunately, Francesca had not yet appeared that morning and was presumed to be sleeping after a bad night. At some time around 10.30am on Saturday morning, so that Juliet who was sitting in the kitchen on her iPad didn’t overhear, their mother took her mobile upstairs to her bedroom and rang Rose.

  From the cryptic way the woman spoke, it was obvious that Sinead was still with her and listening in the background. Via yes-no answers, Eliza was able to glean that Louise was dead. She couldn’t ascertain how it had happened or why, but was able to establish that Louise’s parents were with Patrick at Sparepenny Place.

  When she had rung off, she walked along the landing to Francesca’s door and quietly rapped. She heard a muffled response, opened it and went in.

  In a mess of bedclothes half fallen on the floor, a sheet just covering her, Francesca was lying in her bra and briefs. She patted the bed and Eliza sat down. Struggling to maintain some decency and to sit up, she ran her fingers through dishevelled black hair.

  “Cup of tea?” suggested Eliza brightly.

  “Ooh, yes please.” Francesca looked at her large, voguish watch. “Christ! Sorry, I’m still in bed. Horrible night. Any news?”

  But Eliza was out of the door and running downstairs to get the tea. She needed Francesca compos mentis before breaking the news, but decided the bedroom was the best place to do it, with no-one else around. She made a cup and took it up to Francesca, ready to give her awful tidings.

  Once Francesca had absorbed the meaning of the terrible information and cried loudly, she found her clothes, temporarily ceased weeping and descended to the kitchen to join Eliza and Juliet. Eliza was so glad Holly wasn’t there.

  The shrill sound of the landline startled them. Eliza answered. It was Patrick. He sounded extremely shaky and his long-forgotten Irish accent had returned. Voice breaking, he slowly managed to tell her about the tragedy at his house.

  She pressed the phone to her ear and took it into the garden, out of earshot of Francesca and Juliet. With occasional pauses when he found it hard to continue, Patrick said he had been in his antique shop when the school had rung to say Louise had not appeared to collect Sinead and that they could not contact her. He received no replies to his phone calls so he had locked up the shop and raced to Heronsford School to collect his daughter.

  There was no sign of Louise when they had got home. He had reassured Sinead that she would soon turn up (though sensing something bad had happened), and put her favourite DVD on the television, gave her a bag of crisps, some biscuits and a drink and settled her down on the sofa.

  He had then looked everywhere in the house, meeting with an eerie silence. The next place he had checked was the garden. Here he had found Louise in her clothes, face down at the bottom of the pool.

  He had dragged her body to the surface and somehow got her out. He had called the ambulance on his mobile and with the help of the 999 operator, had followed instructions while trying to resuscitate Louise but she had been gone for some time. It was too late.

  The ambulance had come and… here Eliza saved him from needing to say more. On with her practical hat, she must deal with the here and the now.

  “Words fail me, Patrick. It’s the most terrible, horrible thing and I just cannot believe you’re having to deal with something so awful.” There, she had said it, and now to the matters in hand. “We know Sinead is with Rose, and would love to have her here for as long as it takes if that would help. Holly and she can do things to keep her busy, and they get on very well.”

  “She couldn’t swim, she couldn’t swim! I just can’t understand why she chose to die in the pool. Oh, mother of God, she… she looked so weird.”

  “Is anyone there with you? Can we help?”

  “Louise’s parents arrived late last night and are staying here. They have gone to see Sinead and take her home with them for a while. I’m just… I just… I don’t know…”

  “Patrick, we will do whatever we can to help. What about you? If you would like to stay too, we would be so pleased to help. In fact, we would be so happy to have either or both of you. Just call whenever you want. We’re around and are not going anywhere. Sort out with the grandparents what’s best for you and Sinead.”

  Low sobs came from the phone.

  “The police are everywhere. They’re all over the house and garden. I… I have to go…”

  “We’re here,” was all Eliza could think to say before replacing the phone in its cradle. The shock then hit. Her heart hurt.

  The phone went again. It wa
s Hamish. Choking over the words, she told him that Louise was dead. Unable to say more, she kept the phone call short.

  She then sought out Jay who was in the office. She broke the news. He looked so desperately sad. Then he said, “I had the feeling when I saw the police there yesterday. I thought it was Louise. That poor darling, she was so fragile. All that tough girl can do stuff was a front. Poor, poor Louise.”

  Eliza said, “I know she had her ups and downs, but was sure she would never…”

  When Jay cried, it gave her permission and for the first time, Eliza let go too. Surprised at the ease with which her husband shed tears, she realised that the same thing was happening to her. It was such a shocking way to die. Louise might not have been her best friend in the world: she had been too outspoken and formidable for Eliza’s taste, but she had been fond of the woman, especially when she had showed her quieter side, when she had become much softer and more vulnerable. Though if truth was told, the kinder of the two by a long chalk was the gentle, soft-spoken Patrick, whom Eliza liked more.

  She wanted Jay to give her a hug. She walked round to the side of his chair and put an arm round his shoulders. But he didn’t respond; not even look up at her.

  She withdrew her arm. What was happening to them? Why was Jay withdrawing from her? It wasn’t her fault the company was in trouble, any more than it was his. And she hadn’t considered laying any blame at his door. Or was blame the reason? Was it about something else? Was she putting too much on it, over-imagining again? She knew she had a strong imagination and told herself that he was just worried at the moment. Why wouldn’t he be, after all? They used to talk about any problems and always managed to iron them out. But he had almost stopped communicating with her. As though he were avoiding her. She had never seen him like this, but then they’d never been through anything like this before.

  Eliza left Jay without saying another word. She hesitated in the yard then changed direction towards her mum’s house. She felt the need for someone who could give comfort. And if anyone could do that, it was Annie B. Just about everyone referred to Annie Berkeley as Annie B., the name her grandchildren had started calling her. The comforting familiarity of her nickname suited her well since both her character and her appearance had an inviting friendliness about them.