by Roger Curtis
‘I don’t give a shit about the crappy paintings. I’m concerned for you. Do two things. First get out of this house and away as soon as you can make a convincing excuse. Second, if you ever need to contact me use this number.’ She squeezed a fragment of paper into Sarah’s hand. ‘Ask for Nicole, but never give your real name. Macdonald will do.’ Looking at her watch, she said loudly, ‘These could occupy me for hours, but it will have to be another time. It was lovely to meet you again, Sarah, and I’m really pleased for you.’
Sarah stood, mystified and alone, in the centre of the gallery. Christ, why did Nicole choose that name?
There were footsteps behind, and Brian’s voice. ‘I’m really flattered that you can’t drag yourself away, Sarah, but won’t you re-join the party?’
‘The excitement’s given me an awful headache. Would you mind terribly if I didn’t stay?’
‘No, not at all. I understand. I’ll walk you to the car.’
Nicole’s car was already speeding down the drive. It entered the stream of passing traffic without stopping.
‘Nice girl. A real foil for Khasoni. I dread to think what it costs him to keep her.’
Brian seemed reluctant to let her go. As she climbed into her seat she noticed the nervous pattern of his feet on the gravel.
‘Please say it. Don’t be embarrassed,’ she joked.
‘Well, actually it’s something I’ve been meaning to say for a long time, even though it’s none of my business.’
‘I’m intrigued!’
‘It’s simply to congratulate you on your pregnancy. Don’t look shocked. It came up quite by chance when we ran a hormone profile before your op. Mark would have been delighted. In a way I wish he could have known, but it seemed to me he didn’t.’
Sarah felt the flush of her cheeks. Not knowing how to react she played for time. The record could always be put straight later.
‘No, he didn’t. I felt it would have added another complication to his life. But it’s easy to be wise after the event.’
‘Is everything, well, okay?’
‘Quite okay, thanks. It’s just that I’m still a bit shy about it.’
He tapped the bonnet of the car with his knuckles, releasing her. ‘Look after yourself, Sarah.’
At the gate she looked into her mirror and was surprised to see him still standing there.
Sarah had been back for only an hour when the phone rang. Already she’d downed two generous whiskies and was propped up in bed reading to Alfonso from an Orange-shortlisted novel. It was about a girl who loses her memory and then finds it again only to discover what a trollop she’d been in her previous existence, and was becoming again. She’d started it the previous evening and picked it up whenever she had moments to spare; but there was something about her fascination with it that made her uncomfortable. She put the book down reluctantly and lifted the receiver.
‘Sarah, it’s Nicole.’
‘So soon?’
‘Sarah, something terrible’s happened. Alice has been killed.’
Even with her head beginning to swim this seemed an odd expression. Surely one died, unless there were suspicious circumstances. ‘My God, what’s happened?’
‘She fell from the balcony above the swimming pool, just as the last guests were leaving. Drunk, apparently. It seems she hit her head on the edge of the pool and drowned before they could reach her.’
Sarah’s head cleared miraculously. ‘Did anyone see?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But several heard the scream.’
‘And Brian?’
‘He’s distraught. After the police left he locked himself away.’
‘Nicole.’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘He telephoned Khasoni and we went back together.’
‘Why Khasoni?’
‘I can’t tell you that. I’m not sure I know.’
‘And why are you telling me?’
‘Look, who else is there, apart from Brian? Alice was your friend, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, yes, she was. Nicole?’
‘Yes?’
‘Was this what you were warning me of?’
‘Sorry, Sarah. The line’s very bad and I can’t hear. I have to go. Don’t forget that you have my number. Goodnight, Sarah.’
Sarah picked up her book again and addressed the bear. ‘Alfonso, Alice was my friend, wasn’t she? And if she was, why aren’t I crying buckets of tears for her? It’s like Mark over again, isn’t it? Something way back drained me of sympathy. But that’s not how it was at Hatomi. No. You would have thought me a sentimental fool if you’d seen me crying over those people and their children. What do you say, Alfonso? You want to whisper it?’ She raised the bear to her ear, rocking backwards and forwards and nodding. ‘A common factor? Yes, there is, isn’t there? And you think we should investigate? Well, you’re a braver bear than I took you for. My apologies. And where do you suppose we start? At the beginning? Right, that makes sense. But where is the beginning? Where is it, Alfonso? Alfonso, don’t go to sleep on me. Alfonso!’
Sarah’s telephone calls to Brian that night and the following morning found only an answering machine telling her he had gone away for a day or so. Two deaths each: a wife and a friend for him against a husband and a friend for her. So why was she back in bed with a cup of tea and the paper while he… She got up and for the next two hours sat at her desk scribbling on a writing pad, trying to harness her thoughts into a plan of action.
Two deaths each. No, that wasn’t right. In the turmoil had she already forgotten the unborn child? Could she be that callous? For the rest of the day waves of remorse flooded in as through breached defences, confusing everything.
Why hadn’t Brian tried to contact her? That was causing her more distress than she might have imagined. Each day she tried his number and always the message was the same. Each morning she sped to the front door as soon as the post fell to the floor. She tried to analyse her feelings for him and couldn’t decide whether the motivation was affection or pity. Maybe the potency lay in the combination of the two.
The emptiness of her days was forcing her thoughts into wilder territory. Her waste paper bin was full of crumpled up sheets from her pad. She had not yet followed Alfonso’s advice to take action, but his idea had taken root. Wherever she went, whatever she did, she could never escape the feeling that around her was some vast ordering of events – a force that picked up people’s lives and dashed them down according to a programme that could not be glimpsed and had no discernible purpose.
One morning she looked at herself squarely in the mirror. For the first time she saw in the shadows under her eyes that fear had replaced bewilderment. Ignorance, she decided, was no longer a defence. One thing was clear: she could not go about it alone.When Jack Adams telephoned to check on her well-being she decided to grasp the opportunity.
From the deepest recess of her desk she withdrew Jazreel’s letter.
My dear Sarah,
It would be churlish not to begin by thanking you for your efforts at Hatomi. Without your dedication we would have been stretched beyond the point at which people needlessly die. You know that already. And you know also that this is not my purpose in writing.
I once told you – and meant it – that I would answer whatever questions you had about the Massingham business. I was truly thankful you did not press me because, for me, it would have brought back much pain (remember my child!). You then caught me unawares with what might have been no more than harmless interest. I have to confess that I lied to you.
I had no friends or acquaintances in that village in Oxfordshire, whose name even I have forgotten. It was simply where I thought I would find Tom Sharp, to exact a revenge I could only contemplate knowing that I would be out of the
country the following day. Perhaps luckily for me it failed, because with hindsight I see now that the hook of Massingham (yes, that expression is actually used) might well have found me.
Let me just warn you against having anything to do with the man, on any terms. Ignore this at your peril. Promise me!
Married life is so-so and Adnam sends you his best regards, as do I.
Jazreel
P.S. No, no, this is not enough. I believed my child to be Edwin’s, but could not be sure. The circumstances are still too painful to relate. I have never forgiven him for keeping the truth from me. J.
Sarah telephoned Tom Sharp that same evening. It took the courage of a couple of scotches before she could dial his number. The relief on hearing Pauline’s voice was overwhelming.
‘Pauline, it’s Sarah Preston.’
‘Tom’s away Sarah, on business.’
‘Do you have his diary there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need to speak to him. Also… I was thinking… as it’s so long since I’ve seen you both, I wondered if you might like to come over for a meal. If you feel like it – but only if – you could bring my mother along. What do you think?’
‘Sarah, that’s a marvellous idea! We’ve been so concerned about you.’
‘How about Thursday week, say about eight? Nothing special, just casual dress.’
‘Lovely. Tom will be pleased.’
‘Oh, and Pauline.’
‘Yes?’
‘Does Tom have a car phone?’
‘Why yes, I’ll get you the number.’
As a precaution, Sarah invited Jack to the dinner. He confided to her later that he had been surprised his own mother, who was now on reasonable terms with Sarah, had been excluded, but had been too polite to say anything.
It was a week to the day that Brian telephoned.
‘Sarah, I need to talk to you.’
‘I’ve lived with that feeling for days.’
‘I’m sorry. There were all kinds of things to be sorted.’
‘I could have helped.’
‘I know. And perhaps you still can. Did you know the police are regarding Alice’s death as accidental? They’ll take no further action, they said.’
‘I’m relieved.’
‘Oh? Why do you say that?’
‘Because there was something about it all that belonged in a movie, not in real life. Did she fall or was she pushed? Oh, I’m sorry, that wasn’t very tactfully put, was it?’
‘I think I can see your point. However, the funeral’s at Mortlake crematorium on Friday. There’ll be refreshments afterwards at Putney. I thought we could talk after everyone has gone.’
‘Is that quite proper?’
There was a barely audible clicking of the tongue that fell just short of a chuckle. ‘I think I’d better come clean, then. I was intending to ask if you would like to come and work for me. To help run the Beckenham unit.’
Sarah walked slowly up the stairs to consult Alphonso.
Jack Adams rang. ‘Sarah, are you sure you want to go ahead with this dinner tonight, with Alice’s funeral tomorrow?’
‘Quite sure. You’re not going to let me down, are you Jack?’
‘It makes no odds to me. No, that’s not quite true. I’d be disappointed if we cancelled. Though heaven knows why.’
‘Good. Look. There’s something I need your help with beforehand. It’s difficult to explain over the phone. Could I pick you up by car around five? I promise to run you home afterwards.’
‘Do you want me to bring old clothes?’
Sarah barely recognised it as a joke. ‘I hadn’t thought about it, but now you mention it, yes please. But bring your posh gear too, you can change later.’
The timing was crucial because of the uncertainty of the rush-hour traffic. She waited at the corner of his road, then arrived at two minutes to five.
‘A new car, Sarah?’
‘Mine’s playing up. This one’s hired for the day.’
Instead of returning to Shirley Hills, Sarah drove southwards. On the slip-road onto the M25 Jack leaned back in his seat and groaned. ‘I just knew this wouldn’t be straightforward.’
‘In fairness to you, you’d better read this.’ She rummaged in the door pocket and handed him Jazreel’s letter.’
‘This Tom Sharp – you know him well?’
‘People not knowing better might call him a family friend. That’s how my mother sees him – and Pauline, his wife. But it’s not how it is for me. What’s interesting is the alleged link with the Massingham Foundation.’
‘Mark’s employers.’
‘The truth is, Jack, I’m scared out of my wits. Which is partly why I invited you to dinner. You need take no active part – just hold my hand, please.’
Jack twisted in his seat to look at her. She returned a fleeting smile. Their speed had crept up to above eighty.
‘Better keep your attention on the road.’
‘Sorry.’
At the exit for the M40 Jack asked, ‘If the Sharps and your mother are supposed to arrive at eight, what are we doing driving away from London?’
‘You’ll see. Just trust me.’
‘Sarah, you’re not being fair.’
‘They would need to leave by six-thirty at the latest to be sure of reaching Shirley Hills by eight. That gives us about an hour before we need to make contact.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Telephone them in their car to say we’re delayed.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
Sarah drove past the first turning to Peverell Hessett and took the next, entering the village from the direction of Oxford to avoid the possibility of passing the Sharps’ car coming in the opposite direction. The village street was deserted. Apart from the porch light there was no sign of life at the Sharps’ house, and no car in the driveway. She stopped in the car park next to the church.
‘Six-thirty.’ Sarah got out her new hand-held phone and called the Sharps’ home number. There was no reply. ‘I really enjoy looking up old friends, don’t you Jack? Come on, time is short.’ She walked close to him, with her arm through his, slowing him to appear casual. Still there was no-one in the street.
‘Not this gate, the next.’
He followed her down the stone steps. The hedges on either side had got higher and the stinging nettles more vicious. Brambles horizontal like fishing rods clutched at their clothes, and he went ahead to hold them back for her. Behind them the road was already out of sight. In front loomed the squat brick structure, dark and threatening. She felt her heart pounding, just as it had done the first time she had seen it.
‘This building is of particular interest to me, Jack. We need to get inside.’
He pulled at the door handle; it wouldn’t budge. The windows were tight shut, and covered on the inside with black fabric. ‘You’ll need proper tools to get in there.’
Sarah opened her handbag and held it for him to see.
‘Tools! Gee whizz. You’re serious about this, aren’t you?’
‘More serious than you could possibly imagine.’
‘Then let’s not waste time. The window first I think. Let’s have a crack at that.’
Jack told her later that what he remembered most vividly was how she had entered the building. She’d waited for him to unlock the door and came in as a child in a fairy-tale might enter a magic kingdom. Even in the fading light through the door he’d seen her eyes widen; but it had taken him a few seconds longer to realise that they blazed with anger, not wonder.
‘You’ve been here before,’ Jack said.
‘I believe so, yes.’
The bizarre interior was incomprehensible to Jack, but not to Sarah. The rich black velvet covering
s were familiar from the vastly different setting she remembered from the night of her visit to the Massingham Tower. She knelt at the foot of the podium with its austere table and rested her head against the soft material that accorded with her dreams. She paced the room, looking for enlightenment, but none came.
‘Can you imagine, Jack, what this is used for?’
‘Cult worship? Satanic rituals? I don’t know.’
‘Could be. I only know about the function, not the background.’ She shuddered. ‘I think I’ve seen enough. Let’s go home.’
He could not know the depth of her despondency. He became absorbed in examining the rest of the room in minute detail.
‘What’s behind this door?’
‘I’ve no idea and I don’t care. Let’s go.’
‘I’d like to take a look.’
‘Please!’
But with a sharp kick he already had the door open. Inside were clothes, dark and musty, billowing from pegs. Beyond, wooden steps led down into a black void. Reluctantly Sarah searched for the torch in her bag.
They were in an empty stone cellar the same size as the room above. They found a door within a low arch; it would not budge and Jack kicked it open. There was no choice but to follow the tunnel that lead directly towards the house. Then they were in another cellar and mounting another flight of steps.
Curiously, the door at the top was not locked. It did not take long to discover why. The room they were in was itself separated from the rest of the house by a formidable array of locking devices. There was no window. The interior was comfortably, if simply, furnished: two upholstered chairs stood either side of a wooden table bearing a projector pointing towards a screen on the wall. Shelves around the walls were laden with books, photograph albums and a library of videotapes identified only by serial letters and numbers on the spines.
Without any plan Sarah began to leaf through one of the photograph albums. At the first page she threw it down in disgust. Jack picked it up and looked at it. ‘This is terrible, Sarah. What in God’s name have you got us into? This one’s for the police. Let’s get out.’