Nemesis

by Marley, Louise

  “I thought you wanted to keep that part of your life in the past?”

  “I would prefer to forget, I make no secret of it. Just because one wants to forget something, does not necessarily mean one can.”

  “What did you find talk about?”

  “Talk?” Magda was surprised. “We didn’t talk about anything. The man was a vegetable. He was my husband, I felt obliged to visit, to take him the odd gift - a plant, a book - but really, I could have been anybody. He lives - I mean, lived - in a world of his own. As cruel as it sounds, perhaps his death was for the best. He certainly did not have any kind of life.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Natalie.

  Magda frowned. “Am I sure of what?”

  “That Dad was injured in that accident? You never felt that he was … faking?”

  There was only the briefest hesitation. “The doctors made the diagnosis. Who am I to argue with professional opinion?”

  “Was it you who gave him the citrus plant?”

  “Of course,” said Magda. “I even signed the visitor’s book. It wasn’t a secret. Surely Charles mentioned it?”

  “Perhaps Charles thought you guarded your privacy?”

  “Charles thinks of no one but himself, as well you know.” She held Natalie’s gaze for a fraction too long, as though tempted to say more, but then the butler returned, wheeling a trolley set for afternoon tea. The moment was gone.

  Do I really have to do this? Natalie thought helplessly, as a silver teapot, cake stand and assorted crockery was painstakingly set up on the little table in front of her. Talk about prolonging the agony.

  While Magda delicately poured the tea, Bryn had got up and walked over to the window. “Are they your children?”

  Magda gave a little laugh. “Natalie, you seem to have told your boyfriend very little about me.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to retort, ‘I wonder why?’ but with great effort Natalie remained silent, plonking two sugar cubes into her tea and stirring vigorously. Even though she didn’t like sugar and hated tea.

  “They’re my boys,” Magda told Bryn. “My children with Richard. The elder one is Richard Junior, he’s the image of his father. He’s coming up to twelve and doing very well at school. His little brother is called Sven, after my father. A dreadful mischief-maker, but quite affectionate. They’re home for half-term. As they attend a private school they don’t get the opportunity to mix with the local children but luckily they are very close.” Magda broke off, frowning. “Natalie, you’re going to break that cup if you keep stirring your tea like that.”

  “Sorry.” Natalie put the spoon back onto the saucer.

  “The police think John Grove was murdered,” said Bryn.

  Which, Natalie thought, was pushing it. She watched for her mother’s reaction.

  As usual, there wasn’t one.

  “You must think me very cold-hearted,” Magda sighed, “but I’m afraid his death means nothing to me. We had an unhappy marriage and after his accident I had the courage to divorce him. I try not to think about that part of my life. I have moved on.”

  “Of course,” Bryn said gently. “It must have been very difficult for you.”

  “It was a dreadful time,” agreed Magda, glancing at her watch.

  Natalie pointedly helped herself to a fairy cake.

  “John was injured in an accident following Sarah’s death,” Bryn said. “How did that happen?”

  Natalie’s hand, which had been halfway to her mouth with the cake, froze.

  “He drove his car off the cliff,” said Magda. “It was a week after my daughter’s death. He had been drinking heavily. You can draw your own conclusion. The police did.”

  Natalie bit into the cake. It showered pink crumbs across her sweater. As she brushed them away with her fingers, she realised her mother hadn’t finished.

  With a malicious glance in her direction, Magda added, “Of course, the best person to ask would be Natalie. She was with John at the time.”

  30

  Natalie and Bryn drove back along the coastal road towards Calahurst. After twenty minutes of silence, Natalie thought she’d gotten away with it but, as they passed the war memorial and entered the village, Bryn said,

  “Stop here.”

  Calahurst High Street was so narrow that in places it was only wide enough for one vehicle, which was why there were double yellow lines running its entire length.

  “I can’t,” she said truthfully. “It would cause an accident. I’ll drop you off outside the coffee shop on the Quayside.”

  “You’re not dropping me off anywhere,” he said. “We are going to have a talk.”

  Twenty minutes of having to suffer his silent treatment, and the moment they arrived at their destination he decided they had to talk? She didn’t think so!

  “No,” she told him.

  “You owe me an explanation,” he returned evenly.

  They had reached the bottom of the hill. Directly in front of her was the slipway to the river, to the right was the cobblestoned quayside.

  Bryn indicated the building on the left. “Turn in here,” he said.

  It was the entrance to the underground car park of her apartment.

  “No,” she said again, and stopped the car, turning her head to glare at him. “We talk in the coffee shop or we don’t talk at all.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Let’s go into the coffee shop and talk about how you tried to kill your father by sending his car over a cliff.”

  Apparently there was no way of getting out of it. Resentfully, she flicked the indicator, released the brake and freewheeled down the slope and into the car park.

  “You’re still not coming into my apartment,” she grumbled.

  “Just park the damn car, Natalie.”

  It was Friday afternoon, so the car park was more than half full. There were plenty of cars but no people. Her apartment had three bays assigned to it, but she ignored those and deliberately parked beneath one of the security cameras - not that Bryn seemed particularly bothered. In fact, she had a strong suspicion he found it amusing.

  “Now what?” She had no intention of inviting him up to her apartment. Did that mean they were going to just sit here in the car?

  Her fingers were still curled around the steering wheel in some kind of a death grip. She forced herself to relax. It had been her idea to go and see Magda, so she only had herself to blame. She should have realised the visit was never going to pass without incident. Ever since Sarah’s death, her mother had seemed to hate her. The question she could never bring herself to ask was why?

  “OK,” said Bryn, and he settled himself back in the seat and closed his eyes as though she was about to read him a bedtime story. “Talk. Tell me about the night your father had his accident. I want to hear every last detail, no matter how irrelevant or trivial you might think it. And, Natalie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure you tell me the truth.”

  31

  Fifteen Years Previously

  Natalie lay in bed, fully-clothed, waiting for the house to fall silent and the downstairs clock to chime midnight, before climbing through her bedroom window and onto the roof of the porch. It had been raining and the metal trellis left flakes of black paint and rust on her jeans. She wore silver sandals, stolen from Sarah’s wardrobe, but they had higher heels than she was used to, so she jammed them into her pockets and climbed the trellis barefoot. It was only as she ran down the garden path, and the sharp stones cut into her feet, that she slipped the shoes back on, hardly pausing in her flight.

  The little gate did not creak because she had taken the time to oil the hinges the day before. When she passed though she did not look back. When she reached the trees he was already waiting but she shoved him away when he tried to embrace her.

  “What’s up with you?” he grumbled.

  “Not here,” she told him. “Not now. Someone might see.”

  “Who?” He threw out his hands in exas
peration. “Who the hell is even awake at this time of night?”

  He’d parked his car a short distance down the road, as she had asked. It had been a mistake. An expensive sports car, fire-engine red, was not going to blend into the background. She ran on ahead, to jump quickly inside, but it was locked and he was some distance behind, jogging gently, puffing slightly.

  “Come on!” she said.

  “You’re certainly very keen.” But he grinned, to show he was joking.

  In seconds they were driving through the forest, at such speed she felt as though she was being pressed back against the seat.

  “Slow down,” she told him. “You’ll attract attention.”

  “Hurry up, slow down. God, you’re as bossy as your sister.” But he eased his foot from the accelerator.

  The signpost to Norchester flashed past. This had not been part of the plan.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “My place is out. Mother’s home. She never misses a trick. Evil witch.”

  She was being fobbed off but decided she didn’t care. “So where are we going?”

  “My flat,” he said, “in Norchester.”

  Although the rent was paid by his father and he shared it with someone else.

  “And Alicia?” she asked.

  “What about Alicia?”

  She hesitated. Sleeping with Alicia’s boyfriend was one thing - but in her own bed? It would be tacky to say the least. But she couldn’t turn back. Not now.

  “It’s very on/off, Alicia and I,” he said. “Right now it’s off.”

  “Did she find out about you and Sarah?”

  His hands tightened on the wheel. “How did you know about Sarah?”

  “She had a diary.”

  “That bitch always liked to scribble, scribble, scribble. It only happened once and Alicia knows nothing about it. If she ever does find out, I’ll kill you.”

  The last part was said quite casually - but at least she knew where she stood.

  “Like you killed Sarah?” she said.

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  But he would say that, wouldn’t he?

  She watched as the forest retreated from the suburbs of Norchester and the winding country lane became a city street. He parked in a mews behind the cathedral. Its gothic spires made the surrounding Georgian houses appear small and squat. They were identically whitewashed, with slate roofs and pretty little windows, all the woodwork painted black. Every shop was aimed with the tourist in mind - designer boutiques, an art gallery, a café with exorbitant prices. The road was even cobblestoned. How quaint - and how bloody impossible to walk on in her silver sandals. She slipped them off, letting them dangle from her fingers as she ran to catch him up.

  The apartment was over the art gallery and had its own entrance. The handwritten note beneath the door bell said, in a very flowery script:

  Mr James Fitzpatrick & Miss Alicia Vyne

  Oh dear, thought Natalie, and tried not to laugh. Jamie did not notice. He opened the door and before she could walk inside he’d bounded up the stairs, leaving her to close it behind her. On the small landing above there was another door, which he unlocked while she pretended to gaze through a tiny window at the city lights.

  Once inside it was hard not to be aware she was trampling all over someone else’s dreams. Everywhere she looked she was reminded of Alicia, from the Jilly Cooper novels on the bookcase, the Titanic video on top of the TV and the chocolate wrappers in the bin. She wondered how recently Alicia had been ‘on’. Not too long ago, by the look of it. Perhaps the poor girl was even unaware she was now ‘off’.

  Jamie had disappeared into the kitchen; now he emerged with a bottle of champagne. “Happy birthday!” he beamed. “Sweet sixteen!”

  Natalie thought she might cry. He was the only one who had remembered.

  I’m doing this for Sarah, she told herself, as she allowed him to slide her jacket from her shoulders and kiss her wetly. Finding out who murdered her sister was all that mattered. And if she had to kiss every man in Calahurst, then she would do it.

  But when Jamie took hold of her hand and led her into the bedroom, she realised he had a lot more in mind than kissing.

  Thankfully it was the spare bedroom. There was no furniture apart from a double bed, simply made up with white cotton sheets and a plain blue duvet. There were no ornaments or personal photographs, only an indifferent print of Hurst Castle above the bed. Natalie suppressed a smile, thinking that at the very least it should be turned to the wall.

  In the event, there was no time. Jamie put the champagne bottle onto the bedside table; so hastily it overbalanced and rolled under the bed. He tugged her sweater and vest top over her head, and then slid his fingers inside the front of her jeans, pulling her against him. Before she knew it, her jeans had fallen to her feet and he had manoeuvred her onto the bed, with himself on top.

  He pushed her bra up and out of his way but he didn’t bother to take it off. The underwiring dug uncomfortably into her flesh, while his hands felt warm and smooth against her breasts. A cursory fumble, then his hand dropped to undo his belt. As it fell open, the buckle pressed cold and hard against her hip. She wondered if she should mention the ‘v’ word but decided he was too much of an amateur to even notice if her hymen was there or not.

  After a matter of minutes he rolled onto his back, panting and sweaty, still on top of the duvet, still wearing his jeans. Was that it? Should she be grateful or offended it was over so quickly?

  His hand unexpectedly landed on her thigh and squeezed. “Thanks, darling!”

  “My pleasure,” she lied, and got up off the bed.

  Her knickers, white lace and bought for the occasion, had been shredded. She crumpled them up and stuffed them into the pocket of her jeans. It wouldn’t do for poor Alicia to find those. Alicia’s knickers were probably big, black and sensible.

  She tugged her bra back down over her breasts, and her jeans up over her hips and refastened them. Without her knickers, the denim was stiff and rough against her skin and she felt sore. Definitely not a virgin any more.

  Jamie sat up, frowning. “Where are you going?”

  “I thought we’d finished?”

  He laughed; a dirty chuckle that some women might have found sexy. “I’ve certainly not finished with you.”

  Was she really going to have to go through all that again? She’d only wanted to determine if James was Sarah’s murderer, and she was still no nearer to finding out. Maybe he talked in his sleep?

  She tried to remain relaxed as Jamie stood up and slid her bra straps from her shoulders but, as he struggled with the catch at the back, there was an almighty crash from downstairs.

  Jamie froze. “What the hell?”

  She was too busy pulling her vest and sweater over her head to reply. Before he’d pulled up the zipper on his jeans, she had run out of the bedroom. She had no idea where she was going, but knew she could not be found here.

  “Don’t open the door!” Jamie hollered from the bedroom.

  It was too late. As she ran towards the apartment door, something slammed into it. She watched in awe as it buckled once again, like something from a horror movie. The third time it exploded off its hinges and there was her father, filling the doorway with his bulk.

  “Fuck,” said Jamie, skidding into the sitting room in his jeans and socks.

  John Grove looked him up and down, his face expressionless.

  “Sir, I can explain. It’s not how it looks.”

  John ignored him and made a grab for Natalie, who darted around the sofa, ducking as his hand came for her again. She slipped through the open door and had got as far as the little landing at the top of the stairs, when something heavy crashed into her and she fell forwards. For a heart-stopping moment she teetered on the edge of nothing, and then down she plunged.

  She did her best to protect her head, while the sharp edge of what seemed like every single step slammed into her body, until fina
lly she reached the bottom and lay there, dazed and winded. Above her head, she could hear more crashing as her father demolished the flat. Jamie too? She tried not to think about that.

  The door to the street lay mangled against the wall and she dragged herself up, wondering whether to run for help or just to run. This strategy had hardly formed when her father clattered down the stairs, grabbed her arm and hauled her outside.

  His car had been abandoned beside Jamie’s apartment and the engine was still running. He yanked open the back passenger door, snarled, “Get in, you fucking tart!” before throwing her onto the back seat.

  By the time she’d worked out which way was up, the car was in motion. She stared through the back window towards the open door of the flat, half-expecting Jamie to run out, half-hoping he would rescue her. But the street remained deserted.

  She slumped back and caught her father’s reflection in the rear view mirror. “Have you killed him?”

  “Of course I haven’t bloody killed him! I just gave him a good hiding. Fucking rich kid thinks he can do what he likes.”

  Natalie gave up trying to put on her seat belt and hung on to the seat in front instead. It took all her strength not to be flung all over the car. She had no idea where they were. It was still dark and, although she could see trees flashing past the window, they could have been anywhere.

  After about ten minutes, her father said, “From now on, you don’t leave the house unless it’s for school, is that clear?”

  He sounded calmer but she didn’t bother to reply. So she was grounded? Big deal. She hadn’t expected any different.

  “As soon as you’re old enough, you can leave school and come and work for me.”

  What?

  “But I’m going to college!”

  “No college, no exams - you won’t need ‘em. You can work for me in the glasshouses where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Sod that!” she said, without thinking. “When I leave school I’m out of here and you can’t stop me.”

  John slammed his foot onto the brake. The car went into a sideways skid, the tyres shrieking across the tarmac. It was a miracle she was not thrown through the windscreen but she ended up slumped in the footwell, her wrists badly wrenched.