‘Well, I didn’t know him, so I can’t say.’ Jess did her best to be fair. ‘But you’d be surprised what people do when they’re cornered. They panic. They lose perspective.’
Dresler didn’t respond, but he looked shocked.
They sat in silence for a while, then finished their coffees, got up, and left. Outside, the frost had cleared and the sun was shining. They wandered around the town, but it was hard to relax. Nevertheless, Jess found a second-hand bookshop and managed to come away with a few cheap finds: an old Kate Greenaway birthday book for Rose, a poetry anthology to help Nella with her songwriting, and, for herself, a book of botanical illustrations. Dresler bought nothing; he seemed quite unable to concentrate, shifting impatiently from foot to foot as he gazed into the shop windows, seeing nothing.
After a while, they went into a pub, bought some indifferent sandwiches, drank more coffee, and then headed back to the car park for the journey home. It was a shame that the weekend had been ruined, thought Jess; in normal circumstances, she imagined, Dresler would have liked nothing better than to immerse himself in a bookshop, disappearing among the shelves and emerging with a pile of obscure volumes to take home. Now he was walking along, hands in his pockets, head bowed in thought. Jess, while shaken, had begun to feel calmer; it was part of her training to carry on going through the motions in the wake of disaster. Part of her personality, perhaps, too. She’d been profoundly shocked by the sight of Blake’s body, and the knowledge that he’d apparently taken his own life, so suddenly, so unexpectedly. She was still worried, to some degree, about Elinor. But since there was nothing she could do about the situation, at least for the time being, she was able to put the memory out of her mind, and concentrate on the present.
Jess had hoped that as they made their way through the Brecon Beacons, Dresler would be impressed by their majesty, excited by the adventure of passing through them, as she was, even today. Mist hung from the mountain peaks, swirling around them, hovering over the ravines, where waterfalls gushed from the rocks. From time to time, where the road dipped, they could see the fog gather, looking down on it from above, then driving down into it, as if on some great Lord of the Rings big dipper. Rather childishly, Jess always imagined herself to be a hobbit, travelling through middle earth back to the shire, when she took this route. She’d planned to tell Dresler of her fantasy, hoping he’d find it amusing, but judging by the look on his face, he was in no mood for playfulness, so she kept quiet and drove on. Besides, the frisson of fear that the mountains provoked in her was too powerful today; when she looked up, she felt genuinely afraid, and wanted to get home to the safety of her burrow, the sooner the better.
When they reached Cardiff, Jess dropped Dresler off at the station. She parked the car and went into the concourse with him, checking the departure board. His train was on time.
‘I’ll ring you when I get in.’
‘OK.’
He drew her towards him and hugged her. For a moment, they clung to each other, both of them experiencing a kind of subdued panic about going their separate ways.
‘Or you call me.’
She could feel his heart beating. He was thoroughly shaken, she knew. She wondered if and when her own reaction would set in.
‘Thanks for coming down. I’ll come up to you next time.’ She kissed him on the lips. ‘Once things have settled down.’
He nodded, then let her go.
She walked across the concourse, turning to wave as she went, but he didn’t see her. She watched him put his ticket into the machine and pass through the barrier. Then he was lost from view, his familiar silhouette obscured by the other passengers.
16
The following evening, Jess was watching TV with Rose. When she’d returned home, all had been well. Rose had enjoyed her stay with Bob and Tegan; Nella and Gareth had spent their time cooking, but had tidied up the house for her. She hadn’t mentioned the suicide to the girls; it would have upset them, and there seemed to be no point in doing so. She’d told Mari, but had kept her description brief, knowing what a gossip she was.
As promised, Elinor had phoned, sounding very distressed. On the night of Blake’s death, she’d called Isobel and asked her to come up, because she was worried about Blake. While she was waiting for Isobel to arrive, she’d called Jess in a panic. Then Isobel had arrived. Blake had been in a terrible state, threatening to kill himself, but they hadn’t believed him and had driven off without him. He’d phoned again while they were on their way home, but Isobel had had enough, and told him to take a sleeping pill and go to bed. The next day, Bonetti had interviewed them, asking them a few more questions about Blake’s general state of mind. Isobel had told Bonetti that Blake had been a bit manic, but she’d never expected him to actually kill himself.
Now though – and at this point Elinor began to sound distinctly panicky – something else had happened, something that explained it all, only she couldn’t tell Jess what. She added that it would probably be on the news soon. Jess couldn’t make much sense of what she was saying, but she was concerned about Elinor’s wellbeing; judging by her tone of voice, she seemed to be very unstable. Jess suggested a session the following week, but Elinor seemed too indecisive to commit to anything and soon rang off.
Jess headed for the living room where Rose was half watching TV and half browsing on the iPad, looking for a new spring coat. Jess was happy to help her, glad to be back in the domestic routine after the horrors of the weekend. Rose was very specific about what she wanted: plain khaki, with fur around the hood, and not too many dangling bits of string around the hem.
‘Oh, look.’
For a moment, Jess thought she might have found one she liked. But Rose was staring at the TV, transfixed.
Jess glanced up and saw that Tegan was reading the news. She was seated in front of a photo of the Bay at night. Her hair was expertly coiffed, and she was dressed in a pale grey jacket and a white camisole top. Around her neck was a small heart-shaped pendant.
‘Doesn’t she look lovely?’ Rose sighed in admiration.
If you like industrial-strength hair lacquer and soppy jewellery, thought Jess, but she didn’t say so.
Tegan’s voice was well modulated as she spoke, with just the hint of the Swansea accent that’s generally accepted as the Welsh equivalent of RP. ‘There has been a sensational new development in the case of Ursula Powell, killed in October last year in the course of a robbery in which a valuable painting by one of Wales’ foremost artists, Gwen John, was stolen . . .’
‘Tegan’s getting a puppy.’ Rose continued to gaze at the screen. ‘A chocolate-brown Labrador—’
‘Hush a moment,’ Jess interrupted her. ‘I want to listen to this.’
‘Mrs Powell’s daughter, Isobel Powell, reported yesterday that the painting has been found among the possessions of Blake Thomas, her late husband,’ Tegan continued.
A picture of Blake flashed up on the screen. It had evidently been taken recently, at the private view, since he was standing by one of the Morris paintings. He looked handsome and impeccably dressed, but there was something unconvincing about his brilliant smile.
‘Mr Thomas, an art consultant, fell and died last Saturday night, while staying in the remote area of Cwm Du.’ Tegan paused, her eyes flickering on the autocue. ‘It is now believed that Mr Thomas was responsible for the theft of the painting. It has been suggested that he was in financial trouble at the time. His wife, who runs the well-known Frederick Powell Gallery in Cardiff, refused to make any further comment in response to suggestions that this new revelation might provide the motive for her husband’s apparent suicide.’
Jess’s mind was racing. So it was Blake who’d stolen the painting, killing Ursula in the process – presumably because she’d got in his way. Elinor’s suspicions had been well founded, after all. That was why he’d seemed so nervous at the launch, afraid that what he’d done was about to be discovered. He’d been hiding the theft, and Ursula’s murder, from
his wife and his sister-in-law. Despite all the bravado at the launch, he’d also been in deep financial trouble. And eventually the lying, and the guilt about what he’d done, had overcome him; he’d gone up to Cwm Du and ended it all. Jess imagined him standing on the parapet, looking down on the ruined arches below, dizzy with fear and remorse, and jumping. It would be easy enough to do. The view there, as she knew, was mesmeric. You could lose yourself in it, become one with the sky, and the deep cut of the valley, fly down to meet it . . .
‘She’s going to call it Monty.’ Jess realized Rose was talking to her. ‘And she says I can help her walk it.’ Rose paused. ‘Mum, are you listening to me?’
The news item finished, and Tegan began to report on local protests against the badger cull.
‘Sorry, darling.’ Jess turned the TV down, curtailed her private thoughts, and attended to Rose. ‘Well, that sounds nice. A little Labrador puppy. Lovely.’ There was a brightness to her tone that wasn’t altogether natural.
Rose sighed. ‘I wish we could get a dog.’
‘I don’t think so, love, not at the moment.’ Jess focussed her mind on what Rose was saying, relieved that the mystery had now, apparently, been resolved. ‘It isn’t kind to leave a young dog alone for hours on end, stuck in the house. They’re like babies. They need company.’
‘Tegan says it’s OK. She goes out to work every day.’
Jess stifled the urge to contradict Tegan’s opinion.
‘She’s going to fetch the puppy the weekend after next,’ Rose went on. She let go of Jess’s hand and went back to browsing on the iPad. ‘And she wants me to go with her.’
‘I’ll talk to Dad. I’m sure we can arrange for you to be there.’
The phone rang, interrupting their conversation. Jess picked up.
‘Doctor Mayhew?’ The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
‘DS Lauren Bonetti here.’
For a moment, Jess panicked.
‘Hello. Everything all right?’
‘You’ve heard the news, I expect?’
‘Just been watching it.’ Jess paused. ‘I’m absolutely stunned. Explains it all, doesn’t it?’
There was a silence. If Bonetti was convinced by this latest turn of affairs, then she wasn’t saying so.
‘I’d like to talk over a few points with you, as you were on the scene, if you wouldn’t mind,’ Bonetti continued. ‘Perhaps we could meet up for a coffee sometime.’
‘When were you thinking of?’
‘Tomorrow?
‘I’ll do my best. I’ve got a rather busy day—’
‘It won’t take long, I promise. I just wanted to run over a few details in your statement. You wouldn’t have to come down to the station. We could meet somewhere near your office. The coffee bar at the museum, perhaps.’
‘What time?’
‘Any time that suits you.’
Rose tugged on her sleeve. Jess looked down at the iPad and saw that she was pointing to a khaki parka displayed on it.
Jess thought for a moment. She knew she had a break at twelve on a Tuesday, which she’d taken to spending with Dougie, the therapist in the office opposite, catching up on the latest developments in CBT. But it was an informal arrangement, and she could easily cancel.
‘Twelve o’clock?’
Bonetti sounded pleased. ‘See you there.’
Jess put down the phone, feeling disappointed. She was loath to go over all this again. She wished Bonetti would let the case go. But, in her heart of hearts, she knew she was right to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Bonetti’s job was like her own: you didn’t accept pat explanations, didn’t take what people said at face value.
She turned her attention to Rose, who was scrolling through the details on the parka.
‘Looks good. Shall we get it?’ Jess peered at the image.
‘What about these strings dangling down at the bottom?’ Rose was a stickler for detail.
‘We can cut them off if you like. Or tie them up so they’re shorter.’
‘I don’t know.’ Rose frowned. ‘I’m not sure I like these pointy bits at the back.’
‘It’s a fishtail, Rose. Classic parka style.’
Rose looked thoughtful. Jess said nothing, knowing that if she tried to push Rose into the purchase, all would be lost, and they’d have to spend another hour on the iPad, looking for a parka without pointy bits at the back.
‘OK.’ Rose made her decision. ‘Let’s get it.’ She paused, and a dreamy look came into her eyes. ‘I can wear it for walking Monty.’
17
When Jessica arrived at the museum the following day, DS Lauren Bonetti was sitting at the coffee bar in the lobby, waiting for her. She looked much the same as she had the last time they’d met. She was dressed in an asymmetric top, a short skirt, thick tights, and chunky-heeled boots. Her curly brown hair was swept back from her brow, her nose was dotted with freckles, and she had an open, inquisitive expression on her face. There was nothing of the police officer about her, except perhaps her habit of observing people closely, watching their every move. When she saw Jess, she gave a broad grin.
‘Good to see you again, Jessica.’ She got to her feet. ‘What can I get you?’
Jess looked down at the table and saw that Lauren Bonetti was drinking a cappuccino.
‘An espresso, please.’ Jess didn’t want to give the impression she was going to stay long.
Bonetti went off to get the coffee, and Jess sat down at the table. She glanced round the museum. The Morris exhibition was still on, she noted. She’d have to go up and look at the paintings again before it ended. She hadn’t really had a chance to take them in at the private view. Jacob rated them so highly, and she wanted to see for herself what she thought about them.
Her faith in Jacob had been restored, she reflected. She’d been so relieved to find that Blake had killed himself. She’d been able to quash an awful unbidden fear that Jacob might have been somehow involved in Blake’s fatal fall. Now she could pursue their relationship without that doubt at the back of her mind.
Bonetti came back with the espresso and a packet of Bourbon biscuits, put them down on the table, and sat down. She tore the packet open, offered one to Jess, and when Jess declined, took one herself. As Bonetti munched on the biscuit, they exchanged pleasantries, and then she took out a small reporter’s notebook and a pen from her bag. Jess was surprised, as she had been on the previous occasion, that Bonetti wasn’t using something more technologically up to date.
‘OK.’ Bonetti flipped open the notebook. ‘Now, I just want to check a few details with you. On the night that Blake Thomas died, you gave a statement to the police, didn’t you?’
Jess nodded.
‘In it, you said’ – Bonetti turned a page on the pad, and read from her notes – ‘that you’d seen Thomas earlier that day, and he’d seemed distraught.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Could you fill me in a bit more on that?’
‘Of course.’ Jess took a sip of her espresso. It was pleasantly bitter. ‘He’d come looking for Elinor. Elinor Powell. She was – is – a client of mine.’
‘Why did he come to see you?’
‘He thought I might know where she was.’
‘And did you?’
Jess hesitated. She wasn’t prepared to lie, but neither was she keen to divulge too much information. ‘She’d told me she was camping up at Cwm Du, but she hadn’t said exactly where.’
‘So what did you tell him?’
‘I said I didn’t know. Elinor had told me her whereabouts in confidence. And I didn’t altogether trust him. He seemed very agitated. Distressed.’
‘In what way, specifically?’
‘His hands were shaking, he was sweating, and there was a muscle twitching under his eye.’ Through force of habit, Jess described his actual symptoms, rather than using more generalized expressions. ‘He was also irritable.’
‘What was he anxious about?’
‘He didn’t explain. He just said he wanted to see Elinor, as a matter of urgency.’
‘Why do you think that was?’
‘I don’t know.’
Jess reached for a biscuit, broke a piece off, and dipped it in her coffee.
Bonetti changed tack.
‘According to your statement, on the night that Blake Thomas died, you received a phone call from Ms Powell, who was at the tower.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Could you run through with me again exactly what it was she said?’
‘Well, the signal kept cutting in and out.’ An image of Cwm Du on that wild, windy night came into Jess’s head. ‘She said she’d come to see me, and that Blake was there. She said she was scared of him.’
‘Why was she coming to see you?’
‘I was in the area.’ Jess had no reason to feel uncomfortable, but she did. ‘Elinor had taken a break from the therapy, and she’d told me that she was going camping up at Cwm Du. I’d been a little concerned about her, so I’d given her my mobile number in case she needed to call me.’
‘Do you often do that with clients?’
‘No.’
Bonetti made a note in her book.
‘And was it a coincidence that you were staying up at Cwm Du, where she was camping?’
‘Yes and no. Jacob – Mr Dresler—’
At the mention of Dresler’s name, Bonetti looked up.
‘Your partner?’
There was a brief pause.
‘Yes.’
It was the first time Jess had been asked whether Dresler was her partner, and the first time she’d responded in the affirmative. It felt strange, but not uncomfortably so.
‘We were planning a weekend away,’ Jess went on, ‘so I thought we’d go up there. I’d never been. A friend recommended the hotel.’ She paused. ‘The fact that Elinor was in the vicinity was in the back of my mind, yes. I thought if I let her know where I was, she could call or drop by. I just wanted to check that she was OK.’
Bonetti nodded. She seemed satisfied by the explanation. She was obviously a person who went the extra distance in her job, and understood that Jess did, too.
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