Black Valley

by Williams, Charlotte

  ‘Why did he come looking for you that day, then?’

  Elinor shrugged. ‘I think he wanted me to talk him out of it. Maybe he wanted to confess, and felt it would be easier to tell me than Isobel. I don’t know. But when I saw him, he was in such a hysterical state, I was scared of him. He started screaming that he’d killed Ursula, that it was all her fault for interfering. I couldn’t handle it. I thought he might attack me. That’s why I ran off. I feel terrible about it now.’

  Elinor sighed. It was a sigh of remorse, but Jess also detected an element of satisfaction in it.

  Jess couldn’t help feeling shocked by Elinor’s lack of feeling for Blake. She knew that Elinor hadn’t had anything directly to do with Blake’s death – she and Isobel had been driving away from the tower at the time, and the log on Blake’s phone had confirmed that he’d made his last panicky phone call to Isobel before his death. But her apparent indifference was unnerving.

  Finally Jess broke the silence.

  ‘So how are you feeling about all this now, Elinor?’

  Elinor thought for a moment. ‘A mixture of emotions, really. It’s been a relief to find out who killed my mother. A shock, of course, to discover it was Blake. And I miss him. We were . . . close, in some ways. He was always a great supporter of my painting. He thought I was really good.’ She paused. ‘And I feel sad for Isobel. She’s broken-hearted. She loved him, you know.’

  Elinor spoke the words as if in surprise. ‘But she’s back with me now, so she’ll be OK. In time.’ There was the note of satisfaction in her tone again. ‘Everything will be back to normal.’

  ‘Normal?’

  Elinor gazed out of the window at the tree outside, an expression of serenity on her face that Jess had never seen before. Her eyes were clear, her brow unfurrowed.

  ‘Isobel and I have always been together, ever since we were children. We need each other. We should never have been parted. She helps me, and I help her.’

  Jess was conscious that she felt strangely jealous as Elinor spoke the words, as if Isobel had usurped her own position as Elinor’s helpmeet. She was surprised at herself.

  ‘It’ll take a long while, of course. Isobel is very fragile at the moment, as you can imagine. She trusted Blake. She feels guilty that he killed Ursula. And then killed himself. She feels it’s all her fault. That she should have noticed what was going on, tried to stop it.’ Elinor paused. ‘It’ll be difficult for her to get over this. But I’m sure she will. I’m with her now, by her side. I can help her. We don’t need anyone else, as long as we’re together.’

  Jess noticed the finality in her tone. It was so marked that she wasn’t surprised at Elinor’s next remark.

  ‘I don’t think I need to keep coming here, actually. It’s done me good. And I’m grateful to you, Jess, I really am. You helped me through a tough time.’ Elinor looked up again. Her eyes seemed to darken with tenderness. ‘But I’m all right now, I think. I can go ahead in my life again.’

  ‘And the claustrophobia?’

  ‘Much better. I’m still a bit scared of lifts, but I can cope with everything else. Public transport. Trains. Tunnels.’

  ‘Tunnels?’ Jess registered her surprise.

  Elinor nodded. ‘Odd, isn’t it?’

  There was a silence. Once again, Jess was taken aback at how upset she felt that Elinor no longer required her services – it felt like a personal rejection.

  ‘Well, if you want to leave, that’s fine.’ Jess spoke quietly. ‘You’ve only had five sessions, but I’m glad you feel you’ve benefited from the therapy.’

  ‘I have. Definitely. Although . . .’ Elinor’s voice trailed off.

  Jess waited.

  ‘I still can’t paint.’ A frown came over Elinor’s face, but only briefly. ‘The funny thing is, I don’t care now. It doesn’t seem to matter any more.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Well, if things change and you decide you want to come back, get in touch. I’m sure I can find a space for you, if you’d like that.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll do that.’

  Their time was not yet up, but Elinor got up from the couch. Jess got up, too, and walked over to the hat stand with her. She watched as Elinor put on her jacket, fascinated by the change in her client. She seemed confident, assured – nothing like the timid, forlorn creature who had walked into her office only a few months ago.

  ‘Goodbye. And thank you so much, Jess.’ On an impulse, Elinor leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. For an instant, Jess felt the softness of her hair and skin brushing against her face. It was a child’s kiss, tender, sweet and innocent.

  Jess was moved. She put her arm around Elinor’s shoulder, and gave her a hug.

  ‘Good luck. Take care of yourself.’

  She turned, opened the door, and let Elinor out. Then she closed it again and went over to the window.

  After a minute or so, Elinor appeared in the street below. Jess watched the diminutive figure walk along the pavement, her hair a luminous point of light in the grey street. Even from a distance, she looked small, vulnerable, like Little Red Riding Hood walking through the forest, her wicker basket on her arm.

  Jess sighed and turned away from the window. There was no point in wondering what the future held for Elinor. She had signed off. She was now an ex-client, and as such, no longer her concern.

  19

  That weekend, Jess went up to London to see Jacob Dresler. It was the first time she’d visited him there. She’d made arrangements for Nella and Gareth to look after the house, and for Rose to go over to Bob and Tegan’s. Bob had a conference to go to, so Rose would be on her own with Tegan, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she was excited and happy at the prospect, especially now they were going to fetch Monty, the six-week-old Labrador puppy Tegan had acquired. As she boarded the train, Jess reflected rather sadly that neither of the girls seemed to make a fuss when she went away these days. In the past, whenever there’d been a parting, even for just a day or so, there’d be whines and sometimes tears. Of course, she told herself, they still need you, at least in the background; it’s just that they’re growing up, both of them, becoming more independent. But somehow, that didn’t seem to help.

  She waited at the station, listening to the announcements in Welsh and English. Although it was spring, there was still a chill in the air, but today the sun had come out. The sky was a bright blue, the gulls squawking overhead, one or two of them bold enough to strut down the platform picking up discarded wrappers, looking for food. As the train came in, she saw a gull snatch a crisp out of a young child’s hand. The child’s mother waved her arms, outraged, and the gull flew away, the crisp still in its beak. For a moment, looking on, Jess wished she was that mother, and the child hers. Those early years with the girls had been hard work, yet in a way, she now realized, it had all been so simple: the aims were clear – you just had to protect your children, care for them, be patient and kind with them. Now that they were older, things were so much more complicated.

  The train stopped and the doors opened, disgorging a flood of passengers. The child began to scream. The mother proffered more crisps, but the child would not be placated. The gull had frightened him. She became flustered, as people started to stare. She scolded the child, who responded by screaming louder. When the passengers dispersed, Jess hopped onto the train, thankful that she didn’t have a small child in tow, and wondering what on earth had possessed her to envy that poor mother with her bawling offspring, even for a moment. It hadn’t been easy at all when the kids were little; at times it had been sheer hell. And now here she was, free as a bird, going to London, on her own, to meet her new lover. This was no time to look back, to mourn what was past, but to savour life as a free agent, and the prospect of what lay ahead.

  Jess found her way from Paddington to Soho without difficulty – she’d lived in London as a student, and knew it well. The house was in one of the small paved lanes that cut between Wardour Street and Dean S
treet. Beside the front door, at street level, was a fashionable men’s cobbler’s, with a single quirky purple shoe, long and pointed, almost medieval in shape, displayed in the window. Jess pressed the bell, feeling a thrill of anticipation at seeing Dresler again, and at finding herself here, in the heart of Soho, his stamping ground, with its warren of arcane alleyways bordering up against the great city thoroughfares of Shaftesbury Avenue, Regent Street and Oxford Street.

  ‘Jess.’ Dresler opened the door, a broad grin on his face.

  They embraced in the doorway, he took her bag, and then led her up the stairs. On the landing, they passed a room with an open door. Inside, a young Japanese woman was staring into a computer. She didn’t turn to greet them.

  ‘That’s the offices of the art magazine I’m involved with,’ he said. ‘They work all weekend. Never seem to take a day off.’

  On the landing above was a self-contained flat. Once again, the door was open.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Dresler said, as they walked in. He showed her through to the living room. ‘But it’s not as bad as usual. I tidied up for you.’

  It was a large room with high windows overlooking the street. Everything was painted cream, except for the ancient indoor shutters, which had been left unpainted and were a pale brown, knotted oak. Some equally ancient furniture dotted the room – a wooden table by the window, covered in books and papers, with an open laptop and a printer winking among them. There were paintings in dark frames on all of the walls, most of them abstract. In the corner was a large modern sculpture, and on the mantelpiece some delicate figurines. Two big leather sofas bordered a fireplace, in which a coal fire had been lit.

  ‘Sit down and I’ll make you a coffee.’ He walked into another room leading off the sitting room. Instead of doing as she was told, Jess followed him into a spacious kitchen, all done out in matt black. It was neat and tidy and gleaming, bearing witness perhaps, Jess thought, to the fact that Dresler didn’t use it a great deal.

  While he was making the coffee, Jess went over to the window and looked out at the view. She could see over the tops of houses, all the way to Broadcasting House just off Regent Street.

  ‘What a fabulous view.’ She noticed a roof garden below, with a metal garden seat, a chiminea, and a few plant pots scattered around it. ‘Is that yours?’ she asked, pointing to it.

  He nodded. ‘It’s not used much, except by the smokers in the office. In the summer, it comes into its own.’ He set the cafetière on a tray, along with two mugs and a bottle of milk. ‘Come on.’

  They went back into the sitting room. He put the tray on a low coffee table between the sofas, and sat down. She sat beside him, feeling the urge to curl up on the soft leather.

  ‘This place is amazing.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s just a flat above a shop, really. It belonged to my family, and I inherited it. Tailors, they were.’ He leaned forward, pushed down the plunger on the cafetière, and poured out the coffees. ‘It’s worth a fortune now, of course. But only if I sell it.’

  ‘And will you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I like it here. It works well for me. I get a bit of income from the office – I try to keep the rent low for them – and it’s security for me if times get hard in future. As they well might, with this financial squeeze on.’ He handed her a coffee.

  She blew on it, then took a sip. ‘This is bliss for me. A taste of the metropolis. I used to live here, you know.’

  ‘D’you miss it?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Jess paused. She did occasionally miss the variety that London had to offer, the different cultures, different lives crushed up against each other, the excitement – and tension – that brought. But since moving away, she’d come to rely on a sense of spaciousness, of ease, of casual trust among strangers, that now seemed quite natural and indispensable to her. ‘I suppose I’m a small-town girl at heart.’

  He laughed again, and put his arm around her. ‘Nonsense. You’re a woman of the world, as you well know.’

  This time, she laughed. He kissed her, and she kissed him back, feeling the warmth of his body against hers. She began to want him.

  ‘I thought we’d stay here for lunch. I’ve got some stuff from the deli.’ His fingers slid under her sweater. ‘Charcuterie, cheese, that sort of thing.’ And up to her breast. ‘Some focaccia bread. What do you think?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jess looked up at the painting opposite. The sinuous curves of the abstract seemed to take the shape of a white-fleshed woman, held in a pair of huge brown paws, like a bear’s.

  She lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes. ‘Ideal, I’d say.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Dresler moved with her, nuzzling into her neck, his other hand between her thighs.

  ‘A bit, maybe.’ She smiled, bringing her legs up onto the sofa. She put her arms around him, feeling the weight of him on top of her. ‘No big rush, though.’

  They made love, and afterwards ate their lunch, sitting on the floor and spreading it out like a picnic on the low table by the fireside. Their talk was intimate and affectionate, and Jess was aware that despite their texts and phone calls, they’d lost touch with each other somewhat over the weeks that they’d been parted. Face to face – or was it body to body? – she could gauge his reactions, his moods, and felt she could talk freely, naturally, about what had been going on in her life. But not that freely; although she told him about her meeting with Lauren Bonetti at the museum, she didn’t mention Bonetti’s questions about him. No need to bother him with all that, she thought. She went on to talk about her visit to the Morris exhibition, and how, for the first time, she’d sensed the depth and complexity of the paintings.

  He filled her in on his travels, which had included a spell in Berlin, advising the Berlinische Galerie on a major exhibition of contemporary British painting that was to open there the following year. He mentioned that Lauren Bonetti had phoned him a couple of times, but didn’t go into detail. He also described the moments, waking or sleeping, when Blake’s bloodied head, crushed on the gravel, had flashed into his mind; how, during his trip, he’d had some disturbed nights, waking from a dream he couldn’t remember clearly, a dream in which he seemed to be packing to go somewhere, but couldn’t find his belongings, was late to catch his train, or aeroplane, or ship, or whatever it was that he had to catch. Post-traumatic stress disorder, Jess told him. A mild case of it. It would pass, in time. The mind would heal as the memory faded. As they chatted, her mind was set at ease. Lauren Bonetti’s insinuations about him hadn’t really worried her. She’d seen him right after he’d discovered Blake’s body, and he’d behaved exactly as anybody would have confronted with such a shocking sight. He hadn’t shown the slightest sign of guilt then, or since. Even so, during the time they’d been apart, she’d felt the occasional moment of doubt. After all, she hadn’t known him for long, and his relationship with Blake seemed to be more tangled than she’d at first realized. Now, however, being with him and watching him talk so openly and honestly, she was reassured.

  ‘I must say, I still find it hard to believe that Blake committed suicide, whatever trouble he was in. He wasn’t that kind of guy.’ Dresler frowned. ‘Even if his debts were huge, I wouldn’t have thought he’d panic and steal that painting. Let alone kill for it. He’d have fronted it out. He had nerves of steel when it came to handling large sums of money. All these consultants do.’

  Jess thought of what Elinor had told her, about Blake pacing the house in the night, convinced that the walls were closing in on him.

  ‘Well, sometimes people buckle under stress. The mind is like a limb, or any other part of the body, come to that. If you put too much pressure on it, it breaks.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Dresler sighed. ‘I must say, this whole thing has really shaken me up. Blake and I weren’t close, but I knew him over a very long period of time. And now that he’s . . . well, gone . . . I realize how much I relied on him.’

  ‘Relied on him? In what way?’
>
  ‘Well, mostly regarding Morris. Blake could always get in touch with him. I’m not finding it so easy.’

  ‘But I thought you said Morris wrote to you quite regularly?’

  ‘He used to. But recently, I haven’t heard from him. And I’ve got no way of contacting him.’

  ‘Can’t you phone Isobel at the gallery? Isn’t she representing him now?’

  ‘She’s not returning my calls. Obviously, she’s afraid Morris will want to leave the Powell Gallery. Someone like me could easily hook him up with a new dealer, someone with a bit more heft. Isobel’s not really a player in this world. She left that side of it to Blake.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. She’s obviously rather preoccupied at present.’ Jess paused. ‘Anyway, is there any pressing need for you to get in touch with Morris right now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You see, I want him to be part of this group exhibition in Berlin. He’d be perfect for it. He’s so much in the tradition of Kiefer. In the past, I could have just phoned Blake, and he’d have sorted it out at once. Now I’m not quite sure what to do.’

  ‘Maybe you should try and contact Morris directly. Find out where he is, and go and see him.’

  Dresler nodded. ‘I’ve thought of doing that, many times. He’s up in the valleys, I know, but I’ve no idea where.’

  ‘I’m sure we could trace him.’ Jess sat forward. ‘How did Blake discover Morris, anyway? Did he ever tell you?’

  Dresler nodded, somewhat distractedly, as if tearing himself away from his own thoughts. ‘Yes. He often told the story; it was an extraordinary thing. He was at the Cardiff gallery one day with Isobel. They were going over the accounts. The place had been quiet all day, no one much had been in, and then suddenly, this young man appears. A lad from the valleys, with green hair, a pierced eyebrow, and sleeve tattoos. Marches in with a big canvas wrapped in brown paper, dumps it against the wall, and marches out.’