Black Valley

by Williams, Charlotte

  I’m doing the right thing here, thought Jess. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.

  ‘After that, I ran off, of course. I was in a bit of a state, to be honest. I liked Blake, I didn’t want to kill him. But, you see, I had to.’ She put her hand up to forehead, rubbing her eyes. ‘It was a mistake, really. I shouldn’t have done that.’

  Once again, there was a silence. Jess knew better than to break it.

  ‘I’d made a complete mess of things,’ she went on, ‘so I called Isobel and she came and got me. I called you too, of course, but Isobel got there first. And once we got home I told her everything. She was appalled, of course, and absolutely furious with me. But she didn’t turn me in. She couldn’t, you see.’

  ‘Couldn’t?’

  ‘No. That’s the kind of relationship we have. We stick together, whatever happens.’ Elinor shrugged. ‘She covered for me. And she’s very practical, you see, which I’m not. She came up with a good plan. She took the painting to the police, said she’d found it in the house, that Blake had killed Ursula and committed suicide. The police were happy with the story. And for a while, it looked as if everything would be OK. Isobel came to live with me. I was thrilled that she was back. But, of course, it didn’t work. She was heartbroken about Blake. Couldn’t forgive me. I don’t think she ever will.’

  For the first time, there was genuine remorse in Elinor’s voice.

  ‘We decided to keep the Morris project going,’ she went on, after a pause. ‘It seemed a shame to let it drop. So Isobel got in touch with Jacob Dresler and told him the truth.’

  Jess put her hand up to her mouth in horror. Surely Dresler hadn’t . . .

  ‘Only about me painting as Morris,’ Elinor continued. ‘Not about the other stuff, of course.’

  Jess took her hand away.

  ‘He was happy to front up the operation. He would have looked a bit of a fool if the truth had come out, after all.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘But then he mentioned to Isobel that you were getting suspicious about the Morris paintings. He said you thought Isobel was behind them. I was upset about that.’ Elinor frowned. ‘Isobel could never have done them. She just hasn’t got the technique.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know much about painting, you see.’

  ‘I should have realized that.’ Once again, Elinor seemed remorseful. ‘But anyway, that’s why I asked you to come down to the mine and see my work. I wanted to show you it was me who was doing the Morris paintings. And I wanted to show you that the claustrophobia had lifted, that I was painting in the mine again.’ She paused. ‘Then Isobel came into the mine while we were there. I’d forgotten that she was coming in that day, to set up some stuff for the exhibition.’ Elinor frowned. ‘She got scared, I suppose, thought you would tell everyone what you’d seen, and the whole project would be ruined. That’s why she maced you and left you there.’

  Jess wondered whether Bonetti was listening, and, if she was, whether she’d decided to act.

  ‘Isobel made me run off with her,’ Elinor continued. ‘I told her we could trust you, that you were my therapist, and that everything you witnessed was confidential.’ She paused. ‘She didn’t believe me. She thought you’d find out about what had happened to Ursula and Blake and report us to the police. But I told her she was wrong.’

  Jess remained silent.

  ‘Later on, I persuaded her that we should come back and look for you.’

  Oh yes, thought Jess. I’m sure you did.

  ‘You weren’t there so we assumed you’d got out. I was so relieved about that, Jess.’ She hesitated, perhaps sensing Jess’s disbelief. ‘So we just got on and cleared everything away. That’s why the police couldn’t find anything.’

  Elinor came to a halt. Once again, Jess waited for her to go on. Eventually, she did.

  ‘I felt really bad about it all. That’s why I came round to your house to see you. To tell you I was sorry. I met your daughter. She told me you were in hospital. She was so nice. She reminded me so much of you.’

  ‘She liked you, too.’

  There was a long silence. Where are you, Bonetti? Jess thought. Get down here, for God’s sake.

  Elinor gazed out of the window, a dreamy look on her face.

  ‘You’ve got another daughter, too, haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Rose.’

  ‘Yes. Rose.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Eleven. Coming up to twelve.’

  ‘I’d like to meet her, too.’

  As she spoke, the door to the consulting room opened.

  Elinor sat up on the couch, as if a bolt of electricity had gone through her, and swivelled round towards the door.

  Lauren Bonetti marched into the room. Behind her were two uniformed male police officers.

  Elinor stared at Jess, a look of incomprehension on her face. ‘What’s going on? Tell them to go away.’

  One of the policemen stepped forward.

  Bonetti began to speak. ‘Elinor Powell, you are under arrest for the murders of Ursula Powell and Blake Thomas.’

  Elinor looked stunned. She jumped up off the couch and tried to dodge round the policeman. He moved towards her and grasped her round the shoulders, holding her as she struggled. The other policeman came forward and handcuffed her.

  ‘You do not have to say anything.’ Bonetti was still talking. ‘But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court . . .’

  Elinor wasn’t listening. Instead, she’d fixed her gaze on Jess. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘How could you?’

  Jess looked away.

  ‘You lied to me. I trusted you. You told me I could tell you anything.’

  The policeman pushed Elinor towards the door.

  ‘You said . . .’

  The policeman gripped Elinor’s body more firmly, leading her away.

  ‘Call yourself a therapist?’ Elinor began to shout, her voice shaking with rage. ‘You lured me in here. You laid me down on that couch. You got me to talk. And then you turned me in!’

  They led Elinor through the door. In the corridor, she began to kick and scream.

  ‘You bitch! You fucking liar!’

  The screams echoed down the hallway.

  ‘Don’t listen.’ Bonetti went over and closed the door. Elinor’s muffled screams were still audible as she was led down the staircase.

  Bonetti came up and stood beside Jess. ‘Look, you don’t have anything to reproach yourself for. You did the right thing.’

  Jess didn’t respond.

  ‘I’m going to have to go now. But I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.’ She paused.

  ‘Try to put this out of your mind. Get some rest.’

  Bonetti reached forward and laid a hand on her arm. Jess shrugged it off and walked over to the window, her back to the policewoman.

  She heard Bonetti walk away, opening and closing the door to let herself out. She didn’t turn round.

  She looked out of the window, her mind a blank. After a while, she saw Elinor in the street below. She’d stopped screaming. She wasn’t struggling. There was an officer either side of her. Bonetti had caught up with them, and was walking behind her.

  Some words that Jess remembered ran through her head.

  Being trustworthy is regarded as fundamental to understanding and resolving ethical issues. Practitioners who adopt this principle act in accordance with the trust placed in them; regard confidentiality as an obligation arising from the client’s trust; restrict any disclosure of confidential information about clients . . .

  The Ethical Framework for Good Practice in Counselling and Psychotherapy. She’d learned it off by heart.

  As Elinor got into the police car, she looked up for a moment at the window where Jess was standing. Jess put her hand up in a gesture of farewell. Elinor ignored the gesture, and continued to stare up at her, as if in a trance, until
the policeman pushed her into the car.

  Both the policemen got into the front of the car, one in the driving seat, one in the passenger seat. Bonetti got into the back, next to Elinor. Jess watched as the car pulled out into the road and drove away.

  She stood there for a long time. The tree outside the window began to rustle in the wind, its branches casting a play of light over the walls of the room.

  She turned and walked away from the window. She went over to the hat stand, picked up her bag, and slung her jacket over it. Just before she left, she looked around her.

  She didn’t want to be here in her consulting rooms any more. She didn’t want to see the couch by the window, or the chair positioned behind it, or the two armchairs by the fireplace, either side of the low coffee table. Or the white relief on the wall, the circle sitting quietly among the squares, or the small pot on the mantelpiece. Or her desk, or her books, or her papers.

  Or any of it, ever again.

  All she wanted was to be outside, walking in the sun, with her daughters.

  Also by Charlotte Williams

  The House on the Cliff

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank Margaret Halton for her help, support, and guidance in getting this book into print. I am also extremely grateful to my editor Trisha Jackson for her skill and patience throughout the process. Thanks also to Katie James, Natasha Harding, and all at Macmillan who have worked on the book. And to my husband John Williams, as ever, for his continued support in every way.

  First published 2014 by Macmillan

  This electronic edition published 2014 by Macmillan

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

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  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-5548-2

  Copyright © Charlotte Williams 2014

  Jacket design © www.blacksheep-uk.com

  Jacket photography © SuperStock

  The right of Charlotte Williams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The extracts from ‘The Twin in the Transference’ by Vivienne Lewin, first published by Whurr Books, London, 2004, are reproduced with kind permission.

  Every attempt has been made to contact copyright holders of material reproduced in this book. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publishers will be pleased to make restitution at the earliest opportunity.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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