In the Still of the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  ‘I wasn’t muscling in on your evening,’ Sean said. ‘I just drove Harriet here – but I did want a word with you.’

  ‘Well, come in and have a drink, anyway,’ Annie said, leading the way into the house. She stood in the hall, with its scent of beeswax polish, the deep-toned sound of the nineteenth-century grandfather clock which her mother had inherited from her own father, and listened anxiously to the silence upstairs. Sean watched her, frowning.

  ‘I’ll just check upstairs, shall I?’ He must have picked up on her nervousness.

  He ran upstairs, and Harriet gave her a sharp, curious look.

  ‘What’s going on, Annie? Oh, come on, I’m not stupid. It’s obvious something is up. You and Sean have secrets, you’re rowing all the time with Derek – if any of this can affect the series I ought to be warned.’

  Annie sighed. ‘I was going to tell you this evening – that’s why I asked you over.’

  Sean came back, taking the stairs two at a time. ‘All clear.’

  Annie led the way into the sitting-room, and poured them both a drink.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Sean asked, sitting down on a blue brocade couch and looking around the high-ceilinged room while Annie told him about her visit to the hospital. The décor was much as it had been all Annie’s life; Trudie hated changes, so the room had a curiously old-fashioned feel to it. The blue-striped wallpaper had been renewed in a similar pattern a few years back and the Axminster carpet had been on this floor as long as Annie could remember. On the long between-the-wars sideboard against one wall stood two dark blue Majolica vases with pale blue irises sculpted on their sides. They had been bought by Annie’s father years ago. Annie had always loved them; their deep colour had pleased her even as a child and since her father’s death they had meant even more to her. Every time she saw them she was reminded of him, of how safe he had made her feel when she was tiny, how he had often carried her on his back downstairs to breakfast, how he had let her help him fill the Majolica vases with spring flowers, yellow daffodils and tulips.

  ‘What a cosy room. It’s got that lovely lived-in feeling,’ Harriet said approvingly. ‘I like these old Edwardian houses, there’s so much space, with these big windows and high ceilings.’

  As Annie smiled at her, Sean shifted impatiently. He was never interested in small talk. ‘Look, Annie,’ he said, ‘I talked to Marty Keats. It’s obvious she knows something. She says her husband is back in England, and I got the impression he was trying to get money out of her. I think she knows he’s threatening you. Annie, keep Harriet here tonight – tell her everything you told me. I’d feel a lot happier if you weren’t here alone.’

  ‘I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding or surrounding myself with people!’

  ‘You won’t have to. Just a few days. I’m going to arrange for someone to watch Marty Keats.’

  ‘You aren’t telling the police! Sean, I don’t want the police brought in to this!’

  ‘No, no, this is a private detective. He used to work with me at Blackfriars; now he’s gone private, and he’s very discreet. He’s a good friend of mine. I’d trust him with my life.’

  She chewed her lower lip uncertainly. ‘But even if you do find Roger Keats, what can you do about him?’

  ‘Put the fear of God into him.’

  Annie half wished she hadn’t confided in Sean. Her nerves were jumping like ants on a hot plate. How would Roger Keats react if Sean confronted him? She remembered his vicious fury after she reported him to the governors at the school. She’d been afraid he might actually kill her. She was still afraid of that – she had the feeling he was working up to it. He was like a cat playing with a cornered mouse. When he had got enough fun out of tormenting her, he would kill her.

  That decided her. She couldn’t live in this state of fear and uncertainty. She had to find out where Roger Keats was and what he was planning.

  ‘Alright, ask your friend to track him down, Sean,’ she said.

  ‘Wise decision. It’s always better to face your demons.’

  Plaintively, Harriet said, ‘How about filling me in on all this?’

  Annie looked at her, then at Sean, her blue eyes pleading. ‘Would you tell her, Sean? I’ll go and start cooking. Stay for dinner, won’t you? There are plenty of eggs. You do like omelette?’

  ‘Love them. Thanks, I’d love to stay.’

  She went out and began getting the salad together first, making a fresh low-calorie dressing with a dribble of walnut oil and white wine vinegar mixed with a touch of mustard. She tossed a crisp salad in it and set it aside while she reached for the china hen in which she kept her eggs.

  Her arm brushed her handbag and it fell on the floor. A small white box tumbled out; she blinked in surprise, then remembered Derek giving it to her.

  She had forgotten it until that moment. Curiously she opened the box and stared in shock.

  Inside on a bed of tissue paper nestled a baby’s bootee with a splash of red across the foot. Annie touched it with one finger and then looked at her fingertip. It was faintly sticky. Blood, Annie thought, her ears ringing with shock. It’s blood. There was a card in the box too, one word printed on it in capital letters.

  REMEMBER.

  6

  In the sitting-room, Sean and Harriet were talking in low-voices, keeping a wary ear open for Annie coming back.

  ‘I’m seriously worried about her, Sean. She’s looking ill. I’m not imagining it, am I? Strained and edgy, and as if she’s on the verge of tears half the time. It’s something to do with Derek, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know she asked me to tell you, but I think she should do it, I think she needs to talk.’ He broke off, getting up hurriedly as they both heard a crash from the kitchen. ‘What the hell was that?’

  He ran out with Harriet hard on his heels as he burst into the kitchen.

  Annie lay on the floor on her face, one arm flung out, the other crumpled under her.

  Sean threw a look around the room, as if checking that there was nobody else there, nothing else out of place, but apart from Annie and a fallen chair there was nothing odd, so he went down on his knees beside her and turned her head without turning her body.

  Her eyes were shut, but her lids were flickering, her lashes moving against her cheek.

  Brushing the hair back from her face, Sean studied her, a hand on her throat, feeling for a pulse.

  ‘She’s not dead.’ It wasn’t so much a statement as a question, and Harriet had gone pale with shock.

  ‘No, but her heartbeat is very slow. She’s fainted, I think. Get me some water, Harriet. I’ll try to bring her round.’

  Harriet ran the kitchen cold tap, found a glass in a cupboard, filled it and brought it Sean, who had gently turned Annie round on to her back.

  It was as he did so that he first saw the bootee; it lay under her body, where it had dropped from her hand.

  ‘Christ!’ grunted Sean and at the same time Harriet saw the bootee with the stain of blood soaking into it and took a startled breath.

  ‘How weird – what’s that doing there? A baby’s bootee? Don’t tell me she’s pregnant, I couldn’t be that unlucky. Halfway through the series and with all the scripts written and Annie in every one of them!’

  She watched Sean lift Annie, an arm around her shoulders, supporting her, while he held the glass of water to her lips.

  ‘Is that wine she’s spilt on the bootee?’

  Sean didn’t answer; he was too intent on Annie, who had begun to splutter as the water trickled down her throat.

  Opening her eyes, she looked up, right at him, her face white and blank.

  ‘How do you feel, Annie? Can you sit up?’

  ‘Should we call a doctor?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘No,’ Annie said hurriedly.

  ‘No,’ agreed Sean. He was staring at the white cardboard box which he had just noticed under the table, where it had fallen.

  ‘I’ll be fine now, I’m …’ Annie broke off a
s she saw the bootee on the floor.

  Sean saw the shudder of revulsion run through her, the way her skin seemed to lose even more colour, turn the white of ice and snow, bloodless and cold.

  Sliding an arm under her legs, he got to his feet holding her and walked quickly into the sitting-room, laid her full length on a deeply sprung white couch and put several cushions behind her head.

  Closing her eyes again, Annie lay still, trying to control the shivers running through her.

  Sean sat down on the couch beside her and picked up her restless, chilly little hands.

  ‘Where did it come from, Annie?’

  The quiet question made her stiffen. For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer him; he could tell she didn’t want to talk about it, but at last she whispered, ‘Derek gave it to me at the studio today.’

  ‘Derek?’ The name jerked out of Harriet; Sean frowned round at her, putting a finger on his lips to silence her.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Sean held Annie’s hands, rubbing them, trying to put some warmth back into them.

  ‘I … I can’t tell you …’

  ‘He’s blackmailing you, isn’t he?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Who had a baby, Annie? You?’

  She groaned, bit her lower lip; he saw a spot of bright red blood seep through the colourless flesh.

  ‘There was a baby, and a death – or else why the blood? What’s he threatening? To talk to the press? When was this, Annie? Recently?’

  ‘I was at drama school, I was eighteen,’ Annie fiercely said, pulling her hands away from him.

  ‘And you got pregnant? Don’t tell me Derek was the father?’ Sean looked at her incredulously.

  Annie’s face answered for her; the shiver of repulsion was unmistakable. ‘No!’

  ‘Where does Derek come into it, then?’ persisted Sean, and after a long pause she told him, her voice low and bleak.

  ‘My boyfriend vanished, I had no money, and Derek came along at just that moment to offer me a part on TV. My mother and Derek talked me into an abortion, and because we had no money Derek paid for it. I’ve paid him back over and over again in the last few years.’ She took a long, ragged breath. ‘And, God, I’ve bitterly regretted it ever since. I shouldn’t have listened to them, I didn’t want to kill my baby – but I’d been through a bad shock just before that, I was very low – and then my boyfriend walked out on me, and I was too unhappy to care what happened, I just sleepwalked into it.’ She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and wet with tears that began then to slip down her face. ‘I wish to God I could undo what I did, sometimes I have dreams about being back there, having the baby, I dream it has been born and they put it in my arms and then I see it’s dead and I wake up crying.’

  He brought out a clean white handkerchief and dried her face gently. ‘And how long has Derek Fenn been blackmailing you over it?’

  ‘Since the start of the series.’ She gave him a cynical little grimace. ‘Since I began to have money he could so-called borrow and not pay back.’

  ‘The bastard,’ muttered Harriet. ‘The dirty little bastard. Well, that’s it, I’m sacking him.’

  ‘No,’ Annie burst out and at the same moment Sean spoke, his voice riding over the top of Annie’s.

  ‘What do you imagine he’ll do then? The minute he’s fired, he’ll be on to the press with his story, and they’ll eat it with a knife and fork.’

  Harriet stared back at him, frowning. ‘So, what do I do about him?’

  ‘Leave him to me, I’ll deal with him. Once he knows I’m on to him he’ll probably back off and leave Annie alone. He’s weak, and weak men are often bullies, but the first sign of anyone standing up to them and they run.’ He stood up. ‘Now, what about those omelettes? Annie, you stay here and rest. Harriet and I will deal with dinner.’

  She protested, swinging her legs down from the couch, but he pushed her back.

  ‘We won’t take five minutes. Just shut your eyes, we’ll call you when the food is ready.’

  In the kitchen he found a roll of cling film and cut off a large piece, laid it on the table, picked up the blood-stained bootee and laid it on to the larger piece, wrapped it into a small parcel, while Harriet was finding an omelette pan, melting a little butter in it, keeping a curious eye on him as she worked.

  ‘You won’t get fingerprints off that, will you?’

  ‘Unlikely, but we’ll have a shot. What I do want to know is if that’s real blood or fake.’

  Harriet shuddered. ‘I expect it’s fake. You know, I’m not one of Derek’s admirers, but I’d never have guessed he had such a morbid streak, or such a nasty one, either.’

  ‘He’s an actor, isn’t he?’ Sean put the wrapped bootee into his jacket pocket.

  Harriet laughed, getting a warmed plate ready before she began cooking the omelettes. ‘Can I quote you, Mr Halifax?’

  A few minutes later Annie joined them in the kitchen. Harriet’s omelette was light and golden, the salad was perfect. Sean left after a cup of coffee, but Annie and Harriet sat up talking for a couple of hours before going to bed.

  Annie told her everything, starting from her audition at drama school and what Roger Keats had done to her that day. ‘All that first term I was waiting for him to start on me again,’ she whispered, shivering.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell someone? How could you be so stupid? You should have told your mother.’

  ‘I was too scared. I didn’t know why exactly, then, I hadn’t worked it out, but later I realised that I knew that if I told anyone about Mr Keats I’d have to leave the school. I couldn’t have stayed there afterwards, and I couldn’t do that to my mother. She was desperate for me to be a success, it was all she dreamt about.’

  ‘But you did, eventually?’

  Annie closed her eyes. ‘I had to, he told me to come to his room after school, and I knew what would happen if I went. I couldn’t do it. Not only because I would have hated it, but because by then I’d met Johnny.’

  ‘Johnny?’ asked Harriet, eyes widening.

  Her voice dreamy, Annie said, ‘He was our lodger here – we fell in love that spring.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Harriet half to herself. ‘The father of the baby?’

  Annie’s face changed. She gave a short, painful sigh. ‘Yes.’

  Harriet said, ‘You know, I often wondered if there’d ever been a man in your life. You never mentioned one and you were always so obsessed with work, I never saw you taking anyone seriously, I wondered if you were just plain frigid. Or cold, anyway.’

  Annie blushed. ‘Well, we never know much about ourselves, do we? But I certainly wasn’t cold with Johnny; I was crazy about him. I remember right at the beginning I used to sneak into his room when he was out just to lie on his bed and read romantic poetry, imagining how wonderful it would be if he was there, too. And then one day he came back and caught me.’

  Harriet laughed. ‘And did he join you on the bed?’

  Annie laughed, too, shaking her head. ‘No, it was months before we actually made love. We were both very young, Harriet. We were wildly romantic, both of us.’ There was a little silence, then she went on, ‘That was why I’d have died rather than let Roger Keats touch me again. Not once I’d fallen in love with Johnny. That changed my whole life. So I had to deal with Roger Keats, do something to stop him.’

  Harriet watched the determined set of her face, the fierceness in the blue eyes. Annie was a strange mixture of vulnerability and strength, that was what made her such a powerful actress. She could be ruthless and single-minded in her pursuit of what she felt necessary for a scene, and yet there was this underlying gentleness which contradicted that.

  ‘What exactly did you do?’ Harriet slowly asked.

  ‘I went to the school governors and because they needed proof I set him up, I went to his room as he’d ordered, but I left the door a little ajar, and the governors heard everything we said.’

  Harriet involuntarily wrinkle
d her nose and Annie flushed, looking unhappy.

  ‘I know. It wasn’t very pleasant. But it was either him or me – I had no choice. They sacked him, and the next year I got a Valentine’s card from him with a very scary message in it – and he’s been sending them every year ever since. That was bad enough, then this year he actually got in here, broke into my home during the night.’

  Harriet listened intently, frowning as Annie told her about the rose on her pillow, the card on the bedside table.

  ‘You mean that that guy in Petticoat Lane, who snatched your bag … that could have been Roger Keats?’ Watching Annie nod, shuddering, Harriet put an arm round her and hugged her. ‘You have had a bad time, haven’t you? No wonder you’ve been looking strained lately. Have you ever thought of going into analysis? You need to talk this out, Annie. You’re in denial, you have never really faced up to what happened to you, you’ve shut it all away and that’s no good. It’s festering inside you. What you need to do is see a really good therapist. Let me get you a name and a number to ring? I know I brilliant guy, discreet and reassuring.’

  ‘Maybe, let me think about it,’ Annie said reluctantly. She didn’t want to talk about her life to some stranger.

  Harriet considered her drily, with understanding. ‘I know. It’s difficult, but you’ll be glad you took the risk in the end, Annie. You need to let all this out, get to the heart of your own feelings. Anyone who had been through what you have would have problems, especially if they had never talked about it.’

  ‘Maybe, later,’ Annie hedged.

  Harriet gave her another dry look, then yawned. ‘Sorry, I’m whacked. Bed, I think, don’t you?’

  Annie showed her into a quiet bedroom at the back overlooking the garden. ‘Lovely room,’ Harriet said, pleased by the faded, muted colours.

  ‘This was the room Johnny used.’ Annie stood by the bed, touching the quilt under which Johnny had slept, her fingers caressing.