I slung my bag over my shoulder, took the cake box out of the boot and carried it as if I had been entrusted with the crown jewels. When I got to the door, I rang the bell with my nose. The door opened, and I almost dropped my cargo.
“Stephen!”
“You couldn’t trust us to have something for your tea, could you?” He grinned at me, and my spirits lifted.
I slipped past him to set the box on the entry table and turned back to give him a massive hug before holding him at arm’s length for a good look.
“You look wonderful,” I said. But he didn’t really.
Stephen’s normal appearance wasn’t terribly run-of-the-mill. Like Willow, he had found his own style; he wore his curly hair short and usually with a red tint, his spectacles sported turquoise frames, and he often chose boldly contrasting colors for his clothes. But today, his attire—although smart with coordinated tight trousers, jacket, and scarf—gave off a subdued, woodsy aura in russet and green. And his spectacles had tortoise-shell frames.
“Hmm,” he said, catching my look. He ran his fingers through my hair and tilted my chin, probably noting the scratches.
“How are you?” I asked, before he seized the advantage.
He crossed his arms. “I’m fine. How are you?”
I crossed mine. “Fine.”
“Jools—” he began.
“How is it that you’re here on a Saturday?” I asked. Stephen owned a wildly popular hair salon in Hoxton, and he would normally be slammed on a weekend.
“I’ve decided to take a few days off,” he replied, looking at the floor. “I’ve a fantastic manager, and she’s well able to run the place.”
“Time off—you?” Did he think I’d believe that one? Stephen had worked nonstop at making the salon a success; he kept his hands on the day-to-day running with a vise grip. I squinted at him, daring him to look at me. “How’s Clive?” I asked—an exploratory enquiry.
Clive and Stephen had been a couple for more than a year now, andI thought they were a fine example of opposites attracting, what with Stephen’s artistic talent and Clive being a mathematician. But at my question, Stephen continued to avoid my gaze, and that gave me my answer. “No, Stephen. What happened?”
“It didn’t work out, that’s all.”
“This is awful. Everyone is breaking up.” I felt my emotions being pushed to the brink. “You and Clive, Tess and Chloe, Michael and—”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare say that,” Stephen cut in, sticking an index finger in my face. “You and Michael are not broken up. Circumstances have pulled you apart—briefly. That’s all it is. And now—who are Tess and Chloe?”
I shrugged. “DI Callow and her girlfriend.”
“DI Callow?” Stephen said, brightening up considerably. “Are you hot and heavy with the police now?”
I snorted with laughter. What a tonic Stephen was—and how thoughtful of Beryl to know he would cheer me up. Where was Beryl? Where was Dad?
“Are you here on your own?” I asked.
“Not quite,” Stephen said, his eyes darting over my shoulder to the staircase. I whirled round to see that the gang of three was complete, for there stood Bianca.
Chapter 20
I had no words at the sight of my sister—her brownish hair swept back in an untidy, frizzy ponytail and wearing old denims and a sweater she must’ve left in a bureau upstairs all those years ago when she moved away. She was better than even chocolate cake. I threw my arms round her, and like a complete fool, I sobbed.
“It’s okay, Jools,” she said patting me on the back. “You just let it out, it’s all right.”
But it was over as soon as it had begun. I wiped my face and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming for a visit? Where are the children? Where’s Paul?”
Bianca spread her arms. “It’s Mum’s wild weekend off—I’m here on my own, just this once. Paul’s minding the children, and his mother’s helping out.”
“This is such a lovely surprise.”
“Good,” Dad said, appearing from his study along with Beryl. “That’s what we intended.”
The comforting love of family surrounded me, but there was something else in the air I couldn’t quite identify. “So, you all thought I needed cheering up?”
“We thought you needed an intervention,” Stephen said.
“You what?”
“Come on,” Bianca said, nodding toward the sitting room.
“Am I being ganged up on?” I asked, my initial joy quickly being replaced with the suspicion that I was going to be told off.
“My God,” Stephen said, peeking into the bakery box. “Is that all for you, or are any of the rest of us allowed to have a taste?” He batted his innocent-looking eyes at me.
I sniffed. “I might share. Who’s putting the kettle on?”
“Could we hold off on tea and cake for a few minutes?” Bee asked. “Let’s sit down.”
Fine. I marched into the sitting room as if walking the gangplank. Dad, Bianca, and Stephen took the sofa, Beryl one of the armchairs, and I the other—at least if I was going to be put on trial, I would be able to sit, instead of stand in the dock. I perched on the front edge of the cushion.
“Is this about yesterday morning—double-booking myself? Because it was only a blip—it’s all sorted now.”
“It’s about you punishing yourself,” Bianca said.
“Punishing myself? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How do you feel about Nick’s death, Jools?” Stephen asked.
I looked at him and then away. “What sort of a question is that? I feel horrible, of course. It’s dreadful.”
Bianca leaned forward. “But do you feel bad enough?”
“Do I what?”
“You think you should be drowning in some dramatic, full-on mourning—keening or some such thing—but you aren’t,” she said. “And so, you’re blaming yourself for a lack of emotion.”
My sister knew me too well. I looked down at my hands and mumbled, “I have plenty of emotion, just the wrong sort. His death is a terrible thing, and I should be sad—more sad than I am. But instead, I just want to scream.”
“You’ve every right to feel angry,” Beryl said. “You’re remembering how it was when you were married—and we’re remembering it, too. Everyone worried about you so. Your mum would go back and forth about how to help—should she say something to you or shouldn’t she?”
“We saw what Nick did to you, Jools, when you two were married,” Stephen said.
“Did to me? You mean, you think he abused me?” I shook my head. “No, Nick never hit me—he never did anything like that.”
Rupert wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “We know he didn’t do that. If I’d thought for one second he had laid a hand on you that way, you’d be visiting me in Her Majesty’s prison now.”
“But he didn’t yell, either,” I said, confused at having to defend Nick and, at the same time, wanting to blame him. “He didn’t try to control me. There was no abuse. He never told me who my friends should be or where I should go. He never tried to tell me anything. He didn’t care.”
“That’s true,” Bianca said. “And you grew to be just like him—you lost your spirit. It was as if Nick had doused you with a fire hose. It’s no wonder you’re angry. With Nick dying, it’s reminded you how it was then. But there’s no need to pile the guilt on yourself.”
“After Nick left for St. Kilda, how did you feel?” Stephen asked.
“Better,” I said in a small voice. They waited. “All right—much better.” I could remember well—the weeks and months immediately after Nick departed, it was as if a clay mold round my entire being had cracked and broken off piece by piece. I was free. I had begun to spend more and more time at my parents’ house over the next year, until everyone thought I might just as well give up the flat and move back—temporarily, we all said. Even so, it had been a further year before Nick and I had made the effort to get a divorce.
“The spark inside you that had gone out when you were with Nick, it came back,” Dad said. “You reclaimed your life, you should be proud of that.”
“You and Nick were chalk and cheese,” Bianca said. “He was a loner, and you love life. You were a bad match. That’s all there is to it.”
“Yes,” I said, the hot rush of fury streaking back, “a bad match—and that was down to me, wasn’t it? What was I thinking marrying Nick Hawkins? What a stupid idea.”
“We all make mistakes, Julia,” Stephen said. “The thing is, you’d put it behind you until this happened. Now, Nick’s death has dredged it up—all those dreary days and weeks and years.”
“You’ve no reason to punish yourself because you aren’t in bits over Nick dying,” Bianca said.
Part of me knew they were right, but that didn’t banish the guilt—instead, it mushroomed, threatening to choke me. I breathed in and out quickly to keep the tears at bay, but they filled my eyes regardless. My body trembled as I fought to be free from that all-encompassing numbness that had reached out to me from the past and now, at his death, tried to reclaim me.
“He wasn’t a terrible person,” I managed to say. “But he did have a rather low affect.”
“Low affect?” Bee repeated with an incredulous tone. “That’s putting it mildly. His affect was so low I’m surprised people weren’t constantly checking his pulse to make sure he was still alive.” Her eyebrows shot up, and her eyes darted round the room. “Oh sorry, was that in bad taste?”
Here it came—the earthquake shook its way to the surface, and I pressed my lips together to keep it from escaping. But it was no use. I sputtered and popped and sounded like our kettle at the TIC until at last I broke out—in screams of laughter. And they wouldn’t quit. I snorted, gasped for air, and clutched my stomach, but I kept laughing. Dad and Beryl stared at me, their brows furrowed, but I saw Stephen grin, and Bianca, too.
As my laughter at last trailed off to the odd snort and rippling giggle, Dad let out an enormous sigh and took Beryl’s hand. “Listen, Jools,” he said, “there’s something you need to know. Something I did before you and Nick split.”
I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. “You gave him money to leave me.”
Dad’s jaw dropped. “Who told you that?” He threw Bianca an accusatory glare.
“Oh please, as if it wasn’t clear to everyone but me that’s what he’d wanted from the start.”
“He came to me about this idea of moving to St. Kilda to track vagrant birds. Year-round.” Dad shook his head. “We were so afraid you’d go, too, but then your mum said that perhaps this would help you see you had a choice.”
“It isn’t as if he said he was leaving me. He could never be that dramatic. ‘Come if you want,’ he’d said. There’s a lovely invitation for you.” I thought back to that afternoon. “I was stunned. It had really come out of the blue. I remember I rang you, and you did your best to act surprised.” Dad’s face went pink. “The next day, Mum stopped in. She tried to sound supportive, told me how lovely it is in the Outer Hebrides. She said, ‘Just think of your days there. Day after day. Just you and Nick.’ I’d been in a fog for twenty-four hours, but when she said that, I could see my life stretch out into years of nothingness. That decided it for me.”
Bee grinned. “You stood up and shouted, ‘He’s out of his mind if he thinks I’m going to follow him to the ends of the earth so that he can catch sight of a handful of purple martins blown off course. Let him go to bloody St. Kilda, and good riddance to him.’ ” Laughing, Bee said, “Mum repeated that so many times we had it memorized by the end of the week.”
I made a poor attempt at hiding a smile. “You know what I meant, though—it was all well and good for Nick, he would love that environment.”
“But it wasn’t for you,” Beryl said. “And you realized it that.”
“The money Nick received wasn’t a bribe,” Dad insisted. “I donated to this institute he had formed; we had it arranged legally.”
“Did you make Nick promise he’d stay away from me?” When Dad didn’t answer, I added, “That’s what I thought.” I should’ve taken offense at my dad stepping in to help break up my marriage, but really, I couldn’t be bothered. “But, surely that money couldn’t’ve lasted all these years? Do you think Nick wanted more money from you now?”
“He was never going to get any more money from me—that was part of the agreement. I don’t know how he could’ve made it stretch this long.”
“Terry and Sam contributed. Maybe Nick put them up to it at first—applying for the grant, but not including his name,” I said, half to myself. “Except when they did apply, it was for money to move AIL to St. Margaret’s at Cliffe in Kent. Nick would never have left St. Kilda, and when he found out what they’d done, he’d followed them down here and confronted them. They’d had to silence him. That could’ve been their motivation—but still, how did they have the opportunity?”
I felt four pairs of eyes on me and realized I probably should’ve kept those thoughts to myself.
“You’ve heard this from Inspector Callow?” Rupert asked.
It hardly mattered how I’d heard it. “She says they have an alibi,” I said, “that they were both at work, not even in the area. Terry Fisk and Sam Redman—do you know them, Dad? They were at uni with Nick.” Dad had started his career at Cambridge before he gave up academia to teach his “citizen scientists” through appearances at spring and autumn festivals and on television.
Rupert frowned and thought. “Large fellow and the other one, dark, with glasses. Squints a lot. Yes, but I didn’t know they were involved in AIL. Say, I thought Michael had put off the decision about the grant.”
“SaraJane gave me the grant applications, because she thought I’d taken over everything from Michael, and so I read through them. No harm done—but that’s how I know who they are.”
“But how do you know so much about those two?” Dad asked.
“It’s amazing what people put into a grant application,” I said, thinking we should change the subject before I get told off again. “SaraJane—Dad, what a fantastic addition to the crew. You must find her invaluable. Hang on—don’t you have an interview this afternoon with Radio Northumberland?”
“Julia—” he began.
More evasive action needed. I reached over and clasped Stephen’s and Bianca’s hands, as they were the closest to me. “Thank you—all of you. I feel ever so much better. I can’t say I’m finished being cross with myself for making the foolish decision to marry Nick in the first place, but I won’t waste any more time worrying about it. Now, who’s for tea and cake?”
Chapter 21
The company, the chocolate cake, Beryl’s roast dinner, a couple bottles of wine—these were the best restoratives. Everyone suggested I stay the night, and I was putty in their hands. After the meal, we gang of three washed up the dinner dishes, laughing and chatting as if we were twelve years old again—and ended up just as we always had, in Bianca’s room with me on the floor, Bee at her dressing table, and Stephen sprawled across the bed on his back with his head hanging off the side.
“And so, that’s it?” Bee asked him. “You broke it off for good with Clive?”
“I won’t dwell on the past if Julia won’t,” Stephen said in a choked voice.
“Your face is scarlet, Stephen,” I observed.
He sat up and coughed. “I can’t believe I was able to do that for hours on end.” He flopped back against the pillows. “So, that’s that—the end of it. I’ll never fall in love again.”
“Wait!” Bee said. “That’s one of Mum’s old songs!”
We broke out in an enthusiastic rendition, but soon ran out of lyrics and collapsed in laughter.
“But I’m right,” Stephen said with a sigh. “You know I am. It isn’t easy to find someone who makes you look the way Bee does every time someone mentions Paul’s name.”
True. All the years of my sister’s marriage, she w
ould take on this little smile when the subject of her husband came up—as if they shared a lovely secret.
“And you’re the same these days.” Stephen nodded at me.
“Don’t,” I said, with a rush of panic and passion. “I don’t know. Don’t say anything—you’ll jinx it.”
“Don’t be afraid of it, Jools,” Bee said. “And you”—she pointed a finger at Stephen—“you will find someone.”
“Well, Ms. Broom and Ms. Lanchester,” Stephen said as he got off the bed, whipped a towel off the back of Bianca’s chair, and shook it out, “until my Mr. Right comes along, we’d better get to it.” Stephen had decided Bianca needed a cut and said how handy it was that he always had his scissors with him. He turned her toward the mirror and tilted her head slightly, examining her shoulder-length hair that had a texture much like Dad’s, tending toward bushy.
I replaced Stephen on the bed and spoke to the ceiling. “I can’t believe I left Linus in charge of the TIC today—shows the state I was in that I’d let the earl work behind the counter.”
“Especially since one of your loyal customers is a bird,” Bianca said.
“Alfie. That is one smart rook. And Tennyson is adorable—she and Emmy would get along really well, Bee. I wish they could meet, because I think Tennyson could use a girlfriend. Not that Alfie isn’t an exceptional companion. He’s even helping me out a bit—do you know he could tell immediately that those journos were despicable people, and he harasses them every time they show up.”
“They’ve backed off a bit, though, haven’t they?”
“A bit,” I said. “But one of them has kept it up.” Although I hadn’t seen the jackals in the village yesterday, Sightings—one of the online rags—had slapped up a headline that read: VICTIM HAD BEEN PURSUED BY EX-WIFE AND BOYFRIEND IN MURDER PACT. I couldn’t quite laugh at that one yet. “Look, I’ve snapped a photo of them—you can see how horrible they are.”
I pulled out my phone and found the photo I’d taken through the window of the TIC on Wednesday.
Every Trick in the Rook Page 18