A Dark Devotion

by Clare Francis

  I went and splashed my face with cold water before sitting at my desk and trying Marsh House for the fourth or fifth time that day. There was still no reply, but this time the answering machine was on and Will’s calm voice invited messages. I outlined the Norfolk Police’s plan for a TV appeal and briefly summarized Ray Dodworth’s findings. I mentioned that I had been to see Veronica, but gave no details.

  Putting the phone down, I faced my empty home.

  I went through the rooms, clearing the last of the debris from the evening’s party. Paul’s lunchtime business meeting—‘just a short half-hour, Lexxy, and, honestly, it had to be Sunday, no other day they could do’—had turned into an afternoon marathon, fuelled by beer, sandwiches and coffee. No sooner had the clients led, no sooner had I started to look forward to a quiet evening, than a couple of Paul’s tennis buddies had arrived, invited—so I gathered—for a quick drink. This session had also turned into something of a marathon, an altogether noisier affair, fuelled by three bottles of wine and a scrappy meal I had produced from the freezer.

  I went about the clearing up with a mindless energy, collecting ashtrays, unloading the dishwasher, putting out the empty bottles in one continuous seam of action, for fear of losing heart half-way through. It hadn’t been so long ago that Paul and I had made the chores into an opportunity for talk and jokes.

  I straightened the last cushion, wiped the last surface of its glass mark. My home was immaculate once more, and I could hardly bear to look at it.

  I ate a little and did two hours on the paperwork I’d collected from the office. When my mind began to wander I read a few pages of a crime novel in which two policemen crack a murder alone, without a back-up team or any obvious contact with their headquarters. When I had started the same page three times, I took a sleeping pill. After a hot bath, a glass of lemon and honey, a warm dressing gown—the comforters of my youth—I went to bed, trying to believe that I would sleep.

  I must have dozed off quite quickly because before I knew it the telephone was trawling me from the depths of a dark and distant dream.

  ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you?’

  Will’s voice.

  ‘No, no.’ I fumbled for the light and sat up.

  ‘This TV appeal, why do they want me there?’ Will’s tone was lights but not so light that I couldn’t detect the tension in his voice.

  ‘It’s the coverage…’ My brain was still steeped in darkness, it was an effort to think. ‘There’ll be much wider coverage if you can take part.’

  ‘But it’s so…’ He wrestled with the thought. ‘So…public.’

  ‘But very effective. Your being there will make all the difference. I do urge you to agree, Will.’

  I heard him exhale sharply. ‘I hate the thought, Alex. Hate it.’ Then: ‘Well, I can’t do it tomorrow anyway.’ There was finality in his voice.

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘I’m taking Maggie to the hospital.’

  ‘Oh. Nothing serious?’

  ‘Her gallstones. They’re trying to persuade her to have an operation.’

  ‘Wednesday, then? You could do it on Wednesday?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘I’ll call them first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Must I do it?’ But there was capitulation in his voice; he was almost reconciled to it.

  ‘Yes.’

  A pause and he said, ‘Veronica didn’t eat you, then?’

  ‘It was a close-run thing.’

  He gave an arid laugh. ‘She doesn’t mince her words, does she? I suppose my name was mud. It usually is.’

  ‘Fairly murky, yes.’

  ‘I’m responsible for everything, I suppose? What about Grace’s disappearance? That too?’

  ‘I didn’t take anything she said too seriously.’

  ‘But she said it?’ There was an edge to his tone.

  ‘Yes.’

  He sighed heavily. ‘God.’

  I pushed the pillow up behind my head and lay back. The bedside clock read past midnight. ‘Tell me…’ I framed the question, only to glimpse pitfalls ahead. ‘No…’ I amended quickly. ‘No, it’s all right. Nothing.’

  ‘Say it, Alex.’

  I cursed the sleeping pill. I had forgotten what the stuff did to your brain: the slowness and the fog. ‘It was only that the police have been to see Veronica, haven’t they?’

  ‘I think SO, yes.’

  ‘And do we know what she told them?’

  ‘No,’ he exclaimed wryly, ‘but with Veronica it’s fairly safe to assume that she didn’t hold back.’

  ‘In which case the police will have got a’—I struggled to find the right word—‘a fairly biased view of things.’

  ‘You mean, it’ll give them all the more reason to think I’ve done something terrible to Grace?’ he said tightly, sounding trapped.

  I wished I could see his face, I wished I was with him. I sat forward again and dug my fingers hard into my temple. ‘I think perhaps I should have a word in Ramsey’s ear, suggest that anything coming from Veronica should be treated with the utmost caution.’

  ‘If you think so.’

  ‘We don’t want any untruths floating about, Will.’

  He made a nervous sounds half gasp, half laugh. ‘Bit late for that probably.’

  ‘Not at all. But I’ll need to go through it with you firsts to get the facts right.’

  ‘If you say so.’ He was sounding distracted now.

  Trying not to picture the pile of work on my desk, I heard myself say, ‘I’ll come up tomorrow afternoon if I can, Wednesday morning at the latest.’

  ‘You’ll stay around for the TV thing, though, won’t you?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course.’

  A long silence, which we broke at the same moment. I began, ‘I’ll phone you—’ as he said, ‘Sometimes I can’t help—’ Another pause. When he finally spoke again his voice was very taut. ‘I can’t help thinking that she’s somewhere close by.’

  I waited.

  ‘Sometimes I have this nightmare,’ he went on. ‘I see her…in this place…’ A long pause. ‘Trapped in some way. With water around her.’

  I closed my eyes, I was very still. The picture danced grotesquely before me, an unnerving echo of my own brief vision, and for an instant my memory played wild tricks, mixing up time and place, reality and imagination. For a crazy moment I thought I might have told him of my own vision of Grace, might in some bizarre way have planted it in his mind.

  He went on in a rough whisper, ‘Sometimes it’s all happening years ago, when Grace and I first met. You know—when I helped her out of that ditch. But then it’s not like that after all.’ He made a sound that was both a gasp and a shudder. ‘There’s water…and it’s awful. Awful!’

  ‘Doesn’t the mind do that, though?’ I ventured to fill the silence. ‘Doesn’t it try to make sense of disturbing things by linking the past with the present? Equating the first incident with danger, any danger, and then updating it. I’m sure you’ll find that’s all it is/

  Another silence before he said, ‘You’re probably right.’ Then, in an attempt to convince himself: ‘Yes, you must be right!’ It was another moment before he shook himself free and said in a more conversational tone, ‘I was on the salt-marsh today. By Thorp Creek, near that rotting boat—do you remember?’

  ‘Of course. Is it still there?’

  ‘Well, just the ribs. But, tell me, we took Pod there once, didn’t we?’

  ‘More than once, I think.’

  ‘And was that where we cooked the sausages? I was trying to remember.’

  I couldn’t suppress a small leap of pleasure. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ And he spoke like someone trying to slot the various aspects of his life into some sort of order. ‘We didn’t eat them, though, did we?’

  ‘Not enough dry wood for the fire. They were still raw.’

  ‘That’s right. I knew there was something. Yes…’
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  A pause in which he appeared to forget I was there.

  ‘Goodnight, Will. We’ll speak tomorrow.’

  ‘Goodnight. And, Ali?’

  All. No one else had ever called me this. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thanks for everything.’

  I lay awake for a long while. Just as I was sliding towards a troubled sleep, I was woken by the click of Paul’s key in the front door. In recent months when Paul had come in late I had taken to feigning sleep rather than endure a rambling inarticulate conversation. Tonight, however, I switched the light on again and, propping myself up, pretended to read a book. There were brief clatterings from the kitchen, then Paul’s heavy tread on the stairs.

  His head appeared round the door sideways, like a comedian at a theatre curtain, getting a feel for the audience.

  ‘Hi!’ I said with false cheer.

  ‘Still up?’ he said amiably, testing the water further.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  Squinting at me from under drooping lids, trying to determine if it was really a smile on offer or something less welcoming, he finally wandered into the room. I could see the sweat glistening on his forehead, the blood pressure in his cheeks. He halted suddenly and, tapping a finger to his forehead in a gesture of memory, turned unsteadily and went out to the bathroom.

  The disappointment never lessened, the pain never became any less sharp. However hard I tried to suppress my hopes they always bobbed foolishly back to the surface: the belief that he might change, that somehow or another he would rediscover his self-respect, that against the odds the next evening would be different.

  When he reappeared I produced another smile. ‘Ships that pass in the night. I wasn’t expecting to see you in court this morning.’

  Amid heavy breathing he stepped out of his trousers and draped them over a chair. ‘Oh, goodness…it was just a remand, you know. Just a remand.’

  ‘That’s why I couldn’t work out why you didn’t ask me to do it for you.’ I kept my voice lights and my smile too.

  He began to unbutton his shirt with studied concentration. ‘No, no…had to do it myself. The client…wasn’t sure what he wanted, you know.’

  ‘Was there a question of a bail application, then?’

  ‘Possibly. Yes, that was it—bail.’

  ‘But you sent Sturgess to get the instructions. I could have done that.’

  The shirt was proving a nuisance and he tugged impatiently at the top buttons. ‘It’s a tricky case. Tricky.’

  ‘Then why Sturgess? He’s junior, after all.’

  The buttons finally succumbed and Paul threw the shirt in the approximate direction of the laundry basket. ‘Lexxy, Lexxy, I just felt I should be there. Nothing more to it. Don’t give me a hard time, please. ‘ He sank ponderously onto the edge of the bed.

  But I had to go on, I couldn’t stop myself. ‘It just seemed rather a duplication of effort, that’s all. I can’t understand why the office didn’t tell you I was there. If the system’s failing somewhere along the line, then we should make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘It’s late, Lexxy.’ He gestured weariness, his voice rose peevishly. ‘Can’t it wait, for God’s sake? Tomorrow’s another day!’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting we go into it now. It was just on my mind, that’s all.’

  ‘It was just a titchy little thing—a titchy little case, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Was it?’ And asking this, I was finally voicing my real concern. ‘Who’s Munro anyway? Is he an old client?’

  ‘New.’

  ‘What’s his history?’

  ‘Nothing much at all.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a case for special treatment, then?’

  ‘Lord give me peace!’ Paul cried, with a great shudder of exasperation. ‘It was just one of those things, for God’s sake. Just—just…’ He splayed out a furious hand, the veins on his neck and temple stood out, and for an instant I thought he might burst a blood vessel. He let his anger go in a rush, with a long sigh, then hunched forward and clutched a hand to his forehead. ‘Oh, Lexxy, Lexxy…I was going to tell you tomorrow. Honest to God, I was.’ He twisted round to cast me a sheepish look. ‘To tell you the honest truths Lexxy, I forgot.’

  I waited.

  ‘I forgot the case was coming up today and by the time I realized…’ He put on a mortified expression, the errant child who had meant no harm. ‘I sent Gary because I couldn’t get away in time.’

  ‘If that was all, why didn’t you say so?’ And I forced a smile.

  ‘Oh, Lexxy…I felt so damned stupid, didn’t I?’ And he gave me the Irishman, all charm and penitence.

  There was something about this story that still worried me, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. ‘Corinthia should have known. She should have reminded you.’

  ‘No, no. Nothing to do with Corinthia. Entirely me.’ He clapped a hand to his chest like an actor of the old school. ‘Foolish Paul! Forgetful Paul! Feather-brained Paul!’

  This was a cue we both knew well, the cue for me to reach out to him, to ask for and receive forgiveness, to offer the phrases of affection and understanding we had honed over the years. Yet for once something stopped me. My throat was tight, the words stalled on my tongue, I couldn’t bring myself to make the first move. Finally I said matter-of-factly, ‘Next time we’ll be sure to compare notes then, shall we?’

  He did not miss the significance of my tone. When he climbed into bed I could feel his reproach. ‘I simply forgot, Lexxy. That’s all. Forgot.’

  I grunted noncommittally.

  ‘Anyone would think…’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Corinthia in the morning.’

  He rolled away from me, onto his side.

  Reaching for the light switch, I said, ‘By the way, I’ve been hearing things on the grapevine. About the Buck case.’ I snapped the light off and lay back. When he didn’t reply, I continued, ‘They’re saying Karen Grainey was a bought witness.’

  There was still no response.

  ‘Did you hear anything?’ I persisted.

  ‘Well, what kind of a question is that?’ And his voice was thick with drink and irritation. ‘Not our job to hear things like that, is it?’ And with a throaty cough, he dug his head into the pillow and was soon asleep.

  Chapter Five

  I meant to get away by noon, but the day started badly with a series of crises and continued as it had begun, a day in which everyone in the firm seemed to be running madly just to stand still. I didn’t need a time-and-motion expert to tell me that, for perhaps the third time in six months, the firm had taken on too much work. At the last partners’ meeting I’d brought up the thorny old subject of a fifth partner, but, to no one’s great surprise, and certainly not to mine, Paul had squashed the idea yet again. I’d argued harder than ever, but there was no budging Paul when he was in a state of financial insecurity, and so we continued to hit these mountains of work, the staff struggling to get briefs ready on time, racing across London from case conferences to courts, from police cells to prisons, giving up more and more of their own time. Everyone was beginning to look haunted. Even Corinthia had lost her smile. Only Sturgess seemed to thrive on the pace, but then the whole business was still a game to him.

  I finally set out for Norfolk at seven that evening. Even then, like some brash whizzkid living on the hoof, I used the mobile to dictate a couple of urgent letters into Corinthia’s answering machine. Clear of the worst jams by eight thirty, following the stream of commuters through Essex towards the greater darkness of Cambridge-shire, I had a sense of leaving the worst tensions behind.

  I reached Wickham Lodge at ten thirty and stepped into a silence broken only by the ticking of dripping leaves and the distant call of a night bird. A thaw had left the air damp and heavy with the scent of soil and mouldering grass: a sweet poignant smell that took me back to the past.

  Edward opened the front door in old clothes and slippers and waved me in with a glass of whisky. ‘
There you are. I was just having a nightcap. Like one?’ He lifted his eyebrows in enquiry.

  ‘A sandwich and a cup of tea would be great.’

  He made a doubtful face. ‘Ham? On second thoughts it might have to be cheese.’

  The bread was white and steam-baked, the butter salty and hard from the fridge, the cheese a deep yellow mousetrap. I hadn’t expected much else. Edward took a perverse pride in shunning fine foods and sticking to what he called perfectly good English nosh. He was a roast beef, shepherd’s pie and whisky enthusiast, who stretched to pheasant and claret on high days. His taste had been fixed at an early age by the hearty Mrs Hill who had cooked for us after Mother had become too ill to manage the kitchen. Mrs Hill had been a follower of the old English school of cookery, a dedicated exponent of overcooked vegetables, viscous gravy and dense apple pie. Within a year of her arrival I’d put on almost a stone and discovered teenage misery. Father had muttered about finding another housekeeper but he’d never quite mustered the courage to fire her, and in the end she’d stayed four years.

  ‘Jilly here?’ I asked.

  ‘God, no. She’s in Cambridge, working.’ He lobbed a teabag into a mug.

  I smelt traces of frying in the air and saw two sausages sitting in a blackened pan on the Aga. ‘Who cooks for you?’

  ‘I do,’ he exclaimed, feigning offence. ‘Sausages, chops, porridge. I’m perfectly capable, you know. Why do women always assume men are so helpless?’

  ‘We like to think you need us.’

  ‘Jilly buys a bit of stuff at weekends. Rabbit food, most of it.’ He pulled a face of mock revulsion. ‘Salads, fruit—women’s fodder. But she tops up the freezer with pies and meaty things as well, thank God.’ Picking up the mug of tea, he led the way into the hall. ‘And then, of course, I’m out quite a bit. In fact, it gets ridiculous sometimes, the social life in this place.’ His pretended irritation couldn’t disguise his considerable satisfaction. Edward liked being in demand.

  Nudging open the sitting-room door, he put the drinks on a low table. I saw with surprise that, unlike the rest of the house, this room had been done up, though in deference to Edward’s rather Spartan philosophy the effect had been kept simple. The walls had been painted off-white, there were plain cinnamon curtains at the windows, while the sofas were draped with Indian cotton throws and scattered with bright floral cushions. Someone had tried to achieve the maximum impact on a limited budget, and I immediately thought of Jilly. A blazing fire and the glow of table lamps added to the sense of snugness you get from small rooms in large draughty houses.