by Dawson, H A
Whatever Saskia had done, or whatever she had witnessed, ended when she died. It was nothing to do with her; they were separate people with individual minds. She wanted no part, and pounded the ground, faster and more urgently until her legs and back ached. She had to get away, could not tolerate more pressure, and needed a sympathetic ear. Verity would comply and she would provide clues about Saskia's disappearance. It may have even been a random attack or an accident, or she may still alive and living in secrecy somewhere. She had to keep her hopes alive.
She arrived at the secluded recreation area near the centre of town. A group of boys kicked a ball, weaving from one end of a makeshift pitch to the other, and a short distance away five girls in their mid-teens huddled in a group on the warm, dry grass. There were a couple of dog-walkers following the path along the perimeter, and there was an elderly woman dressed in a drab dress and sloppy cardigan, slumped on a bench with her hands clasped across her oversized middle.
As Megan followed the path around the clearing a bird flitted by and her steps faltered. Curious, she followed its trail and reached another path, otherwise hidden from view. At either side were majestic trees with overhanging branches, and up ahead, just around a slight bend, was an archway and exit. She touched the cold stone and shivers descended her spine. She had been there before.
Her pulse raced. She was on a street, a familiar street. The townhouses looked Victorian, with slate roofs, sash windows, and patterned brickwork. From what she could see via the windows, the ceilings were high, and many had impressive chandelier-style light fittings. It was weirdly memorable. Was this where Saskia had lived, or perhaps her own mother? Craving memories, she continued to scan the street.
A house, standing alone at the end of the street, came into view. It was of similar design to the others, blocky and tall, but had a larger bay window and an impressive stone porch. Holding her breath, she stood near the gate, hiding beside a bush, and stared, mesmerised.
This had been Saskia's home. The lounge was on her left, the entrance hall in the centre, and the kitchen on the right. She could visualise her wandering through the rooms, yet she could not recall any family. Isolated, her loneliness had niggled, causing a disturbing feeling of unhappiness.
A shadowy figure moved in the lounge. She jumped and moved aside, hiding behind a hedge. Then the door opened and her pulse throbbed in her throat. It was Ron Maddison. This was where Saskia had spent her married life.
Quivering, she edged further along the hedge and peered through a gap between the branches. He strode to a shed next to the house and disappeared inside. Moments later, leaving the door closed but unlocked, he returned to the house.
Her temptation was too great. She peered over her shoulder checking that no one was around, and crept towards the shed, her eyes fixed upon the house windows. Laid upon shelves were tools, empty plant pots, and other garden paraphernalia, ordered and scrupulously cleaned and gleaming in the band of light that crept through the door. There were no cobwebs on the walls and no dirt on the floor, but there were piles of newspapers, each labelled in a different colour according to the year. They looked as though they had never been read, as the sheets were aligned and crease-free. She looked along the line. They were all arranged the same. The order was important.
There was a faint cry of a woman. Megan jolted and looked through the gap into the garden, and seeing it was clear, scurried away, returning to the hedge. Moments later Ron appeared. He frowned, shuffled to the shed and padlocked the door, then scanned the garden. For a moment, he was still and gazed in her general direction. She held her breath and steadied her trembling body, so sure he was looking. He had either not seen her or ignored her, and returned to the shed and yanked the locked padlock. Then he returned to the house allowing her to free her caged breaths.
For a few moments, she remained, pondering what she had just witnessed. If this man had been Saskia's husband, and she was Saskia’s incarnated self, why did she not feel anything for him? Hope glimmered. The reincarnation could not be true. Her memories had come via her youth. This man was a stranger and she felt nothing, neither comfort nor fear.
She took one last glance at the house and was about to stride away when something in the garden struck her. There were clusters of small plants lining the path to the house, each in full bloom. The ones closest to the porch were yellow, the next pink, then red, then blue. The order was the same as the newspaper labels, the yellow ones being nearest to the door, and the blue ones at the far side. How strange.
Deciding it was of no significance, and assuming it was an innocent obsession, she strode away.
Megan strode along the avenue, counting the houses up ahead to try to determine which was number forty-four. The semi-detached dwellings, constructed of stone slabs and pebble dashing, had in the majority, PVC double-glazing. Those without had wooden frames; some were glossy and clean, and others were rotting. Some houses had small porches and all had small gardens. A short drive leading to a garage accompanied each one.
She arrived at Verity’s house. There was no movement visible through the windows and no noise emanating from within. She knocked on the front door and peered through the frosted glass. A tall, lean figure walked along the hallway heading to the door, and moments later, the door opened.
'You've not left then?' Verity asked.
'I never said I was going anywhere.'
'You obviously don't know what's good for you.' She opened the door wider. 'Come on in.'
Verity turned around and headed to a door on the right. Megan followed, passing a coat stand and a broom cupboard, both on her left. A persistent scratching and rustling sounded from within, and she stopped and peered at the door that was almost resting on its frame. Then she heard a low-level cry, like a small screech. With her curiosity burning, she raised her hand to the door handle. It was thrust shut. Verity glared at her and ordered her to step into the lounge.
'Why are you here?' Verity asked.
'To see you.'
There was an ironing board leaning against a wall, cleaned sheets strewn over the black leather sofa, and CDs and DVDs scattered across the floor. There were books and magazines on the window ledge, a small case by the side of an armchair, and a pile of papers and a calculator on a small table. Verity pushed the lounge door shut, cleared a bit of room on the sofa and pointed for her to sit down.
'Have you sorted things out with Ben yet?'
She touched the silver band on her finger and looked at her lap. 'He's staying with me for a few days.'
'Is that what you want?'
'If it was just Ben that would be okay, but David has come too. He gives me the creeps.'
'So tell them to leave.'
'It's not that simple,' she said.
'It seems simple to me. It's your house, your rules.'
'I want Ben around, but not David. I can't expect him to leave. They come as a package.'
'How old is he?'
'Seventeen.'
'Then he is old enough to go back home. Why are you pussy-footing around?'
Weak and powerless, she could not find an appropriate answer.
'You said you had finished with Ben, yet it seems to me that you're back together. You need to make your mind up.'
She averted her gaze.
'Why don't you like David?'
'I just don't.'
'Does he treat you bad?'
'No,' her voice quivered. 'I'm just not used to teenagers, okay?'
'Does Ben know what's going on?'
Her eyes darted. 'Nothing's going on.'
'You're lying. I can read you like I could . . .’
'Like you could read your sister, Saskia.'
She frowned. 'If David is hurting you, you need to do something about it.'
'I just don't like him. Look, I came here to ask about Saskia, not to talk about Ben and David.'
'It seems to me you came here for my support. What's happened?'
'Nothing's happened! Let it
go!'
She rose to her feet. 'As you please. Fancy a lager?'
'No . . . thanks.'
She left the room, leaving the door ajar.
The scratching sound in the broom cupboard persisted. Unable to resist, Megan crept to the hallway and rested her hand on the handle. Verity was oblivious and was bending over in the kitchen and peering into a cupboard. Nervously, she reached to open it, but before she succeeded, Verity cast an angry stare, thrust it shut and pushed her aside.
‘The noise bothered me!' she said in defence.
'The noise is none of your business.'
'Do you have an unusual pet?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'What is it?'
She encouraged her into the lounge. 'You didn't come here to talk about that. What is it you wanted to say?'
'Why didn't you tell me Saskia was your sister?'
'What's it to you?'
'Everyone says I look like her.'
'So you think it's your business.'
'I told you before, someone is after me, so it's every bit my business. I want to know about her.'
'And I told you to leave Rodley, but we don't always do as people ask.'
Verity rested one of her legs on the arm of the chair and the other on the edge of the table. She took a huge swig from the can.
'You must miss her,' Megan said.
'It's thirty years ago, I think I've got over it.'
'Are you always this difficult?'
Lines appeared on her face. 'I save my better side for you. Look at it from point of view. You appear in town, similar in appearance to Saskia, who was my sister and best friend, and you seem to know things about us. And not only that, but you want to know more. How do you expect me to feel?'
'Pleased?'
'Pleased? You're a bloody stranger! You think I'm going to blurt out all the family secrets. You could be anyone.'
'I think she was murdered, and I-'
'Boy, you catch on quickly. I could have told you that.'
'I was going to say I think I can help.'
'Are you a private investigator now?'
'Will you stop this?' she said. 'I am sorry if you are having a bad day, but that's not my fault. Someone followed me, and on another occasion, someone attacked me. I’m certain it's to do with Saskia. I've even had a warning through the letterbox.'
'What makes you so sure I didn't attack you?'
Her mouth dried. Verity was right, she could have attacked her, and she could have murdered Saskia too.
'Relax, I didn't.'
Was she telling the truth? Was she hiding her lies behind her impassive eyes? 'Do you know who killed her?'
She rotated the can with her thumb and forefinger. 'Maybe I do, but I'm not going to say anything.'
'Why not?'
'I'm not that stupid. Think about it. I start spreading rumours and then come the repercussions. I value my life.'
'Why was she killed?'
She strode to the window and gazed outside, pensive. 'I don't know.’
'But you know something?'
'I know you'd be better off out of here. You don't want to get involved, believe me.'
'I'm already involved.'
She held a firm stare.
'Please, someone is after me. I think you could have helped Saskia, but you didn't. Don't let it happen again.'
Verity averted her uncompromising gaze.
'If you can't tell me why she was killed, will you tell me a little bit about her? I have to know what's going on.'
'Do you know she was married?' she offered. 'His name was Ron. He was a wealthy man and in his day good looking, although I must say there was something a bit odd about him.'
'Odd, how?'
'I can't put my finger on it. Possessive? A little too perfect? It could have just been a personality clash . . . it's not important.' She placed the can onto the edge of the table and slumped into the chair. 'Saskia seemed to like him but she didn't love him. I doubt he ever knew her real reason for getting married.'
'The money?'
She gave her a blank look. 'By the time she married we'd grown apart. We never talked the way we used to and I missed her. I had to accept that she was with him and our relationship had changed, but it hurt, for sure. We had always done everything together - eat, sleep, chat, and play. We didn't have time for anyone else . . . we shared one life. It was difficult to accept she wanted to spend more time with Ron than with me.'
'Perhaps she loved him.'
'Hard to believe, but possibly true. Having said that, he didn't seem her type, which is why, when she disappeared, I wasn't entirely surprised. I could understand her wanting to escape from Ron if she didn't love him, but not from me. Sure, we had a few things to sort out - we had issues, but I still considered her my best friend.'
'Where did she go?'
'Spain. I pounded Ron's door for weeks, but he didn't say much. His loss, or so he said, was as great as mine.' Her eyes misted. 'I received letters from Saskia. She travelled to Europe, apparently pregnant.'
'Pregnant?'
She glimpsed from behind her can.
'Do you know a Julie Johnson?' Megan asked.
She gave her a puzzled glance and shook her head. 'I wanted to write back, but she was always on the move and never gave me a forwarding address. One day, she stopped writing.'
'Did she say why she had left?'
'She was ashamed. There had been a falling out and our family had long since denied us contact. It was years before I spoke to them again.'
'What had you done?'
'They blamed me for Saskia leaving . . . said if we hadn't fallen out, she wouldn't have left.'
'Okay, but what about Saskia? What had she done that was so terrible for her to be denied contact?'
She leapt to her feet. 'I'll get the letters.'
Megan's head was fuzzy with a tumbling stream of questions. Saskia had been pregnant. That had to mean something. Could Saskia have registered the adoption under another name? Maybe that was it. She must have returned to England with the baby, put it up for adoption, and disappeared somewhere. There was no reason to stay, no one left she wanted to see.
Verity returned with an intricately carved wooden box.
'When did the murder investigation start?' Megan asked.
'As soon as she left, more or less. She had left a few loose ends and it created suspicion in the town, but there was still little for the police to go on. Ron said he knew she was going, and since she was an adult there was little else anyone could do. There was no evidence of a murder.'
'Did he know about the baby?'
'I'm not sure it was his. The dates in the letters were unclear.'
'She'd had an affair!'
'The dates weren't clear!’ she stressed. ‘It could have happened after she left.' She opened the box. 'There is a lot I don't know about the last few months of her life.'
The letters, about six to eight of them, were in individual envelopes. It was difficult watching Verity open an envelope, retrieve it, and hold the flimsy sheet of paper out of sight, and she had to hold back her excitement. However, she still hoped Verity would share some of the details, and edged forward on her seat, displaying her interest.
'This one was the first I received,’ Verity said. ‘It arrived a week or so after I realised she had left. I remember opening it. I was so excited. It says: "I am going to make a new start, out of Rodley. I don't know when I will return, probably never. I'm sick of everyone.'''
'Can I read it?'
She folded it, replaced it into the envelope and put it in the box. 'It's private.'
'These letters prove Saskia was not killed, yet you still think she was. What am I missing?'
Her expression was deadpan. 'If she had been travelling, then she would have returned.'
The telephone sounded. Verity strode to the receiver situated near the window and with her back turned, started to speak. Seizing her opportunity, and with her eyes fixed
upon her companion and with her pulse quickening, Megan reached into the box and took an envelope, fearful that her trembling hand may knock something over. She eased herself away from the table, urged her hot moist skin to cool, and stood up, ready to make an abrupt departure.
Out of her eye corner, Verity saw her and waved. She made a quick turn and waved back, and stepped through the lounge door and into the hallway. Needing a few seconds to calm her tremors, she placed her arms into the sleeves of the jacket, pulled it over her shoulders, and checked the letter was hidden and secure. She was about to exit the house when she once again heard the rustling sound in the broom cupboard. Verity was still talking. Taking her opportunity, she opened the door.
She screamed. A black and white cat was hanging from a peg, tied up by its back legs and tail. Its forearms were thrashing and its body was twisting, wriggling for freedom. It screamed an excruciating guttural cry.
Verity yanked her backward and slammed the door shut. 'Get out,' she said ushering her to the outer door.
'Let it go!'
'I'm teaching it a lesson. This hideous creature has been digging up my garden for weeks.'
Her mouth dropped open. 'It's not even your cat?'
'Of course it's not. I can't stand them.'
'Then you have to let it go.'
'And I will. Once you've left.'
'I'll tell the police.'
'Like they'll do anything. They never have before.'
The door slammed. For a moment, she gawked, and then headed away, drifting down the street. The poor little animal, she should go back and rescue it. Her steps faltered as she peered over her shoulder, looking to the stillness of the house and pondering her options. But just then, fleeing from Verity's driveway and racing across the road was the cat. It disappeared into the shrubbery.
What a wicked, depraved act. What was Verity capable of?
Verity could have killed Saskia and she could have attacked her at the old house. It made sense. She had said she wanted her out of Rodley, and she had known about the art event, having visited earlier the same day. She shuddered at the possibility. What had she said? Had she put herself in more danger?