She’d booked a table for eight o’clock, and had arranged to pick up Gary, as she now thought of him, at the far end of the promenade at seven thirty. Suppose, she thought, he wasn’t there, had decided not to show up? Would she wait for him? And if so, for how long? She couldn’t return to the hotel, since she was supposed to be at Priscilla’s party; nor could she arrive alone at the Fisherman’s Catch. And it would be too humiliating to seek refuge again with Priscilla, admitting that she’d been stood up. Well, she’d have to face that problem when and if it happened.
At five she went indoors and had a long and luxurious bath, then lay for a while on her bed, watching the hands on the bedroom clock. God, she thought with amused impatience, she was like a sixteen-year-old on her first date!
She was almost ready when Douglas came up to shower and change, and he stopped short at the door, gazing at her. She knew, with a little spurt of pleasure, that she looked good. The hyacinth-blue of the dress accentuated her tan, its lines the contours of her body.
‘I suppose you haven’t changed your mind?’ he said.
‘Sorry, no. Hope it goes well.’
‘Likewise.’ And he went through to the bathroom, stripping as he went.
She looked for a moment at the closed door, heard the shower come on. Then, with a sigh, she picked up her handbag and left the room.
It had turned humid, she realized, as she closed the garage doors, and on impulse she lowered the top on her little sports car. Reckless, perhaps, in that she’d be more easily recognized, but the wind in her hair was justification enough.
People were still strolling along the front – one reason why she’d designated the far end as their meeting place – and she forced herself to drive slowly, wanting to avoid the necessity of parking. It was some time since she’d come in this direction, and she noted odd changes along the way. The retirement home had a new coat of paint; the luxury block of flats was at last finished, with, according to the notice, only three remaining unsold; a new B and B had opened between the Grand and the Belle Vue.
Then she was passing the municipal baths and tennis courts, and the end of the promenade was in sight. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was exactly seven thirty, and as she slowed down still further, a figure that had been leaning against the railings straightened and moved towards the kerb. So she needn’t have worried; he had come!
‘Smart little number,’ he said approvingly, as he opened the door and slid in beside her.
‘It suits me very well.’
‘Do you always drive barefoot?’
She followed the direction of his glance to her brown feet with their brightly coloured nails resting on the pedals.
‘Often,’ she replied, ‘and always when I’m wearing high heels.’
It was the first time she’d been this close to him, and there was no trace of the aftershave that was almost mandatory among the men she knew. Instead, she detected a faint, pleasing smell of soap and freshly laundered clothes. He was, she saw, dressed a little more formally than usual, in linen jacket and trousers and an open-necked brown shirt.
‘I wasn’t sure of the dress code,’ he said in half-apology, as the car moved off. ‘I’ve a tie in my pocket, but on the other hand, if a jacket’s too formal I can leave it in the car.’
‘You’re fine as you are,’ she said.
He was nervous, she realized; almost as much so as she was, and she was again conscious of that quality in him that had first intrigued her and that still gave her a frisson – a sense of watchfulness, of something kept tightly under control. She wondered half humorously if she’d know any more about him by the end of the evening, acknowledging that she didn’t care either way, as long as they made love on the way home. And with the thought came an unmistakable tweak of desire, the first she’d felt for him. Perhaps she’d been fooling herself that the planned seduction was simply to prove a point.
The car park at the Fisherman’s Catch was almost full, and as they walked round to the front of the building, it was clear that a lot of people had elected to eat outside.
Jill turned to Gary. ‘Would you prefer in or out?’ she asked him. ‘You choose, it’s your last night.’
‘Inside,’ he said promptly. ‘I’m allergic to mosquitoes.’
They went together into the low-beamed room, also thronged with people sitting at the bar and moving between the tables, and he followed her through the crowds to the door of the restaurant, where a waiter checked their reservation and led them to a window table overlooking the garden, and, beyond it, the darkening sea.
‘Much more civilized,’ Gary murmured, as the waiter, having spread napkins on their knees, moved away.
They hadn’t spoken much on the drive, and there was still a certain reserve between them, which Jill was unsure how to breach. He didn’t seem to have much small talk, and it was she who’d opened every conversation.
‘So –’ she began brightly, when they’d ordered drinks and been handed large, handwritten menus – ‘you’re off home tomorrow. Where exactly is that?’
‘Manchester,’ he replied. ‘Not “exactly”, as you put it, but near enough, any road.’
The northern phraseology was the first she’d noticed; perhaps he fell into local speech at the mere thought of home. Or, more likely, it was simply that until this evening, she’d spent barely five minutes in his company.
‘And you teach sport and PE, you said?’
‘That’s right. It keeps me in good shape, and since most of the kids enjoy it, I don’t have too much hassle with them.’
She glanced at his hands, the fingers square-tipped and ringless.
‘Married?’ she asked casually. Not all husbands wore rings.
‘No.’ He half smiled. ‘I’ve managed to avoid that so far.’
‘Girlfriend, then?’
‘Yep, I’ve got one of those.’ He met her eyes. ‘You ask a lot of questions, Mrs Irving.’
‘Jill, please.’
‘Jill does, and all.’
‘I’m sorry, but we can’t sit in silence all evening.’
‘Do I get a turn, then? Quizzing you?’
She looked at him quickly, felt a tug of alarm. ‘Of course,’ she said steadily, ‘though what you see is what you get. You probably know quite a bit about me already.’
‘Aye, I do,’ he said.
She waited uneasily, but no questions were forthcoming. Perhaps, after all, he thought he knew enough.
‘All right’ she said quickly, ‘if you don’t like personal questions, tell me what books or films you enjoy.’
He held her eyes, his own as always unreadable. ‘I go for murder, every time,’ he said.
She shuddered, shaking her head quickly. ‘I’m quite the opposite; I hate anything to do with violence. My husband laughs at me, because I refuse to follow cases in the news. I just try to – block them out.’
Their drinks arrived and, driving or not, Jill felt in need of hers. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. She thought briefly of Douglas back at the hotel, entertaining their MP and the Italians; almost wished she was there. She gave herself a little shake, and, seeming to realize he was proving a poor companion, Gary picked up his menu and said, ‘Well, then, what do you recommend?’
After that, it was easier. Though conversation didn’t exactly flow seamlessly, it was less stilted, and they discussed various topics, including education today, global warming and the economic climate – none of them Jill’s favourite subjects, but he seemed to find them interesting.
The waiter returned for their order, and though she’d recommended several dishes, Gary selected the same as she did – potted shrimps, sea bass and crème brûlée. As, Jill recalled, he had done at the hotel. Was he trying to make a point? This was turning out to be an evening unlike any other, and she was beginning to have serious doubts that her plan would succeed.
‘You weren’t always blonde, were you?’ he said suddenly, as they drank their coffee.
>
Startled, she forced herself to laugh. ‘Don’t tell me my roots are showing?’
He shook his head, and, after a minute, said in explanation, ‘You haven’t a blonde’s complexion. Brown eyes, and so on.’
‘Plenty of blondes have brown eyes.’
He made no further comment, but she could see he wasn’t convinced. And he was right, damn him, though she’d been a blonde longer than she cared to remember.
‘They tell me gentlemen prefer them,’ she added flippantly, and he gave a short laugh.
The evening was winding down. People at nearby tables had left and the restaurant was beginning to empty. Jill called for the bill, unsure now whether to proceed with her plan, even though, with the possibility of its abandonment, her desire for him was strengthening.
They walked together into the warm darkness, and as they reached the car, Gary said, ‘There must be an inland road to Sandbourne, surely? Shall we go back that way? Might as well see a bit of the countryside while I’m here.’
‘You won’t see much in the dark,’ she answered, her heartbeat quickening. Because although most of the inland road wound over moorland, it also passed through copses that would afford ample privacy for lovemaking. ‘But by all means,’ she added, ‘if you’d like to go that way, of course we can.’
There was no moon, and once they’d turned off the coast road with its various attractions, the only light came from their headlamps. Neither of them spoke, both staring straight ahead at the narrow road. Every now and then, a rabbit scuttled out of the way of their wheels, and an occasional call of an owl reached them as it hunted overhead.
The breeze had strengthened, cool on her bare back and arms, blowing her hair across her face. Jill shivered, wishing she’d replaced the top on the car before setting off, but Gary’s suggestion of an alternative route had distracted her. Beside her, there was a tenseness in him that increased her hopes, after all, for a successful outcome.
And now the first of the copses showed up ahead of them, thinly spaced trees, permanently bent against the prevailing wind. Should she slow down, or—?
His voice broke the long silence. ‘How about stopping for a while? You’re not in any hurry, are you?’
Her heart leaped. Yes! she exalted silently, oh yes! And ‘None at all,’ she answered from a dry mouth, steering the little car off the road. She switched off the lights and they both sat unmoving, conscious of the stillness all round them as they waited for their eyes to accustom to the almost-dark. Then Jill said tentatively, ‘There’s a rug in the boot, if—?’
‘Might as well bring it,’ he said, and his voice shook slightly. He got out of the car and slammed the door.
When had she last made love under the stars? Heart thundering, she retrieved the rug and followed him into the trees, almost bumping into him as he came to a halt in a small clearing. Without the branches overhead, the sky was visible and the stars did indeed sprinkle it, lending the night a phosphorescent glow.
‘Here?’ Jill said.
He didn’t reply, but she bent down and spread the rug on the moist ground among the fallen leaves. Still he didn’t move. Well, she thought philosophically, she’d had to make the running all evening; might as well continue in the same vein.
She kicked off her sandals, bringing herself down to his height, and, turning to him, put her hands on his shoulders. He stiffened, but the semi-darkness obscured his face.
She said softly, ‘Gary?’ and, pressing herself against him, kissed him on the mouth.
His reaction was instantaneous, and not all what she expected. He flung her off so violently that she stumbled, and rubbed his hand vigorously across his mouth.
‘Not the point of the exercise,’ he said.
Tears of humiliation filled her eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You soon will. Sit down.’
He gestured towards the rug and, trembling now, desperately wanting to go home, she obeyed.
‘There’s something I want you to hear,’ he said, taking a small object from his pocket and further confusing her. Had she rushed him? Did he want to set the scene, play background music, for God’s sake?
She moistened her lips as he sat down on the rug beside her. ‘What is it?’
‘A tape recording. Or two, to be precise. Of conversations I had with your brother and sister. I think you’ll find them interesting.’
They found her car the next day, and, following a beaten-down path, came across her body strung from one of the saplings. Her throat had been cut, and a picture postcard was tucked down her cleavage.
Subsequent enquiries established that she’d dined with a companion at the Fisherman’s Catch, but extensive searches failed to trace him, and forensic examination could find no evidence of anyone else having been in the car. It had, the scientists reported, been thoroughly, and possibly professionally, wiped clean.
The postcard killer had claimed his third victim.
PART IV – THE PAST
Thirteen
Beth Sheridan walked slowly up the path to the house, trailing her fingers against the rosemary bushes and breathing in their perfume. Behind her, the lake was a sheet of steel under the leaden sky, while ahead the crag rose steeply, criss-crossed with bridle paths.
To be truthful, she wasn’t looking forward to Harold’s return. He’d been away on a course most of the week, and in his absence the atmosphere in the house had noticeably lightened, as though they’d all relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. And that, she chastised herself, was not only disloyal but unfair, since he was a good man – honourable, conscientious and dependable. Which sounded more like a job reference than the attributes of a husband. Yet he loved her, and she supposed she loved him. The main obstacle, from the beginning, had been the children and their implacable hostility. Because, of course, he wasn’t Simon.
The familiar pain twisted her heart. Simon, the love of her life, to whom she’d been married for fourteen happy years; Simon, whom the children had idolized; handsome, laid-back, fun-loving Simon, whose flair for facts and figures had made him, by the age of forty, a very wealthy man, and who, two years ago, had died in a freak boating accident on the lake behind her.
Sometimes Beth wondered how she could continue living here, with the treacherous waters constantly in sight. But he had loved both house and lake, and some part of him lingered here, making it impossible for her to leave. Though, as she reached the house and let herself in, she accepted that she couldn’t have come through that wretched time without Harold, who’d been the family’s accountant.
‘Anybody home?’ she called.
‘Only me!’ came Liza’s voice from the kitchen. Liza Jenkins had been with them since Jilly was a baby, when Beth had broken her arm and she’d come to ‘help out’. By the time Beth was fit again, neither of them wanted the arrangement to end. A valued member of the household, she had almost single-handedly kept the family afloat during the dark times.
Beth pushed open the door, and a smell of baking met her. She raised enquiring eyebrows.
‘Cranberry cake,’ Liza informed her, ‘to welcome Mr Sheridan home.’
Beth shot her a glance. She knew instinctively that Liza, who had adored Simon, disliked her new husband as much as the children did, though she’d been careful not to show it.
‘His favourite; that’s kind of you,’ she said. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Jilly’s playing tennis, Cal’s at William’s and Abby has gone for a hack. I reminded them you’d said to be back by five.’
Beth glanced at the wall clock. It was four thirty. ‘Then I’ve time for a bath. It’s really humid out there.’
‘Thunder’s forecast,’ Liza commented. ‘That should clear the air.’
But not, unfortunately, that in the house, Beth thought as she went upstairs.
Minutes later, her hair pinned on top of her head, she lay back in the scented, bubble-filled water and allowed her mind to wander. Was she to blame for all this tension? Had sh
e been selfish in agreeing to marry Harold, barely a year after Simon’s death? In her darkest moments, she still wondered why she had. Yet at the time he’d seemed a rock, someone she could lean on, entrust with her worries, and who would always be there when she needed him.
His declaration of love, made over lunch one day, had come as a total shock. She’d assumed, without really considering it, that he was not the marrying kind, had even half wondered if he were gay. He was generally regarded as a confirmed bachelor, being fifty-four years old – twelve years her senior – thin, balding, and, as Simon had once laughingly remarked, as dry as his ledgers. But in her darkest hour he’d been exceptionally kind.
Though remarriage had never occurred to her, the long, dark evenings had become unbearable, and, unable to face the empty bedroom, she’d taken to spending the night on the sofa. Until the morning Liza found her, when embarrassment had driven her back upstairs. The prospect of having someone to advise on the host of decisions now demanded of her, to support and – yes – love her, appeared, the more she’d considered it, increasingly tempting. And it would be good, she’d told herself, for the children to have a father figure. In those early days, they’d seemed to like Harold. The trouble started when she told them of the proposed marriage.
The three of them had stared at her aghast, nine-year-old Abby being the first to find her voice. ‘But he’s old!’ she’d objected. ‘He’s like a grandfather!’
Compared to athletic, still-boyish Simon, this couldn’t be denied. Beth had forced herself to speak lightly.
‘Well, since you haven’t any grandparents, that would be a bonus. And he wouldn’t expect you to call him Daddy,’ she added gently.
‘I should flipping well think not!’ Twelve-year-old Cal. ‘But we don’t need anyone else. We’re managing, aren’t we? As well as we can, without—’ His eyes had filled, and he’d turned hastily back to his computer.
‘He’ll never take Daddy’s place,’ Beth assured him, fighting her own tears. ‘But you’re growing up, Cal, you’ll need a man in the house.’
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