‘So what’s Jilly’s latest surname?’
‘Let’s see now. Irving, that’s it.’ Liza gave a brief laugh. ‘She’d have plenty to say on the subject of her stepfather.’
Though plenty she’d leave unsaid, I thought. ‘And the others?’
‘Well, Cal’s married and living in Cambridge. He’s got quite a high-powered job, but I couldn’t tell you what it is. And Abby’s running her own interior design business in London.’
‘Is she married?’
Liza shook her head. ‘And doesn’t intend being, according to her aunt.’ Caution belatedly returned. ‘I hope you won’t upset them, bringing all this up again. They never came to terms with their mother’s death.’
‘Don’t worry, Miss Jenkins, I’ll tread very softly.’
‘It was bad enough when their father drowned – inconsolable they were, for a while. But they still had her and their home, and me, come to that, to keep things ticking over. After her death, everything fell apart, and the Firbanks had a very difficult time with them. She told me later that at first they were inseparable, spending all their time together and resisting all her efforts to come close.’
She took another sip of calvados. ‘It got better after a while, but then, oh, years later, something happened – Mrs F never discovered what. It was just before Jilly’s first wedding; they were all down in Surrey one weekend, and a terrific row broke out between the three of them. The Firbanks heard shouting and crying and slamming doors, then all three left, one after the other, with no explanation. The other two never went to the wedding, and as far as she knows, they’ve had nothing to do with each other since, though she keeps trying to bring them together.’
‘But they’re still in touch with her?’ I had to have up-to-date information.
Liza Jenkins nodded. ‘Leastways, the girls are. You know what men are like; it’s Cal’s wife who sends the Christmas card.’
Having digested that for a minute, thankful for the steadily revolving tape on the table, I cleared my throat.
‘Now, to get back to that last day. It said in the papers that you overheard the row between Spencer and Mr Sheridan?’
Her face, softer when she spoke of the children, clouded again. ‘Bits of it, yes, though I wish I’d held my tongue about it.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Well, it was rightly none of my business, but they questioned me because of the boy.’
I felt my face flush and took a hasty sip of Calvados, praying she wouldn’t notice. ‘What boy is that?’
‘Jack’s son. Quiet little thing, he was, always thanked me nicely for the biscuits I gave him. Well, it was the change in routine, you see, that made it seem significant. Jack always finished his work by washing Mrs Sheridan’s car, and when he’d done, he’d lock up the garage and drop both sets of keys through the letterbox. But that day, he sent the boy to the back door with them, and the message that her battery was flat. I gave him a biscuit and chatted to him for a minute or two. He seemed upset, no doubt because he’d been there during all the shouting.
‘Well, I thought nothing of it at the time, but the police reckoned Jack had sent him to the door to give himself time to put gravel in the car. And the gravel itself was important, being a special kind, which was how they were able to identify it. You see, it was kept in a locked shed, and Jack had the key.’
There was a long silence, and when I felt I could trust my voice, I said, ‘You actually heard the row? What was said?’
‘Not really; raised voices was all, but I could tell they were very heated, and Jack had never made a secret of his opinion of the master. The family were talking about it over dinner. I heard Mr Sheridan say, “Too big for his boots, that’s his trouble. Well, he won’t be bothering us again, thank God. I’ll put an ad in the paper tomorrow.” So I realized Jack had been sacked, and I felt quite upset. He’d been coming to The Lodge for years.’
We were silent for several minutes, while the tape whirred on. I stared out at the little garden beyond the patio, where some birds were pecking at the grass, and started when Liza made a sudden movement.
‘Look at the time!’ she exclaimed. ‘I must start preparing for this evening.’
‘Sorry if I’ve held you up, but you’ve been a great help. Thank you very much.’ I switched off the tape and slipped it into my pocket. Then I walked with her back through the restaurant as, days before, I’d walked with Eileen Morgan.
At the door, she held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Payne. I’m not sure whether I’ve enjoyed talking with you or not.’
‘I hope the memories weren’t too painful.’
‘Go easy on the children, if you see them.’
I smiled noncommittally, and was turning away when her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You know, I’ve been trying to think who you remind me of,’ she said.
Alarm bells sounded. ‘People often say that; I must have a run-of-the-mill face.’ And with a quick ‘Goodbye, and thanks’, I set off back towards the square, not daring to check if she was staring after me.
Liza Jenkins had proved a gold mine. I now had names and rough addresses for all three of my prey, whereas without her, I wouldn’t have had a chance in hell of finding them, not even knowing their right names. London, Cambridge and Dorset: they were widely spaced – even further from the Lake District where they were all born. Was that deliberate, a distancing of themselves from the past and from each other? And what was the cause of the break-up that had caused that distancing? I might never know, but it was immaterial anyway. It might even be to my advantage that they weren’t in touch with each other.
It was only as I left the village that I realized I’d seen neither the fountain nor the two churches after which it was named, but as my brief visit had been confined to a few hundred yards, it was hardly surprising.
The hire car was hot and stuffy and there was no air-conditioning. I drove back to Caen with all the windows down and my mind in overdrive. I had hours to spare before my flight home, and since I was too wired up to sit around reading, I decided to take in some of the sights.
There were two abbeys, I discovered, quite a distance apart, one dedicated to men, the other to women. And never the twain shall meet, eh? Sounded like the Firbanks. I couldn’t manage both, so out of solidarity opted for ‘aux Hommes’, and though I tagged on to a group following an English guide and wandered round for more than an hour, I couldn’t afterwards remember a thing about it.
It served its purpose, though, and by the time I’d driven back to the airport and returned the car, there was barely an hour till take-off.
On the plane, I attached earphones to the recorder and replayed my interview with Miss Jenkins, gloating over the amount of information I’d obtained. And to think I’d almost not bothered coming. The half-term holiday, awaited with such impatience, had achieved more than I could have dreamed. It was now time to plan my campaign.
Twenty
I woke in my own bed on Thursday morning, and the outlines of the room melded with those at White Gables and the French hotel, before resolving themselves into the familiar shapes of home.
I stretched, put my hands behind my head, and stared up at the ceiling. Time for more detailed planning. So far, I’d not thought beyond killing the Firbanks and leaving them hanging, in revenge for Dad. But killing them how? A knife was the obvious weapon, and the kitchen drawer was full of them; I could select a small one with a thin blade, and hone it to lethal sharpness.
But the more I thought about it, the more difficulties I could see, particularly with the quick stab to the chest that had been my first thought. I was more likely to face them in their outdoor clothes – a coat or jacket – than in convenient nightwear or swimsuit, and a ‘quick stab’ through clothing mightn’t be fatal. Even if the knife went in, it could be deflected by bone or gristle, and I certainly didn’t fancy struggling with a wounded victim. No, on reflection it would be better to aim for the throat. That should be a lot easier; I could even p
ractise in front of a mirror.
The stark reality of it, considered seriously for the first time, brought a faint queasiness, and I hastily switched my thoughts to the previous day. Would Miss Jenkins connect the Firbank killings with the man who’d come enquiring after them? Even if she did, there’d be no way to trace him; I’d travelled on my own passport, and there’d be no record of Gary Payne. Nothing to worry about there.
Meanwhile, since I wasn’t expected home till Saturday, I had two days in hand in which to clear my head and plan my campaign, and my first task would be to transcribe the tapes from both Scarthorpe and France.
It was at that point that the idea came not just to copy down a series of disjointed notes, but to make it a coherent, ongoing report, illustrating how I unearthed the facts, planned my revenge, and achieved the end results – as I didn’t doubt I would. I’d say nothing to Hayley in the meantime, but at that point she’d deserve a full account, and this would be a comprehensive way of dealing with it.
It was a daunting prospect, though; school reports were the only things I’d written for years, but essays had been my strong point at both school and college, and I’d soon get back in the swing. I’d already used the recorder as a diary of sorts; this was just a step further. It mightn’t be great literature, but it would serve its purpose.
I swung out of bed, eager to get started. The lack of food in the flat necessitated a quick trip to the supermarket, but by ten thirty I was seated at the computer, the recorder beside me. I’d begin, I decided, with that last visit to Mum, when I first learned the truth and embarked on this course.
For the rest of Thursday and all Friday I tapped away, attempting, with much deleting, to make a narrative out of the facts, and by lunchtime on Saturday had completed the account of my visit to France. From now on, a nightly update would be a much less onerous task.
It was with a sense of achievement that I clicked ‘Save’ and pushed back my chair, easing my aching back. I was now free to start planning ahead, but first I’d earned myself a break, and since I was due back from my ‘trip’ today, I phoned Hayley.
‘Bry! Good to hear from you! Thanks for all the postcards!’
‘Sorry,’ I lied easily. ‘I was off the beaten track most of the time.’
‘Where did you get to?’
‘The wilds of Cornwall. I – needed a bit of space.’
‘So you said. And do you feel the better for it?’
‘Much better, thanks.’ That was true enough.
‘Lunch tomorrow?’
‘That’d be lovely, sis.’
‘See you about twelve, then.’
I clicked off the phone, hesitated a minute, then pressed Patty’s number.
‘Hello, stranger!’ she greeted me.
‘Hi. I’m back from my travels, and wondered if you’re free this evening?’
‘I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you yet, for going without me.’
‘Then let me make it up to you.’
I heard her low laugh. ‘Now, there’s an offer I can’t refuse!’
‘I’ll pick you up about six. Bring your toothbrush.’
Throughout that weekend, at the cinema with Patty and later when we made love, even over lunch with the family, only part of my attention was engaged. The other, wandering, half was still dwelling on the events of the past week, brought clearly into focus by the recent retelling of them. Three child murderers in one family – quite a turn-up for the book – and all of them seeming happy and successful in their adult lives. Well, I’d soon put a stop to that.
Monday morning; back to school, and sessions in the gym and at the cricket nets. I joined in the staffroom banter, fielded questions about my week off, and counted the minutes till I could get back to my computer.
Deflecting various invitations, I hurried home after school and immediately went online. Liza said Abby was an interior designer in London, and since she had her own business, she shouldn’t be hard to find. I typed in London Interior Designers, and Google came up with a directory, which obligingly gave a list of names, addresses and contacts, one of which, to my enormous satisfaction, was Abigail Interiors. It was almost too easy.
I checked my watch. Only four thirty; their offices should still be open, and since it was essential to check I had the right Abigail, I tapped out the phone number, my heart in my mouth.
‘Abigail Interiors,’ said a bright young voice.
I moistened dry lips. ‘Could I speak to Abigail Firbank, please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Gary Payne.’
‘One moment, please.’
A click, and then a different voice. ‘Hello? Abigail Firbank speaking.’
I swallowed, my prepared speech vanishing without trace to leave my mind completely blank.
‘Hello?’ she said again. A low, plummy voice. ‘Mr Payne? Can I help you?’
I opened my mouth, but still no words came. My hand had started to shake, and I made an effort to steady it.
‘Mr Payne?’ she repeated, impatience creeping in. ‘Are you there?’ Then, when I remained silent, there was a muttered expletive and the connection was broken.
Slowly, I put the phone back on its rest. Well, that went well, I thought. Yet after all, there’d been no need to speak; I’d learned all I needed to know. I had Abby’s number, in more ways than one, and would hunt her down in my own good time.
I sat staring at the computer for a full minute before deciding that, while I was on a roll, I might as well try my luck with Jilly. Returning to Google, I typed in Sandbourne Hotels, and a list of about ten showed up. However, though I clicked on each in turn, none gave the names of the proprietors.
Still, I thought philosophically, I couldn’t track them all down at once. I’d concentrate on Abby – or Abigail, as she now called herself. My first task would be to find out what she looked like and where she lived, and the only way to achieve that was to watch for her coming out of the office and follow her home. But since my free time was limited to weekends, when her office would be closed, I couldn’t even make a start on that. Hard though it was, I’d have to resign myself to waiting till school broke up at the end of July.
It was easier said than done, and the next six weeks passed agonizingly slowly. After the success of half-term, it was frustrating to have to sit on my hands and do nothing.
Patty and I continued our lacklustre relationship, I went to Hayley and Gary’s for the occasional Sunday lunch, and for the rest, tried to concentrate on my duties at school. It was odd to think this had been the sum total of my life before I’d heard Mum’s story; I’d been contented enough then, but with murder in mind, my life had notched up a gear and it no longer satisfied me.
At last term ended, and as I sat in Hall that final day, I was wondering what would have happened before I was next there. Seven weeks was a long time; would Abigail be dead? Would Cal? Would Jilly? How would I be feeling? A series of question marks hung over my life, and I was impatient to find answers to them.
Not for the first time, I blessed my decision not to allow Patty to move in with me. I’d have had to think up excuses for the absences, long or short, that were bound to occur as I put my plans into effect. And since I’d seen the family only the previous Sunday, there was no need to mention to Hayley that I’d be making a short trip to London.
The first Monday of the holidays, therefore, found me on the train, my A to Z in my pocket and my mind buzzing with anticipation. At last, things were beginning to move. I’d already located the address of Abigail Interiors, and noted that the nearest Underground station was Gloucester Road.
I booked into a cheap hotel near Euston, again borrowing Gary’s name, left my grip, and had a bar lunch. I was presuming that, as I’d missed her lunch hour, Abigail wouldn’t leave the office again before five, and since I was by no means sure how conspicuous I’d be if I had to hang about, it seemed wiser to delay going to Drayton Gardens until nearer the time.
In the event, I
only just caught her. I’d no sooner taken up position on the opposite pavement when a taxi drew up, and minutes later a tall, slim woman with a cloud of dark hair came down the steps, climbed into it, and was driven away.
I cursed under my breath. So much for my plan to follow her home. I wondered if the taxi was a regular occurrence, and if so, whether I’d have to wait in one myself, and utter the immortal words Follow that cab!
I was turning away when it occurred to me that the woman I’d seen might not even have been Abigail; in my fixation on her, I’d overlooked the fact that there’d be plenty of others working in the building. I took out my mobile and rang her number, and the same bright voice answered.
‘Could I speak to Abigail Firbank, please?’ To my own ears, I sounded breathless, but hoped she wouldn’t notice.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ the girl was saying, ‘you’ve just missed her. She left the office a couple of minutes ago.’
Confirmation, at least. ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘I’ll try again tomorrow.’
‘I’m afraid she’s on leave now for the next three weeks; she only popped in to collect some colour charts.’
She waited for my response, but I was incapable of making one.
‘Is there anyone else who could help you?’ she asked.
‘No – no, thank you,’ I murmured, and rang off. Why, oh why had I not thought to check she’d be around, before paying out for a train ticket and hotel room? It was the holiday season, after all. No doubt the wealthy Miss Firbank was off to the Bahamas or somewhere equally exotic. Well, I thought sourly, she might as well enjoy her holiday – it would be her last. And at least I’d caught a glimpse of her and would recognize her when I needed to. In the meantime, all I could do was while away the rest of the day, and return to Manchester in the morning.
It was as well I didn’t know then how long it would be before I caught up with Abigail. The following week, changing a light bulb in the flat, I stepped off the wrong side of the ladder, fell heavily, and succeeded in breaking my ankle. Apart from the excruciating pain, what irked me most was my enforced inactivity for the remainder of the summer. There was no possibility of returning to London – it took me all my time to hobble round the flat – and regrettably Patty and Hayley received short shrift when they tried to help. Yet again I was forced to bide my time – till half-term, for God’s sake, at the end of October.
Thicker Than Water Page 27