A Tangled Thread

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Well, he did; you must have known. And to be fair, Dad didn’t help. He was always criticizing him and making a fuss of me.’

  Jill was silent, acknowledging the truth of the comment but reluctant to face it. ‘Not all the time,’ she protested.

  ‘Yes, all the time, which is why Rich has always resented me. I hoped it might be better once Dad had died, but no. And then,’ she ended flatly, ‘I more or less sealed my fate by moving into Woodlands with you.’

  Jill’s eyes widened. This was an angle she’d never considered; perhaps she should have done. ‘But he said it was a brilliant idea!’

  ‘No, Mum, that’s what Victoria said.’

  ‘But he knows the house wasn’t a gift and that Tim insisted on paying the full asking price. I even explained that I’d adjusted my will so he wouldn’t miss out in the long run. He didn’t raise any objections.’

  ‘All the same, it was his childhood home and the way he sees it his spoilt little sister snatched it from under his nose – and you as well, probably.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Jill said numbly.

  Georgia leant over and patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, he’ll come round. We’ll go out of our way to make him feel special.’

  There was a yell from down the beach, and one of the little figures came running back towards them, crying lustily.

  ‘Mummy!’ Four-year-old Millie flung herself on top of her mother. ‘Ben took my shrimp! It was me that found it and he tipped it out of my bucket into his, and he’s already got two! It’s not fair!’

  Georgia stroked the hair from the hot forehead and flicked her daughter’s ponytail. ‘You know what they say, poppet: there are more shrimps in the sea!’

  Millie refused to be comforted. ‘But that one was mine!’

  ‘What did Daddy say?’

  ‘He wasn’t watching so he didn’t see.’

  Very diplomatic. ‘Well, never mind. Would you like a drink of orange juice? And there’s one brandy snap left. You can have it, to make up for the shrimp.’

  Finally mollified, the child accepted both offers and peace was restored. But Jill continued to ponder on their truncated conversation. The basic trouble, she knew, had been that Greg was so much the alpha male that he resented any others invading his territory, even his own son. She ached to think Richard had been unhappy. She must think of some way to make amends.

  Richard himself, blissfully unaware of his family’s discussion, had enjoyed his game of golf and the pleasantly long-drawn-out lunch that followed, and was now looking forward to the evening ahead. He decided to take along the special bottle of Burgundy he’d been keeping for a suitable occasion; Simon appreciated good wine.

  The golf club was a mile or two out of town and the long country road stretched ahead of him, heat dancing along its surface. A solitary figure was waiting at a bus stop, and as he approached he recognized the red-haired teacher who had started this term. He pulled up alongside her.

  ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’

  She turned, startled and about to decline an offer from a stranger. Then she recognized him and smiled. ‘Mr Lawrence!’

  ‘You could have a long wait ahead of you; this route is notoriously unreliable.’

  She hesitated and, looking at her properly for the first time, Richard was struck by her almost ethereal beauty. She looked, he thought in confusion, like a Pre-Raphaelite painting – a cloud of soft auburn hair, alabaster-pale face and delicately arched brows.

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ she was saying, ‘but I don’t want to take you out of your way. I live on the far side of town.’

  He leant across and opened the passenger door. ‘It’s no trouble. I can’t leave you standing there.’

  She glanced back along the road, but as no bus was in sight she slid in beside him and reached for the seat belt. ‘This is really very kind of you,’ she said again.

  ‘No problem, I assure you, but I’m afraid I can’t remember your name?’

  ‘Maria Chiltern.’

  He nodded acknowledgement. ‘And what, if I may ask, are you doing stranded out here so far from home and without transport?’

  ‘I’d promised to help at a jumble sale. It’s being run by the mothers of two children in my class and they were desperate for helpers. Normally, of course, I’d have taken the car but my husband had promised to take our son to the zoo.’

  ‘And was there no one at this jumble sale who could have run you home?’

  She pulled a little face. ‘Actually it’s still going on. It was supposed to end at three, and when it got to half past I made my apologies and left. Toby’s friend who’s gone to the zoo with them is coming back for tea and I really should be there, though I did leave everything ready.’ She paused and said again, ‘I do hope I’m not holding you up.’

  ‘Not at all; my wife works on Saturdays and I’ve been passing my time at the golf club. So, are you new to the area, or only to the school?’

  ‘The area. We moved down here at Easter, much to my parents’ distress. They adore Toby and miss him very much; we had to promise to go back at half-term.’

  ‘Is he at the school?’

  ‘Yes, in Reception.’

  They were entering the town, and Richard said, ‘You’ll have to guide me from here.’

  For the rest of the drive conversation was directional rather than personal, and he dropped her outside a neat semi-detached house in a quiet avenue. A car was in the drive and children’s voices could be heard coming from the back garden.

  ‘It sounds as though you’re in time for tea!’ he said.

  Her face lit up as she smiled. ‘Thanks to you! I really am grateful.’

  Then she was out of the car and hurrying up the path, searching in her bag for her key. Richard started the car and drove slowly away. An unexpected turn of events, he reflected, but a surprisingly pleasant one.

  That evening, while Victoria was changing, he opened his laptop, turned to the school website and clicked on the small photograph labelled Maria Chiltern, History Teacher.

  I joined Briarfields School in April 2014, she had written, and am very much looking forward to teaching here. Having graduated with a BA (Hons) in History from Bristol University, I taught at several independent schools in Yorkshire before moving south for family reasons. History has always been my passion and I believe this subject more than any other leads to a better understanding of the world as it is today and the people who live in it. I hope to pass my interest and enthusiasm on to my pupils.

  My leisure activities include swimming, walking, reading and going to concerts.

  He stared at the photo for a minute, concluding that it didn’t do her justice. It was surprising he’d not really registered her before, but then their paths hadn’t crossed and weren’t likely to again in the normal course of events. Briefly, he found himself regretting that. Then as Victoria came downstairs he closed his computer, picked up the gift bottle of wine and accompanied her out of the front door.

  TWO

  Blaircomrie, Scottish borders

  ‘Died?’ His voice rose incredulously. ‘Martin Petrie’s dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes. This is his son speaking. May I ask who’s calling?’

  Johnnie brushed the query aside. ‘He can’t be!’ he said urgently. ‘Dammit, I had a drink with him yesterday!’

  A pause, then: ‘Would you like to speak to my mother?’

  ‘No, no.’ His mind was whirling. ‘But I don’t understand. What happened?’

  ‘He was knocked down last night on his way home from work. The car didn’t stop.’ The young voice wobbled slightly.

  ‘God!’ A ripple of fear snaked down his spine. What the hell had he got himself into? ‘Please accept my sincere sympathy,’ he said rapidly, and broke the connection.

  The car didn’t stop. Which explained why Petrie’s mobile was in his family’s hands. OK, at a pinch it could have been an accident, but he didn’t believe that for a moment. The poor guy h
ad been right to be fearful, and if it was suspected that he’d already spoken out of turn and had been followed to the pub yesterday …

  They’d first met a week earlier when Petrie had rung the shop about a problem with his PC. It had been the last appointment of the day and it was after six when Johnnie arrived at the house. As soon as Petrie opened the door his tension was palpable, a tightly coiled spring. It was also clear he’d been drinking.

  Still, his not to reason why. Johnnie got down to work, keeping up a light-hearted banter in an attempt to put the man more at ease. Petrie had hovered at his side, saying little, but when he’d sorted the problem and was packing away his tools, he said suddenly, ‘Would you like a drink? You’ve finished for the day, haven’t you?’

  He’d been taken by surprise. ‘I have, yes, but—’

  The man put a hand on his arm. ‘Please. My wife and son are out for the evening and I … don’t want to be alone.’ And to Johnnie’s horror, his eyes had filled with tears. ‘If I don’t speak to someone, I think I’ll go out of my mind!’ he’d added in a low voice.

  Why, he thought now, in God’s name hadn’t he simply refused and said he had to get back for his dinner? Then life would have continued in its safe if mundane routine and all this angst would have been avoided. But partly out of curiosity and partly because he was sorry for the guy, he’d phoned Beth to let her know he’d be late and followed Petrie into a large, attractive sitting room, where he made straight for the drinks cupboard.

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Please.’

  Petrie waved him to a seat, came to join him with two brimming glasses and said without preamble, ‘I need your advice.’

  He’d attempted a light response. ‘Not mistaking me for an agony uncle, are you?’

  A quick shake of the head, dismissing the humour. ‘I don’t know you and you don’t know me, and that’s all to the good. You seem a sound, sensible guy and I think you’d give me an honest answer.’ He paused, then flashed him a quick look. ‘What do I call you, by the way?’

  ‘Johnnie.’

  ‘Right, Johnnie, and I’m Martin. What I’m going to tell you is highly confidential and—’

  Johnnie had moved uncomfortably. ‘Look, I’m not sure I want to hear this. I’ve enough complications in my life without getting involved in any more.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to get involved, just to hear me out, then tell me what to do.’

  And before Johnnie could stop him, it had all come pouring out. It appeared his host worked at Parsons Makepeace, the building firm at the heart of an investigation into the collapse of a shopping mall just before Christmas, and Petrie believed the collapse had been caused by the deliberate use of sub-standard materials in an attempt to cut costs and win the contract.

  ‘I can’t go to the police because as yet the cause hasn’t been established, but if the materials are found to be responsible I have proof the firm deliberately took risks.’

  ‘What kind of proof?’

  Petrie stirred uncomfortably, not meeting his eyes. ‘PM had been having serious problems for some time due to the recession and so on, and things were at a very low ebb when the prospect of a new shopping mall came up. At which fortuitous point – and I was never able to figure out how or why – we were offered building materials at an incredibly low price which enabled us to undercut our competitors and win the contract.’

  He paused to take a drink. ‘I strongly advised against it at the time, but was overruled. Yet all along I was worried something might go wrong – though God knows I never imagined anything as horrific as what actually happened – so, for my own protection, I suppose, I started to make photocopies of any relevant invoices, receipts and documentation that I could get my hands on. I had to act quickly – they were shredded almost as soon as they came in – and because I was paranoid about them being discovered, I made a verbal recording at the same time, listing it all as I went along. Needless to say, what I have is now dynamite.’

  Johnnie stared at him, struck by a sense of déjà vu. He too had known something that was dangerous to know, and the repercussions were an ongoing nightmare. It if hadn’t been for … But he didn’t want to go there.

  He moistened his lips. ‘If you have proof sub-standard materials were used you should take it to the police. You don’t have to wait for the official report.’

  Petrie swallowed a mouthful of whisky and when he continued his voice was unsteady. ‘The trouble is these people are my colleagues, Johnnie – friends, some of them – and I’d feel like a Judas. Yet – God! – more than a hundred people died!’ Tears were now running down his face. ‘Can you see how I’m torn in two directions? The investigation’s been going on for months and I just can’t live with it any longer! But it wouldn’t take long for the firm to work out who the whistle-blower was and these are high stakes. If they even suspect what I have, friends or not, they’ll try any way they can to silence me.’

  There was a pause while Johnnie digested that. Then he asked, ‘Have you discussed this with your wife?’

  Petrie slapped the arm of the chair with his open palm. ‘Of course I haven’t, man! It’s enough that one of us can’t sleep at night.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you want me to do.’

  ‘What would you do, in my position?’

  Johnnie thought for a moment. ‘Print out what you said on your voice recorder, then take the transcript together with all the documents you photocopied and hand them to the police.’

  Petrie pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘I thought you’d say that,’ he said dully.

  ‘If it’s justice you’re after, it’s the only way.’

  Petrie sat in silence for several minutes, staring into his glass. Then he looked up. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.

  And that was how the matter had rested until the previous day, when Fred at the shop had called him to the phone. ‘That bloke you saw last week wants a word with you,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d fixed the problem?’

  ‘I saw lots of blokes last week,’ he replied as he took the phone, totally unprepared to find Petrie on the line.

  ‘One last favour, Johnnie,’ he said rapidly. ‘Meet me at the Rowan Tree on the Hamilton road at twelve thirty.’

  ‘Look, I can’t—’

  ‘Please. It’s urgent.’ And he cut the call.

  Fred was looking at him with eyebrows raised. ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s OK, just a minor point. I’ll fix it in my lunch hour.’

  Fred shrugged. ‘Up to you, mate,’ he said.

  The pub was a good twelve miles from town, no doubt chosen precisely for that reason, and Petrie had been waiting for him at a corner table, two tankards of beer in front of him.

  ‘Look,’ Johnnie began, ‘I’ve given you my advice but—’

  He broke off as Petrie pushed a padded envelope across the table. ‘And I’ve been putting it into effect,’ he said.

  Johnny glanced at it uneasily. ‘Good. So what—’

  ‘It’s all in there, and I’d like you to read through it and listen to the recording – I jotted the pin number down on the transcript – and check if there’s anything I told you the other evening that I’ve not included or could be put more clearly.’

  ‘Oh, now look,’ Johnnie protested, pushing the envelope back, ‘this is really nothing to do with me. I told you, I can’t—’

  ‘Please. It won’t take long.’ He pushed his card across the table. ‘Then ring me on my mobile and we’ll arrange how you can return it. Then I’ll take it to the police and that, I promise, will be the end of it as far as you’re concerned. Will you do that?’

  And as Johnnie reluctantly agreed, he gave a sigh of relief and leant back in his chair. ‘Now, let’s drink to a just and successful outcome.’

  Which it very definitely had not been.

  Petrie’s death made the lunchtime news, and although he’d been expecting it Johnnie felt himself tense. The reporter was stationed in front of t
he house he recognized, his hair blowing in the wind.

  ‘Martin Petrie, a manager in the building conglomerate Parsons Makepeace, was fatally injured last night in a hit-and-run incident on his way home from work and was pronounced dead at the scene. He leaves a wife and two sons. Police are anxious to hear from anyone who was in the vicinity of Oak Tree Avenue, Blaircomrie around seven thirty last evening who might have witnessed the accident or noticed a car being driven erratically. The number to call is at the foot of the screen.

  ‘Parsons Makepeace are the firm under investigation into the collapse of the Whitefriars Shopping Centre in Blaircomrie just before Christmas that left over a hundred dead and hundreds more injured.’

  He’d heard enough, and as the firm’s directors appeared on screen to record their shock and appreciation of their employee he pushed his tankard across the bar and requested a refill.

  Now what was he going to do? As requested, he’d meticulously gone through the contents of the padded envelope, listened to the recording, examined the photos and documents and concluded Petrie had stated his case clearly and concisely, as he’d intended telling him when he’d phoned the previous evening. But now the picture had changed. Now he was left holding the baby – and a lethal baby it was. If Petrie’s death hadn’t been an accident, and if his killers knew he’d passed on information – they might, for instance, have overheard his telephone call arranging their meeting – then what he was holding was what Petrie had referred to as ‘dynamite’ and the sooner he got rid of it the better.

  He finished his beer and ordered another. But he couldn’t just dispose of what was potentially evidence in a criminal case. Send it to the police anonymously, then? That would be the obvious course of action. But the date of posting would show it couldn’t have been Petrie who’d sent it and he couldn’t allow the slightest chance of its being traced back to him.

  What he needed was time to think, to ensure he didn’t act hastily and come to regret it. For the next thirty minutes, therefore, he went over the position from every angle and reached a decision that seemed to cover everything. He would lodge the package, possibly with an explanatory note, at his bank while he considered his best plan of action. And just in case – he shuddered involuntarily – he ended up the same way as Petrie, he’d leave instructions that if the package hadn’t been collected within a couple of months, say by his mother’s birthday on the twenty-first of July, the box should be opened and the package handed to the police. It was the least he could do for the poor sod.