The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

  ***

  “Mr. Fraser? Sergeant Freeman, CIU. And this is Constable Rowe.”

  “How do you do?” said Barney. “Come into the sitting room. This is my fiancée, Amanda Baring.”

  “How do you do, Sergeant,” said Amanda. “I was wondering… is there any reason why I shouldn’t sit in on the interview? I wasn’t there, of course. But I thought it would be nicer for Barney if I was with him while you talk to him. I promise not to interrupt or anything, but…”

  She smiled at Sergeant Freeman, who smiled slightly foolishly back.

  “That’s perfectly all right,” he said, “if that’s what you want.”

  “It is. Thank you. Now, can I get you a cup of tea?”

  “That would be very welcome,” said Sergeant Freeman.

  “Certainly would,” said Constable Rowe.

  They were an odd pair, Barney thought; Freeman was thin, almost gaunt, while Rowe was plump and rosy, and looked like an Enid Bly-ton policeman. They settled side by side on the sofa, and Freeman took out a large pad of paper and a pencil. Barney half expected him to lick it…

  “Before we start, sir, how is Mr. Weston?” Freeman asked.

  “Not very well, I’m afraid. A bit better in himself today, but his leg was very badly mashed up.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. Now, I realise he was driving, but it’s your recollection, interpretation of events that’s important…”

  They began with the basics: name, address, profession, when and why he had been on the M4 that afternoon.

  “The wedding was at four thirty, which would mean that by leaving when you did, you were cutting things a bit fine.”

  “Yes, it was rather… late,” said Barney.

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Er… yes. Mr. Weston was… was unwell. He had a stomach upset.”

  “Would that be a euphemism for a hangover, sir? Forgive the assumption, but-”

  “No,” said Barney firmly. “He did have a few drinks the night before, but I do assure you, as we didn’t leave until around lunchtime the following day, he would have been absolutely fine. No, he was extremely sick several times during the morning.”

  “And could you tell us exactly how much he drank, sir? Very important, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

  Barney fought down his irritation; he really hadn’t expected this. “I suppose… maybe half a bottle of wine with dinner, certainly no more-and a couple of glasses of whisky afterwards.”

  “Were you also drinking, sir?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “So what else did you do in the evening? After dinner?”

  “Oh… we swam in the pool. Talked. Played some music.”

  “Now, let’s get on to the journey. Why did you choose the M4 route?”

  “The other way involves endless back roads and narrow lanes, and we needed to get some petrol. We thought it would be easier to go to the service station, fill up there. The tank was practically dry.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I’d have thought that would be part of the best man’s duties to get that sort of thing done in good time.”

  “Well, I assumed Toby would have done it. He’d been at the house all the day before,” said Barney. He felt edgy suddenly and under threat. “But I should have checked; you’re right. Er… is that really relevant?”

  “Probably not, sir, no. Now… his parents, as I understand it, were at the house? When did they leave?”

  “Oh… about ten thirty. They were having lunch with friends in Marlborough.”

  “Weren’t they worried about their son’s condition?”

  “We… managed to keep it from them. They would have been very worried.”

  “I see. And when you left the house, who was driving the car?”

  “I was.”

  “So… you stopped at the service station and filled up the tank. Did anything of note happen on your way there?”

  “Yes, we were stopped by the police.”

  “For speeding?”

  “Yes. And, of course, that made us later. Much later.”

  “Presumably you were Breathalyzed then, sir?”

  “Yes, of course.” He was beginning to feel beleaguered. “And it was absolutely fine.”

  “Right. Well, we can check on that, of course. May I ask what speed you were travelling when you were stopped?”

  “Er… ninety-eight,” said Barney with an apologetic look at Amanda.

  “A little over the speed limit, sir. Well, we don’t need to waste time on that now.” He made a separate note. “And then you proceeded on your way? To the service station?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And… you filled up with fuel. Anything else?”

  This was it. No need to mention it, though. Completely irrelevant. Red herring.

  “No, nothing else.”

  “You didn’t need oil, or windscreen wash?”

  “No, we didn’t. And then we went on our way.”

  “And were you still driving?”

  “Well… no,” said Barney. “Toby took over.”

  “Why was that?”

  “He just wanted to. I think he felt less stressed if he was behind the wheel.”

  “I see. And presumably you were going more slowly by then.”

  “Yes, of course. No more than seventy-five, eighty, max.”

  “Right. So… were you aware of any other cars at this point, or indeed earlier, driving erratically ahead, overtaking you…?”

  “Yes, there was one,” said Barney slowly. “It was a white van, and he was going like the clappers-tailgating, flashing, weaving in and out of the traffic, behaving extremely dangerously. He certainly deserved to be stopped. As much as, if not more than, we did.”

  “I see. I don’t suppose you were aware of any markings on the van, any name of the firm…?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Someone else might have seen it. Now, tell me what happened next. Take your time.”

  “We were just driving along in the outside lane. The traffic was quite heavy, and everyone was driving very steadily. Actually rather slowly. There’d just been a storm, and the road was still wet. Anyway, quite suddenly, it seemed, the lorry just lost control.”

  “You were beside it? Behind it?”

  “Behind it. But in the outside lane. There was a Volvo Estate in front of us, more or less even with it. Anyway, he veered over to the right, towards the central median, and just… well, went through it. Stopped finally on the westbound side, jackknifed, total chaos. Toby slammed on the brakes, obviously, but we had a blowout. I’ve never known anything like it; it was absolutely terrifying. The car was all over the place; it was as if the steering just didn’t work. Or the brakes. We seemed to be swinging about on the road, and then somehow, Toby got it back under control, and it-well, it went into the Volvo. Which had managed to stop. It was so odd; it seemed to happen so slowly, as if we had all the time in the world. I know people always say that. So weird.”

  “Indeed. Now, were you aware of hitting anything, however small, that may have caused the blowout?”

  “No,” said Barney, “we weren’t. But there could very easily have been something.”

  “Well, again, Forensics are doing a full report on your car; they may come up with something. Of the tyre being cut in some way.”

  “But surely… the tyre was in bits. How could they see anything at all?”

  “You’d be surprised what they can see, sir. Anyway, you impacted with the Volvo. Then what happened?”

  “We just went on and on into the Volvo’s rear. We hit it on Toby’s… on the off side; it crushed the bonnet and drove the steering column down into his leg. He was bloody lucky it wasn’t worse, I suppose.”

  “Indeed, sir. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Yes, thanks.”

  But he wasn’t; he could feel his eyes filling with tears. Amanda came over to him and took his hand. He lo
oked at Freeman.

  “Sorry. All a bit vivid.”

  “I’m sure. Anyway, I’m going to go over this with you now, and then prepare a statement, and you can sign it if you’re happy with it. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  Going over it meant a gruelling trawl through the whole thing again. It seemed, quite literally, endless.

  ***

  “God,” said Amanda when they’d gone, “they’re very thorough, aren’t they? All those questions about how much you’d drunk, who was driving. You don’t think Toby was over the limit, do you?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Barney impatiently. He felt absolutely exhausted, drained of emotion, and the last thing he wanted was further questioning. “He’d had the same as me, I swear to you-really not much at all-and it was fifteen, sixteen hours later, for God’s sake, and when I was Breathalyzed, when they stopped us, I was fine.”

  “Yes, of course. But… there is one thing I still don’t understand. Haven’t from the beginning. I mean, why did you leave so late? It does seem awfully stupid.”

  “I told you. Tobes was in a bad way.”

  “Oh, yes I see,” said Amanda.

  But she didn’t sound altogether convinced.

  ***

  “Nice young chap,” said Constable Rowe as they drove through the crowded streets of Clapham, “and what bad luck. And for the bridegroom, imagine missing your own wedding like that…”

  Sergeant Freeman said he knew several people who might have wished to miss their own weddings, and said that they should examine the CCTV footage at the service stations as soon as possible.

  “With what in mind, exactly?”

  “To make sure everything happened exactly as he said…”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Shit,” said Jonathan aloud, and his eyes filled unaccountably with tears. He was sitting at his desk in his tiny room at St. Andrews, ostensibly going through his notes for the next patient; the day had seemed interminable, everything everyone said to him meaningless.

  He must speak to Abi before the police interview, absolutely must. And he really needed to know what Laura was going to do or say during the interview; even the mildest indication that she was suspicious of the relationship might lead to further questioning. And then there was the small matter of the phone call…

  He went out into the hospital grounds, armed with his mobile, and dialled Abi’s number. “Abi, it’s Jonathan. Please call me. There are various things we need to discuss most urgently. Anytime in the next three or four hours.”

  He realised he didn’t even know if the police had been on to her yet. Christ, it was getting worse by the minute…

  ***

  It was only when the police rang and said they would like to interview her about the crash that Abi decided, in her own interest, she had better let Jonathan off the hook. She was eating a sandwich at her desk when the call came through; the call did rather destroy her appetite.

  ***

  His voice was terse, impatient.

  “I wish you’d got back to me sooner. You must have got my messages.”

  “You’re not the only busy person in the world, Jonathan. I have a life too, you know. I can’t just take phone calls in the middle of jobs. I realise they’re not as important, my jobs, as chatting up mothers-to-be, but…”

  “Oh, just stop it,” he said. “Look, have the police been on to you?”

  “Yes. They’re coming to see me on Thursday.”

  “Right. Well there’s one new thing for you to remember. You had a problem with your car; that’s why you didn’t have it with you at the conference. Can you remember that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Abi, please, this isn’t some silly game; it’s very important.”

  “What, so Laura doesn’t find out about me, do you mean?”

  “Well, so that she doesn’t know the truth about you. She’s insisting on sitting in on the interview; it’s essential we get the details right.

  Look, you’ve got it all, haven’t you? The lift to Reading, the car, all that stuff. And… probably best not to mention the phone call. Which wasn’t a phone call, in the strict sense of the word. I answered it and then threw the bloody thing on the floor.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Is there anything else you’d like me to say? Like you weren’t there at all, I just happened to be driving your car? Lying to the police is a crime, you know, Jonathan. I looked it up on the Internet. You’re inciting me to commit a crime. And actually committing one yourself. That’s called blackmail.”

  There was a silence; then he said, “I think you’re in danger of making a very big mistake, Abi. I could, if required, get witnesses, you know. Employees at hotels, for a start. I seem to remember you rather enjoyed impressing them with your little demos…”

  She felt sick again. Very sick.

  “All right, Jonathan,” she said. “I’ve got it.” And then, because she couldn’t resist it, she added, “I think.”

  Two could play at this game…

  ***

  How was she doing this? Georgia wondered. When she’d spent the past three days crying and quite literally wishing she was dead. She’d been in bits only half an hour earlier, holding Linda’s hand, shaking with nerves, and feeling terribly sick.

  And now, suddenly, she felt fine, cool, self-confident, and upbeat.

  It was always like that; all actors knew about Dr. Stage. Dr. Stage could mend a sprained ankle so its owner could dance, could heal laryngitis so a voice could fill a theatre; he could cure migraine, gastric flu and asthma, stanch tears and heal grief, summon strength and banish pain. Not forever, not even for very long, but long enough for the show to go on. And he was working very hard on Georgia ’s behalf at that moment.

  She walked into the casting director’s room, smiling radiantly at the people watching her from behind their table. She was surprised-and pleased-that there were three of them; she’d been expecting just the casting director. Every moment was important now, she knew; the camcorder was running already, filming the way she looked, moved, talked, smiled.

  “Hi, Georgia. I’m Tony; I’m the casting director. This is Bryn, the director, and you know Sue, my assistant.”

  “Yes, I do. Hi. Thank you so much for letting me come today. I’m really sorry about last week.”

  “That’s OK. So, what are you doing at the moment, what have you been up to?”

  “Oh… lots of things. Episode of The Bill, episode of Casualty, two episodes of Holly oaks, bit of modelling to make ends meet.” She grinned at them.

  “Who was the modelling for? TV?”

  “Yes, one for a car commercial, one for a new chocolate, and a fashion shoot for Glamour.”

  It didn’t add up to a row of beans, and they would know it; the scenes for The Bill and Casualty had been tiny, Hollyoaks only a bit bigger; she’d been in a crowd scene in the car commercial, maybe slightly more of a presence selling the chocolates, one of three girls eating as suggestively as the client felt they could get away with. And fashion shoots-well, she might just as well have not mentioned it. Except that it did mean she looked all right. But they could see that for themselves…

  Then the standard questions they always asked: would she shave her head if she was asked, did she have any tattoos anywhere on her body, would she take all her clothes off, do a nude scene. Georgia told them she’d shave her head and take her clothes off all in one scene if they asked; no tattoos, though, so if they were looking for them… They laughed; then there was a silence. They were going to tell her to go away, not bother, she thought, panic rising, but: “Well, from those scenes we sent you, Georgia, would you like to do scene ten? With a bit of a Brummie accent, maybe. Sue will read the dad.”

  “Sure.”

  That was lucky: scene ten was her favourite. She walked towards Sue, stood with her legs slightly apart, her hands on her hips.

  “Dad,” she said, “can I have a word…?”

  By the time she finished the
scene she felt quite emotional; and she could tell they’d liked it. They sat looking at her in silence, the casting director smiling.

  “OK, Georgia,” he said. “Now could you do it again, please, without the accent. Just in your normal voice.”

  It wasn’t quite as good, and she was more nervous, but they still smiled at her when she’d finished.

  “ Thank you, Georgia. That was great. Thank you very much. We’ll be in touch. Shouldn’t be too long. Few days, probably.”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  She allowed herself to tell Linda she thought it had gone well; she felt she owed her that.

  And she’d been really great, not reproached her at all, not asked her any more questions about the crash. Not that she would have answered her if she had. Indeed she didn’t think she would be able to. The only way she could cope now was pretending it had never happened. Or rather that she hadn’t been there. That seemed to be working quite well.

  ***

  Jonathan sat down facing them, fighting a rising panic and a fear that he might actually vomit.

  “Right, Mr. Gilliatt. Perhaps first we could establish exactly what you were doing on the M4 that afternoon, sir? Just so we’re fully in the picture, you understand?”

  Right in the deep end, then. He smiled at them carefully. He didn’t look at Laura; that would seem anxious. She mustn’t think he was anxious. About any of it.

  “I was driving back from a pharmaceutical conference: I’d been speaking at a dinner the night before. At the Birmingham International Hotel.”

  “So why the M4, sir; why not the M40?”

  A sudden and very vivid image came to him of where he had gone on the way and what had happened there. It was disturbing; he crushed it.

  “It was Friday afternoon; the M5-to-M4 route may be longer, but it’s often less congested.”

  “And you left Birmingham when, exactly, sir?”

  “Oh… late morning.”

  “Right. So you cut down onto the M4 and reached it at what time?”