Sour Grapes

by Natasha Cooper

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Emma, surprised. ‘I mean, I hardly know him. We’re both pursuing the same course, but that’s all. Haven’t you ever met him?’

  ‘No. He rang out of the blue to tell me about you. It’s been a real blind date, and a lot better for me than most of those, I can tell you.’ He laughed.

  ‘In that case it was even more good of you to see me than I’d realised,’ said Emma, beginning to understand quite how foolhardy she had been to talk so frankly to him. She tried to remember exactly what she had said, both about Lutterworth and herself.

  ‘I really am Inspector Joseph Podley,’ he said, fishing in his pocket for his identification. ‘But it’s true: you ought to have asked for this sooner. I’m glad you’re not completely lacking common sense.’

  Emma felt herself blushing. ‘I didn’t realise that what I was thinking was so obvious.’

  ‘I’ve been interviewing witnesses and suspects for fifteen years or more,’ he said. ‘I’m trained to understand what people aren’t saying.’

  ‘You know,’ she said, recovering her complexion and her confidence, ‘you almost persuade me that there could never be a miscarriage of justice with men like you in the force. But the wrong person often is suspected, isn’t he?’

  It was Podley’s turn to look self-conscious, but in him embarrassment took the form of only the slightest extra narrowing of his eyes and lips. His colour did not fluctuate, nor his breathing change.

  ‘Occasionally. But that wasn’t the case with Andrew Lutterworth. Believe you me.’

  ‘You really did loathe him, didn’t you?’

  ‘How perceptive of you!’

  They both laughed, and Emma stood up.

  ‘On that note, I’d better go. It has been good of you to see me, and I’ve enjoyed this, but I’m sure you must be aching to get home.’

  He looked at his watch again, more obviously this time.

  ‘The wife does get antsy if I’m not back in time to see the kids before lights out. Thank you for the drink.’

  ‘That’s nothing. A pleasure. Goodbye. Oh, before you do go…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you know that Lutterworth had lost his son only a short while before the crash? His only child?’

  ‘No. I didn’t,’ said Podley, not looking particularly interested, although Emma thought that as a father himself he ought to have had some sympathy. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just wondered whether his anger and arrogance might in fact have been attempts to control his misery.’

  ‘Unlikely. Take it from me, he was guilty.’

  ‘OK,’ said Emma peaceably. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Night.’

  She left him and walked along the Old Brompton Road to South Kensington tube station. Later, sitting on the Circle Line train amid the tired, angry, grey-faced commuters and overstimulated, exhausted babies who had been rescued from crèches by their equally tired mothers, she thought about everything Podley had said. It seemed important to assess how much of his apparent certainty could have come from a determination to persuade himself out of any lingering doubts about Lutterworth’s guilt. Podley was a perceptive man, and sensitive to both atmosphere and unspoken comment—probably anxiety, too. But he had been angry with Lutterworth; and anger, at least in Emma’s experience, could fog anyone’s judgement.

  When she reached Willow’s Mews she saw Jag’s motorcycle parked against the kerb and, conscience-stricken, checked her own watch. It was still only half past seven. Feeling the coolness of the bike’s engine, she realised that he must have been in the house for some time and hoped that Willow had not minded his early invasion of her privacy. Emma rang the bell in a state of unusual nervousness.

  Willow opened the door herself.

  ‘Emma,’ she said smiling easily. ‘Good. Jag’s here.’

  ‘So I saw,’ said Emma, gesturing at the bike. More quietly she added, ‘Has it been long? D’you mind?’

  Willow shook her head. ‘He told Lucinda a whole string of stories that made her laugh so much I thought we’d never get her off to sleep. She loved it.’

  ‘Good.’ Emma ran her fingers through her black hair and then pinched the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Headache?’

  ‘No. Just too much noise and stale air. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Drink or bath? Or both? Jag and I are quite happy chatting and there’s plenty of time before dinner.’

  ‘I must say I’d love a bath. I must stink of that pub.’

  ‘You go on up,’ said Willow, patting Emma’s shoulder. ‘I’Il send him after you with a drink.’

  ‘Lovely. You are kind.’

  Emma, who did in fact have quite a bad headache, made her way up to the spare room, which was in its usual immaculate state with flowers in all the vases and a tray beside the bed with a bottle of mineral water and a silver box of Mrs Rusham’s best biscuits on it. Suddenly hungry, Emma crammed a biscuit into her mouth and started to undress.

  ‘What a picture!’ said Jag.

  Emma emerged from the bottom of her sweater, her face red and her mouth full of nuts and crumbs. When she had swallowed and brushed the evidence off her chin, she said, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s good to see you less than totally controlled for once. Here’s your drink. Willow gave the orders and I poured it out. I hope it’ll do you.’

  ‘Why? What is it?’

  ‘Champagne and raspberry liqueur of some kind. Sounds like one for the kitchen-whizz to me.’

  ‘On the contrary. It’s one of her Friday-night specials. Yummy. How are you getting on with her?’

  ‘So-so. She’s not sure about me and wants me to be quite clear that she’s watching to see that I don’t ill-treat you.’

  ‘Is she?’ said Emma, wondering whether it would be possible to tell Willow that she could look after herself without seeming hideously ungrateful. ‘She is adorable, if a little overprotective.’

  ‘Now “adorable” is not a word I would have used. I can’t think why not,’ said Jag.

  ‘No? How would you describe her?’

  ‘Formidable.’

  ‘But didn’t you see her with Lucinda?’ asked Emma, frowning. It was beginning to sound as though Jag had decided to dislike Willow. ‘I know she can seem tough and distant, but not when she’s with the baby.’

  ‘No. But with me she’s more than frosty—and with that housekeeper, too. Poor woman.’

  ‘Poor woman nothing. If Willow’s formidable, then Mrs Rusham is Genghis Khan or Vlad the Impala.’

  Jag laughed so much that Emma thought he might choke. She could not think what she had said to amuse him so much. Eventually he got himself under some sort of control again and said breathlessly, ‘It’s Vlad the Impaler, baboon-brain. One who impales, not some kind of deer.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Emma, completely surprised and rather amused. ‘Yes, I see it must be. Funny: I’ve always misread it. Mad! But look here, you ought to go back down. She’ll think we’re having a conspiracy if we stay up here together.’

  ‘No, she won’t. She told me to see that you stayed in the bath for at least half an hour. She said it would take her that long to get dinner ready and I was on no account to let you out of the water till then.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Jag: she is adorable, and generous. It won’t take her any time at all to get dinner ready. Mrs Rusham will have had it all laid out before she left. Willow just wants us to have time together.’

  ‘So shall I come and scrub your back then?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Well scrubbed, soothed and dressed in a long, loose skirt and the beige cotton sweater, Emma took Jag downstairs again soon after eight o’clock.

  ‘You do look better,’ said Willow. ‘Thank you, Jag. I hoped I could rely on you.’

  Emma immediately saw what he had meant. Willow’s tone was almost headmistressly as she kindly approved of the way he had obeyed her instructions. Looking at him, Emma saw that he was irritated but managing to conta
in his feelings. She hoped that the two of them would find a way to relax with each other soon. Otherwise they were all in for an uncomfortable weekend.

  The atmosphere eased a little as they were eating their lobster pancakes and Jag asked about Emma’s meeting with Inspector Podley. She made the others laugh with her urge to advise him to have his orange eyelashes dyed and she noticed Willow looking beadily at Jag’s long, curling black lashes, which made her join in their laughter.

  ‘And apart from his cosmetically challenged appearance, what was he like?’ asked Willow.

  ‘Intelligent, angry, sincere I think, and much more perceptive than I’d have imagined.’

  ‘And convinced of Lutterworth’s guilt?’ suggested Jag.

  ‘I think so. Oh, I do wish he’d let me talk to him.’

  ‘Perhaps he will if his parole hearing fails,’ said Willow. ‘Did I tell you that his wife thinks he will only get parole if he lies about his innocence?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Emma, managing to feel unsullied appreciation of Willow’s interest in her work again. In her fervent relief, she smiled brilliantly and hoped that Willow had never sensed any of the sullying emotions. ‘I had thought of that. If he genuinely is innocent and yet forces himself to tell them that he’s guilty to prove that he’s accepted the seriousness of his crime, then he can hardly take a polygraph test for me that proves he believes he’s innocent. Perhaps that’s why he wouldn’t.’

  ‘It must be a horrible Catch-22 for any innocent person up for parole…’ Willow began, but Emma interrupted her before she could finish what she was going to say.

  ‘Awful,’ agreed Emma, quickly adding, ‘but a possible way into the thesis, don’t you think? When lies and truth are turned on their head. When innocence is forced to lie in order to get away from unfair punishment. Oh, maybe that’s the answer.’ She raised her wineglass as though in a toast and drank to her two best friends.

  For the first time Willow and Jag exchanged looks of pleasure untainted by any territorial ambitions. The telephone rang and Willow got to her feet with unusually clumsy haste.

  ‘It might be Tom,’ she called over her shoulder as she ran out.

  It was, and she asked him to hang on while she retreated to her bedroom so that she could have some privacy while they talked.

  ‘Oh, Tom, I am missing you,’ Willow said passionately after ten minutes of hearing how he was getting on in Strasbourg.

  ‘Me, too. But you are managing, aren’t you?’

  ‘Naturally. I’ve got Emma here for the weekend again, and this time she’s brought a boyfriend.’

  ‘No! What’s he like: a suitable aristo or a bit of rough?’

  ‘Neither. At least not exactly. He’s huge and rides a motorcycle, but he’s not exactly rough trade, although I suppose he does look as though he might be. But I don’t think he is. Much too gentle underneath the parade of machismo. He comes from New Zealand. I’m not sure about anything much else yet.’

  ‘Clever?’ asked Tom, knowing how much that still mattered to Willow. ‘Or not?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that either. Reasonably intelligent and he is doing a PhD, but at St Albans, so…’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Tom with heavy, if laughing, sarcasm. ‘The equivalent of an old O-level, you mean. You are a shocking intellectual snob, you know, Will, my darling.’

  ‘And you’re not?’ she countered, just as amused. ‘Come on, Tom. Admit it. You know you’re easily as bad as me—and neither of us is as bad as all that. St Albans has a thoroughly good reputation.’

  ‘I’m not nearly as bad as you. Oh, Will, it is good to be able to be ordinary and not guard every single word I use. I can’t wait to get home.’

  ‘Any idea of when that’s likely to be?’ she asked, wishing that she could sound casual but aware that her longing to see him must be obvious.

  ‘Sometime next week, I hope. I’d been letting myself think Tuesday might see us done, but now I’ve got my doubts and it may not be until Friday. If I’d had any idea it was going to drag on like this, I’d have made arrangements to come home this weekend.’

  ‘Oh, I wish. Lucinda misses you, too. She’s always asking after you, particularly last thing at night.’

  ‘Really? I’m tickled to death.’

  ‘Yes, really,’ said Willow, remembering her old fears that Tom might lose interest in her in the excitement of his new love for Lucinda. It had not happened and he had managed to persuade Willow that it was highly unlikely to happen in the future. ‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Sure. And you, too.’

  ‘I always do. How’s the book going?’

  ‘Sticky. I hate it. I can’t think why I ever wanted to start it, or why I wanted to write novels. I keep asking myself why I left the civil service, where at least my work was always presented to me and I just had to do it and see that my troops did their bit properly.’

  ‘The book must be going all right then,’ he said with what she considered—and said—was a shameful lack of sympathy. He laughed again and added, ‘You know perfectly well that whenever the words seem to be coming out easily you have to bin the results. It’s always better when you extrude them with the greatest difficulty like toothpaste from the very bottom of an old tube.’

  ‘I hate you when you’re always right.’

  ‘Bollocks, my dear. You always love me, almost as much as I love you, which is far too much. Blast, look at the time. I’d better go.’ His voice was sobering as he went on, ‘I meant it when I told you to take care. Don’t let the book’s stickiness lead you into any dangerous detecting or anything like that. It’s usually when writing’s most difficult that you start looking for something else to do.’

  ‘No, no. I’ve given all that up,’ she said, confident that assisting Emma with her thesis could not possibly constitute the sort of investigation Tom meant. She had reluctantly admitted to herself that he was right when he said that she owed it to Lucinda to keep away from violent criminals for a few years at least. ‘Goodnight, Tom. I… Well, goodnight I wish I were with you.’

  ‘Me too. Goodbye, Will.’

  She put down the receiver and reluctantly went back to be polite to Jag and Emma. They were just finishing the washing up and soon afterwards retired to bed.

  Finding herself disturbed at the thought of what Emma might be risking as she embarked on an affair with someone of whom she knew virtually nothing, Willow told herself to stop being so possessive. It would be good for Emma to widen her circle, to be loved and to learn to allow herself some feelings that had not been laid down in the invisible rule book that had governed her life for so long.

  However much she rationalised her anxiety, Willow could not altogether get rid of it Strong emotion could do such very odd things to the sort of serenity Emma was fighting to achieve, and if Jag should torn out to be less honest than Emma assumed she might be very badly hurt.

  Willow shrugged as she admitted that there was nothing she could do to prevent that. Emma would have to make mistakes and risk whatever hurts might be in store for her. Otherwise she had no hope. Willow forcibly turned her mind to other things. She knew that it was far too early for her to have any chance of sleep and so she went to see how Lucinda was. Still not reliably dry, she needed to be woken and encouraged to pee at least once every night.

  She did not wake completely even when Willow sat her on the pot, and she was deeply asleep again when Willow laid her back in her cot. Watching her, Willow wondered how she would react when it was Lucinda and not Emma who was embarking on a love affair.

  ‘So perhaps Emma’s is good practice,’ she murmured.

  Lucinda muttered in her sleep, and turned heavily over on to her side, thrusting her thumb into her mouth. Willow smoothed the soft hair away from the child’s hot forehead and left her alone.

  She had not even tried to do any work on the novel that day, but with Tom’s splendidly unsentimental sympathy in mind she went down the passage
to her writing room, switched on her computer and brought on to the screen the last few pages she had written. Surprised to find that they were not as dreary or nonsensical as she had expected, she managed to persuade herself to write three and half more pages during the next two hours. By then she was satisfactorily tired and went to bed confident of getting a reasonable amount of sleep.

  By the end of the weekend Willow had come to the conclusion that Jag felt genuine affection towards Emma—and possibly something more than that—and that he was giving her something she needed. As Willow learned to smile more naturally at him, he lost some of his defensiveness and Emma began to look less worried. They zoomed off on the motorcycle after tea on Sunday, leaving a reassured Willow to deal with Lucinda’s distress at the loss of her latest playmate. That sorrow was easily assuaged but it led to the much worse one of separation from her father and she began her familiar nightly demands for him.

  Willow explained what he was doing and when he was likely to be home as simply and with as much patience as she could manage. Lucinda did not understand at all and continued to whine for some time. Willow hung on to her patience with difficulty and was positively relieved when it was time for her to put Lucinda to bed, knowing that Mrs Rusham would be back to take over the following morning.

  Chapter Nine

  Andrew Lutterworth failed to get parole. Willow heard the news from Jemima and immediately wrote to Emma, who concocted a carefully diplomatic letter telling him that she was sorry to hear what had happened and wondered whether he might reconsider his earlier refusal to see her.

  She received his reply within a fortnight and was on her way to his prison four days later with all her polygraph equipment, as usual glad to be getting away from St Albans. On her way out of her building she had picked up a letter from her pigeonhole and seeing that it was from her mother, stuffed it into her pocket to read later. She opened it as soon as she had found a seat on the train.

  Darling Emma, Your last letter sounded rather depressed and I think you ought to come home next weekend for a rest. I’ve collected some nice people for dinner on Saturday, including Michael Bromyard. I know you never liked him much in the old days, but time is getting on and he’s one of the few young men who’s still available. You’ll soon be twenty-six, darling, and you can’t be meeting any of the right sort in that place. Michael is a good boy; not thrilling perhaps, but completely solid. We’ve known his family for ever, and he’d do you reasonably well. He’s got some money, too, although that’s not crucial, and a good job. You’d always know where you are with him, and that’s worth a great deal, believe me. Your father would have been pleased. He always liked Michael. Now, you needn’t worry about clothes because I’ve been through your cupboards here and taken that pretty pink silk dress to the cleaners for you. I’ve made a hair appointment for you, too, so all will be well. Tell me which train you’ll be coming on and I’ll meet you. It’ll be a nice change for you and do you good.