Falling Suns

by J. A. Corrigan

  ‘How you doing?’ she asked, more seriously.

  Belatedly, I realised my reference to ‘mother’, and the few moments of not thinking about Joe ended. ‘You know.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get inside.’

  Jacob handed me a tumbler of spicy, warm liquid that sparkled under the festive lighting. ‘Got to go, Aunt Rach, important party to attend.’ He ruffled my head and I knew that, even after nearly five years, he still didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Have a good time,’ Charlotte shouted towards the closing door. She plonked herself down in front of the fire.

  ‘Christmas tree looks wonderful,’ I said. ‘Thanks for inviting me. Jacob looks too handsome.’

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ A mild guilt hovered on her features. ‘What’s Liam doing for Christmas?’

  I got the impression that my friend might know what Liam was doing. ‘Going off to some obscure meditative place in Thailand. I’ll try not to spoil your Christmas, Charl.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous. I’ve invited all the clan and Jacob will be around until New Year. He’s taking a long break. His last project finished and then he went straight into some voice coaching, only just finished that.’

  ‘After a coveted role, is he?’

  ‘His agent has an eye on a “big script” that’s in circulation. The director and producer are looking for the supporting male actor. The agent wants to put Jacob forwards for the part.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, the director has an obsession with accents and authenticity. The role is an American from Ohio. The director is determined to find an actor indigenous to Ohio, Jacob’s agent is thinking differently. This could put him on the Hollywood map good and proper. So Jacob did the voice coaching in London, some obscure little place in Soho. It’s a school for method acting as well. I think he learnt more about that, too, but it was mainly the voice coaching he went for. Says it’s the best thing he’s done. Loved it.’ Charlotte nudged a bauble into place on her perfectly chaotic tree. ‘Said there were a few non-actors there, business people, wanting to change the way they speak. He just liked being in London, to be honest.’

  I stood to stretch my legs. ‘So, they’d take on anyone? I mean, not just actors?’

  ‘Yep, as long as you pay. Luckily, Jacob’s agent stumped up.’

  ‘What’s the name of the school?’

  ‘Cambri School of Voice Coaching and Acting. Why? Are you interested? Thinking of taking up acting? You enjoyed it at uni. Might be a good idea – a little hobby.’ She filled my glass, smiling. ‘Why on earth did you resign? You need to work. Perhaps going back to the police wasn’t such a great idea, but you need to do something.’ She looked uncomfortable. ‘I mean, what do you do all day? Every day. It’s not healthy.’ She paused, and gave my bare legs an admiring glance. ‘I can see you’re spending a lot of time working out. You’re as lean as a fillet steak.’

  ‘I took up karate again, too.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I have. It’s good for me.’

  ‘Why’ve you been avoiding me, Rachel?’

  ‘I haven’t seen much of anyone.’

  ‘Liam still worries about you.’

  ‘No he doesn’t.’ Charlotte had obviously seen more of Liam than I had. ‘He was having an affair before Joe went missing but that isn’t the reason we’ve divorced.’ She nodded and I thought she understood.

  I took off the heavy cardigan I was wearing, revealing my chocolate-brown Lurex dress. I’d made an effort for Christmas. It was sleeveless and short.

  ‘Jesus girl, look at your arms. Last time I saw biceps like that was when I threw the javelin for my school. Not mine, I might add, but the girl who annually beat me at the county championships.’

  ‘Being fit helps the mind,’ I said.

  She scrutinised me closely. ‘It should do, yes.’ The sudden seriousness of her expression faded as fast as it had appeared. ‘And your hips ... gone.’

  I had the height and build of Margaret. Largish hips, thick thighs and a flat chest. My shape didn’t bother me but looking like my mother always had.

  ‘Not quite. At least I will look less like Margaret,’ I said lightly.

  ‘Carry on like this, and you’ll look nothing like her. Anyway, you are nothing like her.’ She flicked back her long fringe. Charlotte always flicked her fringe when about to change the subject. ‘Have you seen Tom Gillespie?’

  ‘Not recently, he’s annoyed with me for resigning. It was Liam he called about Hemmings and Littleworth, not me.’ I’d filled Charlotte in on the details of Littleworth in an earlier phone call.

  ‘Yes, I kn...’

  ‘You know?’

  She looked towards the exquisite parquet flooring. ‘I spoke to Liam before he went away...’

  ‘I don’t mind, you know, Charlotte, you keeping in touch with Liam. He was your friend, too.’

  She coloured and I put it down to the wine, the heat of the room.

  She smiled indulgently. ‘So maybe this New Year, you should decide what you’re going to do with the rest of your life?’

  Perhaps I should tell her. Tell her everything, but of course I couldn’t.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I know what I’m doing.’ And I did.

  ‘You have to live, girl. Have you seen Jonathan Waters recently?’

  I’d been staring at the fire, watching yellow flames leap around the grand fireplace, marvelling at their randomness. I looked up. ‘I have, a few weeks ago. He came over to talk about what’s happening at Littleworth. I think he plans on writing something about it. He was about to go and interview Sam and Bridget.’

  ‘An exclusive on the parents of the murderer who’s about to be let out?’ She looked at me. ‘Sorry...’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘You know Jonathan has the “hots” for you?’

  ‘He was married, Charl. And that’s a very old-fashioned term. Erase it from your vocabulary,’ I laughed.

  She grinned. ‘He isn’t now, though. And hasn’t been for a while.’

  ‘He does not have the “hots” for me.’ But I knew that the kind and gentle Jonathan did. I’d always suspected. It was another reason to keep away from him. I needed to stay away, if only because he was a journalist. A journalist with an interest and understanding of me. And that was the last thing I needed.

  Charlotte’s face dropped into anxiousness. ‘They won’t really let Hemmings out, will they?’

  ‘They might, at some point in the future, allow him to go to a step-down unit. It’s complicated, but when public opinion has died down, he could quietly be placed in a less secure unit, and theoretically allowed out, under supervision ... yes.’

  She pulled at her fringe and changed the subject. ‘Have you seen your mother, or other members of your illustrious family, recently? Sorry to bring all that up, but I wondered.’ She grinned. ‘Get all that stuff out of the way.’

  ‘I see my dad. Try to avoid my mother, though ... you know.’ I’d never told Charlotte about my last visit to see Margaret, and the last conversation I’d had with her. I’d told no one. I hadn’t told her about Hemmings being looked after by my mother, either.

  ‘So. What are your plans?’

  ‘I’m going away for a while. A short break, as I told Tom I would be doing.’

  ‘You could have the house in Venice Beach, you know.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m going somewhere where no one knows where to find me, just for a while.’

  ‘You’ll tell me?’

  I hesitated. ‘I’ll give you a PO Box number.’

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘That I’ll be away? Just a few weeks.’

  ‘Can I call you?’

  ‘No, I want no phone, no computer.’ I watched her. ‘You’ll have the PO Box, but don’t tell anyone, not my dad, no one. OK? Promise?’

  ‘Promise. Come on, girl.’ The mulled wine was depleted and we’d begun on the vodka. ‘Let’s get pissed.’

  ‘
It doesn’t mix well with the pills.’

  ‘Then stop taking them. Find another way of dealing with this. It’s time.’

  Charlotte was right. Soon it would be time.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Seven weeks later

  Mid-February 2005

  As usual, Jonathan was awake. He lifted his head from the pillow and peered at green luminescent numbers. Five. His head flopped back down and he allowed his mind to free-fall.

  It was in the early hours when Jonathan scraped through his past. Every morning he tried not to but every morning he failed. His thought processes always took the same path. Beginning with the day the kindly neighbour, who often looked after him when his parents went somewhere without him, came into his bedroom with a lady police officer, to tell him that his mum and dad were never coming home.

  The pain dulled over the years but did not leave. Jonathan never got over the cruel loss, and his life never fulfilled the promise hoped for by his doting parents.

  He did not dislike the great-aunt and uncle who subsequently took care of him, he just felt little for them. When he eventually moved out, life was supposed to get better. It didn’t, not for a while, not until he applied for the job on Harry’s newspaper. It got better still when he met Michelle. He realised now that although he’d always fancied the pants off her, it was her grief and vulnerability that he really went for. He wanted to look after her as he himself had never been looked after.

  Was that why he’d fallen for Rachel? Because she was in need? No. He’d fallen for her years before, before Michelle, before Joe’s murder, when she was strong, confident and happy; but he’d never been able to say a thing. And now he couldn’t stop thinking about her and her ‘holiday’. She was still away and he’d heard nothing.

  He’d lived by his instincts since he’d been orphaned and they had only grown stronger over the years. It was what made him a good journalist. He knew something wasn’t right with Rachel. He felt it. She’d never got back to him about coming to London. OK, so his pride was hurt, but it was more than that.

  Half an hour later, after too much coffee and not enough food, Jonathan was firmly ensconced in his study dialling Charlotte Gayle’s telephone number.

  Gayle didn’t seem too fazed when she opened the door soon after Jonathan had pulled on the antiquated bell. Late thirties, and in great shape, a sarong wrapped stylishly around her lithe, compact, body, Jonathan remembered Rachel talking about her best friend: bohemian, innately kind, unsuspicious.

  ‘All the things I’m not,’ she had said. ‘That’s why she likes me, I’m sure – I challenge her. She has more in common with Liam.’

  ‘Jonathan ... long time. How are you?’ Charlotte opened the door wider, offering hospitality. ‘Come in.’

  They were soon sitting outside on her overplanted patio, the winter sun invisible behind heavy clouds. Jonathan felt the beginnings of a spring that was still a while away, not due to the temperature, it couldn’t be more than eight degrees, but because of the tranquil Mediterranean-style garden he found himself in. The terrace was full of bright ceramics, wind chimes and burnt-down candles that signified many evenings spent outside. It was welcoming and he did feel very at ease.

  She crossed one slim leg over the other. ‘What can I do for you? I take it this isn’t a social visit?’ She leant forwards. ‘You’re not here to ask about Jacob? I don’t talk about my son. Ever.’

  Jonathan sat down in a pretty but uncomfortable chair. ‘No, I’m not here to talk about Jacob, although I hear he’s been offered a very prestigious part. So, although I don’t want to talk about him, give him my congratulations.’ He noticed her clear and smooth skin. No wrinkles at all and no sign of surgery. He saw where Jacob got his looks. They both had skin that a camera loved, a translucency that reflected the light, contours that translated well in a photograph.

  ‘Have you seen Rachel recently?’ he asked.

  ‘At Christmas.’ She watched him. ‘And you, have you seen her?’ She wavered, her smile dimmed. ‘You’re not writing anything about Rachel, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. This isn’t work, and I can’t believe you’d even think that.’ Jonathan fixed his stare on her. ‘I’m a bit concerned about her.’

  ‘Are you? I’m not. She’s on holiday.’ Her face softened. ‘I’m sorry she didn’t let you know ... I know you have a soft spot for her.’

  ‘It’s not about me having any spot for her. She’s my friend, as she’s yours, and she’s been “gone” for over a month. Nearly two.’

  ‘Look, Jonathan, she’s fine.’ She stood and wiped the table with a multi-coloured cloth. ‘I know you’re looking into what’s happening at Littleworth. Are you sure you’re not here for that? Finding out everything you can, because I can assure you, there’s nothing I can tell you.’

  ‘I’m worried about her.’

  She smiled again, showing even white teeth. ‘Rachel’s very independent, as you know. She spent Christmas here, she’s OK. I like to think it was good for her, this is a nice spot.’

  ‘It is.’ And it was. ‘Did she tell you where she was going? Tell you anything?’

  ‘No, she didn’t say.’

  ‘But she told you she’d only be gone for a couple of weeks? That’s what she told me.’

  ‘She’s a big girl.’

  ‘Did she mention anything else, her plans ... anything?’

  ‘She seemed more together, doing things for herself. She’s taken up karate again. We spoke about a course that Jacob did recently in London – some voice-coaching – to get the part he wanted. Rachel seemed very interested to get the details of the school. They teach method acting, too. Maybe she’ll put herself on a course there? She loved acting at university. So, you see, she is improving, forming some outside interests.’

  ‘What’s the name of the school?’ he asked.

  ‘Cambri. The Cambri School of Voice Coaching and Acting.’

  He nodded, storing the information. ‘You’ve known her for a long time.’

  ‘Uni. Best friends since. She stayed with my family a lot in the holidays. Margaret, you know? She wanted to get away from her.’ Her gaze moved towards the Bonsai tree that sat on the table. ‘But I think the problem she has with her mother has got worse after what happened. I’m not surprised, though. She never really talks about Margaret. But that’s families for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ he said. ‘Do you know Liam well?’

  Charlotte’s expression changed. ‘Quite well. He’s my best friend’s husband. He and Rachel have been good to me.’

  ‘Ex-husband. Have you spoken with him recently?’

  Charlotte hesitated. ‘I saw him soon after Christmas, when Rachel left.’

  ‘And neither of you know where she’s gone?’

  ‘No, I’ve told you.’

  ‘Can you, or Liam, contact her?’

  She looked Jonathan directly in the face. ‘No.’

  He sighed. ‘Is Liam concerned?’

  Again, he sensed hesitation. ‘A little, but ... he has his own problems.’

  ‘Has he shared those problems with you?’ he asked, seeing a tinge of redness on her high cheekbones and being unable to decide if it was anger or embarrassment.

  ‘A little. Look, I can’t help you.’ She watched him. ‘She mentioned Marek Gorski a couple of times. Maybe she plans to go and visit him in Poland; I know he had a nice place in Warsaw.’

  Jonathan leant back in the uncomfortable chair. Marek. He could imagine Rachel seeking out Marek’s company. A silent and solid bloke; he felt a gentle movement of air waft around his face.

  ‘I really don’t know where she is, nor does Liam,’ she carried on. ‘But she’s OK.’

  Jonathan moved his chair backwards a fraction. Was he overreacting? His answer to himself was swift no.

  Charlotte smiled. ‘Maybe you should go and see Alan: he might know more.’

  ‘Maybe I should. Listen, thanks for your time.’ Jonathan extracted
himself from the chair. ‘And thanks for talking to me. If you remember anything else give me a buzz.’ He handed her his card.

  ‘I’m off to LA tomorrow, but will do.’

  Jonathan left.

  He remembered seeing a nice pub on the corner of the park. He really fancied a pint, and a think.

  Jonathan’s bitter sat in front of him, centred perfectly on the beer mat, untouched. He’d plucked his notebook from inside his bag, half full of the information about Margaret Hemmings. He’d been in touch with Barry Haslop, who’d promised to investigate Margaret Hemmings for him. That had been a while ago, and he hadn’t yet got back. As he himself often did, Barry needed a prod, but all in good time. He glanced at his mobile that perched on the wooden bench. He looked at the telephone number printed neatly on the notepad’s unlined page.

  Give it go, he said to himself. He pushed the relevant numbers and waited.

  ‘Hi, is that Alan Hemmings?’

  Rachel’s dad agreed to meet with him later that day at a pub near his home.

  He picked up his pencil and wrote down an ordered list of his thoughts, neatly underlining the ones he thought most salient with his new highlighter pen. Seeing Alan. Calling Marek Gorski. Chasing up info on Margaret.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alan Hemmings was sitting in the corner of the pub, staring into the open log fire and sipping an orange juice when Jonathan walked in. Alan was a tall man, with a lantern jaw; naturally slim, but even from the doorway Jonathan could see how much weight he’d lost, almost as much as Sam.

  Alan looked up and smiled flatly. Jonathan held out his hand, which Alan shook in that fatigued way he recognised as a sign of depression or defeat. He thought of Michelle, of Rachel, and of Liam’s forlorn posture at the trial. The ramifications of the loss of a child travelled deep and, like a stubborn stain, would never leave. They might fade with time, but the damage from working to get rid of the mark would remain visible forever.

  ‘Hi Jonathan, nice to meet you again.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Can only stay an hour – Margaret doesn’t know I’ve nipped out.’

  Jonathan studied Rachel’s dad, remembering his last meeting with him; on the day of the sentencing, with Margaret at Rachel’s house. Christ, that had been painful. Though enlightening. Now he knew a little about Margaret Hemmings, he was surprised she’d revealed her skeleton while he’d been in the room, and hadn’t insisted that he leave before talking. Margaret had been on a mission to get the visit out of the way, although he doubted she would have revealed about Hemmings without Alan’s pushing. He guessed it was rare for Alan to go against his wife’s wishes.