CONTENTS
Chapters
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
By the same author
Copyright
I would like to thank my good friend, David Pritchard, for his insight into life at Parkhurst Prison on the Isle of Wight. David worked there as a Prison Officer, reaching Governor rank. Any errors or diversions from reality in the ‘nick’ are entirely mine.
Michael Parker
ONE
England, summer 2010
Max Reilly finished the last page of his manuscript, sat back and stared at the screen for quite a while. The book had taken him two years to write. Two years in which he thought he would never reach the end. The two years that followed the death of his wife were difficult, but he had worked, he had fretted, he had mourned and at times he thought he would never survive the traumatic loss of his soulmate. But he had survived despite the worry, the weight loss and sleepless nights. His publisher had been very understanding, saying that the work would take his mind off his bereavement. Max understood too, knowing that he had an enormous readership waiting for his next book. Being a best-selling author had many advantages, but it had disadvantages too.
Max had lost his wife, Elise, in a car crash. He wasn’t involved but there had been another victim in the accident: her lover. Max thought then that the grief would be too much to bear, and the attendant publicity did nothing to assuage his anger and his devastation. The conflict of losing a loved one and learning of her betrayal had torn him apart, and it was only because he was able to pour himself into his work that he could empty his emotion and his vitriol into his book. He knew it would sell. By God he knew it would sell. Any novel with Max Reilly’s name on it was a cast-iron guarantee that it would soon be topping the best-seller lists.
Now he could relax for a while: no more editorial meetings, no more re-writes, and no more working lunches with his editor and agent. Now there was a sublime period of quiet before the publishing date and the inevitable round of promotional tours, television interviews and book-signing sessions. His publishers would probably release the book as soon as possible. Once the final read-through was complete, it was simply a question of getting it to the printers for the initial print run.
He closed the computer down and sat there for a while, letting the sounds of life from beyond the windows filter into his mind. He could hear a dog barking somewhere, the sound dulled by the trees surrounding his home; they rustled as the wind slipped through them, ushering in the late afternoon. He glanced over at the grandfather clock standing proudly against the far wall of his study and then checked the time on his wristwatch. He didn’t know why he did that; the old clock, faithful as ever, was never wrong. He wished Elise had been as faithful and dependable as that old clock.
He pushed himself out of his leather chair and wandered over to the patio doors, thrust his hands into the pockets of his corduroy trousers, and looked down the sloping lawn to the river flowing past in full flood. He felt as though his life was suddenly draining away from him; spilling out onto the carpet and flowing down to the river to be carried away to goodness knows where. He understood why this was happening; why the emptiness always seemed to rush in once he had reached this stage of the novel. Only this time there was an edge to it: an ingredient that had never been there before, and that was the loneliness thrust upon him by his wife’s death. Despite her deception, trickery and infidelity, Max could not forgive himself for not having seen it coming. But in a way, the deception was self-inflicted: Max had refused to contemplate that his own dedication to his work could have had such an impact on his marriage. In some sense, he felt he had driven Elise into another man’s arms and as a result of that she had died, and he had been the cause of her death. It was complete nonsense, of course, but so adept was Max at plot and counterplot, and laying the blame at the feet of some of his imperfect characters, that he was punishing himself as roundly as he punished those between the pages of his books.
He turned away from the window and checked his watch again. It was too early for his evening meal but not too early to take a stroll along by the river and give thought to how he would spend the next few days. Max felt it essential to have a break before the round of interviews and signing sessions: it was a chance to unwind. In the past he had taken Elise away for a few days up to Scotland or across to France. It allowed the two of them to enjoy each other’s company without intrusion. He now wondered how much Elise had enjoyed those days spent together. But it was no good ruminating on the imponderable; such was the sad and tragic outcome of their marriage.
He went through to the main hallway, pulled on a weatherproof coat, checked his six-foot frame in a mirror and jammed a tweed hat on his head. He decided he would make a decision about where he would go once he was down by the river. He pulled the front door shut behind him, looked up at the trees bending their tops in the hurrying wind and set off down towards the riverside. But in his heart, Max knew where he would go and why.
Emma Johnson looked up as her sister, Laura, walked into the front room carrying two cups of tea. She was sitting beside the coal fire, which wasn’t lit, thinking about Laura’s suggestion and trying to come to terms with some brutal truths that her sister had put to her.
Laura put the cup on a small table set between Emma’s chair and the wall.
‘Have you given any more thought to what I said?’ she asked as she sat in a chair facing her sister, carefully pulling the hem of her skirt straight.
Emma picked up the cup and took a sip of the hot tea. Laura always managed to put in too much sugar. She put the cup down.
‘It’s too soon,’ she answered, looking at her elder sister. ‘Ian has only been in prison a couple of months and, well.’ She stopped and gave a little shake of the head. ‘I have only just applied for a divorce. It wouldn’t look right to go swanning off like that just because I think I’m a so-called free woman.’
‘You’ll never be a free woman,’ Laura said unkindly. ‘There’s too much baggage in that head of yours.’ She looked over the top of her cup at Emma, who seemed to shrink back into her armchair. ‘The man beat you black and blue, for goodness’ sake.’ She put her cup down, twisting her body to reach the table. Her skirt rose up over her knees. Emma always envied her sister’s legs. ‘Until you get rid of that fear you carry around with you,’ Laura continued, straightening up, ‘you’ll be a prisoner just like him. It’s over; you know you never loved him. And look what he did to you: another inch and you would have died.’
Emma’s expression changed: her eyes widened and her hand reached up to her neck where the scar disfigured her neckline. She now wore high-collar blouses or a thin, chiffon scarf to hide the scar. She could see her husband’s arm swinging towards her in an arc, his hand clutching a broken glass, and the look of hatred on his face. She had almost died that night. Sometimes she wondered if it might have been the better outcome to their stormy marriage. There seemed to be nothing left for her now and certainly little chance of meeting someone else.
‘I did once,’ she said, answering her sister’s claim that she never loved her husband. ‘I thought I was madly in love with him.’ There was a dreamlike quality to her voice as she thought
of when she first met Ian. ‘He looked so handsome in his uniform.’ She blinked several times and then looked up at her sister. ‘Didn’t you think that when you first met your John?’
Laura smiled, her eyes softening. ‘Yes, but I still love him and he loves me: that’s the difference.’
Emma raised her eyebrows in a quiet acceptance and took another sip of her sweet tea. ‘I haven’t been away in such a long while,’ she said after a lengthy silence. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do or where to go.’ Her eyes drifted downwards. ‘Things change so fast these days, I just wouldn’t know anything. I would be out of my depth.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘I wouldn’t even know where to begin.’ If it was meant to be an argument, it was lost on her sister.
‘You don’t have to,’ Laura told her with just a hint of smug satisfaction. ‘I’ve done that for you.’
Emma’s sat upright. ‘What do you mean, you’ve done it for me?’
Her sister didn’t say anything, but got up out of the chair and walked across the room to where she had left her handbag on a small table. She opened it and pulled out a brochure. ‘This,’ she said. ‘Hotel in Southsea; just right for you.’ She dropped the brochure into Emma’s lap.
The brochure was for the Chimes Hotel: a small, four-star hotel along the seafront overlooking the huge expanse of Southsea Common. ‘You’ve booked this?’ she asked incredulously. Laura smiled. It was a fait accompli: for her anyway, but not for Emma. ‘I can’t go there,’ she insisted.
‘Why ever not?’ Laura asked her.
Emma shrugged and shook her head. ‘Well, I can’t; that’s all there is to it.’
Laura’s shoulders sagged and her expression changed from one of joy to one of despair. She knelt down beside her sister and took hold of her hands.
‘Emma, you always let Ian trample over you. You always gave in, even to me when I bullied you as a kid.’ Emma smiled at this. ‘You always allowed others to win the battles. Oh, there were times when you did get your own way,’ she conceded. ‘But you had such a lovely heart for others, you were quite happy to let them have the last word.’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’ Emma asked.
Laura shook her head. ‘No, my darling, it’s not.’ Her voice strengthened. ‘But I do so want you to be happy. So just do this for me: a few days away on your own; relax, unwind. Forget Ian and all the nastiness; you’re a free woman now.’ She smiled and squeezed Emma’s hands. ‘Please, Emma.’
‘I don’t have a credit card.’
Laura stood up, her face a picture of exasperation. ‘For goodness’ sake, Emma, what woman in this day and age doesn’t have a credit card?’ She held her hands up. ‘Don’t say it: Ian wouldn’t let you have one.’
‘He said it wasn’t necessary; that he could look after things.’
Laura turned away and went back to her chair. She flopped into it and lifted her cup from the side table. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, and took a mouthful of tea. ‘I’ve already made the reservation. You can pay by cash.’ She knew her sister had money now; her husband had agreed a financial settlement as a result of the prison sentence and the pending divorce, knowing that if he hadn’t settled something on Emma, the lawyers would have taken him to the cleaners. And of course Emma had been only too happy to help her ex out of his dilemma.
Emma looked aghast. ‘You’ve already done it?’
‘I’ve just told you that.’
‘But I. . . .’ She stumbled, lost for words for a moment. ‘I need to think about it. I have things to do.’ She frowned. ‘I can’t just go off like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I can’t.’
‘You bloody well can, my dear Emma. And you will.’
Emma looked steadily at her sister. ‘You’re bullying me again.’
Laura smiled. ‘Yes, but this time it will be for your benefit; not mine.’
Emma grinned. Laura was right as usual. ‘When have you booked it for?’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘That’s too soon,’ she blurted out. Laura stopped her.
‘No it’s not! Day after tomorrow. We’ll go shopping in the morning and you can finally spend some of that money Ian gave you without worrying what he would say. Okay?’
Emma nodded. ‘I must say it does sound appealing. A few days should be all right, shouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, my darling, it should. And let’s hope you have a really nice time and meet some really nice people.’ She stood up, brushing the front of her skirt. ‘I’ll be round tomorrow and we’ll hit the shops.’ She walked over to Emma and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Emma watched through the window as her sister ambled down the short path to her car. Laura turned and waved. Emma watched her sister’s car start up and move off, and wondered exactly what she had been talked into.
Max was sitting in the reception area of the Chimes Hotel in Southsea, part of the historic naval town of Portsmouth, reading through a brochure that advised hotel residents on the delights of the town, its history, the naval forts on Portsdown Hill overlooking the town, and the wonderful views from the top of the hill. He thought it might be interesting to drive around the area: see how much the place had changed over the years.
He was still musing on this when a young woman walked in, followed by a man carrying a large bag. He dropped it beside the reception desk and walked back out of the hotel. Max lowered the leaflet. He couldn’t help but notice how attractive she was. Her hair was black and shone with the brilliance of a raven’s wing. It had been tied loosely just at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a dark-blue chiffon blouse tucked neatly into a slim, grey skirt. The blouse had a high collar which had been turned up. Max couldn’t help lingering over her shapely legs and her elegant-looking, low-heeled shoes. He went back to his reading, but had to look up again when he heard her speak. Her voice had a trace of the soft country vowels which one associated with that part of the south but possibly further west along the coast from Portsmouth. He listened, the brochure forgotten.
‘Mrs Emma Johnson,’ she told the concierge. ‘My sister made the reservation.’
The receptionist smiled sweetly as she checked the booking. ‘Three nights, checking out on Monday morning.’ She looked up. ‘Do you have your credit card with you?’
Emma shook her head. ‘No, I don’t own a credit card.’
The woman’s face dropped. ‘Oh.’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘You wish to pay in cash?’
‘If that would be OK?’ Emma asked. ‘I can pay in advance if that would help,’ she offered.
The smile appeared again. ‘Well, yes, I’m sure it would.’ She pushed a card towards Emma. ‘Perhaps you can fill this in for me?’
Max watched the brief encounter, intrigued by the woman. Then he went back to his leaflet and tried to focus on the delights of the Hampshire countryside and the New Forest ponies.
‘We’ll have somebody take your bag upstairs, madam.’
Emma let her eyes wander around the reception area while she waited, taking in all the fabric and furniture, noting the professional touches to the decor and the sublime elegance of the place. She saw Max sitting in one of the comfortable chairs. He looked at her. She smiled briefly.
Max felt something happen. It was like a small electric shock as she looked at him. His skin tingled and suddenly his chest felt hollow. It was quite disconcerting and he had to shake himself quickly, disguising it with a cough. The feeling passed but there had been a resonance to it that Max had never experienced before. Emma continued her look round the lobby until a porter appeared and picked up her bag. She smiled at the man and followed him to the lift. Max watched her go until the lift doors closed and she was no longer there.
He put the leaflet down and stood up, wondering what he should do. He seemed to have momentarily lost the ability to think, and rather than stand there like a lost soul, he made for the exit.
Once outside in the warm sunshine, he headed
across the road to the common. He found a place to sit for a while, trying to make sense of what had happened, when his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was his agent.
‘Where are you, Max?’
‘I’m in Portsmouth.’
‘Portsmouth? What the blazes are you doing in Portsmouth?’
‘Well actually, Jonathan, I’m in Southsea and I’m sitting on a bench on Southsea Common, in the sunshine, coming to terms with life.’
‘Still haven’t got over Elise, eh?’
Max was about to say that it had nothing to do with his dead wife, but didn’t get the chance.
‘You’re usually in the South of France or in the Trossacs somewhere. Bloody Portsmouth? Look, I’ve read your manuscript,’ he went on without pausing for breath. ‘Terrific stuff; probably your best yet. The first print run will be enormous. I’ll get this over to Jacintha first thing. She’ll love it.’ Jacintha was Max’s editor. ‘Still there, Max?’ Max hadn’t been listening, his mind was somewhere else. ‘Max?’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Jonathan, miles away. Yes, I’m in Portsmouth; thought I’d give it a try. I’m on my own. Be back in a couple of days.’
‘It’s that far away, is it?’
Max smiled. He imagined his agent scratching his head furiously, trying to figure out exactly where Portsmouth was in relation to the centre of his universe in London.
‘When I’m in town, I’ll meet you for lunch at Claridge’s. You’re paying.’ He heard a strange noise echo down the phone.
‘If you insist. Don’t be too long, Max; I’m desperate to hear what Jacintha thinks. Brilliant stuff.’
The phone went dead. Max put the phone back in his pocket. The sound of his agent’s one hundred mile an hour dialogue had managed to break Max from his stupor, and he began to think about making this break something to remember.
Emma dropped a couple of pound coins into the palm of the porter’s hand. He thanked her and closed the door gently. She kicked her shoes off and walked over to the window. There was a lovely view right across the common down to the sea. The sun was shining, which brought the colours of the flower beds to life. Emma thought it looked so calm and peaceful. She could see people enjoying the common. Some were sitting on the grass while others strolled. There were people reading, eating, and playing: there seemed to be no urgency in any of them. She saw someone sitting on a bench with a mobile phone to his ear. He put it in his pocket and then stood up. He looked around, glanced back towards the hotel and then suddenly set off towards the far side of the common. It was the man she had seen in the hotel. She hadn’t taken any notice of him other than he was on his own. Well, he was on his own sitting in the lobby, but he could have been waiting for his wife. She wondered about that as she watched him get further away until he was lost to view.
Past Imperfect Page 1