The White Shepherd

by Annie Dalton

  Anna shut her book. Not a long-term friend, to judge from his message. But then you didn’t need to know Naomi Evans long to want to be her friend. After two conversations with her, Anna had felt that it just might be possible to live the rest of her life as Anna Hopkins. It seemed as if Naomi had worked an equivalent magic for Laurie Swanson, enabling him to open up about a part of his life that he’d felt unable to share with anyone else.

  Anna reached down for her iPad, but then helped herself to popcorn instead. The Laurie Swanson who had left Naomi’s flowers might or might not be Isadora’s reclusive composer. Either way Anna was not (seriously not) going to look him up online. She had gone to Port Meadow to lay Naomi to rest: not Naomi her almost-friend – Naomi’s family would have to do that – but the inexplicable evil of her murder. Laying something to rest was like a gentler form of exorcism. You drew a line and told the dark powers: It’s finished! And then you barred your home, your mind to them forever more, so that you could go on living.

  Naomi wouldn’t have laid it to rest. The thought made Anna shoot upright as though she’d been scalded, because it was true. Naomi wasn’t some Disney heroine, skipping around doing good works. She was a seeker after truth in a world filled with liars. ‘Finding stuff out is my drug of choice.’

  But Anna wasn’t Naomi. Naomi had not been Anna. Naomi had not squandered sixteen-plus years of her existence in fruitless paranoia. Anna couldn’t afford to lose any more years.

  A normal day, she told herself. Just for today, Anna, you will have a normal day. And she forced herself to return to her book. Far too twitchy to give her full attention to the text, she turned to the photographs in the middle of the book. She flicked past childhood photographs in grim working-class Cardiff, a teenage Owen, arms folded, stonily staring back at the camera, followed by the standard Oxford photos: punting, drinking, Owen as a startlingly feral Oberon in an open air production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, dressed up in black tie for the May Ball, outside the Exam Schools in cap and gown after his finals being greeted by a radiant Audrey with a celebratory bottle of champagne.

  Anna tossed a popcorn kernel to Bonnie, taking a handful for herself before she went back to the photographs. There was a photo of Owen giving a reading at New York’s Café des Artistes with Alan Ginsberg and other American luminaries of the time, and another of him reading at Café de Fiore in Paris while Audrey watched from the sidelines. Judging from the dates, Owen had been picked up by the literary elite as soon as he’d graduated. He had also married his beautiful Audrey. There were pictures of them in the Pembrokeshire cottage where they’d retreated after their first and only child was born. Anna flicked past grainy images of Owen chopping wood, striding along the Pembrokeshire cliffs with his little boy Huw riding on his shoulders. Their country idyll hadn’t lasted long. A few years later the family were back in Oxford. Anna paused at a photograph of a tense six-year-old Huw, wearing the uniform of the Dragon School, the same Oxford prep school where her younger brothers, Will and Dan, had also been pupils, before skimming on, vaguely registering faces and places, until a familiar name stilled her hand.

  It couldn’t be him. There was no earthly reason that this should be her Laurie, Naomi’s Laurie.

  The photo showed a relaxed, sun-burned Owen Traherne standing with his arms lightly slung around the shoulders of his teenage son and another boy of similar age. Both teenagers were barefoot in baggy shirts and ripped denim jeans. A chalked sign propped against a rickety shack behind them offered freshly caught lobsters and crab. Pale-yellow sea poppies sprouted among sand and pebbles. The caption said: Owen with Huw and school-friend Laurie. Norfolk. Anna’s attention was pulled back to the unknown boy. He resembled a wide-eyed fawn, she thought, every nerve quivering and alert.

  She shut her book. One minute out of her otherwise normal day. Just one minute, and then she would know for sure and could forget all about Laurie Swanson.

  She picked up her iPad, typed his name into the search engine and clicked on ‘Images’.

  The first picture brought a leap of recognition. It was him; older, and unmistakably sadder, but the same sensitive dark eyes, the same expression of alert intelligence.

  She scrolled through pictures of the adult Laurie sitting at a grand piano, conducting an orchestra at Snape Maltings during the Aldeburgh Festival, exchanging a joke with musicians during a rehearsal at London’s Festival Hall, making music with impoverished Brazilian children. Increasingly spellbound, Anna kept scrolling, though she had no doubt now that the Laurie in the holiday snap and Isadora’s Laurie Swanson were one and the same. What the photographs couldn’t tell her was if Laurie Swanson the composer was also Naomi’s Laurie.

  Anna softly tapped her fingers against her teeth. If Laurie Swanson was as famous as Isadora said, he should have an official website. If he disliked dealing with approaches in person, he might employ someone to manage it for him, or someone could have set one up on his behalf. If there was a Laurie Swanson website there would be a contact email. Anna could email him and ask him if he had known Naomi.

  OK, maybe three minutes. Five minutes if you included firing off a short email. Five minutes tops. And then she could go to bed knowing she’d done everything possible to track down the mysterious Laurie who had left flowers to honour Naomi’s memory.

  Dear Laurie Swanson,

  I am writing to ask if you are the same Laurie Swanson who left flowers at Port Meadow for Naomi Evans. If so, I think we may have something in common. I knew Naomi for hardly any time, yet she did a beautiful thing for me, just because she thought it was the right thing to do. Now, far too late, I want to be a friend to her in my turn. To this end, I am trying to find out more about Naomi and about her life.

  Sincerely,

  Anna Hopkins

  Anna scanned her message for obvious typos, pressed ‘Send’ and instantly went hot and cold with shame. Stupid, stupid. What was she doing baring her soul to a stranger on the basis of a rain-blurred message on a bunch of flowers? The website administrator probably wouldn’t forward it, she told herself. Even if they did, the reclusive Laurie Swanson was unlikely to reply. But she still wished she could take it back.

  Needing a distraction, Anna found the basket she used to store Bonnie’s few canine necessities, took out the bristle brush and settled down to give her a through grooming. Bonnie loved being brushed almost as much as she hated being put in the bath, collapsing on to her side and uttering soft little groans and throaty grumbles that Anna had initially mistaken for growls. This repetitive task gradually soothed her, and by the time she’d finished Bonnie’s snow-white coat shone like moonlit silk.

  Telling Bonnie goodnight Anna went upstairs to get ready for bed. She was just spitting mouthwash into the basin when her mobile pinged, telling her she had an email. Jake, she thought. Her mouth still tingling with peppermint, she padded back into her bedroom, feeling a pleasant frisson of anticipation. Jake’s messages to her were always carefully neutral, yet she could almost hear his deadpan southern voice filtering through his droll accounts of missed planes and unlikely travel companions. He had no reason to keep in touch with Anna, just as she had no reason to reply. There was nothing in this for either of them, yet she was already smiling as she glanced down at her phone.

  She froze in shock as she read her one-line email from Laurie Swanson: I need to talk to you about Naomi.

  She hadn’t expected him to reply. Her email had been a feverish last attempt to do her best by Naomi; an attempt she hadn’t seriously believed would pay off. She felt slightly sick. It was one thing to play Internet detective in the safety of her kitchen. Suddenly, it felt alarmingly real. Swallowing down her nerves she typed back: Tomorrow is my day off. Is that too soon?

  She was still clutching her phone when Laurie’s reply popped up on her screen. Can you come now? I live near Wolfson College on Garford Road. And he gave her his house number.

  It was after eleven p.m. Too late to be visiting an unknown man by her
self. Luckily, Anna had a solution. How are you with dogs?

  Bonnie was delighted to be taken out for an unscheduled late-night walk. She pattered along beside Anna, tail waving, enjoying the night smells. Her calm acceptance of their adventure helped Anna to feel less freaked about her forthcoming encounter with a possibly mentally fragile Laurie Swanson. His reply to her dog inquiry had been reassuring. Love them. Bring as many as you like. It didn’t seem like the response of a devious sex killer.

  All the same as she walked up the path to his house she felt her mouth go dry.

  She pressed the bell and waited. A light came on in the hall, illuminating elaborate stained-glass panels in the door. After a moment or two, she dimly made out an approaching figure. The door was opened by a short stocky black woman wearing a nurse’s pale-blue smock over navy trousers. ‘You must be Anna Hopkins,’ she said, smiling, and Anna heard the lilt of Jamaica in her voice. ‘I’m Paulette. Let me take your coat then I’ll show you through.’

  That’s when Anna realized that it was more than the nervous habits of a recluse that had made Laurie Swanson ask her to come to his house. ‘He’s having a good day,’ Paulette said, lowering her voice. ‘That’s why he said to come round right away. He never knows, you see, how long a good spell will last.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was so ill. You’re sure it’s OK for me to visit so late?’ Though she’d taken them off, Anna awkwardly held on to her parka and scarf.

  ‘Of course, darling! Mr Swanson doesn’t exactly keep normal hours nowadays, and it will do him the world of good to see you.’ She smilingly took Anna’s things.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t take my dog in, though,’ Anna said, thinking of germs and lowered immune systems.

  ‘You most certainly will!’ Paulette said in a mock-stern voice. ‘Mr Swanson is totally over the moon about seeing this dog. Don’t you even think about disappointing the poor man now!’ She led them across polished blue and white tiles and gave a soft knock on a door that stood partly open. ‘Your visitor’s here, Mr Swanson,’ she called, then turned to Anna. ‘I’ll only be in the next room if he needs anything,’ she told her.

  The room was lit with the kind of dim soothing light that Anna associated with a child’s nursery. The first thing she saw was the raised lid of Laurie Swanson’s grand piano faintly gleaming in the lamp light and its wing-like shadow projecting on to the wall behind. Then she caught a slight blur of movement to her left and saw the man in the hospital bed. Anna had tried to prepare herself, but Laurie Swanson’s hollow-cheeked face shocked her nevertheless. Then he smiled, and she could see the young, vital Laurie looking back at her. ‘Hello,’ he said in an amused voice.

  There was no established etiquette for this situation; two strangers, one clearly dying, meeting for the first time to discuss the murder of a third. Fortunately, Bonnie had her own ideas about manners. Trotting over to the bed she raised herself up on her hind paws so that her front paws rested on the bed, allowing the sick man to see and touch her. He let out a smothered exclamation. ‘This isn’t a dog, Ms Hopkins. This is a wolf!’

  Anna probably would have liked Laurie Swanson anyway, but it was next to impossible, she thought, to dislike someone who responded so warmly to your dog. ‘That’s exactly what Naomi said the first time she saw her,’ she told him, smiling. ‘But Bonnie’s actually a White Shepherd. I’m Anna, by the way. Bonnie got in first, before I could introduce us properly.’

  Laurie slightly inclined his head. ‘Thank you for coming, Anna. And please call me Laurie. Forgive me if I don’t get up,’ he added. ‘I can still move around – with a bit of help, but once I’m installed in bed for the night it’s a real pain in the arse to get me out again!’

  His words were for Anna, but his eyes stayed fixed on Bonnie. He stroked her in the special soft place under her chin, eliciting her happy grumbling sound, then he buried his face in her fur and closed his eyes. ‘She smells like peanut butter. My dog Barclay used to smell exactly like that.’ He looked up, his face alight with pleasure, so that Anna could see the young fawn-like Laurie. His dark curly hair, his exquisite bone structure, the watchful intelligence in his eyes; all were exactly the same. ‘Where did you get this wonderful dog?’

  ‘From the local rescue centre. Before that she was doing a spot of rescuing herself, in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Laurie shook his head, smiling. ‘Do you know that strange little story Dean Spanley by Lord Dunsany? Where he says there are only ever seven exceptional dogs at any one time? Well, Anna, I think you may have found one of the seven!’

  Anna watched him fondling Bonnie’s silky ears with hands that were prematurely bony and old. An intravenous cannula had been inserted into the back of his right hand; for pain relief, she thought, remembering her grandmother’s last weeks of life. But Laurie was still only in his early forties, far too cruelly young to die.

  There was an armchair beside his bed. Anna quietly seated herself and was surprised to feel herself relax. Despite the paraphernalia of illness – the unattached drip stand holding its bag of clear fluid (morphine, she thought), the tablets and medicines, an oxygen cylinder trailing tubes – this was a pleasant room; peaceful, even. Lighted candles on the hearth gave the impression of flickering firelight. A scent of white jasmine and mint from a pillar candle helped to relieve an underlying smell of antiseptic. The candles and the three or four shaded lamps gave enough muted light to make out dozens of framed paintings and drawings covering his walls. His bed was littered with pens and sheets of manuscript paper on which he’d been scribbling musical notation, and there was an iPod with an earpiece. Isadora was wrong, Anna thought. Laurie Swanson was still composing.

  ‘I’ve got cancer of the liver.’ Laurie’s bony hand paused then resumed its rhythmic stroking. ‘They say I could have another six months if I’m lucky, and as I’ve got a composition to finish, I’ve decided to be lucky.’

  Anna saw no point in offering sympathy; it would just degrade them both. ‘What’s the composition?’

  He shot her a humorous look. ‘A requiem. Not my own! That would be just a bit too weird, wouldn’t it?’ Laurie stopped, his jokey expression gradually fading as he looked down at the sheets of scribbled-on manuscript paper scattered over his bed. ‘Ironically, the day after I got my diagnosis, I started writing this.’ He lightly touched the score. ‘In a funny way it’s set me free.’

  ‘Now you just want to live every moment.’

  He nodded. ‘But you’re here to talk about Naomi.’

  Anna softly clicked her fingers to her dog. ‘Down now, Bonnie.’

  Bonnie obediently took herself off to the hearth rug for a snooze.

  ‘You say you didn’t know her long?’ Laurie said.

  She shook her head. ‘We only had two conversations. But …’ She swallowed. She didn’t want to cause additional distress to such an ill man. ‘I found her after she was killed.’

  He closed his eyes, trying to absorb this new shock. ‘What a mysterious universe we live in,’ he said at last. ‘All these invisible threads criss-crossing, and now here we are, you and I, in this room.’ He opened his eyes and let out a sigh. ‘Anna, I have to tell you that I’m scared the police have it totally wrong.’

  ‘I’m worried about that too,’ she told him.

  ‘I have this terrible suspicion that Naomi—’ Laurie’s voice broke, and Anna carefully looked away until he felt able to continue. ‘Oh, damn it!’ he burst out. ‘I don’t know, maybe the meds are fucking with my head! But the day before Naomi died, I told her something that only one other person – one other living person – knows. I’m terrified that’s why she was murdered.’

  Anna stared at him, stricken. ‘The night before Naomi died she left me a message,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘She said she’d had an amazing interview with someone and found out something mind-blowing. She said it was going to be a game-changer.’

  ‘It was me. It had to be me.’ Laurie’s dark
eyes blazed.

  ‘Who is the other person?’ Anna asked in the same low voice.

  Laurie looked blank.

  ‘You said only one other living person knew. Who was it?’

  His face tightened. ‘Eve Bloomfield.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  Laurie held up his fingers, ticking them off one by one. ‘A bitterly disappointed woman? Owen Traherne’s former PA? His fixer? Failed poet? Mistress in waiting? Take your pick.’

  ‘She was in love with him?’

  ‘She worshipped him, and she’d do absolutely anything to protect his memory.

  ‘Including murder?’ Anna had to fight to keep the disbelief out of her voice. Laurie was getting increasingly upset. She wasn’t sure if he was completely rational. ‘You’ve lost me,’ she said in a gentler tone. ‘Protect Owen’s memory from what? What could he have done that was so terrible she’d have to kill someone to stop it getting out?’

  ‘That’s just it. It wasn’t terrible at all. It was …’

  Anna saw tears standing in his eyes. She had tired him out. She was just thinking how she could leave without hurting his feelings when he said, ‘There’s a box on the bookshelf, on the bottom shelf. Could you bring it over?’

  It resembled an outsized wooden jewellery box, decorated in an elaborate mother of pearl design which Anna recognized as Moroccan, with a central star and lesser stars and stylized flowers arranged around it.

  ‘Open it,’ said Laurie, visibly trembling. ‘Look inside.’

  Anna found and released the catch and opened the lid. Inside the box was crammed with letters, cards, little drawings and what looked like several slim notebooks.

  ‘There used to be more,’ Laurie said. ‘These are the ones I couldn’t bear to destroy. Take them out and read them,’ he told her. ‘Please, I need you to see them. No one’s ever seen them, even Naomi.’

  Anna tentatively picked one out, a short handwritten note. ‘Dearest, darling, most beloved Laurie.’ These endearments were followed by a single paragraph about seeing a young hare in the fields . ‘And I remembered the young injured hare you found in Norfolk that time, and how it woke in the night and came to find you in your bed.’ The note was signed ‘your Owen’. Keeping her eyes lowered, and hoping that Laurie couldn’t see her startled face, Anna picked another letter at random. It was a love poem. It was the love poem. ‘Again and again I let myself be lured back … ’