"You mean you had affairs?"
"We never used that word," said Matthew. "Language frames one's thoughts so constrictively. The word 'affair' is prejudicial—it implies secrecy, an element of moral wrongness and betrayal. We were never like that.
"Of course we had what you term 'affairs'. All marriages do, don't they? Jerry and I were a modern couple: from the beginning we opted for total honesty above the more conventional subterfuge. Our needs—both physical and emotional—were occasionally out of tune. I travel a lot and sometimes we were forced to be apart for days, or even weeks.
"I know that you cared for Jerry. I admire you for that—it is something we share. Please don't judge me harshly because Jerry and I chose a lifestyle of which you clearly disapprove. I loved Jerry. More than anything. Yes, we had external relationships, but we were in love. We always returned to each other. Every single time. We were, as Jerry said, independently bound together.
"When I heard that she had been killed I felt many things, but one of them was a sense that both Jerry and I had been cheated. I actually wished that I had been the one to kill her. Can you believe that? If it had been me, then it would have been an act with meaning, there would have been an almost mythic resonance. But instead ... instead it's just random, senseless. Now I feel a terrible burden of guilt even for thinking such a thing."
Nick sat, silent for a time, allowing Jerry's husband to gather himself up again. Then he said, "I went through something like this a long time ago. I know the thoughts that can spring up in your head. You have to work through them, get them out of your system." If you bottle them up, the pressure just builds and builds, he wanted to say.
Until one day it all becomes too much.
"I haven't told anybody what I told you just now," said Matthew, unwilling to meet Nick's look. Instead, he stared at his pen, where it lay on a pristine blotter. "I don't think I had even admitted to myself exactly what I had been thinking."
Nick finished his tea and returned his cup and saucer to the tray. "One thing Jerry said last Friday," he began. "She told Ronnie Deller you disapproved of him."
"Ronnie is not the kind of person of whom one either approves or disapproves," he said. "Ronnie just is, don't you agree? I've known Ronnie for a long time. Our relationship goes through phases. Ronnie often comes to the house at weekends. He fits in like a piece of furniture." Matthew smiled.
"'Phases,' you said?"
"At other times several weeks might pass without even a telephone call. He's like that. I suppose all three of us were. We let things take their course. Jerry used to talk to Ronnie a lot. She would sometimes get low and I'm afraid I'm not much use at times like that. Ronnie, in his rather vulgar way, could sometimes get through to her."
Nick wondered if Matthew was hinting at her use of drugs, or if he even knew. He decided not to raise the matter. "She seemed to be getting at him last Friday," he said, instead. "Had he upset her?"
"That probably relates to the day that week when Ronnie came to see me at the house," said Matthew, frowning in his effort to recall. "She interrupted us in my office suite. It upset her."
"Why?"
"Because she had not known he was there until she happened to spot his car. She was cross because he hadn't immediately rushed out to find her. You said before that Jerry was always mature for her years and in a way she was. But in another way, she never really grew up. She liked to be ... not so much the centre of attention ... she liked people to notice her, to appreciate her. I almost think she needed people to continually remind her that she existed."
That was just how Nick would have put it, if he had ever been able to find the words. The Jerry he knew had always been scared that people might not notice her. She had always needed her audience. "What were you doing?" he asked. "That she interrupted?"
"Talking," said Matthew. "Merely talking. I didn't know she was in. She wouldn't have wanted to listen, anyway. She always hated it when we talked about business. It was never her forte. She would become rapidly bored and then she would try to change the subject, or she would tease Ronnie—he always rose to her bait. That's probably why they got on so well."
"Business?" prompted Nick, his brain working rapidly, confusing him.
Matthew nodded. "My main concern," he said, "is the running of the two shops. But I have always had an interest in works of the lesser seventeenth and eighteenth century Dutch." He looked at Nick, and then added, "Painters. I seek them out and then bring them to London for auction. I sometimes arrange shipping and transport through Sperry and Neeskens, Ronnie's employers. I usually do this through Ronnie, because it is convenient, and because he likes to use it as an opportunity to boast about his friendship with me. He believes it raises his status in the office."
"You know that Ronnie uses his position in the company as a cover for bringing in drugs?" Nick asked. Subtlety had never been his strongest point. The direct approach was usually the one he took. He watched Matthew's features carefully, but there was no hint of surprise, no suggestion that he had anything to hide.
"Of course," said Matthew. "I expect that most of north-east Essex is aware of Ronnie's little business venture. My view has always been that it is up to Ronnie how he chooses to earn his pocket money. The risks he takes are his own concern." Matthew sat back, stretched, gave Nick a little sideways smile. "It does, of course, have its advantages. A little recreational cannabis, you know? It can be very convenient on occasions."
Nick remembered Betsy's description of Jerry and Matthew as a rather conventional middle class couple, beneath their facade. Matthew's last comment had clearly been intended to shock—he had already noted Nick's disapproval of their marital arrangements. It made Nick realise that he could never really be jealous of what Matthew had been to Jerry. He almost began to feel sorry for them: that they had to go to such lengths to assert their difference.
"It's never done anything for me," Nick said. "Drugs. Drink."
"You're too tied to mundane reality," said Matthew.
Nick realised that they had reached the point where they felt sorry for each other, for entirely different reasons. He smiled, and said, "You may be right. Maybe escape's not such a bad thing."
"After the last week?" Matthew finished his thought. "Too bloody right. I'll be the first to admit that I drink more than I should, every night. It helps me sleep. Friends and family take me out for the evening, or sit in with me as if I'm some kind of invalid. But last thing at night there's always the emptiness, all the tiny reminders."
"What do you think happened?" Nick asked him softly.
Matthew had been staring at one of his prints, a world away. Nick saw that he was close to tears. He felt it better that these things should be spoken.
Eventually, Matthew turned to look at Nick. "I see three possibilities," he said. "The first would be that someone knew she was there, that this person lay in wait until she was alone and then took his or her opportunity."
"She might never have wandered off alone that night. And if that's the explanation then why not tackle her at your house while you were away?"
Matthew dipped his head. "I agree," he said. "My first explanation depends too much on chance and improbability."
"Your second?"
"The second possibility is that it was someone at the party. Yet you all seem to be accounted for, from what the police have told me. The others were around the chalets. Only you were in the woods, but the police could find no proof, and your story has the ring of truth to it."
"Everyone was drunk," said Nick. "It's possible someone could have slipped away and in all the confusion not have been noticed missing."
"Possible," said Matthew. "But I know these people. I don't believe any of them capable of such a thing. I simply do not believe it."
"Your third theory?"
"The lesser of a number of improbables," said Matthew. "A random attack by a psychopath."
Nick was shaking his head. "But they're all so improbable," he said.
<
br /> "Yet it happened," said Matthew. "We know that to be true. Therefore there must be an explanation. From what the papers report, one would have to accept the fact that psychopaths exist, and they pick their victims by little more than random chance. The chance that any one person is killed by a psychopath must be infinitesimally small, yet these victims do exist."
Nick stared out of the window at another grey September day. Finally, he stood and Matthew Wyse came round his desk to show him out. They shook hands and Matthew's grip was firm.
"Thanks for seeing me," said Nick. "I appreciate it."
"You've been through a lot," said Matthew. "It's a terrible time for us all. Thank you for listening. Most of the people who come to help seem to end up trying to take over and tell me what to do."
"That only makes it worse," said Nick. "Would you have a word with your in-laws for me? I made a mess, going there as I did. I should have known I'd only make things worse. I only meant well, I think."
Matthew nodded. "I don't know if it would help, though. Maybe Jerry's parents would understand. Her brother's a law unto himself, though. If I was you I'd keep out of his way—that should be easy as he virtually lives at the Gryphon. You know it?"
Nick nodded.
"I appreciate your concern," said Matthew, as they passed through the shop. "If you need any help ... if you want to know anything ... just give me a call. Okay?"
Nick nodded again, and stepped outside into the start of a shower. He pulled his jacket tight and set off towards where he had left his old VW.
Chapter 13
Sunday morning. Nick ran out to Westquay. This part of the port had been built at the end of the nineteenth century, about two miles up the estuary from the old town. Its location was both a geographical and an economic convenience. The arrival of the railway in the 1860s had triggered a shipping boom in Bathside, and before long there had been a dispute between Great Eastern Railways and the port authorities over the payment of coal dues. A short distance outside the boundaries of the borough the land bulged out invitingly into the deeper waters of the estuary and to resolve the dispute GER. had simply built their own port. A truly Victorian solution.
Nick ran. Through the dense streets, to Westquay station, then back across the tract of wasteland they called the Hangings. He breathed the damp, cool air, savoured the feeling of his feet pounding into the uneven ground. Scrambling up slopes, jumping the puddles, his body working smoothly.
He had little idea of what he should do next. He had no vision of what he hoped to achieve. All he had was a vague resistance to the popular explanation for Jerry's murder: the random strike of a psychopath. Another unfortunate victim. It was as if, in the modern world, people found it easier to accept the sudden, violent intrusion of an outsider than the possibility that someone they knew could be capable of such an act. Even her husband believed it was a random attack, even though he felt that it devalued Jerry's death, and her life, robbing them both of meaning.
But Nick was still doing little more than going through the motions, keeping his mind occupied. Did he really think he could achieve anything? He considered moving away again, only coming back for his bail date on the 2nd.
For a moment, he wondered if he would ever manage to leave again. He remembered making his inquiries about somewhere more permanent to live. He had even been planning to look for some casual work—in a bar, or maybe with a local security firm.
It seemed that different parts of his mind were working in opposing directions.
He leapt over a big puddle, skidding slightly in the mud. Down the bank to his left was a long scree of old fridges, bottles, cans and other rubbish dumped by the locals. He would leave, he decided. Bathside held nothing for him other than bad memories.
He reached the old cement works—little more than a floor-plan of knee-high walls remained of the Victorian buildings. He cut up to the Main Road, along past the United Reformed Church to Coastguards' Parade and back to his digs for a shower and breakfast.
Later, in his room, he was reading through an old newspaper. Current affairs were never very current, where Nick Redpath was concerned. He often allowed weeks to pass without really knowing what was happening in the world. When the Berlin Wall had come down, he'd been working nights and it had been over a week before he knew. They'd been debating just when George Bush would call off the Gulf War before Nick had known it had even started.
He was reading a report on a football match from the previous week when there was a soft knock on his door. "Hmm?" he said, opening it.
The other guest—who had introduced himself in the corridor one night as Jack Finnegan—was standing on the landing, looking vaguely apologetic beneath his shaggy black eyebrows. "Telephone for you," he said. "'S a lady."
"Thanks," said Nick, coming out of his room. He wondered who it could be. Not many people had his number. As he descended the stairs he tried to remember if he'd left it with the estate agents.
He picked up the handset. "Hello? Nick Redpath speaking."
"Ah. Good, good." He recognised the voice instantly: Caroline Betts. He remembered telling Betsy where he was staying when they had met at the White Horse. Caroline had never attempted to hide her instinctive distrust of Nick. He wondered what she could want.
"Marcus asked me to speak to you," she said. She had to get that in first, to make it clear to Nick that she would never have called him otherwise. "We're having a small gathering in the week," she continued. "A few friends are coming for drinks and dinner—Marcus's birthday. Nothing overly formal. Some people from the golf club will be here and there's the distinct possibility one of the Partners may come."
"That's nice," said Nick. "I hope it goes well."
She hesitated, slightly thrown, and then continued. "Marcus asked if I would invite you," she said. "Will you come? Of course, if you..."
He smiled into the mouthpiece. "Of course I'll come," he said. "I'd be delighted. When will it be?"
"Tuesday," said Caroline. She did well not to sound too disappointed. "Seven for seven-thirty. Can you manage that?"
"Will do," said Nick.
"Tell me: do you have any special dietary requirements?"
He tried to think. It would be so easy to be facetious—Caroline's attitude to him always seemed to demand a smart-arse response. "No," he finally said, resisting. "And thanks for inviting me. I'll behave."
"Will you be bringing a partner?"
"No," he said quickly. Then, he added, "I don't know. No. I won't."
"Well, let me know," said Caroline. "See you Tuesday."
"Yes," said Nick. "Tuesday." He hung up.
~
He wandered through the Bay district of Bathside, lost in, not so much thoughts, as an absence of thought. He passed the old cinema, the football ground. To his right there was a new supermarket where he remembered playing fields, and then, a short distance on, there was Deane College where the old High School had been.
There was a Sunday morning languor about the place, only punctuated by a few cars and the occasional strolling couple. As he walked, he tried to soak up the lazy mood which had descended on the town, but he found it hard. He just couldn't relax.
Gradually, he emerged from his day-dreaming. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, there was a nagging feeling, a sense that he was being watched. He remembered how quickly DS Cooper had picked him up after his visit to the Gayles' house. Had they simply been in the vicinity, or had they been tracking him?
He turned left into a compact estate he knew to be a maze of footpaths and narrow roads. Every so often, he paused, but there was no sign of anyone on his tail.
He came to Manor Lane and hid for a long time in a gateway, but there was nobody following him.
He kept telling himself it was only natural, after what he had been through. His paranoia wasn't a sign of anything worse happening in his head, it was only a normal response.
He wasn't going to crack up again. He was determined.
He turne
d up Vicarage Road and where it joined the Main Road he went into the back bar of the Royal Oak. It was lunchtime, so he ordered some sandwiches and an orange juice.
There was only a handful of people in the pub. Mostly middle-aged men, out for a pint before the Sunday roast, he guessed.
He fed some coins into the pool table and set up a game. He cleared all the stripes first, and then all the spots, then hammered the black into the middle pocket it had been loitering by for most of the game.
His sandwiches came and he was just about to set up the balls again when he saw that the news had come onto the television behind the bar. Local news. The picture cut from the newsreader to a view of three men and a woman behind a long desk.
A senior policeman—after a moment Nick recognised him as the Detective Superintendent in charge of the case—was at one end, seated next to Matthew Wyse, and then Jerry's parents. There had already been one televised appeal for help, shortly after Nick's release, but he sensed that this was something new. Maybe a last effort to turn something up before the police started to scale down their operation.
Jerry's father—Neville, Matthew had called him—sat stiffly in his seat, staring at the camera, barely noticing his wife, clutching his arm, tears easing their way down her cheeks already. Nick realised that they must have been doubly wounded by what had happened. The loss of Jerry had clearly broken them both, but all the revelations about the lifestyle their daughter had chosen to lead, dressed up in lurid tabloid detail, must have made it even worse. They had probably not known about her drug use, about her affairs. What signs there had been they had probably ignored, but now there was no way they could blind themselves to their daughter's ways. They must blame Matthew, he thought. Leading their child astray.
He watched Jerry's father, as Detective Superintendent Marsh asked for help.
He was a proud man, and he clung to what dignity he could retain as if it was all he had. Nick remembered those eyes, always moving until suddenly they locked on you, just like Jerry's. Now, they were still, occasionally blinking, as if there was nothing behind them.
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