One More Unfortunate

by Kaitlin Queen

  He smiled, trying his hardest. "I went out and bought myself a 'phone yesterday," he said. "I suppose I'll have to call someone with it."

  ~

  He got into his car and drove out onto the Main Road. Soon, Bathside had fallen away behind him and there were just the fields, and the estuary looming up on his right. This morning he was going to go up to Suffolk, to a little place called Martlesham. Just for a look. Just to see if it triggered any ideas. Because he was still convinced that all he needed was one lucky break and everything about that awful weekend would slot into place.

  He had reached Manningtree before he realised that he had no clear idea of what he hoped to achieve. He had no right to go pestering Suzanne Carter's friends and relatives just for his own peace of mind.

  He came to the roundabout by the Lawford Dale estate and headed north, under the railway.

  He would gain nothing by visiting the site of the murder. What could he hope to find that had been missed by the forensic scientists and those long lines of policemen you saw on the television reports, advancing on hands and knees, or beating the bushes with sticks?

  Just over the river, he took a left turn, through Flatford and East Bergholt until he reached the A12.

  A short time later, he reached the fringes of Colchester and started to head east again, onto the old Bathside road. Soon, he pulled into the University car park and came to a halt.

  He'd been putting this meeting off and he knew exactly why that was. He had felt it when he first met Trevor Carr at the Strand. Two years older than Nick, he had described himself as a post-graduate student, studying economic and political reform in the nineteenth century.

  Nick had looked at him then and he had seen the man he might—had circumstances allowed—have been.

  At school, even at the age of twelve or thirteen, he had been talked of in terms of which university, rather than whether or not he would even reach university. Politics and economics were not quite his thing, but who could know where his studies might have led him once he had started? A degree in history, to start with, then postgraduate studies in the history of the landscape—that had been his plan. But instead, he had gone to the children's homes and learnt to use his wits in a different way.

  Meeting Trevor had brought it all back to him in a sudden rush. To put it simply, he had been jealous.

  He left his car and set out into the concrete depths of the campus. Just to be sure, he found a telephone first, and tried Trevor Carr's home number from the list Betsy had given him when they had met in the White Horse. There was no reply. He hoped that meant Trevor was on campus and not away somewhere.

  He didn't think the university terms had started yet, but there was still quite a number of people on campus. There must be more to university than just the undergraduates, he supposed. Summer schools, research, conferences, he didn't know what else. He found a notice-board and learnt that Fresher Week would begin on Monday.

  "Excuse me," he said, to a friendly-looking man, stopped on a walkway to squint at a newspaper. "Can you tell me where the history department is?"

  The man glanced up, and then spoke quickly in a soft Indian accent, so that Nick had trouble making out most of the words. He thanked him and followed the gestures until he found a sign that pointed him in the right direction.

  He felt out of place here. All the concrete and glass, thrusting itself up around him. It didn't seem compatible with the study of history, somehow.

  He pushed in through a set of swing doors and wandered through a labyrinth of mostly empty corridors. Eventually, a middle-aged woman passed him in the corridor and he said, "Excuse me." She paused to look at him. She was a dumpy woman, with a printed cotton scarf twisted around her neck and draped across one shoulder. She was carrying, somewhat incongruously, a squash racket and a coffee percolator. "I'm looking for a guy called Trevor Carr," Nick said. "Post-graduate student. Nineteenth century history."

  She shook her head briefly. "Nineteenth and early twentieth, actually," she said. She smiled and swished the racket. "Could be anywhere. You checked with Patricia? No? Come along then. I have her racket. Student?"

  Nick shook his head, and walked with the woman, back the way he had come.

  "Musician?"

  He shook his head again, then said, "Bouncer, actually."

  She looked sideways and he smiled so that she wouldn't know if he was being serious or not.

  A few minutes later, she swept into an office where a younger woman sat at a computer, typing one-handed while she used the other to thumb through a pile of forms on her desk.

  Nick's guide waved the squash racket and then put it on top of a filing cabinet. "Thanks, Pat," she said. "Hammered the bugger. Young man's trying to find Trevor Carr. Any ideas?"

  Pat nodded and stopped typing for a moment, her blank expression barely changing. "He's in a meeting, preparing for the teaching programme, until twelve midday," she said. "Here." She wrote a room number onto a scrap of paper and handed it to Nick, resuming typing as she did so.

  "Thanks," he said, taking the scrap and leaving the office in the wake of his guide.

  "Terribly efficient," the middle-aged woman said as the door shut behind them. "But so dull. I remember now: some of the PGs are leading some undergrad seminars this term. Probably his first real chance to teach. 'Bye then." She smiled, clutched her coffee machine to her chest and set off down the corridor.

  He walked slowly. He had plenty of time to spare. Eventually, he found the room, after asking three more people for directions.

  He peered through a glass panel in the door. Inside, a group of seven sat around a pair of pushed-together tables. He spotted Trevor Carr, tipped back in his chair and nodding as a heavily-built young woman spoke.

  He was tall and thin, with stooped shoulders and that familiar, apologetic air about his posture. The eyes with that slightly unfocused look. In profile, Nick saw that his head was oddly squared-off at the back, almost coming to a point. He wondered what a Victorian phrenologist would have said about that.

  He stood at some windows and looked down on the scattering of tiny people below. It was a self-contained world of its own, he thought. He tried to picture himself as a student, at ease in a place like this.

  He couldn't do it.

  He heard the door open, sudden voices. The woman who had been doing most of the talking emerged, and then the others. Trevor Carr saw Nick watching him and hesitated briefly before smiling and coming forward, "Nick," he said, offering a hand for Nick to shake. Then his expression clouded and he added, "I told them they shouldn't waste their time with you. The police, I mean. I hope you don't..."

  Nick shook his head. "It's okay," he said. "It seems everyone told them I was okay. It just took a little time for the message to work its way through."

  "My God," said Trev, peering at Nick as if he had seen his injuries for the first time. "That wasn't... They didn't do that, did they?"

  Nick shook his head again. "No," he said. "Just an accident. Listen. Can we talk? I'm still not so clear about what happened that night. I want to get it all straight in my mind."

  "You've got to put it behind you," said Trev. "I know about these things. It's no good letting it mess up your life, is it? You have to move on. Of course we can talk. I assume that's why you're here isn't it? On campus I mean. Not a regular haunt of yours, I'd say. Lets go and get something to eat. I missed my breakfast, you see. Starving."

  They headed down a flight of stairs. "Still with Mandy?" asked Nick.

  Trev shook his head. "What happened got to her," he said. "She'd wanted the two of us to go into the woods earlier, you see, she had this thing about atmosphere." Trev raised his eyebrows. "Know what I mean?"

  They went outside and walked the short distance to a cafeteria in silence. They sat at a table next to the windows, so that Nick was constantly aware of all the people striding past outside, each with a purpose. It made him feel awkward, out of place.

  "So you split with Mandy?
" he said, stirring sugar into machine coffee.

  Trev nodded. "She kept saying, 'It could 'ave bin me!'" His impression of her scratchy north London accent was poor. "I tried to make light of it, as you do. She told me she didn't like my attitude, or some crap like that. 'You have to put it behind you,' I told her, but she wasn't going to listen."

  He was trying to make light of it now, but Nick guessed that he had been quite hurt when Mandy had left him. It had dented his ego, if nothing else. "I'd been hoping to talk to her," said Nick.

  "To get it all straight in your head, right." Trev produced a notepad, scribbled something on it, tore a sheet off and pushed it towards Nick. "Here," he said. "Her address. No telephone, I'm afraid. She lives in town with some friends. Try her. She didn't say she fancied you, but you never know your luck."

  "Thanks." Nick glanced at the address, written in an appalling scrawl, and then tucked it into a pocket in his jeans.

  "You heard there's been another, of course?"

  "No choice," said Nick. "They took me in again for questioning."

  "Shit," said Trev, shaking his head. "Pigs, right? Hope you had a better alibi this time."

  Nick waved a hand at his battered face. "Impeccable," he said. "I had a whole gang of witnesses to back me up. How about you?"

  Trev laughed. "I do believe I'm under suspicion," he said. "Well. This is splendid. Sorry to disappoint you," he continued, pointing towards a board outside the window. It was covered with staples and the torn corners of old posters. One or two small hand-bills were scattered across its surface. "The Rossini," he said, still gesturing. "Seven-thirty on Sunday the 26th. Cello. Like yours, my alibi has witnesses: a whole orchestra full of them, and an audience of about eight. And before you ask: Mandy was second violin and she was crap." He chuckled again, then reached for his coffee and drank deeply. "Neither of us can usually make the team," he said. "But out of term it's a struggle to make up the numbers. It was only a practice really, a bit of fun."

  "You're right about putting it all behind you," said Nick. "But it's not so easy. I need to get it all straight before I can do that. Look, I know you've been through it lots of times already, but can you just tell me what you remember?"

  "Therapy, right?"

  Nick looked at him sharply, then looked away. "A tidy mind," he said defensively. "I have a tidy mind, that's all it is."

  "Sure," said Trev. "Okay then. What can I tell you?"

  "We were all together," said Nick. "And everyone was bitching. Not much of a party, right? Was it me? Did my presence somehow stir things up?"

  Trev shook his head. "It's always like that. Jerry stirs. Ronnie has no sense of humour, especially if the joke's on him. Marcus and Caroline are always fighting."

  "And you and Mandy?"

  "We only went steady for a few weeks." The term seemed oddly quaint, from Trev's mouth. "We both have short fuses. Mandy's too possessive and if I'm honest I'm just too lazy to care about all this doing the right thing stuff. Know what I mean?"

  "When it all split up," said Nick. "Betsy and Caroline were on the beach, then they say they went inside. Ronnie was at the fire, at his car, and out on the jetty, before he went inside. You and Mandy were making a lot of noise in your chalet. Am I right?"

  Trev paused while he thought back. "That's about it," he said. "Although we didn't pay too much attention to what the others were doing. I remember seeing Ronnie on the beach, and hearing Marcus shouting something at Caroline from next door. Didn't see you taking Jerry off, though. I had my hands full. Mandy was still bitching because I hadn't wanted to go into the woods with her. She'd wanted to do it up against a tree, but I said we'd never see the path in the dark. She said we could take a torch but I just didn't want to know."

  "You didn't hear any cars or anything?"

  Trev shook his head. Then, "Tell me," he said. "Did you give Jerry one before you left her there?"

  Nick stared at him. "That's what matters to you is it?" he said, eventually.

  Trev looked away. "Sorry," he said. "You have to look at it that way, don't you? Deflect your thoughts from what really happened to the girl. It's the English way: stiff upper lip and pretend the worst things are not really true. Coping mechanism, you know? And anyway, you haven't answered my question."

  "She wasn't really like that," said Nick. "It was all a part of her act: something outrageous to cover up how safely middle class she had become."

  Trev laughed. "Of course she was like that," he said. "I know."

  Nick looked at him, realising what he was saying.

  Trev had slept with Jerry.

  "Who gave you that tidy little theory?" asked Trev, clearly enjoying himself.

  For once Nick's brain was working fast. Two and two. "Betsy," he said.

  "Really?" said Trev. "That bastard had been screwing her behind Caroline's back on and off for months. You're not telling me you didn't know about that, are you?"

  ~

  He'd trusted him. They were friends. They went back years. But none of what they had shared meant anything to Betsy. He had lied to Nick right from the start.

  Nick drove back to Bathside, struggling to sort out his anger, trying not to feel quite such a fool for believing one man's version of Jerry, even when it contradicted everything else he heard.

  He tried to work it out.

  Betsy had been lying, but Nick couldn't make himself believe the worst explanation for his behaviour. Betsy was no murderer. And anyway, he'd been with Caroline. Even if she had been prepared to lie for him, Trev had just said he'd heard the two of them arguing in their cabin. Nick had asked him about it, just to make sure: Trev was certain that their raised voices had come from the neighbouring cabin.

  Was there still a chance that Betsy had seen Nick and Jerry going into the woods? That he had found time to slip away after them—while Caroline washed, perhaps?—and kill her out of some perverted kind of jealousy? And then slip quietly back, his behaviour not noticeably different...?

  It was all too far-fetched. Betsy must have been lying simply to cover up his affair with Jerry. Nick still had trouble bringing himself to believe that there had been anything between the two. He remembered Betsy's words in the White Horse when Nick had suggested such a possibility: No. Although, to be honest—he'd actually used that word!—if I'd ever thought she might be serious, then... No. Probably not, even then. I'm too safe. The lie had been so smooth and easy. Not the slightest hesitation. Even that hint of risky admission that he had been tempted. They were the words of a practised liar, Nick realised. An accomplished cheat.

  There was nobody at Betsy's house when Nick called in the middle of the afternoon.

  He tried again at a little after five-thirty, but the rush hour traffic and some roadworks on the Main Road delayed him. By the time he reached their house it was in darkness and there was only one car in the drive. Nobody came when he rang the bell. It was fairly clear that they had both been home and gone out again.

  Nick sat in his old VW for some time, wondering how he would challenge Betsy. In front of Caroline? Ask to speak to him in private? It was a pointless debate, because by seven o'clock it was clear that they had gone out for the evening. Cross and tired, Nick started his car at the second try and drove slowly back towards his house. He'd had the keys since yesterday morning, yet he was still to sleep there. He passed the end of Manor Lane and was tempted to stop, but then he remembered Karen's peculiar caginess and he drove on alone.

  Chapter 19

  He fetched himself a Pot Noodle and called Karen while it was hydrating.

  "Everything okay?" he asked her. "I've just plugged in the 'phone—you're the first person I called."

  She was fine. She'd had a fine day. Everything was fine. "Have you eaten?" she asked him.

  "I've just cooked myself something," he said. He wasn't sure if she'd meant that as an invitation or not. He sensed her caution tonight, distancing and protecting herself. "I've had a long day," he said. He wasn't going to push
her. "Driving around, tackling people I didn't really want to see. I'm just getting my breath back."

  "Will you tell me about it?" she said, tentatively. "Some time?"

  "When?"

  "Tomorrow evening, perhaps? I'll buy you dinner, all right? Can you come round about seven?"

  Although she was terribly confident and professional at work, that didn't seem to transfer itself to her private life. Nick tried to understand why she was so careful. She didn't mention her marriage very often, but it was clear that it had left behind deep wounds. She was scared of commitment—she didn't even know if she wanted commitment. He understood her fears—he even shared some of them himself—but that was all on an intellectual level. While he was sitting there, letting his dinner congeal in its pot, thinking it all through calmly and rationally, he knew that the only thing he really wanted to do was go straight to Karen, whatever the consequence.

  He ate half the Pot Noodle, washed down with half a litre of orange juice. He watched This is Your Life and Coronation Street, then soaked his aching body in a deep bath.

  He went to bed and lay for what seemed like half the night, thinking of how Betsy had lied to him and Trevor Carr had laughed at him for missing the obvious. Thinking of Karen and how right it had seemed, lying still in the night with her asleep at his side.

  ~

  Thursday morning. Rain thumping against the window of his new bedroom. The occasional rumble of trains on the line to Eastquay.

  He sat, in a tangle of sheets, and flexed his muscles, testing his body. He did a few easy exercises, then washed and dressed. He might start running again in a few days if he continued to heal this quickly.

  In deference to the weather, he put on a long coat and a large tweed cap which he pulled down hard on his head. He crossed Cliff Park, all shadows and puddles in the early morning murk.

  The rain was lashing in across the Prom, a highish tide grey and angry across the bay. He tucked his head down and walked hard, enjoying the effort and the wildness of the elements.

  He cut away from the sea, past the boating lakes and the swimming pool, into Gordon Road, and then up a narrow lane.