by Emma Rowley
“And when exactly did you see her—a while after midnight? It must have been about then,” I continue thoughtfully. “When she was leaving the scene.”
He shakes his head now. “You’ve lost the plot.”
“Is your daughter here today?”
He looks at me, warily.
“You know, Emily’s very lucky to get her coloring from your side of the family.”
It’s true: they’re so striking, those freckles and red curls—and that’s what finally connected her in my mind to those photos at Pete Gregory’s.
The children in them are her sisters and brothers and cousins, I’m pretty sure. Maybe I’d have spotted her among them, if he hadn’t stopped me from looking more closely.
“So what exactly is he to you, the policeman?” I say now. “You don’t share a surname. He’s not your dad. Your mum’s brother?” I watch his face closely. “That’s right, isn’t it: he’s your Uncle Pete. Which you were careful not to mention before.”
What had he said the other day? . . . when I told, uh, a police officer what I’d seen, he said it was useful. It could help them confirm that the family were absent. Thank God.
But I bet I know who that policeman was. His uncle, Pete Gregory.
Paul is just standing there, listening to me. I don’t think he knows what to do.
“So did Elsa actually pay Pete off, to cover it up? But,” I say, remembering, “you said money was tight. So, did your parents get the money? Did you get a nice treat—”
“No!” he says. He leans forward on his arms. “I’m telling you to leave,” he says, his voice full of controlled anger. “Right now. And don’t come back.”
“Fine. I’m going.”
It doesn’t matter if he is furious. His reaction lets me know I was on the right track with the rest. Of course he would have gone straight to his uncle, the policeman, with what he saw. I don’t know exactly what inducement Pete Gregory got from Elsa to cover it up. But he is something of an intimidating man, even now. I can see why his nephew, then still a child, would have done what he was told.
And if young Paul Bryant was told to lie about what he saw that night . . . when he saw Elsa’s car racing out of Annersley village . . . turning a red flag into an alibi . . .
That changes everything.
* * *
It is like a line of dominoes, I think, as I drive back to the house. Knock one over, then they all start to fall.
I couldn’t check earlier, with Josh and Olivia in there, but now the kitchen and living room are empty. And there, round the corner, is the painting that I admired before, tucked away behind the bookshelf in the living room.
It is beautiful, this scene of the silver lake and the willow tree, but now I know that is not what drew me to it—what nagged at me.
“It’s getting a bit wild down there,” said Josh. “Cav needs to do something about it.”
He’s right. I have been down there in the garden myself: seen the tree, huge and vast, sweeping over the water.
But that’s not what I see on the canvas in front of me. I didn’t realize before, what was wrong: the painted willow is young and green, only a few meters tall. It must have been painted years, decades, ago.
Which now makes me wonder. How did this painting survive the fire?
I saw the devastation in Joey’s pictures, saw what few sad items were saved in the box in the cellar. The antiques specialist, Rafferton, confirmed it to my face: oil paints burn.
And yet this canvas doesn’t have a scratch on it; the colors are still bright and fresh.
* * *
There could be an explanation. Maybe it wasn’t in the house at the time of the fire; maybe it was painted by a guest with an arty bent, and given to the family afterward, as a sad memento. I remember what Olivia said about it: “Sentimental value only.”
There is no signature on the painting itself to tell me where it came from. No date, either, but there is something I want to check . . .
Because maybe it was in the house. And maybe, I think now, as I lift the painting off its hook, someone moved it to keep it safe that night, before the flames could seize it. Someone took it off the wall, and jammed it in the back of a car, maybe . . .
Carefully I turn the painting over. The brown paper on the back of the frame is peeling, but there is some writing in pencil in the top right-hand corner. The painter has dated her work, in elegant looping writing.
June 1989. Years before the fire.
And somehow I know, even before I decipher the signature below, what it will say. Because who would want to save this painting from a burning house? Who left and never came back? And whose daughter turned her back on her forever?
Elsa Vane.
* * *
I take some time upstairs to let it all sink in. Feeling the need to do something routine, sensible, I have been packing my things, folding clothes, ready for my departure tomorrow. Soon the thought no longer feels so foreign.
Elsa did it.
Beautiful, mysterious Elsa.
How did Olivia put it? Artistic temperament. Great highs and lows.
Volatile, you could say.
I’ve tried to picture it: an act done in the white heat of passion, surely. There must have been an argument—a confrontation—before she went too far, reached for the gun on the wall—and it went off. Maybe she didn’t even know it was loaded, was making another dramatic gesture. I hope.
Then she covered her tracks and left. Not when everyone thought she’d set off from the house, but hours later, when the fire she’d begun was taking hold. So that little Paul Bryant saw and remembered the car as it raced past in the dark.
Elsa did it. No wonder Elsa stayed away, all those years. I wonder if she ever told anyone.
But Olivia must know, she would have been with her mother that day. That night. She was thirteen, by my calculation, not a young child. And that would explain so much—why they were estranged, why they never reconciled—maybe she even witnessed the shooting. . .
I feel almost tender to Olivia. No wonder she is so cold and controlled, having hidden this secret all these years.
Can I prove it? No, not all that I am putting together in my mind. And there is so much I don’t know. Yet the words run through my head, a talisman to hold on to:
Elsa did it.
I shiver. They may be dead now, Alex and Elsa both, but the horror of it all is as sharp as a knife, cutting through the years.
Yet I feel a satisfaction, too: I know what I set out to know. At last, things are making sense for me.
And now it’s time and I am ready. Ready for my final session with Olivia.
Chapter 39
I should be going down for the dinner party. It is time to celebrate the end of the week, with drinks and good food and an evening of strangers, which will be a blessed relief.
Instead I am sitting here on my bed in a wet towel, not doing anything. It will stay with me for a long time, that hour that has just passed.
I hadn’t known quite what question to ask first.
We were in the living room off the kitchen, as usual. Annie was looking after Bea, upstairs; Josh had gone out to pick up some more wine. Olivia started talking, with me still fumbling to switch on my digital recorder.
It’s next to me now, a small black shape on the bedside table. And my head is full of her story, the images her words conjured up in my mind.
The quiet night. The roar from within the burning house. The knock on the door at a cottage, far away. And running through it all, the soft trickle of Olivia’s voice ...
Afterward I opened my laptop. I felt compelled to start writing, while it was all still fresh in my mind.
I was falling back on what I do, as a ghostwriter: it is my way of understanding, processing things. I have not written much so far, and I know I can’t tell the whole truth, laying out all that I know.
But, at last, I have made a proper start to her story. No wonder I couldn’t get to grips wit
h it before, when I was missing this—the foundation stone of who she is.
Now I glance over it again, on the laptop screen. As usual, it is not her words, not exactly, but I think I have captured their essence. The story just flowed out of her, like a dam had been broken. There were tears, a shocking amount.
In fact, I reflect now, it was almost as if she had just been waiting for the chance to tell her story. For some people it can be like that: an unburdening.
But I really must get going. I haven’t worn makeup all week, but it’s a party, isn’t it? And I want to blend in with her crowd . . .
As I stand up, I press play again to listen to the session as I move around the room. I hang the black dress Olivia loaned me in the bathroom, so the steam from my shower can get out the creases.
Her voice on the tape is measured, her composure intact—for the first few minutes.
“The main thing I want people to know is that they can get through hard times—tragedy, even. If I can, they can, too. Does that sound about right?”
I had nodded. Then she started to tell me what happened.
“It had been a long, hot summer. No rain . . .”
I begin to put on foundation, letting the story wash over me, one ear alert to any gaps I must fill in later. I don’t think there are many.
“We hadn’t been away until then—perhaps because the weather had been so beautiful. But before the summer break was over, Mummy had arranged a little vacation for us, a cottage getaway.”
“And your father planned to join you later?” I prompt.
“Well,” she replies, her voice heavier. “Daddy was going to come, and then he wasn’t, not until later—he had work to do—I don’t remember exactly.”
I set down my makeup brush for a second, feeling uncomfortable.
“. . . we played on the beach, swam, ate ice creams. It was like any other family vacation. Nothing really stands out to me, no . . .”
I can picture what’s coming: her whole face crumpling up like a little girl’s.
“. . . the policemen came to the cottage in the night. I crept out on to the landing. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I just remember seeing Mummy at the table, tears running down her face . . .”
Olivia’s own eyes had been glassy with tears, but she held it together a bit longer.
“. . . we couldn’t stay here afterward. The house was in such a state. My mother didn’t want to anyway, she didn’t cope so well . . .”
But it’s funny how different a voice can sound, shorn of any accompanying gestures. She’s more clipped and decisive on the tape than I remember.
And I’m gentler, more tentative—I hardly pushed her that hard, I reassure myself, as I dust on blusher. Of course there was no way I could bring up everything I know about Elsa . . .
“. . . afterward, I was spending a lot of time at my grandmother’s, my father’s mother, in London. No, she’s not with us today . . .”
Really, it’s hard to understand the reaction I provoked, that flood of tears I know is coming.
“In the end it made sense that I went to school down there—made a fresh start. My mother was still young and beautiful. She started over, too . . .”
But I did my job. I got behind the perfect facade.
She couldn’t tell me the full story of that night. Yet everything she said fitted with what I’ve discovered, like a jigsaw puzzle coming together.
“Grief can—well, it doesn’t always bring people together. . . ”
Of course it couldn’t bring her and Elsa together, in their circumstances.
My voice sounds on the tape again, cautious: “Of course. And perhaps you could just talk a little more about your father—Alexander, or was it Alex?”
“Alex. But to me, he was just Daddy.” I pause to listen, mascara wand in one hand. “What can I say? He was the family’s golden boy, even as a grown man, everybody loved him.”
She is starting to cry in earnest now. “And if he hadn’t stayed behind at the house”—she draws in an ugly shuddering breath—“if he hadn’t been there the night of the fire . . .”
She can’t spell it out, but I know: it could have gone so differently for them all. I still can’t say she is easy to warm to. But it’s not nice to see the polish crack.
“I think about it even now, you know? If only,” she says, “If only.”
I pause, mascara wand in one hand. Because something feels different, listening back without the person in front of me . . . what is it?
“I’m sorry.” She is struggling to get the words out between sobs. “I’m not used to talking about it.”
It takes me a second to put my finger on it.
Despite the tears I know were pouring down her cheeks—her chest heaving—her delivery remains steady and even. She is always poised, even in her grief.
“Look.” I sound worried. What had I unleashed? “We’ve covered a lot today. Let’s leave it there.”
“Thank you. I would appreciate that.”
Of course we ended it there. On the recording there are light footsteps, then other noises: I went into the kitchen and turned on the tap, got her a glass of water.
“Why don’t I give you a moment, unless you’d like company . . .”
“Would you mind? I just want to collect myself. Thanks.”
I hear my footsteps petering out as I pass into the hallway from the kitchen, then the recording goes quiet.
My makeup is done now, so I go into the bathroom and pull down my dress, the hanger swinging noisily on the shower rod. I wriggle into it, hurrying now. I have my Nicky necklace on, as always, but I remember to slip on some gold hoops.
In the bathroom mirror I check my reflection—that red lipstick is too much for tonight—and wipe it off, still thinking about what Olivia left unsaid: she didn’t just lose a father that night. She lost a whole family.
And yet I can’t help it: I feel lighter, close to happy even, for the first time since I’ve arrived at this house. Because it’s over now, I’ve done what I came here to do, I’ve got her to open up, to trust me—and as I slip on my shoes and pull open my door, already I can feel the tension lifting, ready to relax and drink and smile and forget the week that’s passed, for an evening.
My part in her story is nearly done.
Chapter 40
Olivia is checking something in the oven and stands up as I walk in, her cheeks pink. “You look nice.” She sounds surprised, and I wonder if I’ve made too much effort.
“Can I give you a hand with anything?”
“I’m OK, thanks,” says Olivia, looking around. “Josh was just getting another bottle up, he said . . . everyone’s in the dining room, let me take you through.”
I follow her through to the dark-papered dining room, the French windows showing a pale pink sky above the terrace. An older man in a salmon-colored shirt is concentrating on mixing a drink in the corner, not bothering to look up as I am introduced as “Nicky, from London,” to “Harry and Lucy, they’ve just had a little boy.”
Harry is tall, baby-faced with a receding hairline; Lucy limply pretty in a floral dress. I’m sure Olivia posted the same one, shot on a hot August day, a few weeks ago; it doesn’t translate as well into the evening. Olivia hands me a glass of straw-colored champagne as Lucy launches into a story about the traffic on the way there.
“. . . we thought it had to be a cow on the loose to have a traffic jam on a Friday night, but no—they’d put in a temporary traffic light for the road construction!”
The punchline falls flat, but Olivia smiles. She starts asking Lucy about the baby, and I tune out.
I feel a little shell-shocked to be back in the everyday world. And they are different from the people I know at home. They don’t seem Olivia’s type, either, somehow . . . I wonder how much she has in common with them.
But as Josh sweeps in with another bottle of champagne, I change my mind—he’s right at home, backslapping with Salmon Shirt.
“Leo,
mate! You made it, how brown are you, been at the Mantan have we . . .”
So Leo turned up after all. The long table is set for seven, so I suspect someone has already laid an extra place for me, avoiding awkwardness. But where’s his wife? I haven’t seen Sabrina all day, I like to be prepared.
I glance back at Lucy, who is still talking—“. . . yes, he is sleeping through.”—and get a cold look. She knows I wasn’t paying attention.
Oh well. As I knock back the dregs of my champagne, a woman sweeps in in a cloud of cigarette fumes and heady perfume. It takes me a second to place her, then I recognize Sabrina, done up to the nines in heavy eye makeup and looking slinky, if overdressed, in a silver dress. She makes a beeline for Olivia—“Liv darling! Leo left the front door ajar for me. I know how you feel about smoking,” she adds pointedly—before dispensing double kisses to everyone, including me.
There is the usual confusion as Olivia calls for us all to sit down, Josh assuming helplessness, until eventually we are seated with Olivia at the head of the table, Leo to her right, then Lucy, and Josh. Harry is on Olivia’s left, Sabrina on his other side. I am wary of being stuck on the end by Sabrina, but she doesn’t give me a second glance.
* * *
For a while I just listen. Soon Leo is holding forth about a bachelorette party he and Sabrina hosted at their farm. They run some sort of vacation getaway there, and he is careful to give the impression it is all a hilarious joke, a not-so-serious second career.
“. . . whole tent collapsed in the rain, Sab had to let them all sleep in the barn . . .”
Harry laughs a bit too loudly. He has already made it clear that Lucy is driving. I can sense Josh is waiting to break in with his next story, vying to top Leo’s.
It feels practiced somehow, this group of friends falling into a familiar groove. But it’s a relief, too, after the intensity of this week, as my glass is refilled again and again. I don’t have do anything but laugh and eat. Olivia has been refusing offers of help as she heads in and out of the kitchen, and the food is delicious.
After the main course, the conversation breaks up into tête-à-têtes: next to me, Sabrina has turned her back to focus on Harry on her other side. I spoon up my chocolate pudding and let the noise flow over me. I start thinking of the route I can take in the morning . . .