The policeman nodded. ‘We’ve already spoken to them. They’re trying to find someone who can help us.’ He fished out a packet of chewing-gum from his pocket, unwrapped a stick and put it in his mouth.
‘Mrs Quentin is understandably distressed by Gemma’s disappearance,’ he said, chewing thoughtfully, ‘but it’s not the usual course of action to go off in hot pursuit. Not in my experience, anyway.’
‘No,’ agreed Lucy. ‘I thought she was over all that.’
‘Oh?’
Lucy hesitated. It seemed to be betraying a confidence but then in reality it wasn’t. It was a fact. ‘She used to be in journalism. The investigative sort – unearthing the unpalatable, that sort of thing. Her husband was Timothy Quentin.’
The inspector frowned then slowly nodded. ‘I thought her surname rang a bell. Haven’t seen his name around for years.’
Lucy stared out across the bleak landscape. ‘You wouldn’t have. He died.’
‘Ah.’
‘Killed. In the line of duty, you might say. Esme was caught up in it all, too.’
She glanced sideways. He was looking at her, perhaps aware that she had more to add. She shivered. ‘Esme always maintained that they would have killed her too if there hadn’t been some sort of disturbance nearby. They obviously decided it was time to get out. They made a run for it but not before slashing Esme’s face.’
‘And her husband?’
‘They implied they’d already caught up with Tim. She went looking for him but it was too late.’
They stood in mutual contemplation. Lucy focused on the straw-like quality of the couch grass on the edge of the bank in front of her and tried to blank out the horrors of Esme’s past, whilst willing for them not to recur somewhere below her.
The inspector’s phone rang. He snapped it open.
‘Barry?’
He grunted something back and put the phone back in his pocket. He turned to Lucy.
‘They’re ready. They’re going into the tunnel.’
35
Esme slowly turned her head and looked over her shoulder. There was a dim light about two or three yards further down the tunnel and she could just make out a figure in the gloom. There was no mistaking the voice.
‘Well, well, what have we here?’
Esme twisted round. ‘What have you done with Gemma?’ she demanded, with more self-assurance than she was feeling. She drew some comfort at the sound of her voice echoing around the cavernous space. She felt as though she was taking control, however false the illusion.
Nicholson started to move towards her, the light source, a battered old lantern, strangely incongruous against the suit he was wearing, swinging ahead of him and creating disturbing shapes on the pitted walls of the tunnel. ‘It’s most kind of you to come and bring the cash with you so promptly.’
Esme was alarmed by his statement and the cool assumption implied within it. He was clearly deranged if he seriously believed it to be as simple as that. How could she even begin to convince him otherwise?
The flickering light continued to move relentlessly towards her. ‘I don’t hear you, Mrs Quentin. That was our arrangement, was it not?’
‘Not our arrangement, only your demands. There’s a difference.’ Esme backed away slightly and considered her options. She wouldn’t get six feet in the dark if she tried to make a run for it. The tunnel hadn’t been in operation for years. The canal bottom would be covered with the debris of neglect, not to mention a thick layer of mud. Hardly ideal for an effective escape. She glanced around for a potential weapon to defend herself but could see nothing in the blackness.
‘You have caused me a great deal of trouble, Mrs Quentin,’ said the ever-closer voice. ‘Because of your flagrant interference you have deprived me of my birthright. You now have to pay for that error of judgement. It’s a question of justice.’
‘What birthright?’ Esme watched him warily, aware that her heart was pounding in her chest. He was coming into focus now.
‘It was my inheritance and she tried to trick me.’
‘Who?’ Was this another of his delusions?
‘She told me she was dying. She said it would all come to me, but she lied. Like they all do.’ He stopped in front of her and held up the lamp. It emphasised his gaunt features, giving his face a grotesque quality. His smile was a grinning skull in the shadows. ‘But I had the last laugh, didn’t I?’
Esme’s insides jolted. He was talking about Daisy, had to be. In her concern for Gemma the suspicion of Leonard Nicholson’s involvement in Daisy’s death had slipped from the forefront of her mind. She stared into his face, afraid to move. So her assumptions had been right. What else could he mean by having the last laugh? She was staring at Daisy’s killer. She felt giddy.
‘What do you mean?’ whispered Esme. She imagined Daisy trying to catch her breath and the man in front of her pulling her life-saving oxygen out of reach. She shuddered.
He flicked his head up. ‘Catherine, of course. She thought she’d been so clever.’ His eyes glared. ‘No matter. You’re here to put things right.’
‘Perhaps she didn’t understand,’ suggested Esme. Perhaps she could keep him talking. But for how long? No one knew where she was. She had gone blundering into danger again, as usual. Would she never learn?
Leonard glowered at her. ‘She knew all right. They’re all the same. They tell you something but they lie.’
‘Who? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’
He sneered at her. ‘And you, Mrs Quentin, are you to be trusted or are you the same as the rest of them?’
‘The rest of them?’
He looked straight into her eyes. ‘Women, Mrs Quentin. Are you another lying, cheating bitch like the rest your sex?’
Esme held his stare, her distaste for him increasing by the second along with her anxiety. She thought of the many nannies and nursemaids who, Albert had said, had left because of Leonard’s insufferable behaviour. She was being subjected to the damaged legacy that such events had left behind. Rationality was not going to defuse this situation. Comprehension of the reality of her situation gripped her insides and turned them to water.
‘Of course you are,’ Leonard continued when she didn’t answer. ‘You have already shown your true colours, haven’t you? You interfered.’ His voice was rising now. He took a step towards her.
Esme shrunk back. ‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘The old lady was about to sign, but you made her change her mind.’ He was pointing an accusing finger at her. ‘I have been cruelly deprived of what was due to me and you prevented her from restoring that justice.’
Esme’s disgust and fury finally empowered her. ‘Justice? By blackmailing a vulnerable elderly lady? What sort of justice is that? You’re just a self-centred little shit and, from what I hear, you always have been.’
His face erupted into a mass of scarlet. For a moment Esme thought he might physically explode. She took a tentative step backwards. If he dropped the lamp she might evade him in the darkness. If he held on to it he would be hampered. Even if he attacked her maybe she could fight him off. He couldn’t be very strong, slightly built as he was, and she was no lady weakened by illness, as Daisy has been. Yet she didn’t underestimate the significance of his emotional state. If her own anger gave her strength then the rage she could read in his face could arouse a force she’d rather not test.
Turning suddenly she darted away from him and ran blindly out of the lantern’s pool of light, to one side of where he stood. She calculated that if she then circled back behind him she might disorientate him enough to give herself time to reach the tunnel’s entrance. If the police had removed more of the bricks there might be enough light coming through to guide her way.
But her optimism was short-lived. Instead it was exactly as she’d feared. She had run no more than ten yards when
her legs became caught in a tangle of wire. She went crashing to the ground.
She felt him run up behind her. His hands seize the back of her jacket and with surprising strength he dragged her up on to her knees. He pushed his face into hers.
He forced the words out slowly, one at a time, as though they caused him pain.
‘If I say justice, that’s what it is.’
Esme swung her arm round as hard as she could and aimed for anything she thought was within hitting distance. She made contact with his lamp-carrying arm and the light sailed through the air.
She was gasping for breath now, the anxiety and the exertion taking its toll. She sensed that he was still near and she struggled to her feet. She could hear his vicious words and she scrambled in the opposite direction from the sound.
Then suddenly there was light. And noise. Shouting and hurried footsteps. Esme winced against the sudden radiance which all but blinded her and she put up her arm to shade her eyes. People surged past her.
Someone grabbed her arm and she flinched.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Quentin? It’s Sergeant Morris. You’re safe now.’
Esme felt suddenly weak. She grasped his sleeve.
‘Down there,’ she said, pointing in the general direction behind her. ‘There’s a…’ She swallowed. ‘It looks like a body.’
‘It’s not Gemma,’ said the policeman. ‘Gemma is fine. We found her in Nicholson’s car boot.’
‘Thank God.’ Esme slumped against the policeman.
‘Now, let’s get you out of here.’
As she was led out of the tunnel she shivered at the thought of the unidentified body lying a few yards away behind her. Whose body was this? The inspector had mentioned to her that they were keen to question Leonard about a missing person. She recalled Albert saying that Leonard had been into drugs and…what was his last comment? And worse.
Esme shuddered. She hadn’t stopped to think at the time what he’d meant by it. She hadn’t expected their paths to cross.
If the victim was connected to Leonard Nicholson and he had dumped the body here, work to restore the canal would have led to its discovery. No wonder he wanted to know how the project was progressing. It all made sense now.
36
Esme watched and smiled, amused by Gemma’s clucking around her mother’s bed, smoothing sheets and pumping pillows. When she reached for the hairbrush Elizabeth flapped her away.
‘For God’s sake stop fussing,’ she said, surprisingly forcefully considering her weak state.
‘Oh, go on, Elizabeth,’ said Esme. ‘Let the girl fuss. It’s a good way to get all those anxious weeks out of her system.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘Well, for one day only. Then please behave normally or I’ll go completely mad.’
Gemma grinned and set about dealing with her mother’s wayward hair, pulling it back into a ponytail and tying it at the back of her neck. She stood back looking pleased with herself.
‘A great job,’ said Esme, standing up from her slouch against the ward wall. ‘Are you ready now? Shall I go and find her?’
Mother and daughter nodded. Esme left the ward and took the lift down to reception. She glanced at her watch as she stepped out of the lift. It was close to two o’clock. Polly should be here by now.
As yet Elizabeth had only been told of the attack itself, of which she remembered nothing, and that during her unconsciousness Esme and Gemma had learnt of Polly’s existence. She remained in ignorance of anything else concerning her true ancestry and Polly had agreed that she would tell her the full story. As Esme had speculated, their parents had taken the then commonly held view that Elizabeth had no need to know she was adopted, believing she would feel an outsider in the family, even more so when, to their surprise, Esme was conceived. It was many years later, after their father’s death, that their mother began to worry that they had made the wrong decision, not least because Elizabeth had begun to ask awkward questions. When their mother eventually admitted the truth, Elizabeth kept from her that she had requested a copy of her birth certificate and the subject was never discussed further.
‘Mother just needed to know that I understood and that I didn’t blame her,’ Elizabeth had explained. ‘That was enough. It was our secret.’ Searching out her birth mother had come only later after their mother had died. By then Elizabeth confessed she didn’t know how to broach the subject with Esme, though Polly had been correct in what she had said – that Elizabeth had come to a recent decision that the time had come to tell her sister and daughter about her true past. It was ironic that for the moment Esme and Gemma knew more about it than Elizabeth did herself.
There was an argument taking place at the hospital’s front entrance but Esme ignored it and scanned the area for the old lady. She was due to arrive by taxi. Esme wandered over to the foyer to look out for her.
The altercation at the entrance was reaching a crescendo. Esme could now see what the problem was. A taxi was parked at the front of the building, blocking the entrance. The driver was arguing with a hospital employee. As she got closer, she could see a passenger in the rear of the car. She bent down and peered inside. The two men arguing stopped in mid-sentence at the same moment that Esme realised that the passenger was Polly.
She turned to the men. ‘Is something wrong?’
The man in hospital uniform spoke. ‘Yes there is. He can’t park there.’
‘Have you come from Wisteria House?’ asked Esme, addressing the driver.
He looked relieved. ‘That’s right.’ He nodded towards his cab. ‘She won’t get out. I’ve got another pick-up in ten minutes, but she refuses to budge. Do you know her?’
‘Yes I do. I’ll come and have a word with her, shall I?’
He almost bounded towards the door. ‘Please.’
The official called after them. ‘You’ll have to move the car.’
Esme climbed into the back of the taxi, receiving a surprised then glowering look from Polly. She turned away and stared out of the window. Esme suggested that the driver find an empty slot in the car park.
As the car pulled to a halt the driver turned round and tapped his watch.
‘Five minutes,’ Esme said, firmly. He got out of the car and wandered off aimlessly across the car park.
Esme turned to Polly. ‘What’s the matter? The driver said you wouldn’t get out of the car. Are you feeling ill?’
‘I can’t go in,’ said Polly, still staring out of the window. ‘I don’t have the right.’
‘What are you talking about? Of course you have the right?’
The old lady turned quickly, her eyes on Esme. ‘How can you say that? It’s my fault that Daisy died. All these years I pretended to myself that I saved her from a loveless, miserable upbringing but what did I do instead? Deprived her of a loving family life, tearing her away from the man she loved and persuaded her to give up her own child.’ There were tears in her eyes. She turned away again. ‘Why would Elizabeth want to see me, when she knows all that?’
Esme reached out and laid a hand on the old lady’s arm. Polly fumbled in her coat pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.
‘You must have already talked to Elizabeth about why Daisy gave her up for adoption. She must have accepted that, or she wouldn’t have carried on visiting.’
‘But I have another secret to reveal, don’t I?’
‘That you aren’t really her grandmother? It will be a shock, but why should it alter anything?’ Esme was jolted by the words. The situation was comparable to discovering that Elizabeth wasn’t her sister. She’d experienced a gamut of emotions from shock to anger to loss, but she was still here. She doubted Elizabeth would behave any differently.
‘I had a visitor yesterday,’ Polly was saying. ‘Will Watts came to apologise for breaking his promise and telling Mary about Elizabeth.’
&nb
sp; ‘He didn’t have any option. It was the only way he could get her to help.’
Polly shook her head. ‘I know that. I don’t blame him. Anyway, it’s the truth, isn’t it? He and his mother are really Elizabeth’s family. Not me.’ She looked at Esme. ‘So you see, even if Elizabeth does understand, she doesn’t owe me anything.’
‘This isn’t about owing anyone. In virtually every sense of the word you are Elizabeth’s grandmother, you brought up Daisy. If you don’t keep in touch with Elizabeth, she’ll lose the only link she has left to her mother’s memory.’
Polly resumed her pensive stare out of the taxi window. Did her silence mean she accepted Esme’s argument?
‘You can’t abandon Elizabeth now,’ said Esme, which earned a sharp look from Polly.
Esme spread her hands. ‘I’m only making the case that she needs you.’ No answer. Polly looked away.
The driver returned. He began pacing up and down outside the car.
‘Come on,’ said Esme, brightly. ‘This poor guy’s going to be late for his next job, and you’ve got someone waiting.’
Esme looked at the old lady for a sign. Polly turned her head and gave a weak smile.
‘Good,’ sighed Esme. ‘Let’s go.’
She knocked on the window and alerted the agitated chauffer, who leapt back into his seat and drove them back to the front entrance.
Esme found Polly a wheelchair and wheeled her over towards the lift.
‘I never claimed to be Daisy’s mother, you know,’ said Polly. ‘She always knew she was adopted. I was – what is it they say? – economical with the truth. Until that day, of course, when I had to make her see the danger and what would happen if the truth came out.’ She shook her head. ‘It was too much to ask.’
They arrived at the lift doors. Esme leant over and pushed the call button. ‘But she made her choice and did what you asked. She didn’t want to lose you.’
The lift hummed and the doors slid open. Esme wheeled Polly inside and selected the correct floor.
‘She was furious,’ continued Polly, as the doors closed. ‘That’s how the glass on her mother’s photograph got cracked. She threw it across the room. I showed it her to make her see why Mary might guess who she really was.’ Polly fell silent for a moment. The drone of the winding mechanism filled the empty space. The lift slowed, then halted and the doors opened.
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