by Rebecca Tope
And just as depressing was the realisation that there were little or no grounds for hoping that the whole business might be almost over. Gillian’s discovery of the van had seemed conclusive at the time, but here they were, three days later and still no announcement of any arrest or charge. She should know, she told herself, by this time, that nothing worked that quickly. Except that sometimes it did. At least, it had been resolved in her own mind, when Ben and Bonnie had worked it out, and Simmy had added useful contributions, and the malefactor had been confronted – often recklessly, but never mistakenly. This time, the three of them could not agree about any of the elements that mattered.
She had the television on, but was paying it no attention. Her mobile was lying beside her, on the arm of her chair, inviting her to make one of the calls that might improve her mood. Perhaps she should call a friend – someone from an earlier phase of her life, who knew nothing about Staveley and dead cyclists. There was Kathy, who had stayed with her a while ago, only to become unpleasantly involved in a murder in Coniston. They had parted distractedly, both very shaken by events and unsure of the effects on their friendship. They had exchanged old-fashioned letters at Christmas, full of news and optimism, but there had been a distinct absence of personal connection, from both sides. Kathy was part of Simmy’s earlier life, and the harsh fact was that Simmy had no inclination to think back over those years.
Was that irresponsible of her, she wondered. Or worse – cowardly and self-deceiving? Or simply the way things had to be, with the fresh start already evolving into something much more settled and permanent? It was nearly two years since she’d moved to the Lakes. Kathy represented things she no longer wanted at the forefront of her mind. Even the poor little baby was best packed away, with love and grief and helplessness all in the box with her. You could not meaningfully love the pathetic scrap who had never seen the light of day. She had lived as part of Simmy’s body; would always have a claim to that special bond, but it was no more than that.
She should have known better than to entertain such thoughts, she told herself later. She knew how powerful telepathy could be, conjuring or connecting with someone else’s thought waves. It might not be scientific, but she, like most people, knew how real it was, from direct experience. When her landline rang, at ten minutes to nine, some part of her knew instantly who it was.
His mother had not needed to give him her number. He had needed it during their divorce proceedings. He knew where she lived, and where she worked, and her parents’ details would be in a not-so-old address book still in his possession. Tony was always going to be able to find her if he wanted to.
She was struck dumb. ‘Simmy? Are you there? Say something,’ he urged.
‘Erggh,’ she managed. ‘I was just thinking about you.’
‘Listen. I’m sorry to call like this, but there are things I’ve got to tell you. Is that okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m not sure where to start. Listen,’ he said again. ‘I’ve been having psychotherapy. Heavy stuff, I can tell you. I’ve been going for three months now, and it’s just coming a bit more clear. We were both so useless at dealing with what happened. Don’t you think? And you know what next week is, of course.’
‘Tony …’
‘I know. I shouldn’t be doing this to you. I don’t know where you are emotionally. And I don’t know exactly what you’ve been hearing about me. It’s mostly true. I went insane. Literally. That poor woman. I should never have pressed charges against her. She didn’t have much option but to take direct action, given the way I was chasing after her. Anyway, that’s settled now. I can’t tell you how much better I feel. But then I started wondering about you, and next week, and how we never really tied up the loose ends. I know it’s jargon, but the only word for it is closure. I want closure, Simmy. And I can only get it from you.’
‘Tony … I’m in the middle of other stuff now. I don’t think I do need the same thing as you. I mean – I understand what you’re saying. I really think I must have been reading your mind, over the past hour or so.’ She recounted haltingly her imaginary packing away of their lost daughter, thinking she had never come close to talking to him in such a way before.
‘That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do,’ he told her excitedly. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. You sound good about it, anyway. But it’s not something that’s between us any more. We’re apart now, permanently. We have to get on as individuals, not a couple. That’s been true for a long time already.’ Irritation was creeping through her, overtaking the sympathy and goodwill she knew she ought to be feeling. How could he be so wheedling, so intent on getting a response from her? ‘You’ll be fine now,’ she said, briskly. ‘Next thing I hear you’ll have a new wife and we’ll all live happily ever after.’
‘Okay.’ She could hear the disappointment and frustration in the single word. ‘All right, then. But I’ll be thinking of you later this month, all the same. And I wish you well, Simmy. I truly and honestly do.’
‘Thanks. You too. Bye now.’ She put the phone down gently, holding back the avalanche of unwelcome emotion until she was in the living room again. Then she burst out in a single cry of ‘Shit!’ It felt immensely transgressive. Simmy Brown never used a bad word. Or almost never.
She had spent the past weeks trying her best to forget that baby Edith had died on Mother’s Day. Her father’s collapse had given her hope that both parents would let the day go by unremarked. Nobody else knew about it. Not Melanie or Bonnie or Ben had a clue as to precisely why she shrank so cravenly from the wholesale celebrations of motherhood and all that went with it.
She had persuaded herself that the extreme busyness that a florist experienced on that day was in fact a clever way of avoiding any personal associations. She would be rushing to and fro, shouting at Bonnie, furious at obstructive drivers, intent on producing perfect bouquets again and again. It hadn’t happened deliberately, but she had come to appreciate the skill of her unconscious. And now Tony had wrecked it, by his well-intentioned solicitude. She very nearly said another naughty word, which would have been preferable to sinking into tears as she did instead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The phone rang shortly after nine, and she answered it thinking it was Christopher. Or possibly Ben. Instead, a woman’s voice burst hysterically into her ear. ‘Simmy? This is going to sound stupid, but my mother insists on my calling you. Can you come over here right away? I know it’s late, but please come. Everything’s fallen apart, and we need somebody calm and sensible to help us deal with it.’
‘Gillian? Is that you? Why – what’s happened?’
‘Just come. Please!’
‘What about your husband? And Anita? What do you want me to do?’
‘Robin’s no good. And Anita—’ There was a wail of anguish that cut right through Simmy. Without any words or articulate thought, she knew in that moment what was coming. And she knew she had no choice but to be there and hear it all spoken out loud. Somebody calm and sensible, Gillian had said. It wasn’t so very unreasonable, even if she resisted the flattering implications. Somebody uninvolved, objective, but also sympathetic. In a similar situation, she might have called for somebody like her to bear witness to unfolding events.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’re at home, are you?’
‘No, no. I’m in Staveley. With my mother. You have to come. She says you must.’
At least that’s closer, Simmy thought stupidly. She could be there in ten minutes, if she used the little road through Moorhowe. ‘I’m not sure I can remember exactly where it is,’ she said.
‘Yes, you can. Turn right past the bus stop, and right again. Oh …’ The voice faltered and died. ‘You can find it,’ she choked.
Simmy said nothing more. She remembered a footbridge over a waterway, crossed by a bridge too small for cars. And a maze of little streets, with a big house at the top of one of them. She had taken little
notice of precisely how it was reached, merely following Gillian and Anita. But she had retraced her steps afterwards, back to her car, and although it was dark, she thought she might recognise enough to get her there again.
Closure, Tony had said. That’s what she wanted now, she supposed, in the matter of the Olsens and Kennedys. She wanted to know, from the primary sources, just who and when and how – and overwhelmingly why?
But if Gillian was with her mother, why did she need Simmy? Barbara Percival was a capable, fully functioning woman, who had shown every sign of being able to console a distraught daughter. The sense of coming full circle grew increasingly strong as she approached the village. But there was no prospect this time of a colourful party in the handsome old house. Nothing pleasant was waiting for her there. So why was she putting herself through it so willingly? Was she, in fact, walking blindly into another perilous situation, summoned by a weeping woman who might even now turn out to be a killer? Had her common sense deserted her yet again?
She sat in the car, parked once more across the road from the chip shop. Be sensible, she ordered herself. Could she trust Gillian Townsend? Who else might be there in that house, acting in some unguessed-at conspiracy that spelt serious danger for Simmy? The one sure thing was that there was a killer in their midst. A clever, deliberate killer, who planned meticulously and covered his or her tracks to perfection. It could be Gillian herself. It could even be her aged mother. Anybody who could drive was eligible.
Moxon was the obvious safety net, backup person. His number was in her phone. He was probably at home, but still awake, especially if the Kennedy murder was coming to a head, which she very much suspected it was. But she shuddered at the thought of him crashing in on an all-female gathering where there were sure to be tears and worse. On the basis of nothing more than Gillian’s phone call, Simmy somehow knew there were no men involved. Matthew Olsen would not be there, even if there was a chance that his sister was. Ben would be better in some ways, but if danger threatened, then he could not be allowed to get close.
So who could she call? Who was capable of providing an effective level of protection against an unknown and unlikely peril? The absence of a suitable name made her feel lonely and vulnerable. The people she most trusted in this whole business were the two who were waiting for her in the house. Gillian and her mother were not to be feared. She had wasted time worrying, just as she had with Matthew. Nobody was going to hurt her. They had no reason to. All they wanted was to gain her understanding and support, in the face of the unthinkable.
She left the car and crossed the little bridge. What had Gillian said? ‘Right past the bus stop and right again.’ No mention of the bridge, but that was in effect a right turn – on foot. By car, it was altogether less obvious. But she was remembering landmarks, and was on the right course almost instantly. A woman walking a dog smiled and greeted her. A man just going into his house gave her a little wave. Good, she thought. They’ll be able to say I was here if there’s a search for me. The idea was enough to make her laugh – which would surely make her even more memorable.
The big house was quickly visible at the top of a small road. There was no mistaking it, and with a deep breath, she hurried to the front door and rang the bell.
Three ravaged female faces met her when she went into the living room. The person who had opened the door was an unfamiliar young woman who introduced herself as Megan, one of Gillian’s junior staff. ‘She asked me to drive her here,’ she explained. ‘I’ll be in the conservatory if you want me. I’m not getting involved in any of this stuff.’
The surprise was Anita, huddled awkwardly on an upright chair, turned away from the room. Of course, she lives in Staveley, Simmy reminded herself. A crisis centring on her would naturally take place in the village – but not in this house, surely?
Mrs Percival stood up to greet her. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘This must seem profoundly strange to you. I’m not sure I can explain it, but we all regard you as a necessary witness. Without you, or somebody like you, we don’t seem able to get anywhere.’ She glanced towards the conservatory with an angry look, which Simmy interpreted as being directed at the young Megan, who might have fulfilled the role.
There was nothing she could find to say, so she merely nodded and took a seat on a chair matching Anita’s. Mrs Percival still held the floor. ‘You see, I want to make it plain that Declan’s death is my responsibility. I caused it through my own blinkered stupidity. It’s all down to me, you understand, that we’re here together now. Debbie convinced me of the truth, and I couldn’t just leave it to the police. I needed to take things into my own hands, but then it all felt so … well … dangerous.’
Gillian, half lying, half sitting on the sofa, gave a cry of distress. ‘No,’ she choked. ‘None of this is true. Anita came right away when Mother asked her. If it was true, she would not have done that, would she?’
Simmy inspected her. ‘You look really ill,’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’ The woman’s face was grey, her hands were clasped tightly over her abdomen, and her knees were drawn up.
‘That’s my fault as well,’ claimed the old lady.
Simmy began to think she might be going a trifle too far in her self-accusations. ‘How?’ she asked.
Without warning, Anita Olsen got to her feet. ‘She’s right, the old bitch. She’s the one who ought to be dead – but that would only have made everything worse. She’s right that she’s been stupid and blinkered, ignoring everything that was right under her nose. She still doesn’t see what she’s done. Not properly.’
Barbara Percival’s chin rose sharply. ‘I have to disagree. How could I be expected to understand how truly monstrous a woman can be? A woman I’ve known for half my adult life, my daughter’s closest friend? But now I see it all perfectly clearly. I know what I did, and I know what you did. And you did it to many more people than just Declan Kennedy. Look at your friend now. Think of the others.’ She turned from glaring at Anita to appealing to Simmy. ‘It was my will, you see. That’s what tipped the balance.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t see at all,’ said Simmy.
‘She was leaving this house to my children,’ said Anita, through clenched teeth. ‘What do you think about that? Came and made the thing in my office, made me go through it with her, bold as brass, as if it had nothing to do with me except for the legalities.’
The room fell silent, apart from muffled gasps from Gillian. Simmy’s mind was full of tangles and inconsistencies. ‘I still don’t see,’ she said, after half a minute. ‘What did it have to do with you?’
Anita turned red with fury. ‘She was usurping my role! Surely that’s obvious. They’re my children, not hers. How dare she! And what about Gillian? Doesn’t she deserve to inherit it?’
The old lady’s voice rose to a shout. ‘Gillian was perfectly happy about it. She’s got everything she needs, including a devoted husband. Everything except her health, of course.’
Gillian lifted her head. ‘She means I’m not likely to outlive her,’ she said. ‘This disease is going to kill me in another few years. There’s no point in leaving anything to me.’
‘No!’ shouted Anita. ‘You’re going to be all right.’
Simmy remembered Matthew’s words of the previous evening: Gillian’s a tragic figure. The truth of it was starkly evident now. Gillian was sick in every way – physically, emotionally and possibly mentally. ‘You really believed Anita was innocent, didn’t you?’ she said.
Gillian nodded wordlessly.
‘Of course she did. She believes the best of everyone,’ said Anita, with a sad smile. ‘That’s what made it so easy for me. She was always going to get me off.’ She turned to glare at the old lady. ‘Until you started interfering,’ she snarled. Then her shoulders slumped. ‘I had no idea of the toll it would take on me. I thought I could simply lie my way out of it, and carry on a normal life. That’s not the way it works in the real world. I’m actually glad it’
s all come to a head. You can’t imagine the relief. And I dare say I can still play the system well enough to avoid the worst set of consequences.’
Mrs Percival was still standing, and now moved closer to Anita, the two face to face like cats. ‘Well, isn’t that lovely? You feel relief, and everybody else is in utter despair. I usurped your role, because you abandoned it from the start. What were you going to ever do for them? Debbie’s been struggling for money for years, and Matthew’s barely able to manage to live a normal life. Who was going to help them, if I didn’t?’
‘They wouldn’t let me,’ grated Anita.
‘At least they can see the truth of the matter. They’ve never had any illusions about you. They knew from the first moment who’d killed Declan, and it wasn’t difficult to convince me they were right.’
Another wail from Gillian, filled with anguish, darkened the mood even further. ‘You betrayed your only friend,’ Mrs Percival accused. ‘This sweet, brave, loyal friend, who believed you to be worthy of her affection, and you kicked muck in her face. You used her, exploited her, and now you’ll watch her suffer and probably die even sooner than she would have, because of what you’ve done to her.’
‘But why did you kill Declan?’ Simmy burst out, still sorting the bits of the puzzle and failing to get a proper picture. ‘What good would that do?’
‘I couldn’t just let them all live in this house together without me, could I? What would people say?’ And she looked around the room, as if for validation. ‘And I couldn’t kill Debbie, could I? She’s my daughter. Even Matthew, useless creature that he is, is flesh of my flesh.’
Both Gillian and her mother stared in disbelief at this. A sudden likeness made their relationship obvious. Both jaws dropped, both pairs of eyes widened.