by Liz Lawler
Alex felt the hold on her insides begin to loosen, and an ache across the bridge of her nose and in her throat as she held back her tears. She wasn’t going to forgive him this easily. She needed to hear more.
The waiter arrived with their drinks, and then a few minutes later with warmed bread and bowls of steaming moules, and for the next ten minutes there was a peace between them. Il Divo were singing ‘O Holy Night’ in the background, Christmas tree lights were twinkling, and conversation was limited to the place they were in and the food they were eating as they relaxed and enjoyed each other’s company again.
When the main course arrived, she was laughing and Patrick had ordered a bottle of fine Bordeaux. She had forgotten how funny he was, had forgotten that laughter could be an aphrodisiac. She wanted to make love to him so badly she almost asked him if they could get up and leave. She restrained herself by fixing her attention on the décor and then jumped when his fingers caressed the back of her hand.
‘Beautiful Alex. Can you ever forgive me? I will never let you down again. I promise you that. I have asked myself why I treated you so badly and the only answer I can come up with is that I thought you were having a breakdown and I couldn’t bear to see it.’
She curled her fingers round his and felt her heart soar. They would talk about everything later. She’d tell him about her suspicions over Amy Abbott’s death and about the woman who bled to death two days ago in her car park. She had given her statement yesterday along with a DNA sample. Maybe Patrick could help her get the police to believe that there was someone out there making all this happen. He was less emotional than her and might argue her case better.
‘Thank you for that, Patrick,’ she whispered.
He moved the candle and the single flower to one side and then without restrictions or any resistance from her he leaned over and kissed her. It was a kiss full of tenderness, a balm to heal her pain, and she had never felt more cherished.
‘I ask myself if my behaviour helped cause it,’ he said quietly. ‘Had you been crying out in the months before, needing my help?’
‘What—?’
‘Let me finish,’ he said, gripping her hand. ‘I saw you as so strong and perfect that when you said all those things I refused to accept you needed help. Proper help. Not some silly holiday.’
Her body had turned to stone. Her mind was the only thing still working. There were no tremors coursing through her body and no heart racing beneath her breast.
It was worse than she could ever have imagined. He was taking the blame for the things he believed she imagined because he had not seen the signs that she needed help.
It was hopeless. And she was such a fool! He didn’t know her at all. None of their deepest thoughts shared over the last year had taught him anything about who she was. He had seen her as someone strong and perfect who didn’t succumb to weaknesses. And yet if he truly saw her as such a person, wasn’t it reasonable that he would at least want to explore the possibility of another explanation. Didn’t he want to stand up and say, ‘Well OK, Alex, let’s investigate this. You are a sane and normal person. Why on earth would you say this happened if it didn’t?’
But of course, as far as he was concerned there was no need to say this, because as far as he was concerned it didn’t happen. None of it. She had simply lost her mind and needed proper help.
She managed to stand. And through stone-like lips she managed to speak. ‘Goodbye, Patrick. Thank you for asking me out tonight.’
Chapter eighteen
‘You got another call from your admirer,’ Laura told Greg as soon as he arrived at work. She had been on the night shift, but looked as if she was just beginning her day. Her perfume smelled fresh as he stopped by her desk, and her pale blue shirt was crease free.
He didn’t need to ask who the admirer was; he already knew who Laura was referring to. Alex Taylor had called the station several times in the last two days wanting an update on Lillian Armstrong’s death, and because she always asked for him Laura was reading more into it than there was. But he had nothing to tell her yet; he was still waiting for the post-mortem results.
‘What did she want?’
‘To know if we have any news on Lillian Armstrong. For one of us to blue-light it over and hold her hand, probably.’
Greg set down his briefcase, now giving Laura his full attention. ‘Did she have another incident happen?’
Laura stared open eyed, her eyebrows raised high. ‘You mean like another murder, or an imaginary surgeon wanting to operate on her? Have you asked yourself why Lillian Armstrong was in that car park, in that building in the first place? It’s not her usual hunting ground. She would have been way out of her league looking for a client there. She had to have been invited, that’s for sure. Access to the car park can only be gained either internally by the residents or by a key fob. That sound an alarm bell, Greg? Like the fact that Dr Taylor lives there? Like the fact we have no witnesses to a car fleeing the scene? That conveniently there’s no CCTV to capture the moment?’
He gritted his teeth. ‘I meant like someone leaving a message on her car again.’
‘Oh, that.’ There was something in her voice that told him she had a different opinion.
‘We both saw someone at her car.’
Laura shrugged. ‘She could have done it herself. Donned baggy clothes and nipped away from the party for a few minutes to do it. Then have a witness with her when it gets discovered.’
‘She couldn’t have known Nathan Bell would follow her.’
‘Couldn’t she? He doesn’t look to have that many admirers, with his face.’ She grimaced. ‘She might have given him reason to follow her, and in the dark she may not have minded.’
Greg felt his back teeth begin to grind. Laura’s way of thinking sometimes nauseated him. ‘So a leg over in the back of her car is what you think enticed him to follow her?’ He picked up his briefcase, seeming to consider what she said. Then he lowered his voice and made it sound sincere. ‘Good job you have the experience to think that way. We need women like you to know how other women behave. I’ll give it some thought, Laura. You get on home; you look tired.’
Laura stayed at her desk for several moments after he left, thinking on that comment, and an hour later as she settled into bed she was still wondering if an insult had been intended.
*
It was despair and desperation that drove Alex to Maggie Fielding’s house. She had no one else to turn to. Maggie Fielding didn’t ask questions over the phone, or show surprise that her offer of several weeks ago was only now being taken up. She simply gave a time that she would be in and directions on how to get to her home.
And now, standing in the dark on the pavement outside Maggie’s house, Alex strongly regretted making the call. She hardly knew the woman, and what little she did know gave her no comfort. Maggie didn’t strike her as someone who would be happy handing out tea and sympathy. She looked more suited to lecturing. But it was too late to back out of the meeting. A curtain had moved and she had been seen.
There were three steps up to the dark blue front door, and as she raised the brass knocker, the door opened.
‘I saw you arrive,’ Maggie Fielding said by way of greeting. ‘Did you walk or drive?’
‘Walked,’ Alex answered as she stepped into a vast hallway. ‘Couldn’t find my key fob to open the gates of the car park where I live.’
‘Good. You can have a drink, then.’
The hallway was magnificent, the walls rising to fifteen feet or more painted aubergine and the archway and picture rails a muted gold. Large flagstones, like old pavement slabs, gave off a wonderful echo as her boots clip-clopped over them. The large gilded mirror over a gold-lacquered hall table should have looked too ornate, but didn’t. It spoke of great confidence.
‘How old is the house?’ she asked.
‘Built in 1730. My father’s great-great-grandfather, or I think even one further back, was the first person to own it, and it�
�s stayed in the family ever since.’
The sitting room was even more spectacular. From floor to ceiling, bookcases were filled on every shelf with serious-looking literature. Between two of them an arched alcove painted in a deep, ruby red housed a writing table with turned baluster legs and a tier of narrow drawers on each side of the central recess. A black and gold lamp base topped with a black lampshade gave out a muted light, and along with an Apple Mac, was the only item on the desk.
Heavy gold curtains hung over the Georgian windows, and high-backed red brocade settees faced each other in front of a grey stone fireplace.
The splendour of her surroundings and the obvious wealth of this woman whom she didn’t really know awed Alex. She had grown up in an early-Edwardian semi with a downstairs that would probably fit into this room. Her parents had provided both their daughters with enough luxuries in life. They certainly hadn’t gone short of anything, but this wealth was a wealth backed up by old money. There had to be at least a dozen more rooms in this house.
She again regretted making the call. It was like visiting royalty.
‘Look, I have to make a quick call,’ Maggie Fielding said. ‘Make yourself at home. Have a wander. The kitchen is on the left at the end of the hallway. There’s some white wine in the fridge that you can pour for us. I’ll only be a few minutes and then we can talk.’
Alex was pleased to have a moment alone. If they had started talking straight away she would have probably gone into patient mode and drivelled on about lack of sleep, weight loss and nightmares until the woman politely but determinedly rushed her back out of the house. She needed to calm down and think like a sane woman before she said anything about how she was feeling.
Maggie held up her mobile phone to indicate she was now going to make her call, and Alex slipped out of the room, giving the woman privacy, and went in search of the kitchen. She had to walk along a second hallway as she turned left to get there.
Another room to take her breath away. White wooden cupboards surrounded an island made of rich dark wood where at least a dozen people could stand and prepare food. A round copper sink was set into the wood, presumably for washing vegetables. Two more sinks, deep and wide, were set beneath a window looking out onto a high stone-walled garden, large and private enough to hold grand garden parties.
Determined not to be further fazed by such blatant affluence, she went in search of the fridge, which she found in a prep room just off the kitchen. The silver fridge provided cool water, cubed ice, crushed ice and probably even a vodka and Coke if you pressed the right button.
She pulled out the bottle of wine without even glancing at the label. She didn’t want to know how expensive it was. She didn’t even want to be drinking it. She wanted to be at home in her moderate luxury surrounded by her own things and drinking vodka.
Out of politeness, she would stay for one drink and tell Maggie Fielding everything was fine. And—
A fleeting movement caught her attention and the fine hairs on the back her neck sprang up. She couldn’t move; instinct held her rigidly still as whatever it was on the shelf above the fridge was close enough to jump on her head. Petrified, she made herself raise her eyes and saw eyes staring back. Then its fat brown body moved and she saw its long repulsive tail.
The bottle slipped from her hands, smashing to smithereens as it hit the stone floor, and the scream she unleashed almost ripped her tonsils out.
Maggie Fielding tore round the corner and saw her guest rooted to the spot in complete terror. Shaking uncontrollably, Alex was guided to the nearest chair. It took several attempts before she finally understood what Maggie Fielding was telling her.
‘It’s Dylan. I’m so sorry. I forgot he was out. I’m so sorry, Alex. I just completely forgot.’
Alex stared at her stunned. ‘You mean . . .’
‘He’s a pet rat. Terribly tame and now probably cowering in fear.’
‘Aren’t you worried he’ll pee and poo everywhere?’ It was the only thing she could think to say.
Maggie Fielding smiled. ‘He doesn’t. He’s house trained. Or rather, I know his habits. He doesn’t poop out of his cage.’
Like a professional waiter she uncorked a second bottle of white wine and poured Alex a large glass. After the first few gulps on an empty stomach Alex felt herself calming.
She wasn’t prepared to meet the rat formally, but Maggie Fielding was determined that Dylan would make a better impression on second introduction. When she returned she had a box of Cheerios in her hand and Dylan perched on her shoulder.
As she set the rat down on the worktop, Alex stood up and backed into a corner. ‘Does he jump at you?’ she asked nervously.
‘No. He’s a friendly little chap if you give him a chance.’
The rat hadn’t moved from its place. Maggie gave the box a slight shake; his large head lifted, and his pointed nose and whiskers moved. His eyes were fixed on his owner. Maggie took out a single Cheerio and held it between her fingers. Without hesitation the rat scurried towards her. He sat up on hind legs, long bony feet splayed, and claws that looked far too naked and small stuck out in front waiting for food. Maggie placed the Cheerio into the bald claws and the rat – very delicately, with its two long teeth – began to chomp away.
‘You want to try?’
Alex shook her head and Maggie chuckled.
‘Maybe next time.’
Alex didn’t think so. Not in this lifetime. She would rather deal with the fear of buildings collapsing around her as she helped trapped people than put one single finger anywhere near that rat’s teeth and claws.
When the prep room floor was cleaned, and Dylan was safely back in his cage, the two women finally sat down to talk. It had taken time for her to warm to this woman, but Alex had to admit she was beginning to like Maggie Fielding, and in her mess of a world right now she needed new friends. ‘Tell me, where did you get all the wonderful art?’ Alex asked Maggie.
‘From my grandparents, mainly. They spent a lot of time living in France and Italy. Many of the paintings were brought back by them. I’m not really an art collector myself. I haven’t the time.’
‘What about the one above the writing desk?’
It had caught Alex’s attention when she’d arrived, as soon as she stepped into the sitting room, and during their conversation her eyes were drawn to it time and again.
A woman was lying on a bed, her breasts bared as she stretched her arm towards the retreating man. In her hand she held out a garment, as if gesturing for him to come back. But he was walking away, already dressed.
‘It’s called Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife. The artist is Orazio Gentileschi. Many artists, including Rembrandt, have painted the lovely lady.’
Alex had never heard of Potiphar’s wife, but she wished she had so she could discuss the painting. Her father’s passion was art, but she had taken little notice of the large and expensive books he borrowed from the library.
‘She seems so sad. Her lover is leaving her, isn’t he?’
Maggie, as Alex was now calling her, winked and gave a sly smile. ‘Read up on it, Alex. It will educate you.’
She poured them both more wine, and for the first time in ages Alex enjoyed the pleasure of sipping instead of guzzling, not needing the quick fix of alcohol to settle her nerves. She was wonderfully relaxed and no longer wished to discuss her troubles, but Maggie was expecting her to; this was why she was here, to talk to this woman, still a relative stranger, about stuff she could share with no one else. Alex would rather they just got to know each other more and forget for a while about the man who attacked her and who was still terrorising her.
‘Can I ask something personal?’
Maggie’s dark eyebrows rose in amusement. Her chocolate-coloured hair was down and nearly touched her waist. She was dressed in a cream sleeveless polo neck made of fine wool, and brown tailored trousers. She was attractive, and that combined with her mind and confidence would make her a very desirable co
mpanion for someone.
‘Are you married?’
Maggie burst out laughing. ‘Honestly, Alex, for a minute there I thought you were going to ask if I was gay. And no I’m not, to both. I was nearly engaged . . .’ Her eyes dimmed briefly and her voice lowered. ‘Nearly. But he had a bit of a problem with commitment. I think in the end he only liked being here so he could use my parents’ recording studio. Loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Still,’ she said more briskly, ‘better to learn sooner than later.’
‘What do your parents do?’
Maggie’s eyes showed sadness. ‘Did. My mother was a concert pianist and my father played cello. They were both killed on tour in a coach crash. We weren’t very close, I’m afraid. I think they were disappointed that I didn’t follow in their footsteps and instead chose medicine. My mother thought it an inelegant choice of career.’ She flexed her slim hands and studied them. ‘Having said that,’ she continued, ‘I like what I do, and in the end I suppose that’s what matters.
‘And now,’ Maggie raised her wine glass, ‘I have an occasional lover, boyfriend, but not a permanent fixture.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘This is my first consultant’s post. It will be my first Christmas back in the city since I left home to go to medical school. I have this big beautiful house waiting to be filled with a family, but I just haven’t got the time. I turned thirty-two last week and being what I am, and doing what I do for a living, I did briefly think about my biological clock, and then I thought, hey . . . I haven’t got time for a husband, let alone a child.’ She sipped her wine. ‘And you? Or did you think I was going to let you get away without asking?’
‘No boyfriend, no lover and no suitors standing by.’
‘What about the one I met? He looked very beddable.’