It had been so odd, so disturbing. She had been to a little restaurant off Merrion Street—had a plate of spaghetti and coffee, but they hadn’t helped. Now she knew she had two hours still to waste. She looked up the narrow alleyways that were like little mazes off the broad and traffic-free street. Many contained pubs, with noisy crowds of young people. One or two were just dead ends, dark and dank. She didn’t fancy them. She lingered at the opening of one. There was a man with his back to her—a familiar back. She realized with a start it was Alexander. She wondered if he were peeing, but when his hand went up to his mouth she realized he was smoking. One of his little secrets. She was glad that for once she had found him out.
She lingered, though, because she would dearly have liked to confide in him what she had seen. But then she decided against it. He was not the only one who could nurse private secrets. She walked briskly on in search of a hamburger joint or pizza place. She preferred solitude among company to sordid back alleys.
It was ten o’clock, and the final scene of the opera was approaching. The tenor and the baritone were concluding the last of their big duets, which were a feature of the second half of La Forza del Destino. Big, healthy voices vowing eternal hatred—Caroline felt the appropriate surge of visceral excitement. Then in the darkness the permanent set shifted so that the shape, vaguely suggestive of a gun split at the center, where the trigger would be, made a narrow gap: Leonora’s penitential cave. And as the last scene began, with Olivia emerging through the gap to sing her prayer for peace, Caroline settled into her seat to enjoy the lead-up to her daughter’s triumph. Olivia had said she was aiming at a big, heavy voice for this role, but one that could be gentle or agile when the score called for such qualities. Caroline decided she was well on the way to it, if not quite there. At the aria’s end the conductor pressed on, ignoring the beginnings of applause so that Leonora’s fighting brother and lover could bring the long saga of predestined disaster to its conclusion. The mortally wounded brother stabbed his sister with his last burst of vengeful strength, and dying Leonora, her lover, and the Padre Guardiano commended their souls to a God who Caroline thought hadn’t come out of the preceding action with much credit.
Cheers. The audience had decided early on that this was to be a triumphant evening, and the bravos (with “brava”s and “bravi”s from pedants) echoed round the theater, and Caroline wished she could decently join in cheering her own daughter. She had a slight sense of anticlimax rather than climax in any case, and decided it was because Olivia had not had enough to do in the last scene, that things had been wound up too quickly after her long absence from the action. But the cheers went on, and the curtain went up and down and up again. The conductor acknowledged the source of the enthusiasm by pushing Olivia forward to take personal calls three times. Then, at last, the lights went up.
Walking again up the aisle, and enjoying a fresh burst of undeserved congratulations, Caroline wished Marius had slipped back in as he had said for the end of the opera and the acclaim. He loved that kind of excitement. But perhaps he had been watching from the back. When the wave of people got out into the corridor, Caroline slipped into the empty bar. No point in trying to get up to the Grand Circle, where the party was, until the Grand Circle patrons had made their way down the staircase and out into the street. She could see no Marius, either lurking in the corridor or the bar. She listened to the ecstatic comments of the departing audience with pleasure. One woman agreed with her:
“If only Verdi had given her a bit more to do in that last scene.”
But there was no doubt it was a triumph. One didn’t have to wait for the critics to know that. In fact, only a dog in a manger could dissent.
When the swell of departing audience abated she emerged and made her way up to the bar in the Grand Circle. “Tell her we thought she was magnificent,” a man she didn’t know called to her. She smiled graciously and said that she would.
When she arrived at the Circle Bar she was taken under the wing of a member of the Opera North staff, who recognized her at once and fetched her a drink, as well as directing her to the trays with tempting eats on them.
“I couldn’t eat a thing,” said Caroline.
“It is awfully exciting, isn’t it?” said the woman. Caroline didn’t tell her that what was preventing her regaining her appetite was not her daughter’s triumph but worry about Marius.
“I’m Enid, by the way,” said the woman. “Call me over if there’s anything you need.”
When Enid left, a little group started gathering around Caroline, but it parted as soon as Olivia made her entrance. She immediately spotted her mother and came darting over—getting me done first, said Caroline to herself, for she knew her daughter and knew theatrical priorities. The two of them folded each other in an embrace.
“Wonderful, darling,” said Caroline.
“Room for improvement, especially the last scene,” said Olivia, with a rueful grimace.
“I thought that was Verdi’s fault.”
“Not much point in asking for a rewrite at this moment in time. Where’s Marius?”
“Hasn’t arrived yet. He may have got caught up in something at the Playhouse Courtyard Theatre that ends late.”
“Send him over when he comes, won’t you? I don’t want him to sneak away without talking to me.”
“Marius isn’t the sneaking-away type. He’ll want to be part of your triumph, even if he did only see the first scene.”
Olivia nodded, then went to talk to the people who mattered—the company administrator, the conductor and director, a few words to the secretary and the chairman of the Friends. All eyes were on her, as if she were visiting royalty. Clutching her drink Caroline enjoyed her daughter’s poise and purpose, but felt rather out of it, especially when Rick arrived with Lauren Spender, still dressed as the nurse from Loot. She had come in a taxi from Bradford, where the play was being performed, and as she and Rick wafted past her on their way to pay their meed of tribute to Olivia, Lauren found the time to say, “Been stood up, darling? Don’t men treat us girls rotten!”
Caroline simply turned away. But she realized that she must have been looking rather out of things, rather bereft. Without Marius that was exactly how she felt. Still, that wasn’t something that should happen at her daughter’s triumph. She was just looking round for someone to talk to when there was a voice at her elbow.
“Are you worried about your partner? Is there anything I can do to help?”
It was Enid, the woman from the Opera North staff.
“Well, I am a bit worried,” said Caroline. “Marius was so looking forward to the curtain calls and the party afterwards—he’s not an opera person, I’m afraid. And it’s not like him to promise to be somewhere and then miss it. He’s a bit of a stickler that way. I wondered if he’d maybe got trapped at the Playhouse—maybe got a seat at something that goes on late.”
“Both things there end before ten—barring accidents, of course.” Enid noticed that Caroline flinched at the word and said, “Would you like me to ring the police and the hospital, just to make sure?”
“Oh, I would. I know I’m being silly, but…I mean, I’m not sure how I’m to get home if Marius has had an accident.”
“Do you need to? I could find you a hotel.”
“Oh, I really should. I’ve got children in their teens.”
By now they were backstage, and the woman said quietly to one of the scene-shifters, “Could you stand by in case you’re needed?” Then Caroline and she went up to her office, and Enid rang the police, where she had contacts, and the hospital, where she had to go through a bank of bureaucracy before she got an answer out of the Accident and Emergency Department. Neither had any news for her. There had been the odd fracas after the Leeds United home game, but they had all involved young people. No serious car accident. No news at all about a middle-aged supermarket owner.
“In any case I don’t think Marius would have taken the car,” said Caroline. “Perhaps if
I could just check that he hasn’t arrived at the party, and then if that nice stagehand could drive me home—Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ll have to pay him by check.”
“Oh, this is on us.”
“No—I shall absolutely insist on paying,” said Caroline briskly. “It’s not as though you’re rolling in money like Covent Garden.”
So back Enid took her, and she stood at the door of the Circle Bar. Olivia was still surrounded by all the notables, though Colm had a lesser circle of admirers. Marius was in neither group, nor in any of the others. She shook her head, and the stagehand who had followed them took her out of the theater and down to the back, where a company car was waiting. As they began their drive to Alderley, Caroline kept saying things like “I’m sure I’m being silly,” then lapsing into silence. The last few miles she had to direct the man, and when they got there she insisted on paying him, then rushed indoors to check the answer machine. There was nothing on it. From upstairs there was silence, so the children had probably been long in bed. Caroline wondered whether to pour herself a drink and wait for Marius, but she was washed over by tiredness and she took herself to bed.
She slept for an hour or two, then felt beside her to find only emptiness. The rest of the night consisted of alternately dozing uneasily and long spells of wakefulness. Sometimes she had something like a presentiment of future loneliness, at others only a resentment that Marius had spoiled one of the weekends she cherished so much.
Chapter 8
The Morning After
The sun was up, and the city was starting to stir, but only mildly and tentatively, because Sunday still feels like a day of rest in the early hours, before the big chain stores open. Reg Liversedge was out with his Yorkie later than usual, and lingered longer at places of canine interest, because he wasn’t going to work. He rented one of the flats over a shop in Briggate in Leeds. The shop sold mobile phones, but the establishment next door was a kebab takeaway, so the odors were sometimes pungent. Reg told himself he was part of the regeneration of the inner cities. He also told everyone who would listen that it was better than living with his wife, though if pressed he might have admitted that it was not better than living with a wife.
His dog, Trueman, was part of this guarded satisfaction with his present life. Reg took him for a walk every day around eight, before the city girded its loins to start the day. He came home for his lunch break, gobbled the sandwich he had prepared at breakfast time, then took him round the streets. After work he was almost always in, with an early-evening and later-evening stroll. Mostly, like 90 percent of British people, he just watched the television. Trueman did too. The favorite program of both of them was Pet Rescue.
So today there was no work at Austin Reed’s, no being friendly to customers he didn’t give a damn about, no dealings with reps or company high-ups, all trying to guess next season’s fashion trends. A lazy day. Reg turned up Briggate, crossed Merrion Street, and eventually made his way to the little oasis of green that surrounded the newly built and unusual block of flats that were called CASPAR. Their distinction, their departure from the urban norm, was that they were round, were faced with wood, and looked from a distance like nothing so much as an Elizabethan theater. Close to, it might have seemed that they were exclusive indeed, a little fortress for the moneyed, and way out of Reg’s price league; in fact, however, CASPAR stood for Citycenter Apartments for Single People at Affordable Rents.
Trueman had no ambitions to live there, but he liked the greenery around the apartments. The public was allowed onto the lawns, with their modest and low-maintenance shrubs and bushes. Lingering now became the order of the day: Trueman could sniff to eternity before he decided which of the various growing things would be favored with his urine. Sundays he could be pampered, and he took every advantage of this fact. Trueman was a dog of well-developed ego.
At the high point of the little patch of garden, the Yorkie outdid himself in dilatoriness. Bored but obedient, Reg turned away and looked down toward the center of the city. He could see down Briggate, with the Grand Theatre to his left, the Odeon on the same side farther down, then the main section of the street, with all the big chain stores—Debenhams, House of Fraser, Marks & Spencer—followed by Lower Briggate, which curved out of his sight.
Trueman had gone to the limits of his long lead and was now tugging. Reg turned away from the city and followed the little dog. Something was drawing him, exciting him. Trueman pulled toward a flourishing shrub abutting a stretch of fencing. He scrambled into it, then turned around and barked. Reg peered into the dense and flowery vegetation. He saw what looked like an arm. Appalled at the thought of a severed limb, Reg tried to edge through the row of bushes. The arm was not severed at all, but attached to a body—a smart, besuited middle-aged man. Reg dragged Trueman away, down the slope toward North Street, the dog protestingly barking that his little legs didn’t do running. Then Reg came to what he was seeking and bundled Trueman and himself into a telephone booth to dial 999.
“It’s a body, near those new flats past Upper Briggate—up from North Street, you know the ones, they’re called CASPAR—it’s a body hidden in the bushes around the flats. There’s blood on his shirt. He’s somebody, this chap. It’s a very good suit—Armani or whatever—a very good suit indeed.”
The constable taking the message thought it was an odd thing to put so much emphasis on, but then he knew nothing of the man who was ringing in. Clothes were Reg’s business, so he was a man who noticed such things.
*
“Doncaster 3707 946.”
“Is that Mrs. Fawley?”
“That’s right.” Caroline’s heart was thumping badly, and she had difficulty holding the telephone receiver without shaking.
“This is the West Yorkshire Police in Leeds, Mrs. Fawley. I believe we had a telephone call last night from someone at the Grand Theatre on your behalf.”
“Yes.” Her voice was flat, while something in her brain blared BAD NEWS like a newspaper hoarding.
“This was an inquiry about a missing person, wasn’t it? Your partner, I believe.”
“Yes, Marius. Marius Fleetwood. Is there any—”
“There’s nothing certain, Mrs. Fawley. But I should tell you that a body has been found this morning.”
“Oh God!” Caroline immediately began to sob.
“There’s nothing definite, Mrs. Fawley, like I say. Please don’t jump to conclusions. But we wondered whether you could come to Leeds—”
“Yes!” She had to know. Now. “Should I get a taxi?”
“No. We’ve lined up someone from the Doncaster force. He can be with you in fifteen minutes. Can you be ready by then?”
“I’ll be ready.”
She put the phone down and saw, standing on the stairs, her two younger children. They had been told of Marius’s mysterious nonappearance at the party over breakfast. Caroline sank into the chair by the phone, her head in her hands, and did not notice Alexander and Stella look at each other with fear in their eyes, nor the legs of Guy as he listened from the landing above them.
*
The young uniformed constable who came for her from Doncaster had been out on another matter when he received the message to go to Alderley. He already knew Marsham, and was given instructions on how to find the way from there to the house itself. He bundled Caroline into the car with muttered expressions of sympathy and began the drive to Leeds at a fast pace. Caroline sat silently, dazed and full of forebodings, for more than ten minutes.
“Was there anything on him—any papers or anything with his name on them?” she asked at last.
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything. I’m with the Doncaster force—we’re just doing this as a favor. The chap on my radio just said it was a bloke—a man—in a very good suit.”
“Yes, Marius always knew how to dress,” said Caroline.
It was another ten minutes, driving through suburbs and flat countryside of no interest, before she realized she had spoken of him
as dead. She was already preparing herself for a sort of widowhood. She wondered how she ought to describe Marius. “My late partner,” perhaps. Though a not particularly kind actress friend had once pointed out that “partner” was not strictly accurate since Marius had never left his wife. “My bloke,” she said, would be better. “My late bloke,” however, didn’t sound at all right.
When they got to Leeds the young policeman drove her straight to Millgarth Police Headquarters and escorted her into the station. The constable on the desk knew at once who Caroline was, and spoke in a low voice into his phone. Soon she was being escorted into the station proper by a white detective of about her own age and a much younger black one who towered over her.
“My name is Oddie,” said the senior one, “and this is Detective Sergeant Peace. This must be quite horrible for you. I don’t know if you’d like a cup of tea or coffee, or if you’d prefer—”
“I’d prefer to see him now,” said Caroline, interrupting him. Oddie nodded, signaled to Peace to wait, and then walked her to the mortuary. Caroline shivered when she got there, but went through the grisly ritual as if in a dream—or perhaps as if in a television cops drama. When the attendant drew down the sheet covering the body she just nodded and said, “Yes, that’s Marius.”
“Marius Fleetwood?”
“Yes. The owner of the Fleetwood supermarket chain.”
The sheet was pulled up again, and they walked back to Sergeant Peace in silence. When they got to him, and began to walk she knew not where, Caroline suddenly started talking as if she would never stop.
“I knew it would be him. It’s not a shock. When someone you know and love does something entirely out of character, or seems to, then you get a presentiment of disaster, don’t you? And Marius never went back on a promise or an arrangement. If he said he would be somewhere at a certain time, there he’d be. He said he’d be back for the curtain calls—that’s for Forza del Destino at the Grand—and I knew he would be because he loved that sort of thing, and he’d be full of, well, pride, even though Olivia’s not his child, of course. And he’d be happy for me and her. So when he wasn’t there, and wasn’t standing at the back as I thought he might be, that told me there was something wrong, and when he wasn’t at the party afterwards then I knew—almost knew—I mean I thought he might be in hospital, that was one of the things I feared, then I thought he might have been mugged and was just lying somewhere. Oh, I must tell Guy—all the children, of course, but Guy is his son, and he’s at Alderley, and I suppose he’ll have to ring his mother—oh dear, I suppose I could ring them from here, couldn’t I?”
The Mistress of Alderley Page 8