‘What punt?’
‘Never mind. A long time ago and in another country. And besides the wench is dead.’
‘Gina, are you all right?’
‘Yes. Perfectly. So, is Marcus the person you told me you’d arrested yesterday?’
‘No. We’ve got Driver, Cunningham and Edmund Carson. Now you’d better tell me about this idea of yours.’
‘Not if you’re just humouring me. I’m serious about this, David, and if you’re not then I’ll shut up and you can work it out for yourselves. I expect you’ll get there eventually, and since I don’t think it’s a serial killer we’re talking about, I suppose it doesn’t matter if it takes you weeks to plod your way there.’
And then I hang up because I can feel my voice beginning to wobble and I’m absolutely not going to cry.
My phone rings almost immediately. ‘You can’t refuse to give information to the police, you know,’ he says quietly.
I feel exhausted now. There was a kind of excitement in my discovery but that’s gone and I’m just weary with the weight of the miserable truth.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘You need to look at a couple of websites. You ought to look at the information yourself – raw, as I did. I don’t want to interpret it for you. Let’s see if you come to the same conclusion as I did.’
‘So what are these web sites?’
‘One is www.glenys-summers.com – it’s a fan site. The other is Hector Carson’s Wikipedia entry – you can google him. Look at the dates and call me back if you think it’s worth it.’
I lie back and close my eyes. Annie appears with my lunch on a tray. ‘Covent Garden soup and garlic bread,’ she says, putting it down on the bed with a flourish. The soup is an alarming dark red. It looks like a bowl of blood.
‘This soup?’ I enquire tentatively.
‘Beetroot,’ she says.
‘I have supped full of horrors.’
‘What?’
My phone rings again. Annie snatches it up. ‘Hello? No, this is her daughter. Who’s that? Oh, Chief Inspector. No, I’m sorry, she can’t talk to you any more. She’s supposed to be having complete rest. Medical orders.’ I have my hand stretched out for the phone and am hissing furiously at her to give it to me, but she gives me a teasing grin. ‘She may be well enough to talk to you tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I’ll tell her –’
‘ANNIE,’ I shout. ‘This isn’t a joke. Give me that sodding phone or I swear I will throw this bowl of soup at you.’
She hesitates. Then she tosses the phone onto the bed and sweeps out.
‘David?’
‘Gina? Are you –’
‘I’m ALL RIGHT,’ I yell. I take a deep breath. ‘What did you think?’
There is a pause. I wait.
‘The only interpretation –‘ he stops.
‘Yes?’
‘The only interpretation shouldn’t necessarily mean anything as far as we’re concerned, only you said something yesterday, as you were getting out of the car.’
‘Did I? I wasn’t really myself. I don’t remember what I said.’
‘Well, you said, “Thanks for the lift. It’s so much quicker by car” – or something like that.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Do you? And then there are the steps.’
‘The what?’
‘The steps – over the bridge at Shepton Halt. Didn’t you notice them?’
‘Yes. I imagined Colin Fletcher carrying Glenys up them.’
‘Which is possible. But the alternative is –’
‘They were never there.’
‘Exactly. You know him, Gina. What do you think? Could he have done it?’
‘I really want to say no. His wife is my best friend; he’s been our doctor for ever and ever. I’ve always thought he was a nice man – a good man, in fact. But -’
‘But?’
‘But, to be honest, I’ve never believed his story about what he did that afternoon. It didn’t add up.’
‘No. Well, I’m going to have to talk to him. Look after yourself. Bye.’
‘David,’ I say, just as he’s about to click off.
‘Yes?’
‘Let me know.’
‘Yes.’
I push my lunch away, wondering if, among all the other horrors, the world is about to come crashing down on Eve Fletcher’s head. Well, I’m not staying here in bed, at any rate. There’s a chance that David will call round after he’s talked to Colin and I can’t talk to him in bed again. Anyway, I need to be doing something and I need suddenly, urgently, to feel clean. I gather up a random assortment of clothes and head for the bathroom, where I run a deep bath, clean my teeth twice, wash my hair with great care, massaging gently round the tender bits, soak and scrub myself and clean my teeth over again.
I expect to find at least one of my gaolers outside the door, ready to pounce, but there’s nobody there. I listen. From downstairs I hear rhythmic roaring and the sound of a man working himself up into hysteria. This can only mean that there is a football match on and the girls are engrossed. Mother, presumably, is taking a nap. My bath has exhausted me and I don’t want to do any more thinking. The prospect of thinking is like the prospect of food when you’re already full up, but when I sit down in the chair by the window in my room, to wait for David, my head refuses to empty. Instead, a whole new idea comes unbidden and takes root.
When the doorbell rings, I’m on the alert for it and I get to the door just before Ellie, Annie and Freda come straggling out of the sitting room. David hesitates on the doorstep as the girls loom threateningly behind me. I take hold of his arm.
‘Come in,’ I say. ‘We’ll go in the kitchen.’
I drag him down the hall, neatly side-stepping my mother, who emerges from her room, and I shut the kitchen door firmly behind us. We stand and look at each other. He looks pale and tired and – what? Sad, I suppose. Before he can ask me again if I’m all right, I say, ‘You look dreadful. Would you like some tea?’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be doing nothing?’
‘Making tea doesn’t count.’
We sit at the kitchen table with mugs of tea and a new box of chocolate biscuits, purchased by the girls, which neither of us wants, and I ask, ‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And he denies everything. He drove Glenys to Shepton Halt, went on to his surgery – where he was seen, by the way – to do some paperwork, went back to Charter Hall to leave a message for Marina, found her dead.’
‘Did you ask him about the steps?’
‘Yes, and it shook him. That’s how I know he’s lying. I don’t think he’s ever been to Shepton Halt. Why would he? He didn’t even know there were steps there, I reckon. But he’s no fool. He rallied quickly enough. “Oh yes, the steps. Glenys did need a bit of help, but the ankle wasn’t too bad really – only a bit of a sprain,” he said.’
‘Did you ask him about the DVDs?’
‘Yes. He said he didn’t know anything about them and I think he’s telling the truth.’
‘But that doesn’t make any sense, does it? What would his motive have been?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So are you going to talk to her?’
‘He’s probably spoken to her already. She’ll be fore-armed. And I’ve got nothing on her. Yes, you saw the DVDs at Charter Hall, but there’s only your word for it and Edmund will swear she wasn’t involved. So will Neil Cunningham.’
‘What is it about all these men? Why do they all fall under her spell?’
‘The mixture of vulnerability and knowingness. Like Marilyn Monroe, only without the figure.’
‘Wasn’t the figure the point?’
‘Not altogether.’
‘Well, I’m not under the spell and I’ve had an idea. It’s a bit off the wall and your knee-jerk reaction will be to say no, but I think it could work, so please just hear me out.’ He is watching me warily and I know I sound – and look – manic. I
can feel that my cheeks are scarlet and I know my untended hair has dried into a wild frizz. I take a breath and pitch my voice low. ‘I was thinking about evidence,’ I say slowly, calmly. ‘Now what I’m proposing is something a police officer couldn’t do because it would be illegal, but I was thinking teachers – especially English teachers – often know more about kids’ home lives than parents imagine. Children are always being asked to write about what they did at the weekend, or in the holidays. Sometimes they’re even asked to keep a diary…’ I go on, and he listens to me and doesn’t interrupt except once, when I’ve nearly finished.
‘You’re not suggesting sending Ellie, surely? That’s –’
‘Of course I’m not,’ I say. ‘What sort of mother do you take me for? I’m suggesting sending me.’
27
SUNDAY 21st NOVEMBER
Nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution
I look at my watch. It is exactly 12.30pm. 12.30 on a November Sunday, when any right-minded woman with two daughters, a granddaughter and a mother staying in her house would be in her kitchen, listening to The Food Programme and peeling vegetables for lunch. Instead, I’m sitting in the back of an unmarked police car in the lane near the gates of Charter Hall with David Scott and Paula Powell. In another car, just up the lane, sit two more plain clothes police officers. Paula Powell is fastening a monitoring device to my bra. David is looking out of the window.
To be honest, I never really expected to be here. I came up with the idea and I was all prepared for a fight with David about putting it into action but I didn’t really think he’d agree to it. And then, when he had agreed, I thought the posse at home would refuse to let me go, but David arrived on the doorstep at eleven-thirty, greeted the girls, patted Freda on the head, smiled charmingly at my mother and said, ‘I’m afraid I shall need Gina for a couple of hours. Police business. I’m not arresting her, don’t worry. I shall return her safe and sound. Got everything Gina?’ And that was that.
So, here I am, and I really wish I wasn’t. I feel sick and I want to blame David for the fact that I’m here, but when he asks if I’m sure I’ll be OK I say, ‘Of course I will,’ so fiercely that Paula Powell gives me a startled look. David just says, ‘Right then. We’ll be listening to everything and we’ll be communicating with you. Make sure you keep your earpiece in and if I give you instructions, follow them.’
Though the snow is melting in the town, here it still lies in mounds down the drive. The house looks bleak and lifeless and I have a sneaky moment of hope that Glenys may not be there. Hector is in his writing room, I know. Another policeman is in position at the back of the house and relayed this information to David while I was in the car. I wish I was better dressed for the scene ahead. A good costume does give one confidence but the police still have my coat and I know that Glenys will clock my fake fur as tawdry in a moment. Under police instructions, I’m wearing a baggy cardigan underneath too, to hide my equipment (no, please, this is not a double entendre) but I have eschewed the après-ski boots, and the wet slush is already soaking through my shoes. I reach the front door, take a deep breath and a firm hold on my briefcase and ring the bell.
It is answered quite rapidly, and there she stands in jeans and a huge, baggy sweater which makes her look tinier than ever. The blue eyes blaze open and narrow again. ‘Why are you here?’
I smile brightly. ‘You remember me?’ I ask. ‘Gina Gray. I was here before.’
‘I know who you are. I asked why you’re here.’
I brandish my briefcase. ‘I’ve brought a few more things of Marina’s.’
‘What are they to do with you? I thought you taught at Marlbury Abbey.’
‘An errand for my daughter. She’s busy with the William Roper School play. I’m sure you know how it is.’
‘All right. I’ll take them.’
She puts out a hand, but I move the case out of her reach. ‘The thing is, there are some things here which I really feel we need to talk about.’
‘There is nothing I need to talk to you about. You didn’t teach Marina. You can leave the books and go.’
‘If I go, Mrs Carson, I shall have to take the books with me, and I’m afraid I shall take them to the police station.’
‘What do you mean? What the hell are you talking about? What are the police going to do with them?’
‘I think they’re going to work out why Marina was killed. Do you think I could come in?’
The sitting room we go into is scuffed and shabby but grand in its proportions and pretensions, with carved cornices, swagged curtains and a chipped chandelier. A window in a deep recess faces down the drive, while french windows look out over the garden at the side. Glenys has obviously been enjoying her Sunday morning. There is a fire burning in the grate and a coffee cup and an empty cafetière are sitting on a small table by a cushion-strewn sofa. Pieces of The Mail on Sunday lie scattered around the floor. It’s a surprisingly domestic scene, though her husband and children are, of course, missing from it.
She gestures me to the sofa while she takes an upright chair by the fire. I sink inelegantly among the sagging springs. First move to you, Glenys.
‘Well?’ she says.
‘Well,’ I say.
Unable to sit erect and look commanding, I decide to affect nonchalance. I take off my coat and sling it over the back of my sofa, I nestle my briefcase beside me, I lean back on my cushions. ‘I’ve been taking a look through these books,’ I say, ‘and there are one or two things I feel you ought to know about. In Marina’s English book in particular.’
She gives a derisive little snort. ‘I can’t imagine what you found there. The child could barely write.’
‘So you did know about her problems with school work, did you? Only I gather the school had some difficulty communicating with you and Marina’s father.’
She shrugs. My right ear suddenly crackles into life. ‘Don’t get side-tracked,’ David’s voice says. ‘Stick to the point. Don’t give her thinking time.’ I want to respond, but that’s obviously not the idea. ‘Marina’s standard of English wasn’t high,’ I say, ‘but what she wrote is perfectly comprehensible. Perhaps she made more effort with this because it interested her. They were asked to write a diary, you see –’
‘Fucking teachers,’ she explodes. ‘Sticking their noses in. Trying to spice up their dreary old lives. Like peeping Toms is what they are.’ I hear the Welshness seeping back into her careful elocution. She stops abruptly, and then goes on in a changed tone. ‘Anyway, I can’t imagine what Marina can have had to write about that would be remotely interesting. She led the dullest possible little life. I was always trying to get her to go out like other girls of her age but all she wanted to do was hang around the house.’
‘Yes, I imagine that was what caused the problem.’
‘Problem?’
‘She was around here at odd times – unexpected times – coming home from school in the middle of the day, for example. In the end she knew too much about what was going on here.’
She laughs. ‘Going on here? Nothing goes on here. The arse end of nowhere this is.’
There’s the Welshness again. I’m beginning to recognise it as a sign that she’s rattled. But it doesn’t last, and I must say I do admire her ability to switch tones. “Turning on a sixpence” I believe it’s called in the acting world. Suddenly she appears to relax. Now she is all amused indifference. ‘Well,’ she says, rummaging around behind some videos and DVDs that stand on a shelf above the television and producing a bottle, ‘I think I’ll have a drink while I hear about the exciting goings-on at Charter Hall. Really, I had no idea the girl had so much imagination. Do you want one?’
‘NO!’ David’s voice buzzes furiously in my ear. ‘You don’t. You need to keep sharp.’
Oh really? I never thought of that. Thanks for the vote of confidence, David.
‘No thank you,’ I say, and add primly, ‘I don’t drink whisky in the mor
ning.’
‘Really?’ She leaves the room and returns with two glasses. ‘Brought you one just in case,’ she says. She pours the whisky into her glass with elaborate care, swirls it round, takes a good swig then sits down and says, ‘Now, tell me this story. You do realise, by the way, that it is just a story, don’t you? It must have crossed your mind that it’s – well, probably not made up, but copied from something she’d read, I imagine.’
‘I don’t think Marina was up to reading anything as adult as this,’ I say, ‘and it doesn’t read like something she’s copied. There’s so much left out, you see – so much she dared not write for fear of putting you in danger.’
I think this is the moment to produce exhibit A. I take the exercise book out of my bag, the unused book which I got from Ellie yesterday and spent the evening distressing. I’ve written MARINA CARSON with some twiddles on the front and I’ve added a few doodles on the cover – cats and flowers. Inside, I’ve filled about ten blotched pages. It wouldn’t bear close inspection – it’s more like a stage prop – but it’s good enough to brandish from a distance.
‘At first,’ I say, flicking a few pages, ‘I think she wasn’t quite sure what writing a diary entailed. She writes a bit about the family – interesting in its own way but not what her teacher intended, I should think. One worrying thing – ‘I flick through a page or two ‘– she says she lived in Switzerland for a year and “very bad things” happened to her and her brother there. I suppose you must know what she means?’
She drains her glass and goes to refill it. ‘I really don’t’ she says, with her back turned to me. ‘Very bad things were happening to me too.’
‘Right. Only then she gets the hang of the diary business – or maybe it was the first time she felt she had anything worth writing about – and she describes a day when she went home early from school. She writes that she always knew when your nerves were bad and you might do “something silly”. She worried about you.’
She gives a derisive hoot of laughter. ‘Oh my nerves, my precious nerves. There’s nothing the matter with my nerves – what did you say your name was? Jean?’
All the Daughters Page 26