She sits up straighter in her chair and looks at me again, more sharply this time, more focussed. ‘How do you know all this – about the train times and all? I don’t believe you’re just some teacher. Who are you? Are you police?’
‘I told you, I’m a friend of Eve Fletcher’s. She told me about Colin driving you – only she thought he’d taken you to Shepton Halt, of course. I’m also a big train traveller. I know how inconvenient the steps are at these little two-platform stations and I thought how awkward it would have been for you at Shepton Halt with your sprained ankle. You know, it’s funny how these things strike you.’
‘Hilarious,’ she says sourly. ‘Finished are you, now?’
‘Almost. Just one more question. I assume Colin lied to the police and perverted the course of justice and whatever else they decide to throw at him because he’s your lover. Am I right?’
She twists her mouth in a grimace. ‘My lover? Oh please! He’s in love with me – of course he is – but that’s not quite the same thing. I’ve let him go to bed with me once or twice, mind, but it was no fun. He was always overcome with guilt about his fat wife. Mostly what he wanted was to hang around me, panting with doggy devotion.’
‘It sounds as though he had the same problem as Marina. Pity you couldn’t push him down the stairs.’
‘That’s a sharp little tongue you’ve got in your head. I bet you’re a bitch in the classroom.’ She sloshes some more whisky into her glass. ‘What I don’t understand,’ she says, ‘is why Colin had to come back here and “find” her. We’d agreed we’d leave her for Hector to find.’
‘And you can’t understand why he didn’t do that?’
‘No. It got him involved when he didn’t need to be.’
‘Then you don’t understand him. He’s a good man. A decent man. He agreed to protect you but he was never going to leave a dead child lying in an empty house for her father to find. He couldn’t do that. Only someone without an ounce of humanity could.’
‘Only someone like me.’
‘That’s enough,’ David hisses. ‘We’ve got enough. Get yourself out of there.’
‘Well, on that note,’ I say, ‘I think I’ll be going.’
I stretch out my hand for the exercise book, which is lying on the coffee table between us, but she is too quick for me in spite of the whisky. She snatches it up and, in a single movement, throws it into the fire. There one corner catches and it arches up and falls out onto the hearth. She jumps up, seizes it and hurls it straight at me. I don’t register, for a moment, what’s happening: I just have an extraordinary sensation of heat and a searing pain down my neck, and in my hands as I try to beat it away. As it falls to the ground, I stamp on it but the flames lick up and start to ignite the edges of my skirt. At the same time I realise that sparks are smouldering on my cardigan and there is the pungent smell of burning hair. I run to the French windows, yank them open, rush out into the garden and throw myself face down into the snow.
Feet come running towards me and I look up to see the policeman who has been stationed at the back of the house. I realise that I have summoned him. I have summoned him with my screaming. I think I’ve been screaming ever since the missile hit me. Now footsteps approach the other way. I roll over to see David round the front of the house, at a run, followed by a posse of policemen.
‘Put the fire out and search the house,’ he shouts, and stops to look at me, lying on my back in the snow.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
‘I’m cool,’ I say, and I start to giggle helplessly.
He pulls me to my feet and shakes me quite hard.
‘What happened?’
‘She set fire to me.’
He takes a look at the side of my neck where my hair caught fire. ‘We’ll get you to A&E as soon as we can,’ he says. ‘You’re soaking. You need to get warm. Have you got a coat?’
We go back into the sitting room, where the fire has been quenched, though there’s a lot of smoke. I’m shaking violently and I look round helplessly for my coat. David says, ‘I need to take the recording equipment off you. It won’t do it any good to get wet. Do you mind?’ And without waiting for an answer, he has his hands up under my shirt and is detaching the stuff.
‘This is very romantic,’ I say, and the giggling starts up again. His mouth tightens into a very thin line, but he takes off his coat and puts it round me. It is warm with his body heat and the comfort of it steadies me. I wrap it closely round me and subside onto the sofa, where I hiccup a bit and concentrate on not shaking.
Then we hear, through the open windows, an unmistakeable sound – the sound of a motor boat starting up. With a curse, David rushes off round to the back of the house. He returns, still swearing. The policemen who have been searching the house come in, drawn by the sound of the boat. David turns on the young DC who had been stationed at the back.
‘Well?’ he asks, with dangerous calm.
‘Sorry sir. I came running when this lady screamed and then I thought I’d be more use helping the search.’
‘And how wrong you were. You’ve just lost us our killer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It was my fault, ‘I say. ‘I shouldn’t have screamed.’ David opens his mouth to say something and then seems to change his mind. ‘If it’s any help,’ I say, ‘I think she’s wearing a fun fur coat.’
Paula takes me back to the car, where she digs out a first aid box and puts a sort of dressing on my neck. She then takes me to A&E again, and she’s very kind really. I go a bit wobbly and hysterical before we get to the hospital and she takes it in her stride. She even tells me I did bloody well. She’s a nice girl.
At A&E, they’re disconcerted to have me in again so soon. They treat the burns all right, and say they’re not too bad and the snow treatment was a good idea. The also give me painkillers and antibiotics and say I can go home later. I have the sense, though, that I have triggered some automatic alert by getting attacked twice in a week and they want to get Social Services on my case. It’s quite touching really. In the end, Paula manages to convince them that the police have things in hand and they let me go.
As Paula drives me home, I’m dreading the outrage and recriminations that will be waiting for me, but I arrive to find the house in empty darkness. There are two notes for me on the hall table. One is from Annie, saying she has returned to Oxford since she doesn’t seem to be needed; the other is from Ellie, saying she has gone to see Ben Biaggi, taking Freda with her. My mother, I assume, is having a nap. I creep up the stairs to my room, strip off my clothes and clamber gratefully into bed.
The painkillers send me to sleep in spite of everything and it’s some time later that I awake in deep darkness to the sound of my door opening. My mother appears. I struggle to a sitting position. ‘Don’t go on at me,’ I say. ‘Just don’t go on at me. I couldn’t help it and it’s not as bad as it looks.’
‘David Scott’s been round,’ she says. ‘Gave me an explanation of sorts. Said you were quite a heroine.’ And she bends over and kisses me on my forehead. It is so unexpected that it knocks the stuffing out of me. My breath rises in my chest in a great sob and the next moment she is sitting on my bed and I am weeping in her arms like the child I don’t remember being.
Later again, Eve rings.
‘Eve,’ I say, ‘are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m all right. They’ve arrested Colin. But that won’t surprise you.’
‘I –’
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t –’
‘It’s all right. I’ve talked to Michael Fairbrother, our solicitor. He sat in on Colin’s interview with the police. That taped evidence – the conversation with Glenys – that was you, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. I am sorry, Eve.’
‘Don’t be.’ I can hear that she’s crying, but she goes on. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to believe that people were basically good. That they could be foolish or frightened or u
nhappy and that could make them hurt other people, but I never believed in wickedness and I never met anyone I thought was wicked. Except her.’
‘Did Michael say anything about – about her and Colin?’
‘The police don’t seem very interested in that. I knew about it, of course, from years back, that he was in love with her. There was nothing to be done about it. I just hated to see her make him unhappy.’
‘They haven’t caught her, I suppose?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But they will, surely.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. She’ll be good at disguising herself.’
‘She’s wearing my coat.’
‘Well, there you are. She’s got money, contacts and the ability to get more or less any man to do what she wants. I should think she’s well on her way to a country where there’s plenty of cheap drink and no extradition treaty with the UK.’
‘But it’ll be so unfair if Colin gets prosecuted and she doesn’t. I’ll just have ruined things for you and she’ll get away with it.’
‘Oh don’t give yourself airs, darling. You haven’t ruined anything. There are several people who come higher on my list of who’s to blame than you do – and I’m one of them. Give yourself a break, why don’t you? And get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.’
28
THURSDAY 25th NOVEMBER
08.00: AFTERMATH
The headline screamed from the front page of the Marlbury Gazette. Not litter in the town centre, not parking charges, not wheelie bin protests, not the controversial sculpture on the roundabout, not vandalism, not a mere smash and grab in the High Street, but a five-star juicy scandal such as a local paper editor can only dream of. Scott read the report as he waited for the kettle to boil:
THEATRE CHIEF ON CHILD PORN CHARGES
Neil Cunningham, director of Marlbury’s Aphra Behn Theatre, appeared at Marlbury Magistrates’ Court on Tuesday to answer charges of producing, possessing and disseminating indecent images of children. During the three-minute hearing, Cunningham, aged 52, spoke only to confirm his name and address and to enter a plea of not guilty. Appearing alongside him on the same charges were Alexander Graham Driver, aged 38, stage manager of the Aphra Behn Theatre, and a seventeen-year-old boy. Applications for bail by all three were rejected and they were remanded in custody.
Neil Cunningham is a widely respected theatre director who has boosted the Aphra Behn’s flagging audiences in recent years with a string of popular plays and musicals. Friends said yesterday that they were astonished at the news of his arrest. A spokeswoman said that the theatre’s programme would continue as planned over Christmas and New Year. The theatre board will hold an emergency meeting on Friday.
A surprisingly accurate account for a local paper – for any paper – Scott thought as he sat down with his coffee. No embellishments, no speculation. He turned the page and his eye was caught by another headline.
LOCAL WRITER FOUND DROWNED
Local writer, Hector Carson, was found dead in his car in the River Mar in the early hours of Wednesday morning. The car was brought to the surface by firemen after neighbours spotted it in the river near Mr Carson’s home, Charter Hall, in Lower Shepton. The police have revealed that Mr Carson left a note and foul play is not suspected.
When Mr Carson’s 13-year-old daughter, Marina, died at the family home in tragic circumstances in September, the police launched a murder inquiry, but no arrests have been made.
It is understood that Mr Carson had spent much of the previous two days helping the police with their inquiries into the disappearance of his wife, the actress Glenys Summers. She has not been seen since she left home on Sunday afternoon in the family’s motor launch. The police are very anxious to trace her and would be glad to hear from anyone who saw her on Sunday afternoon or since.
Mr Carson leaves a 17-year-old son, Edmund, who is a pupil at Marlbury Abbey School.
Might acute readers make the link between Hector’s 17-year-old son and the 17-year-old boy in court? Were they intended to? Probably. Someone had got the story but was playing by the rules. But they were less likely to make the link with the story on page five. This story was accompanied by a smudgy photo, presumably culled from the Gazette’s archive, of a rather younger Gina seen with some students at a college open day. Scott read:
ATTACK ON LECTURER
Mrs Virginia Gray, Head of the English Language Department at Marlbury College, suffered head injuries last week when she was attacked while walking through the Minster cloisters. Mrs Gray, aged 47, had been attending a function at Marlbury Abbey School and was on her way home. She was taken to hospital and received treatment, but was later released. A 48- year-old man has been arrested and is helping the police with their inquiries.
On the facing page was an equally blurred picture of Colin Fletcher beside the headline:
TRIBUTES TO LOCAL GP
Tributes have been pouring in to Dr Colin Fletcher, who surprised his colleagues and patients by announcing his retirement this week. Dr Fletcher, aged 58, has been a partner in the Cromwell House practice for thirty years.
Born in Marlbury, he attended the Abbey School before studying medicine at St Thomas’s Hospital. Patients paid tribute to Dr Fletcher’s kindness and thoroughness. Asked about his plans for his retirement, he said he would be spending more time reading and writing, and seeing his grandchildren.
Dr Fletcher’s wife, Eve, is a teacher at William Roper School. They have four daughters, Laura, Georgia, Gwen and Vanessa, and six grandchildren.
Finally, near the back, among pictures of school sports teams and fêtes, he saw a leggy blonde surrounded by group of sheepish teenagers in self-conscious poses.
FUN WITH THE BARD
Pupils at William Roper School will be tackling Shakespeare for the first time when they perform Twelfth Night next week. The school’s drama teacher, Eleanor Gray, promises that the production will be “fast and fun”. ‘I’ve cut quite a bit and we really work at moving it along, so no-one should get bored,’ she says. A pupil, Shaun Adams, who plays the Duke Orsino, says Shakespeare’s language is ‘weird but you get used to it.’
Audiences will have the chance to see what they think of it next week, Wednesday to Saturday, at 7.30 in the school hall. Tickets are available from the school office at £7.00 (£4.00 concessions).
His phone rang. ‘Why do you always ring me when I’m having breakfast?’ he asked.
‘I like to catch you unawares.’
‘Why?’
‘Otherwise you fob me off.’
‘You know you’re all over The Gazette, I suppose?’
‘Oh God. What does it say?’
‘Read it.’
‘I never look at it. I can’t stand it. It reminds me that I live in a provincial town.’
‘And you don’t notice the rest of the time?’
‘I rise above it. Tell me what it says.’
‘Read it yourself. You’ve heard about Hector Carson, I suppose?’
‘No? What?’
‘He’s dead. Drove his car into the river.’
‘Did he know about Glenys?’
‘Not till we told him.’
‘Do you feel bad?’
‘I’m a policeman. I feel bad about murderers getting away.’
‘No sightings of her then?’
‘Disappeared into thin air.’
‘A mistress of disguise more like. Your chaps who are looking for her do realise she’ll be disguising herself, I suppose?’
‘They do, Gina, yes.’
‘So what are you doing to find her?’
Deep breath, he told himself. Glenys had, after all, set fire to her. ‘We’re doing what we do,’ he said mildly, and then added, ‘we find it pretty effective in most cases, but if you’ve got any better id–’
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply, you know, that -’
‘Are you
all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, fine – all things considered. Why?’
‘You said sorry. I’ve never heard you apologise. I didn’t think you could do it.’
‘What do you mean? I apologise. I’m always apologising. I spend my life saying sorry. I don’t know how you can say – why are you laughing?’
‘Sorry,’ he said.
29
WEDNESDAY 1st DECEMBER
Then come kiss me sweet and twenty
I told Ellie that Glenys had killed Marina – told her the whole ugly story, in fact, before it leaked out in dribs and drabs and caught her unawares. I was worried about how she would cope but I reckoned without the resilience of the young. She wept, of course, and I found her down in the kitchen at three in the morning making tea with brandy in it, but she had a play to put on and there is no-one more single-minded than a director with a first night looming. I, on the other hand, have been pathetic. I was signed off work for two weeks and I’ve drooped around the house, prone to sudden tears and looking like death warmed up. I’ve caught my mother looking at me sometimes: she’s worried about me; I’m quite worried about myself.
Anyway, I have to pull myself together today. It is the first performance of Twelfth Night and we are all attending: I, my mother, Annie and, it is rumoured, Andrew. Only Freda is staying at home, with Eve’s daughter, Gwen, to baby-sit. I wish we’d asked someone else. She arrives early and I feel quite uncomfortable with her. Colin was charged on Monday with obstructing the police by giving false information. He got off, more or less, with a suspended sentence but it’s big news in The Gazette this morning. Gwen looks pale and miserable. I’m not sure if she’s also reproachful, but I feel reproached anyway, so I announce that I’m off to the school to see if there’s anything I can do to help and leave Annie to dish up a Sainsbury’s fish pie and drive her grandmother along later.
It’s before six when I arrive at William Roper and the front doors are locked. Later, no doubt, spruce, handpicked children will be standing in the foyer, taking tickets, selling programmes and ushering parents to seats, but for the moment all is dark and unwelcoming. I wheel my bike round the side and spot someone emerging from a side door. As a security light comes on I see that it’s Renée Deakin. ‘Renée!’ I call and she turns towards me, her face pinched against the cold. She looks, in the bluish light, closed and wary and quite a lot older. ‘How are you?’ I ask as I hurry towards her.
All the Daughters Page 28