Cruel Venus

by Susan Lewis

  They sat, but refused the drink. Shelley sat too, drawing her fine satin robe more tightly around herself. Lister guessed she was naked underneath, and noticed that Maine was probably coming to the same conclusion.

  ‘So, what can I do for you at this hour?’ Shelley asked.

  Lister smiled. ‘We just need you to clear something up for us.’

  Shelley glanced at Maine, showing she would be more comfortable if he were in charge.

  Lister continued. ‘You said in your statement that you left the office around seven fifty, possibly a little after, and were stuck in traffic more or less until you got to the restaurant.’

  Shelley nodded. ‘I was going to go home, but when I saw how bad it was I decided I probably wouldn’t … have enough time.’

  Lister noted the slight tremble in her voice. ‘Can you remember where you were when Allyson called you on your mobile to say she was going to be late?’

  ‘I think I was by the cinema. The one on the corner of Beaufort Street. I can’t say for certain though.’

  ‘And that was about what time?’

  ‘Just before nine, I think.’

  ‘You knew Allyson was babysitting her father that evening?’

  ‘Yes. She told me earlier in the day.’

  Lister smiled. ‘Good, so that all checks out.’ She glanced over at Maine, though not before she’d seen the relief in Shelley’s eyes.

  Shelley was about to get up when Lister started talking again.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention you were driving a hire car on the day of the murder?’ she asked.

  Panic stripped away the relief. Shelley’s lovely face was now deathly pale. If she was wise, Lister thought, she’d refuse to say anything now without a lawyer.

  Her voice was husky, cracked. ‘My car was in the garage. I always hire another when mine’s in the garage. You can check. It’s something I always do.’

  ‘And do you always clean it before you take it back?’

  Shelley’s eyes darted to Maine. ‘Sometimes,’ she said.

  Lister could almost smell her fear. ‘We’d like to take a look at the clothes you were wearing on the day of the murder,’ she said.

  Shelley’s eyes were almost wild. ‘They’re at the cleaners.’

  Of course.

  ‘I think I should call a lawyer,’ Shelley said.

  ‘Yes, Miss Bronson,’ Lister responded. ‘I think you should.’

  Shelley could feel the cold seeping far into her bones. DC Lister was still with her. Maine had looked as though he wanted to stay, but after some quiet consultation with Lister he’d left. Her lawyer, who was in Wales, couldn’t be there until morning.

  She didn’t speak to the policewoman, she had nothing to say. Her words were all wrapped up inside her, entangled in images of the past two days. She was more afraid than she’d ever been, yet she felt disconnected, apart from the reality of the nightmare, as though it were happening to somebody else and she was just a horrified observer. Her mind was assailed by flashes of all that had happened, and what might have happened. She could see the abstract figure that had walked into the edit suite and stood over the girl. She could see its shadow, looming on the wall, its eyes looking down at Tessa’s small, still head, studying the little whorls and tufts of shiny dark hair, hearing the sounds of the film, seeing the unmanicured hands on the console. Then she was hearing the wild and crazy thoughts, seeing the venom, feeling the hate …

  She stifled a cry at the image of the statue rising, then swinging down brutally on the fragile skull. How many times? Someone had said five.

  And now Tessa was dead.

  But she couldn’t be. It was inconceivable; beyond comprehension that Allyson’s plump and pretty nemesis was lying cold and stiff under a sheet somewhere, no longer able to inflict herself on other people’s lives. Shelley had never liked the girl and she had no pity for her now. All she had was anger – and a hot, paralysing fear that was blurring her senses and crushing her mind.

  By the time she was ready to leave the sun was filtering through the clouds, cresting the rooftops in a sluggish pink glow as a new day began. She felt frighteningly calm. Calm and exhausted. Lister must have thought she might kill herself, because ever since reading her her rights the woman hadn’t left her side. Not even while she showered and dressed for what could be the last time in her beloved home, had Lister left her.

  She walked into the sitting room and looked around. Her courage was now no more than a plucky flame in a dying fire. How could she bear to leave? What could she do to stop this nightmare going any further? She imagined them all talking about her in the office. It was difficult to envisage the place without her in it. They’d been her family for the past eight years, but they’d all scorn her now. Would Allyson, she wondered.

  Quite suddenly she started to scream. The noise tore from her in harsh, petrified cries, breaking her out of the hypnotizing horror of what she was facing. Suddenly it was real. All so horribly, terrifyingly real that she might go insane.

  Lister caught her by the shoulders and held her tight.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ she sobbed. ‘I swear, I didn’t do it.’ Her face was ravaged, almost demented, her body was shaking so hard she could barely stand.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Lister soothed. ‘It’ll be OK.’

  ‘Noooo! You don’t understand. I didn’t do it! I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Sssh,’ Lister whispered. ‘Of course not.’ It was what they all said when finally they realized it was the only thing left to say.

  A few miles away, in the chill early morning, a young PC escorted Allyson and her mother through the drizzling rain to their car. Allyson’s face was chalk-white, her eyes were bloodshot and shadowed. She was weak with relief, yet heavy with fear. She knew they’d gone to arrest Shelley, but what she didn’t know was what Shelley would say, or where any of it would end.

  The PC slammed her car door and waited for her to start the engine. As she drove away there was no-one from the press to record her release, no-one to witness her return to freedom – or to tell her how long she might keep it. After all, they’d believed in her guilt enough to arrest her once, what might Shelley tell them to make it happen again?

  Chapter 18

  MARK REINER GOT out of his car and looked across the cemetery to where a small, huddled group stood in the rain. Further away, at a distance that was almost respectable, was a much larger group, most of them clutching cameras and notebooks. It was a horrible, bleak day in every way, for no-one could help feeling the terrible sadness that came with the senseless and untimely death of a young girl who had suffered so much in her short life. The papers had been full of her story since the details had come out, the nightly news never failed to mention it.

  Earlier in the day Mark had gone to talk to the staff of Soirée. Their sense of shock and grief was evident the moment he’d walked into the office, reminding him of passengers stranded aboard a boat that had lost its engine. He’d sympathized with them, for none of them, including him, had ever known anyone who was murdered, nor anyone who had committed a murder. It was hard to deal with, harder still to understand, and not even the kind of headlines that were being splashed across the papers, like Producer Murders Presenter or A Soirée with Death, seemed to be bringing home the reality. Shelley was still in custody and according to the papers no-one who had tried to see her had so far succeeded.

  For his part Mark avoided the press, channelling the statements that needed to be made through a company spokesman. Nothing had yet been made public about Soirée’s future, out of respect to the programme’s makers he’d wanted to speak to them first – and in person, though they’d almost certainly guessed that the suspension of transmission was going to lead to the programme being cancelled. That morning he had confirmed that it would be, though he’d also told them that Clive Dansing, who was about to take over from Stella Cornbright, would welcome any ideas they might have for a completely new show. He could see it was the kind of th
erapy they needed, to help draw them out of the shock, but when they began trying to include him in their discussions he’d informed them that from this point on Dansing was in charge, and would report to Mark only when necessary.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Mark looked at his sister-in-law, Claudia. She’d insisted on coming to the funeral with him, and now they were here he was glad that she had.

  Holding an umbrella over them both, he steered her towards the mourners who were starting to file into the chapel. They consisted almost entirely of the Soirée team, with the exception of an uncle who had been tracked down by the police, the two detectives who were involved in the case, and Allyson’s husband and mother. Of Allyson herself there was no sign, but he guessed she was already inside.

  The chapel was cold and dark, but the flowers helped to cheer it, and the candles cast a warm glow over the altar. Mark and Claudia slipped into a pew near the back, and knelt to pray. With his eyes closed Mark thought of Tessa and felt weighted by the unthinkable reality that they were here to cremate her. Knowing what he did now he could only feel the profoundest regret that he had done nothing to help her, for that night in Italy had surely been enough to show him how disturbed and desperate she was. A long talk with Laura Risby had explained more, and though he had no idea if anyone could have truly ended her torment, certainly someone could have tried. And that someone could so easily have been him – and Allyson. It was something they could have done together. But being so tied up in their own affairs, and so focused on what Tessa was doing to Allyson instead of why she was doing it, they hadn’t recognized the need for help. And now it was too late. Accepting that was almost as hard as accepting everything else that went with it, but how much worse it must be for Allyson considering the complex role she had played in Tessa’s life – and ultimately in her death.

  Seeing her at the front, dressed in black and seated between her mother and husband, he tried to imagine the aching futility of what they had been through, unwitting and now badly damaged pawns in a game they hadn’t even been aware of until it was over. The trauma of her arrest must have been hard for Allyson, but her release had come so soon after that the worst of this now, apart from the tragedy of Tessa’s death, must be knowing what Shelley had tried to do to her. Friends for so long and now this. How badly it must hurt, and he couldn’t help wondering if Allyson blamed him in some way too, holding him accountable for the pain he had caused Shelley which in the end had driven her to do what she had. It was impossible to know, for they hadn’t spoken since the day of the murder, and it was perhaps still too early for any of them to attach any kind of meaning or understanding to what had happened.

  The organ droned on, merging finally into the opening strains of a well-known hymn as the minister entered, the coffin and pall-bearers behind him. As everyone rose Mark felt Claudia’s hand on his arm. The small procession passed. He looked at the coffin, and thought of Tessa’s ruined body lying peacefully inside. He looked away and tried to sing, though he barely heard the words leaving his lips. He was thinking now of Shelley, and how she might be feeling today, for she surely must know what was happening. Though he’d spoken to her lawyers, he hadn’t attempted to see her, and knew that it was unlikely he would until the trial.

  Everyone sat, and in their still fragile stupor listened to the minister as he read from the Bible. A while later he asked everyone to pray, then Julian, a young boy from the programme, went forward to read a piece he’d written himself. Like everyone else Mark was profoundly moved, not only by the words the boy had written himself, but by the relief of knowing that someone had cared, and apparently very much.

  Then the worst moment was upon them, as the coffin moved slowly, gracefully away from them, taking with it the young girl no-one had ever really known, and now never would. It was the hardest, cruellest test of all, watching the curtains close and knowing that for Tessa it was all over now and nothing anyone did was ever going to make it right. She hadn’t deserved such a life, nor had she deserved such a death, and though the capriciousness and challenges of fate were beyond anyone’s control, it was inevitable that each in their own way would feel they had failed her.

  Outside in the cold again, Mark and Claudia offered their condolences to an uncle who hadn’t seen his niece since she was five. But there was no-one else to accept them, and they needed to be given. The man was courteous, though obviously embarrassed. But no-one hung around for long. Eager to be out of the rain and away from the grim rituals of farewell they were soon finding their way back to their cars. No wake had been planned, which somehow made the occasion sadder than ever.

  ‘I feel I should go and say something to Allyson,’ Claudia said, as Mark held the door open for her to get into the car. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he answered.

  She was looking up at him. ‘You won’t come with me?’

  ‘No.’

  From where he was standing he watched as Claudia ran over to where Allyson and her mother were talking to a few of the Soirée team. For the moment he couldn’t see Bob, then he noticed him talking to the detectives. No doubt the press would be drawing their own conclusions from what they were seeing today, and it was partly because of them that Mark didn’t want to go over there now, for he – doubtless Allyson, also – didn’t want the event of Tessa’s funeral to be upstaged by speculation on where Allyson’s relationships with her husband and Mark Reiner might now be going. Of course the fact that Bob was with her and Mark wasn’t, would provide an easy assessment for now, but Mark knew that there was nothing easy about this, nothing easy at all. And as his eyes met Allyson’s for a long and torturous few moments he knew that no matter how hard this was for him, for her it was nothing short of hell.

  The days were seeming to merge into one, with no real shape or meaning, as the shock of Tessa’s death, her own arrest, then Shelley’s, took its time to subside. It was hard to believe that three weeks had gone by since the funeral, though in some ways it felt like three years. Or maybe it was another lifetime, for there was something strangely disconcerting about standing here with Bob, in the front porch of their country home, facing a battery of press who had come to witness the Jaymes’s reconciliation being made official.

  Bob’s arm was wrapped protectively around her as she blinked at the flashbulbs and he dealt with the barrage of questions, confirming that they were now back together and intended to stay that way. Yes, he had made mistakes, he admitted, they both had, but life was full of them and though naturally they deeply regretted Tessa’s death, they were legally unable to make any more comment than that.

  ‘Bob! Is it true you’re about to sign a deal with Sky?’ someone shouted.

  Bob laughed. ‘It’s being talked about,’ he answered.

  ‘Did you catch the Liverpool match last night?’ someone else wanted to know.

  ‘A great game,’ he answered.

  ‘Allyson! Now that Soirée’s been cancelled can you tell us what you’re going to do?’

  Bob’s arm tightened around her. ‘She won’t be doing anything until after the trial,’ he told them. ‘She needs to rest now, and be looked after.’

  Irritated that he’d answered for her, Allyson continued to smile and decided to let him carry on. His euphoria at their reunion was, for many, infectious, and as they were all having such a good time she didn’t see any point in ruining it. Not that her answers would have done so, it was simply that she didn’t want to pretend a lightness of spirit she was so very far from feeling. A young girl was dead, and her best friend was in prison. There was nothing to celebrate in that, and it felt horrible, callous even, to be standing here pretending everything was all right when it was so very far from being all right that there were times she felt she might be going out of her mind.

  Her biggest enemy was fear, for she was so afraid now of what the future might hold, for her and for Shelley, that she could think about nothing else. She tormented herself night and day with the horror of
being arrested again, of being locked in the prison where Shelley was now, of ultimately not being able to prove her innocence. Yet no-one thought she’d done it, there was no finger of blame pointing at her, so why couldn’t she stop this self-torture and take charge of what was happening around her? It was a rational question that was constantly swept aside in a tide of erratic and destructive emotion, for the very thought of making plans for the future was simply too much, and maybe too tempting for fate. It was easier just to let everyone else make the decisions, organize her life for her so that all she had to do was go along with it, until the trial was over and she knew for certain whether or not she was going to hold onto her freedom.

  She was startled back into the moment by someone asking her a question. ‘Allyson! Are you in touch with Shelley at all?’ they wanted to know.

  She started to answer, but Bob said, ‘Come on, you guys, you know we can’t discuss anything to do with the case. How about you ask us where we’re planning to go for our second honeymoon?’

  Allyson stopped listening again. She was thinking now about the letter she’d received from Shelley, two weeks ago, asking her to come. It was the first communication they’d had since the murder, and that was all it had said: ‘Dear Allyson, I am enclosing a visiting order. Please come. Shelley.’

  Allyson had meant to go. She’d even got as far as the prison itself, but at the last she’d turned away. She just hadn’t been up to dealing with it then. She’d been too afraid, too disoriented still to grasp the steadying hands of reason. She’d tried to remind herself that she had no need to fear Shelley. Shelley couldn’t harm her where she was, and even if Shelley persisted with her claims of innocence, there was still nothing to say Allyson had done it, nothing even to put her at the scene of the crime. But at the time the thought of seeing Shelley, of looking into her eyes and knowing …