Forgotten Voices

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘Oh, Ellen,’ William breathed. ‘Sometimes life is not very fair, is it? Doing the right thing can just be an exercise in grief and pain.’

  He pulled his coat more tightly across his chest, feeling suddenly cold now the sun was going down and the air and ground feeling damp and chill against his legs. He shoved his hands back into his pockets, feeling for the little notebook again. He was still not certain who had written it though he assumed it was probably Vera Courtney’s father. He knew, obviously, the kind of man it had been. The position he must have held. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone – probably Vera – discovered he had it and demanded it back. William had made certain to copy everything, just in case, but that wouldn’t be the same as handling the original material. He had already made up his mind not to return this journal or the little bundle of letters or the tape recording, not if it could be avoided. He still needed access to a reel to reel recorder on which to play that, but he’d phoned around old friends and one had promised to search his attic and let William know if he could help out. The idea of listening to the old recording excited him. It might be nothing, of course, but the diary had looked like nothing until he had taken a proper look.

  ‘She doesn’t deserve to get it back,’ William told himself. ‘No one has the right to keep this sort of thing to themselves. No one.’

  With a bit of luck Vera Courtney would just believe that Lydia de Freitas or even Ellen had been careless with her possessions and they had gone missing. A woman like Vera Courtney had no right to own such valuable resources. She had no understanding. She was yet another pudding brain.

  William watched as the inspector and his cohort got into their cars and drove away before hauling himself back on to his now very cold feet and stumbling back on to the path and heading for home.

  At the evening briefing Kendall went through the list of friends and associates of Ellen’s that Mrs Brigstock and her friends had put together. He split the list into sections and assigned interviews for the following day.

  She was a busy lady, Kendall thought. Aloud, he said, ‘As you can see, Ellen Tailor was a very active member of her community. She was well known and it seems well liked. Go and talk to these people. If you can’t get them tomorrow, go back and try again, but I want everyone on that list interviewed and alibied. Use these contacts to generate new lists. Ellen’s killer almost certainly either knew her or knew enough about her to be able to pick his moment. It’s more than likely that he’ll be here. Or that she’ll be here. And we can’t discount the idea that a woman might have shot her.’

  He allowed his gaze to travel around the room. ‘So far no one seems to have any clear or obvious motive so don’t close your eyes or your minds to anything, however outlandish it might look or feel. We can’t afford to let our preconceptions get in the way. Anything else?’

  ‘Some background on William Trent, sir. I’ve left it on your desk.’

  Kendall nodded his thanks. They went through the notes generated by the house to house and he added his interview with the bank manager about Ellen’s other account.

  ‘We’re still checking branches for the days the deposits were made,’ he was told. ‘One teller thinks he remembers Ellen, but nothing definitive so far. Three more branches to check tomorrow.’

  The briefing wound up shortly after that and Kendall paused to read through the notes on William Trent. Most of it was unremarkable. The man was sixty-five and had spent his career in academia, publishing regularly and specializing in the history and politics of the twentieth century. The history department at the last university he’d taught at had been called and an old colleague tracked down. From them, Kendall learnt that Trent had been married and had a son, but the marriage ended in divorce after only a few years and that he had lost contact with the wife and child. It was estimated that the son would be in his mid-thirties now.

  There was a list of publications, and bits and pieces about the lectures he had given since leaving the university. Nothing stood out as far as Kendall could see.

  Kendall flicked through the rest of the folder and then paused. There were several news reports, obviously downloaded from the Internet. They dated from seven years before.

  ‘Woman Killed in Suspected Carjacking.’

  Kendall sat down and skimmed through the articles. Her name had been Maria Renshaw and she was an editor at one of the publishing houses that dealt with Trent’s books. It seemed they had been engaged. One night she had been driving home and stopped at traffic lights. Witnesses saw a man open the passenger door and get inside. Some said he had a knife and one other that he held a gun. All agreed that he was armed and that the woman tried to get out of the car. That the car then drove off at speed.

  Maria Renshaw was found a mile down the road. She had been stabbed to death. Her car turned up a week after and although there were suspects, including an ex-boyfriend, no one was ever charged. The car had been used in the commission of an armed robbery two days after it had been taken and Maria Renshaw killed. The assumption was that she had fought back and things had gone too far.

  Frowning, Kendall closed the folder. He remembered Yolanda talking about a photo she had noticed at Trent’s cottage. Presumably, that was the woman who had died.

  Bad luck? Coincidence? Of course that was the most likely explanation. There seemed no logical link between this death and Ellen Tailor’s except for one unlucky former professor.

  It was getting dark and had begun to drizzle with rain but despite their grandmother calling them to come inside, neither Jeb nor Megan had moved. Megan sat on the swing and Jeb leaned on the frame that held it up. Neither had spoken for a while. Megan stared at the ground and Jeb stared at Megan.

  ‘I want to go home with Auntie Diane,’ Megan said at last. ‘I don’t want to stay here and I don’t want to go back there.’

  Jeb knew that ‘there’ was the farm. The home they had both loved until …

  ‘Auntie Diane can’t look after us,’ he said. ‘She’s only got a tiny flat. And anyway—’

  ‘Anyway, she won’t let us.’ Megan said. Jeb wasn’t used to hearing such fury from his little sister. Megan was quiet, happy. Easy going. Jeb had always been what their mother called the ‘intense one’. He knew full well who she was. Their nan, Daphne, she was adamant that they would be staying with her and that they would be, as she had put it, reclaiming the farm.

  Jeb hated the idea and he knew that Megan did too. The thought of going back to where … He didn’t even have to close his eyes to see what their mother had looked like. Bits of bone and brain and blood. He’d tried to grab Megan before she saw, but he hadn’t been quick enough. Now, they both had that image stuck in their heads and Jeb knew it would never go away.

  The back door opened and light flooded into the garden but didn’t quite reach the swing. Jeb scowled, expecting their nan to be coming to demand they went back inside. Instead, it was their auntie Diane. She held their coats and silently handed them over before taking up a position that echoed Jeb’s on the other side of the swing. ‘She’s gone to get fish and chips,’ Diane said.

  ‘Can’t we just get in your car and go?’ Jeb asked ‘We could be miles away before she gets back.’

  ‘And then what?’ Diane asked. ‘Things have to be done properly, you know? If they’re going to be right.’

  Jeb shrugged. ‘You’ll be going away soon.’

  ‘Not soon, no. I called my boss. He’s a nice guy. Says they’ll cover for me as long as I need. I’m not running out on you, Jeb.’

  ‘I hate her,’ Jeb said.

  ‘Hate is a bad word, sweetie.’

  ‘I don’t care. I do. The way she talks about Mum. I can’t stand it.’

  ‘She and your mum didn’t get along,’ Diane said, trying to keep her tone reasonable. ‘I’m sure she doesn’t say anything bad in front of either of you.’

  ‘We can still hear her,’ Jeb argued. ‘When she’s on the phone to Uncle Ray—’

 
‘Uncle Ray? When did she talk to him? Did she phone all the way to New Zealand?’

  ‘She can’t have done,’ Jeb said. ‘She was arranging to go and have coffee with him.’

  ‘Was she now? She kept that quiet.’ Diane frowned. ‘Not that I’m encouraging either of you to go round listening to other people’s conversations, but did you happen to hear when?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Jeb looked at Megan, who nodded.

  ‘In the afternoon,’ she said.

  Diane nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘So can we leave then?’ Megan asked. ‘She’ll be out for a while. She likes Uncle Ray.’

  ‘Sorry, loves, but we can’t go chasing across the country. Like I said, these things have to be done right. We might take the opportunity to go out for a bit, though. I’ve had a text from that policeman that came to talk to us. His boss would like a word. He’s based over at Frantham, sooo.’

  ‘That’s by the sea,’ Megan said. ‘Mum liked it there.’

  ‘I know she did, love. Ah, looks like your nan’s back. So keep this quiet, OK? I’d rather she didn’t suddenly decide to tag along.’

  The back door opened again and Daphne appeared. ‘You’re not all still out there, surely. Diane, I thought you’d have had more sense. Get yourselves in here and eat your fish and chips. Megan, I got you a fish cake. I know you don’t like the batter very much.’

  Silently, the children followed their aunt back inside, little Megan bringing up the rear. She allowed her nan to give her a quick hug as she passed through the door, tolerated the kiss planted on the top of her head. ‘Mum used to share a fish with me,’ she said. ‘She used to take the batter off my half so I could just eat the fish.’

  She felt her grandmother stiffen and draw away. Megan looked up at the woman’s face and saw her try to smile. ‘Well,’ Daphne said, mustering cheerfulness. ‘That is a bit wasteful, don’t you think? And you’re a bit too old now for people to go pandering to your fussiness, now aren’t you? Get the plates, Jeb, and I’ll find the knives and forks.’

  Extract from the diary of Bob Courtney. Feb 4th 1943:

  I walked into town today, then along the promenade and towards the old town. The path is blocked, of course, barbed wire strung across their walkway just before it turns on the headland. Some fool must have fancied himself clever, blocking the way, but whoever made the decision had never been in a boat, not if they imagined even for a moment that there was any kind of landfall there. I stood for a little while and watched the sea boil at the foot of the cliffs and I wondered if life would ever be normal ever again. Then I wondered if I would ever be and I think the answer to that one, my darling girl, is a resounding negative.

  The truth is, my darling, I see their faces. I catch sight of them in the mirror when I’m shaving. Reflected in the glass door in the hall. And it catches me off guard every time. They look so young, just as I remember them, each and every one, and I, my sweet love, I am starting to look so very old.

  I think we all are. And there are moments when I envy them, even though I know that is a terrible thing to say.

  Yesterday, I had a drink with Alan, we met for a beer in a little pub just up the coast and he told me that he was the only one who’d made it back. You know, I think that man has more lives than your old cat. He joked about making a pact with the devil and we drank to lost friends. A year ago, six months ago even, we would have named them all, but the losses have been too high and neither of us had the stomach for it. My darling, I know in this we are no different to anyone else in this damned business. No one has been untouched. By the end of it many will have been touched many times. When he left, I stood there, watching him walking away and I wondered if and when he would go back and then I knew he would. Alan is one of those rare animals who is most alive when he is looking his own demise in the face. I’m not sure he cares one way or another, if he makes it through or if he doesn’t, and he and I both know how dangerous that makes him.

  And I wonder sometimes, if that’s why he’s the only one to have made it back. Three times now. Three bloody times.

  And I know damned well that I’ll send him out again, in a heartbeat, because what he’s learnt by surviving is of the utmost and rarest value. He gets the job done.

  SIXTEEN

  Dan Marsden read his children a bedtime story about owl babies and the night time sounds of the forest. Sitting between them on Becky’s bed, little Chloe leaning into him and sucking her thumb as she always did when she was really tired.

  Afterwards, he lifted a half asleep Chloe into her bed and smoothed down the covers then kissed both of his daughters goodnight, dimming the light on the landing just the way they liked it.

  ‘Night, daddy.’

  ‘Good night, pumpkin. Sleep tight.’

  As he went back downstairs he found himself thinking about her children. Ellen’s children. They were older, of course, but they were still only children. He could have met them off the bus. He could easily have said that he was on his way to their house and run into them by chance after they got off the school bus. He poked at the memory, rather as he might have poked at a sore tooth or a mouth ulcer, knowing that would increase the pain, but unable to resist and, to his surprise, he found that the memory itself caused no additional grief.

  A little guilt, perhaps; knowing that should anyone have treated his own children with such disregard then he would not have held himself responsible for his reactions.

  Perhaps one day someone might, he thought. Perhaps someone would have a grudge sufficient that they took their revenge against him and his little girls might find themselves in such a place as Ellen’s children had.

  He poked at that particular thought and found, with a degree of satisfaction, that it did in fact genuinely hurt. That was good to know. That he could, genuinely, hurt.

  Holly was on her hands and knees piling toys back into the toy box. He bent to help her and she smiled at him. ‘Food’s ready, just needs serving.’

  ‘You want me to do that while you finish up here?’

  ‘Thanks. That would be good.’

  He went through to the kitchen, set plates on trays, ladled casserole and vegetables on to them, poured two glasses of wine. By the time he returned to the living room the floor was cleared and the television on.

  He smiled. ‘Had a good day, baby?’

  She nodded. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, I think so.’ He set her tray on her lap and her wine glass on the little table beside her chair. Ellen and her children now far from his mind.

  Lydia de Freitas twisted the phone cord between her fingers and Edward could see she was imagining what it would be like to twist it tight around the caller’s neck.

  ‘Mrs Langton, yes, yes … I do understand, believe me and if items have been donated in error, I—’

  ‘No. Loaned. Of course I meant that.’

  ‘Mrs Langton, please, I’m sure … Look, I’ll be there from ten tomorrow. Come then and we’ll … No, Mrs Langton, I can’t be there earlier.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Lydia finished firmly. She set the receiver down.

  ‘There’s always one,’ Edward observed. ‘Now, put the answer phone on and come and have your dinner before it gets completely cold.’

  ‘More than one,’ Lydia said as she took her seat. ‘Most people have been absolutely wonderful, but that Langton woman seems to have taken it upon herself to stir up trouble and there’s, what, three of them that are now on the rampage. Don’t want their personal possessions being on display for all and sundry to see.’

  ‘So why donate in the first place?’

  ‘Well, I think that’s the whole point. I think the Langton woman’s daughter brought a box of stuff in. Mrs Langton, however, I think she’s just changed her mind.’

  ‘So, she could just say so. She doesn’t have to get nasty about it. Will it affect your display?’

  ‘Fortunately, no.’ Lydia told him. ‘I’ve got plenty of material and most of it much more impres
sive than the Langton contribution.’

  Edward laughed. ‘I must come over and have a proper look. You’re all set for the grand opening, then?’

  ‘Will be. Rina and Joy are due to come over tomorrow and that’s going to be a real bonus. Joy is so good at smoothing ruffled feathers and making everyone feel important and Rina’s got organizational skills in spades, so I’m very grateful. I might be really wicked and get Joy to deal with the Langton cow tomorrow.’

  Edward grinned at her. ‘But you won’t.’

  ‘I’m tempted. How are you doing with William Trent? Didn’t you have another meeting scheduled for today?’

  ‘He called and said he couldn’t make it. I don’t think either of us was sorry about that.’

  ‘This business with the woman at the farm,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m sure it’s upset him a great deal. He was a good friend.’

  ‘So I understand. It’s a bad business all round, Lydia. This area has seen enough blood, enough sacrifice. I hope they get the bastard quickly.’

  Lydia nodded. Silently, she raised her glass, thinking about Edward’s brother and their own sense of loss. William Trent might be a royal pain, but if he cared for this Ellen Tailor woman then Lydia had a lot of sympathy for him regardless.

  Mac called round at Peverill Lodge on the way home and spent a half-hour in the embrace of his strange extended family. He felt in need of the off kilter sanity that came with tea and cake and casual conversation and, most of all, affection and concern.

  ‘It’s a bad business,’ Eliza said. ‘Are you any further forward, Mac?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not so far, Eliza. Though I can’t say much, you know that.’

  She patted his hand absently and then cut more cake and put it on his plate. ‘I’ll get more tea.’

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ Mac said. ‘I’m going to get home and see if Miriam’s back yet.’

  Eliza nodded absently and left to make more tea anyway. Rina laughed. ‘She worries about you,’ she said. ‘They all do. I went to the airfield today and had a chat to Lydia about helping with the exhibit. She’s very cut up about Ellen. She said that Ellen Tailor had been very persuasive with the locals. That she didn’t think she’d have such a range of exhibits without her help.’