“I don’t know.” My heart was beating faster. Lisa Chilcott was Megan Foster. Lisa Chilcott had to be Megan Foster. Because if she wasn’t...
“Funnily enough after you told me about the theory that someone claimed that Lisa had never been borne, that she was the alter ego of Megan Foster, the Irish connection seemed an unlikely possibility, but sometimes it’s the unlikely ideas that pay off. Bit of a Sherlock Homes moment, I felt quite proud.”
Oh God. No. No!
“Paul, can you read me out the rest of the information on the form?”
“Course, here we are Jack: Lisa Alexandra Chilcott, born – I told you that bit – mother’s maiden name O’Shaughnessy, father David Anthony Chilcott.”
I thanked him and hung up. Closed my eyes.
But it didn’t matter. It didn’t necessarily mean a thing. Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop myself dialling the number of Tyler McKay, the editor of The Bargery Advertiser, just to get his take on it. The journalist who’d written the story must have had good reason to suppose Lisa Chilcott had been Megan Foster.
“Oh hello Jack, you must be psychic, I’d been meaning to call you,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes. You haven’t finished your book yet, have you?”
“No, why?”I remember that I’d told him I wanted to get information about Lisa Chilcott for a book I was writing about killers who committed suicide.
“Good, because I’m afraid I’ve gone and led you up the garden path a bit, sorry about that. Thing is, that story about Lisa Chilcott being the alter ego of Megan Foster wasn’t by Tony Price at all. There was some cock-up with the bylines that week. In fact Tony kicked up quite a stink about it, apparently, because it was actually written by Kevin Till, one of our up-and-coming juniors of those days. We had to let Kevin go not long afterwards because of a nasty legal tangle he got us involved in because he hadn’t checked his facts.”
“So the Lisa story isn’t reliable?”
“No, I’m sorry mate, it isn’t. Doesn’t mean to say that Kevin didn’t get it right, of course, you’d best try and check it out yourself if you can. But Kevin hadn’t been with us long, he was all out to impress us, keen for promotion. And he certainly didn’t have a reputation for checking things scrupulously.”
When I cut the connection I tried to rationalise my thoughts.
Okay, so Lisa wasn’t Megan Foster. Which meant that the likelihood was that Megan Foster was still alive somewhere, living under another identity, presumably minding her own business and keeping to the law, just as the authorities had planned. What did it prove? What did it matter? It was a thousand miles away from Megan Foster being my Lucy.
And yet...
* * * *
Much later, after I’d arrived at Llantrissant Manor, Lucy phoned, telling me she’d been questioned by the police about Caroline’s assertion that she’d seen her on the night she was attacked. They’d been apologetic, explaining that although they were duty bound to check out everything, however crazy it sounded, they’d never really taken Caroline’s testimony seriously. This was because they considered that Caroline was still confused about what had happened, and the hospital had told them that she was suffering from a form of amnesia.
I worked alone at the Manor for four days, then Lucy phoned, telling me in excitement that Judy, her shop-owner friend, was out of hospital, and was going to take over the running of the shop the following day, so that now she could come down to Wales to be with me.
I should have been thrilled, yet for some reason I wasn’t. Next day I picked her up at Cardiff station: Lucy had decided to leave her car in Canterbury. We drove back to Llantrissant with Lucy chattering excitedly about the scenery. I couldn’t stop thinking about Caroline, especially the things Caroline had said to me.
Although I was in love with her, I was finding that Lucy wore me out: her constant anxieties and soul searching always seemed so full-on. When I fell in love with her it was an instant thing, something beyond my control, but now that I was spending more and more time with her, I had the growing conviction that I was less and less sure I wanted a permanent relationship with her.
During the next few days there were little things that upset me. Such as the way she didn’t smile at the postman when he delivered the letters in the morning, the way she just slammed the door in his face. Her quick temper, the way she’d lash out with hurtful words without even realising their effect. And she was pushing me to commit myself, talking about setting up home together. She wanted us to find a house, maybe in the spring, her plan was to tie it in to after the publication of Hero or Villain?, and when I’d hopefully finished The Bible Killer.
That had been another bone of contention. I’d had to tell her that I was writing a book about the murders and she was furious about it, calling me an opportunist, someone who profited from people’s heartache and misery. Our row had been bitter, but afterwards we’d made up. She’d apologised for the things she’d said, but she just didn’t get it. When someone’s made a hurtful remark it stays in your mind and festers.
She knew the danger I was in, yet never once did she seem to take it seriously, just laughed it off, almost blamed me for landing myself in the situation in the first place. Time and again she said “Why did you get yourself into a situation like that?” neglecting to realise that it was my job, or that things were as they were, and it was too late to change them.
Ann had emailed, saying how relieved she was that at last everything seemed to be working out properly. There were still articles in the papers about the Bible Killer, but the furore was beginning to die down. We just had to lie low for another few weeks, then Hero or Villain? would be published and, presumably, I’d be off the hook with Sean Boyd.
As if to underline my concerns about my relationship with Lucy, at around three o’clock that afternoon the sky turned dark, darker than I’ve ever known it, and the clouds looked evil. There was an undeniable tension between Lucy and me. Despite her deliberately bright forced chatter I felt wary, as if conversation with her was like walking on eggshells.
The beginning of the end of my world started when it began to rain. And rain. We’d finished lunch and were wondering whether to go for a drive when the deluge began. It wasn’t like any rain I’ve ever known before. There was a relentless stair-rod quality that I’ve never experienced, as if the rain was thundering out of the sky with a terrifying unreal intensity, and the speed and volume of the water’s fall was scaring. I turned on the radio, and the local station said there were flood warnings in place for our valley.
“Don’t look so worried,” Lucy said, smiling, as we stood in the hallway, looking out of the open front door. “This valley must have flooded before.”
“Sure. Ann went on about how when it was built by the eccentric millionaire in the 1840s, everyone thought he was mad to build in the valley, because it’s been known for flooding. But he raised it up on high foundations about a couple of feet above ground, and reckoned that would do the trick. Apparently a few years ago the water got higher than the ground floor and they had to change all the carpets.”
“So the water might cover the ground floor for an inch or so. It’s no big deal then. I guess we just go upstairs if that happens.”
That was the theory, sure. But as I looked out and saw most of the road and grass disappearing as I watched, it looked as if a river was forming, and I felt a sickening terror at the pit of my stomach. The new ‘sea’ was getting deeper, and already I could see that the Land Rover’s wheels were almost covered up to halfway. If it rose above the engine’s level the electrics would be waterlogged, and the computer management system possibly wrecked. We were stuck here until the water level dropped, which could be days. The only way out of Bryn-y-Gare Valley was on foot, and climbing up the cliff road in this weather looked hardly feasible.
“What’s it matter?” Lucy said reasonably, pulling me into her arms, and slamming the door. “Forget about it. The car’s insured. The main
thing is we’re together. We’re happy. We’ve got food and warmth. We just sit tight and wait it out.”
“Noah’s Flood syndrome I suppose,” I answered, stroking her hair, and feeling the warmth of her body and the glowing fulfilment of the exciting thrill of her, trying to recapture my feelings of when we’d first met. However, as I looked over her shoulder and pictured the streaming sheets of water there was no stopping that awful feeling of dread. “It’s just to see it arriving so fast. When the water starts coming like this it’s terrifying. As if it’s never going to stop.”
“Heavens Jack, it’s me who’s supposed to have all the hang-ups.” She frowned momentarily, and pulled herself out of my arms to turn round, gazing out of the glass panel in the door. “Actually I like it.” She shivered as she stared at the scene, before moving back. “It seals us off in our own little cocoon. Nothing can come in and spoil things for us. I feel safe. As if nothing bad can ever happen to me.”
“So all that stuff about being convinced you’ll die before your thirty eighth birthday?”
“Gone.” She smiled and shook her head. “Since I met you. I realise it’s just that I’ve just been insecure all these years. All this time I’ve had the feeling that something or someone is out to get me. But now I’ve got you, I don’t have that feeling any more. And we’re going to be happy Jack, I just know we are. Now I’ve met you I’m never ever going to let you go.”
But I wasn’t listening. I was remembering about when I came here to Bryn-y-Gare Valley for the first time. Alone driving the Discovery up the mountainside, to get to the pass in the darkness, just before all my doubts about Lucy, a lifetime ago. And the local farmer, Ken Gifford, who’d helped me. I’d run into Ken several times since and I enjoyed his company. Indeed on some of my days at the Manor, chatting to Ken while I was out for a walk was the high point of my lonely day.
“The thing is,” I said to Lucy, “we’re not the only ones living in this valley. There’s an old guy who gave me directions and helped me when I first came here. He lives along the road somewhere, told me he had a cottage. I wonder if he’s all right.”
“He could be away from home, or else, if he’s lived here a long time, he probably knows more about floods than we do.”
“Yes, but the electricity’s not likely to hold out, and we’ve got generators.”
“So might he.”
I nodded. “But apart from that, we’re much better placed to withstand all this than he is. I think I ought to go and see if he’s all right, offer for him and his wife to come here.”
“There’s no need!” Lucy said forcefully, actually stamping her foot. Her sweet temper had vanished with the frown’s arrival, and her mouth was set into a sulky pout. “For God’s sake, we don’t need anyone else! You shouldn’t go out in this!”
“It’s not too bad at the moment.”
I’d made up my mind, and stood up, trying to remember where my Wellington boots and raincoat were. “I’ll go now and get back as quick as I can.”
“But look at the sky, it’s practically black! And it gets dark in a couple of hours anyway,” Lucy said. “There’s hardly any daylight left, and wading through this lot in the dark is madness! Why can’t you phone him?”
“Phone was the first thing I tried, but it’s dead. First casualty of the flood. And there’s no mobile signal either – the water must have damaged the local mast. I’ll go now, and get back as quick as I can.”
“Hell!” She chewed at her lower lip. “What do we care about some old guy you don’t even know? I don’t want to be stuck having to talk to a boring old couple for hours on end. Who gives a damn about him?”
I felt anger rising up inside me. Certainly I didn’t know Ken, I’d only met him a handful of times. But I’d instinctively liked him, and I was determined to offer my help whether she liked it or not.
“I didn’t like to say anything, but I’m not feeling well, think that I’ve got that flu back again,” Lucy leaned against the wall, passing a hand across her forehead. “Jack, listen, I’ve got a really bad sore throat, and I’ve got these aches in my shoulders, you know?” A tiny pulse throbbed on her forehead. “I really don’t want to be left on my own.”
“It’s always about you, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You can never spare a thought for anyone else.”
“So I’m selfish, am I? Well at least it’s better than wanting to be everyone’s mate, smiling at total strangers, the way you do.”
“What’s wrong with being friendly?”
“There’s friendly, and being over the top. That’s why you’re such a...”
“What?”
“All right! You’re soft, Jack! You’re too trusting. Even though you write about vicious evil criminals, and I know you can handle yourself in a fight, you’re still naïve about people. You believe that most folk are nice and kind, you trust people, when you shouldn’t. On the whole, human beings are shits. You’ve got to realise that everyone is out for number one, and they don’t give a damn about you.”
“I’m going out to check that Ken’s all right.”
“Please, Jack, please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”
“I’ll be back within an hour.”
“Don’t go, Jack. Please! I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. I know it’ll be a big mistake.”
She was right. But for reasons neither of us could have guessed at.
Chapter 12
THE BIG FLOOD
Once I was outside, feeling the full force of the rain pounding hard into my face, I wondered if I’d been stubborn and stupid to have taken the decision. The swirling torrent was already a flood by anyone’s standards, the water I was plunging though nearly six inches deep, swirling and eddying as I walked, and hard to negotiate, like wading through a swimming pool, oozing and sucking at each step, already surging over the top of my Wellington boots and soaking my socks. The rain was falling so hard it actually hurt my cheeks, such was the force of the water, and all I could do was keep my head down and go forwards. My ‘storm proof’ flack jacket’s waterproofing was also compromised, so that icy water clawed at my skin. And it was practically impossible to see through the misty torrent, as if I was groping through an angry, dark, terrifying world of freezing streaming water.
I remembered I’d seen Ken Gifford’s cottage when I’d first arrived here in sunshine, and I recalled it was only a few hundred yards down the road. I pictured the water getting as deep as a couple of feet, then up to my waist. Would there be some kind of tide, or water-borne currents that could sweep me away? I had no idea, nor did I really want to dwell on the thought. It was better not to think too deeply, just get on with what was in front of me.
After a while I saw Ken’s cottage in the distance, and thanked heaven that I’d be there very soon. The rising rock of the mountain was to my left, but to the right the road had now completely disappeared, and without the rock to cling to I could easily have become disorientated. Unable to get back to Llantrissant Manor.
Wading up what I assumed was Ken’s front drive, I made it to his door. The builder of Ken’s cottage hadn’t been so farsighted as those who had constructed Llantrissant Manor. Although Ken’s ground floor was a foot higher than its surroundings, this was barely enough to keep the flood at bay, and the water level was virtually up to his top step.
He came to the door in response to my knock.
“Hello, neighbour,” the old man said warmly, peering out at me above his half glasses. He wore blue jeans and a large blue sweater, and gumboots, the same as mine. “All set for the flood?”
“That’s what I came to ask you about.” I replied entering his narrow hallway, shivering with the freezing ice against my skin. “You’re very welcome to come up to the Manor – I think we’re on slightly higher ground than you are.”
“That’s kind of you, but this is nothing, happens most years.” He sounded calm and relaxed. “Ten years ago the valley was flooded blo
ody nearly three feet deep, and it wasn’t much better last year. We’re used to it, see? Just a question of shifting things upstairs and staying put. Maureen and I did all that this morning, so we’ll just go up and sit it out.”
“What if the electricity goes?”
“Candles. We’ve got plenty to spare if you need any. We’ve even got a battery powered telly to pass the time. Plus a camping stove for cooking, and we’ve already filled our water carriers. You’d better do that, sometimes the tap water gets contaminated.”
“We will, I remember seeing some in the cupboard. As for the candles, there’s no need thanks, we’re supposed to have a backup generator.”
“Buggers, generators, work fine when you test ‘em, then when you depend on them, sometimes they let you down. Just take a few in case.”
“I didn’t mean to–”
“Course you didn’t, I know that.” He took my arm and squeezed gently. “We really appreciate the offer. I knew you were a nice bloke. Liked you the first time I met you, instinct you might say. And to think you’ve made all this effort to came out in this bloody awful weather because you wanted to help us out of a mess. The least we can do in return is let you have a few essentials in case you need ’em.”
“Well if you’re sure.”
Ken thrust a dozen candles into a carrier bag and handed them over, adding a large torch.
“Oh I almost forgot,” he said, bustling away and returning with a brown paper parcel. “This arrived for you a few weeks ago, kept meaning to give it to you, then I forgot. I’ll put it in the bag.”
“Thanks.”
“You’d best get back before the water gets any deeper.”
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