by A J Waines
I reflect on the last few months. I fell headlong for Peter at the start. He made me feel important, special, significant. I was swept up into his world, full of magic and allure. Then I realised my feelings were more about how he made me feel, than how I actually felt about him, as a person. He’s sparky and great fun to be with, but his views are often staid. He’s sensible, down to earth and organised and I’m flighty, impulsive, looking for upside-down ways of doing things. If his colours are grey and brown, then mine are fluorescent orange and lime green.
In a phone conversation, shortly before my hen party, he took it for granted that I’d change my surname to his once we’d tied the knot. I flared up in outrage.
‘I want to stay Beth Kendall. It’s part of my identity, it’s my history, it connects me to my family.’
‘Come on, it’s got to be Roper. It’s not like you’ve built up any kind of following with your name as it stands.’
‘Thanks for reminding me…’
‘In any case, you’ve barely got any family. You don’t even know who your father is!’
His remarks stung. All along he’d made it seem like my upbringing had never been an issue for him, but clearly it was. He even went as far as to say that it seemed disrespectful if I didn’t take his name, that I wasn’t considering his feelings.
‘Changing my name is not a nice little favour I can do for you, like baking you a cake or giving you a foot massage,’ I retorted. He ended the call in a huff and the issue was never properly resolved. More ruffled feathers I can’t bring myself to tell Mum about.
Then there’s the age difference. I didn’t think it mattered, but it does. While he says he wants to help launch my career, he’s apparently set his own private time-limit for it. His heart can’t really be in it. What he actually wants is a family and I can’t see that being on my agenda for at least ten years.
I draw my knees up to my chest and feel the rough familiarity of the denim fabric against my chin. Peter hates jeans. He thinks they make me look cheap. I love them, especially skinny ones with stilettos.
I need to face this. I haven’t felt right about Peter for a long time, otherwise why would I have been tempted to go astray so easily? I flip the torch on again and re-read the note, then pick up the biro and anxiously chew the end of it while I think about how I’m going to respond. If I admit to the affair, won’t that make everything worse? Won’t it make my abductor more angry? It could even put Mum in danger, because my confession would create the link between Carl and I.
Amelia has obviously become entirely unhinged with grief and rage. She might be capable of anything. This has to be her doing. She would have access to Carl’s boat, just like Peter.
I pick up the pen and begin to write:
No, I did not have an affair with Carl. I met him at a party once and I barely know him. You’ve got this all wrong. You’ve got to let me out. I need my asthma inhaler – I could die locked away like this. Are you prepared to commit murder? Please don’t leave me here. Beth
I slip it under the door and wait.
45
Rachel
‘You okay?’ Kate asks me, stroking my face. She’s packed up her market stall early this lunchtime and come straight over.
‘Just…you know…fearing the worst,’ I say. ‘It happens.’
‘I know,’ she looks pensive for a second, ‘but most people are somewhere unexpected, rather than missing or…you know…aren’t they? Ninety-nine per cent of the time…that’s what the police said, wasn’t it?’
I sigh.
Now we’ve paid a visit to everyone we can think of, the police have advised me to stay at home. But I can’t focus on anything.
‘Peter’s on his way back,’ I tell her, betraying my unease. ‘I don’t want to have to go through it all again with him.’
Kate reaches into her bag and offers me a Snickers. I shake my head. ‘It’s another person who can help,’ she says. ‘Look at it like that.’
I grunt.
‘The police confirmed that Beth did go to Southampton on Sunday night,’ I tell her, as she munches her way through the chocolate bar, ‘but that she returned to Adrian’s and was dropped off at 10 p.m. in a taxi.’
‘Then Peter spoke to her here, the following day?’ She licks her fingers.
‘Yeah.’ I don’t want to complicate things. I haven’t got the energy. ‘I’m sure she went back to Adrian’s. I’m certain she went missing from there. Beth has never taken off like this before. It means she’s regarded as “high risk” by the police.’
‘What else are they doing?’ she asks.
‘They’ve checked local hospitals, gone house to house both here and at Adrian’s and they’ve set up media coverage to appeal for sightings of her. Dogs have been through the woods near the cottage and the streets around here have been scoured.’ I drop my face into my hand. ‘We’ve contacted everyone we can – there’s nowhere else to look.’
Kate cradles my head but doesn’t offer empty platitudes.
Before she arrived, I’d been sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the packet of green tea Beth drinks, stuffed beside the toaster. I’ve had plenty of time in Beth’s absence to re-run little conversations through my mind and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve missed something vital.
Beth’s feelings for Peter changed a long time ago – even before ‘the accident’.
Now I think about it, it was subtle at first and I probably didn’t want to acknowledge it.
I ease myself out of Kate’s embrace to look at her.
‘I’ve been blind.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘I think Beth and Peter’s relationship has been coming apart at the seams for weeks now.’
She stares at me in disbelief. ‘Seriously?’
‘It might have even been as far back as January. Peter wasn’t featuring in Beth’s chatty daily round-ups so much. She was more likely to be telling me about Maria or Tina, films or pop concerts she’d been to.’
The first splinters in the smooth veneer?
I shudder. ‘Then, when she did mention him, it would usually be couched in a faintly disparaging tone: Did you know Peter used to stammer until he was fifteen? Can you believe Peter has to wear a gum shield at night because he grinds his teeth? Peter never talks to me about his work.’ I swallow. ‘She’s been going off him all this time.’
‘But Beth always speaks her mind,’ Kate says with authority. ‘She’s the most outspoken person I know. Surely she would have told you if her feelings for Peter had changed.’
I stare at the back door. It’s just dawning on me what has been going on.
‘I wanted this for her, so much,’ I prattle on. ‘I threw myself into making their wedding a supreme celebration of their love. It’s the one thing that’s kept me going and Beth knows that. Yet as time has gone on, Beth’s been getting smaller and smaller in the whole process. At some stage, she’s practically become invisible. Marrying Peter stopped being about her. It’s been about me.’
‘You’ve only wanted the best for her. Peter’s been wonderful, you said. Such a generous and warm man.’
‘But I think her feelings for him have gone off the boil. I’ve not allowed myself to see it.’ I drag my finger nails over my bottom teeth. ‘I’ve been so stupid.’
‘You mustn’t worry about that now. Let’s just get her back, safe and sound.’
Kate goes home to get some long-overdue sleep and shortly afterwards, Peter arrives.
I throw my arms around his neck and he pulls me hard against him for probably longer than is appropriate.
‘No word?’ he asks softly, resting his chin on the top of my head.
‘No word.’
Now he’s arrived, I’m glad of his company. I’d probably spiral into a frenzy, left on my own. He’s brought a small overnight bag with him.
‘Stay here, will you?’ I say it more as a plea than an offer.
I lead him upstairs and invite hi
m into the third bedroom, the one that used to be Beth’s before she moved into Russell’s. It’s only once he’s lifted his bag onto the bed that I realise I’ll have to introduce him to the odd bathroom arrangement. He’s only ever been here for around two hours at a time and has never asked to use the toilet before.
I show him how he’ll need to enter from Beth’s room and remind him to lock the door that connects to my room to avoid any embarrassments.
He seems to find the layout amusing. I only hope it doesn’t prompt any suspicions about his conversation with Beth through the door on Monday.
Later, the sun climbs out unexpectedly from behind overlapping clouds, like a dog nudging open a closed door. After days of drizzle, we sit on the back patio with strong coffee. It doesn’t seem right to drink wine, although we could both probably do with a glass. The only outdoor seats are the two old-fashioned deckchairs, and, to an outsider, we must look like we’re putting our feet up, enjoying ourselves.
I’m feeling out of touch with reality. It was the same after Russell passed away. Moments would go by when the world seemed normal and how it should be, then my stomach would drop as the recognition of how things really were hit me afresh.
‘I’ve had people asking about final arrangements for the wedding,’ I say.
‘What have you told them?’
‘It’s been on the news now that Beth is missing, so some of the local businesses seem to know. They’re putting things on hold…but…’
He gives me a desperate look.
I suck my bottom lip. ‘No matter what happens, I think we should postpone it,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t you?’
He nods, looking defeated. ‘Yes – I do.’
I’m silently grateful he’s not putting up a fight.
‘I’ve been putting together a list of everything we have to cancel; the big things like the church, the guests, the hotel, the catering and the smaller ones like the car, the music, the flowers...’ I drop my eyes. I am on the verge of sobbing with every breath. ‘My friend Kate said she’d help.’
‘And I will, of course.’ He flicks his cuff aside to look at his watch. ‘I’ll need to contact my parents,’ he says. ‘They’ve been holding off leaving New York until things were clearer.’
I take our empty mugs inside and wipe random surfaces down in the kitchen to give him privacy. When I re-join him outside, he’s flushed and his hair is sticking out behind one ear.
‘That bloody woman…’ he growls, shaking his head.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s Amelia again. She’s hounding me. Throwing more accusations out about Beth. It’s unbelievable.’
I stand with my arm shaking on the back of his deckchair, gouging out splinters with my thumb nail. ‘Does she know Beth’s missing?’
‘No, but I’ll set her straight.’
‘Where does Amelia live?’
‘Arundel.’
It’s about an hour and a half from here, by car.
‘What’s she claiming now?’
‘It’s ridiculous. Honestly. You don’t want to know.’
‘No, go on.’ I sit beside him once more. The deckchair forces me into a lounging position – ludicrous considering the grave matters we’re discussing. ‘Tell me...’
‘She’s saying not only that Beth had an affair with Carl, but that she killed him, too. I mean…’ He shakes his head, his mouth gaping.
‘How does she work that one out?’
‘The police have identified the rug that…Carl was buried in. You know about that, right? It was one from your pub, I understand?’
I glance down. ‘Yes, that’s true. They think someone might have pinched it from the skip at the back…’ I wave my arms around, ‘…you know, an opportunist thing. It was certainly open-house for a few weeks while the place was completely refitted.’
‘Amelia…or most probably Nancy…is saying that you work in the “very same pub” and therefore it’s another direct connection between Carl and Beth.’
I give a little huff. ‘Is that all?’
‘Plus, the fact that the killer buried Carl in the same graveyard where your partner is buried...again…the link.’
I feel a vicious kick inside my abdomen. Amelia has been a proper little Miss Marple.
‘That’s all true,’ I say, trying not to let my cheeks turn pink. It’s all purely circumstantial, but when you add everything together, you could make the assumption that it points Beth’s way.
He laughs. ‘I mean…I know Beth…it’s just preposterous.’
‘What do the police think?’
‘Amelia has been pestering them on a daily basis and she says they’ve been rude to her. They’ve been checking the rug, obviously, looking for the most recent surface traces, but I’m sure if they’d found anything, she’d have heard something by now.’ He runs his fingers through his thick hair. ‘Amelia says the senior investigating officer has pared down that part of the forensic operation. It’s all about costs. Amelia’s not happy. She can’t get it into her head that the police know what they’re doing!’
I can’t help thinking that as time goes on Carl’s widow is becoming a loose cannon. And although the police appear to be treating her as a hysterical hindrance, she’s still a cause for concern. What if she does eventually stumble on something that concretely links Beth and Carl together?
As the metallic clouds swallow up the sun again, I wonder whether I need to pay Amelia a visit.
On second thoughts, my chances of getting her to back off would be increased a hundredfold if Peter was by my side. As Carl’s good friend, he has a vested interest in seeing the killer found, so he could persuade her to stop interfering better than anyone.
46
Beth
When I next wake, we’re on the move again. The put-put sound of the engine softens into a monotonous chunter. The torch I left by my side under the blanket is still there, so I flick it on to see what now awaits me by the door. The dish has gone, my bucket has been emptied and there’s another sheet of paper on the floor:
I know what you were up to. Where were you on the evenings of Jan 4, Feb 19 and March 8? Write down exactly where you were and who you were with. Then sign the note and push it under the door. I’m going to wait for you to tell me the truth. I’ve got all the time in the world, but I’m not sure you have… No more food, water or asthma inhaler until you tell the truth. Pathetic little thing, aren’t you? Can’t work out what Carl saw in you.
I recognise the dates straight away. The first two were times when Carl and I secretly met at a hotel in London. The final date will always be a scar in my mind – the evening Carl and I went to the cellar.
What should I do? Even if I admit the truth, Amelia – it must be her – is obviously unstable and volatile. She’s gone to these lengths already.
The jug of water is now only half full. My breathing is shallow, fast and short at the top of my chest, like an injured animal. I’ve got to get out. I switch off the torch to conserve the batteries and rattle the pen between my teeth. How should I respond? I’m not getting any more food or water. By the time I get another visit, I might be dead.
It’s a hazardous gamble, but if I don’t shake things up, I might never get out of here alive.
I flick the torch back on and write the names of the hotels we stayed at beside the dates, giving arrival and leaving times. For March 8, I write that Carl and I arranged to meet at Mum’s house while she was out. At the end I put;
You’re right. I, Beth Kendall, had a brief and meaningless affair with Carl Jacobson.
I fold the paper and slip it under the door before I can change my mind. Maybe my confession will force a confrontation. Now I’ve come clean about the affair, something has to shift, doesn’t it? Anything would be better than rotting away in this airless pit.
47
Rachel
The taxi crunches along the sweeping drive and leaves us at the foot of a double stone staircase.
I take in a sharp breath. I feel like I’m on the film set of Downton Abbey.
Amelia’s home looks like the kind of place where you’d pay at least ten quid for the privilege of setting foot inside the front door.
‘It’s a Georgian Grade two listed building,’ Peter says, ‘and Amelia is unlikely to set you straight if you make the assumption that she owns the whole place. In fact, she lives in the east wing; three bedrooms – the building is split into twenty apartments.’
‘Ah-ha…’
I already know a great deal about this woman I’ve never met. She’s neurotic, obsessed and now, it seems, has ideas above her station. Is she an abductor too? Has she taken Beth?
‘Where do we go in?’ I ask, hesitant about climbing the steps.
‘It’s round to the left,’ he says.
We pass an old stable block and barn, both converted into living areas. ‘Amelia keeps horses at a nearby farm,’ he says. ‘Riding is her passion.’
Amelia opens the front door before we reach it.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Peter,’ she says, throwing me a hostile stare. ‘It’s going from bad to worse.’
Without further explanation, she storms off across a hallway paved with flagstones. Her white-blonde hair has been scooped up into a beehive with stray ringlets at either side. It must have taken some time to construct.
To our left is an antiquated deep-set fireplace and, in the centre, a broad staircase leads to an oriel window.
We follow at a pace, as she brings us to what looks like the main room, with two L-shaped sofas, chandeliers and extensive views out across the lawns. Amelia sees me come to a standstill as I pause to take in the immaculate sweep of the grounds. I catch the self-righteous curl of her lip which fleetingly interrupts the consternation on her face.