by A J Waines
‘Tea?’ she says, making the word long and sending it up in pitch at the end. She’s looking at Peter, her chin held high, her arms out.
‘This is Rachel, Beth’s mother,’ he says, ignoring the offer. Amelia gives me a cursory nod. Peter turns to me. ‘Would you like something to drink, Rachel?’
I decide the brittle awkwardness might be alleviated by a central activity, so I accept. Amelia heads for a bell beside the fireplace and presses it. Wearing silk harem pants and a well-tailored ivory blouse, she’s showing more than an inkling of cleavage. She’s obviously someone who spends a lot of time and money on her appearance, but to me, the look says more ‘celebrity interview’ than ‘grieving widow’.
‘Darling, the most dreadful thing happened this morning,’ she says dramatically, pointing to one of the peach-coloured sofas. Peter and I sit together silently, like a couple at their first appointment for marriage counselling. Amelia, however, seems reluctant to join us and paces around the room, wafting towards the window, the fireplace – where she takes a swift peek at herself in the mirror – then back to the centre. She flinches when a young woman dressed in a black tunic enters the room.
‘Ah, Anna, there you are…tea for three, if you will. No biscuits…quick as you can. And tell Howard to cancel my massage at five o’clock, I’ve got to be somewhere…and make sure you get fresh mango for breakfast tomorrow, none of this packaged nonsense.’
Amelia’s instructions come thick and fast in a wispy and affected aristocratic accent. As she turns away, I catch Anna’s expression. Her jaw twists slightly to one side, betraying the slightest hint of animosity.
I’m here to persuade Amelia to call off her witch-hunt against Beth, but we’re about to have polite afternoon tea and I have no idea where to start.
‘Why is she here?’ she asks Peter, staring at me.
Peter shifts to the front of his seat. ‘Steady on, Mia.’
‘As her mother, you should be ashamed of yourself.’ She leers at me, shaking her finger, but keeping her distance as though I might bite.
I open my mouth, but Peter jumps in to defend me.
‘Rachel and I just want to see how you are and—’
‘Well, I’ve found something else,’ she says. ‘It’s all adding up now. The graveyard, the pub, the rug…’
‘You really have been jumping to conclusions,’ Peter interjects. ‘The police have no DNA from the rug and are still in the dark about exactly where Carl was—’
‘The police…the police…what the hell have they been doing? Pussy-footing around, when it’s obvious where everything leads…’ In her anger, she’s dropping consonants and her accent is slipping east towards Essex. ‘And now I have this…’ She turns to the mantelpiece and picks up a folded sheet of cream paper. She flaps it at the two of us.
‘I’ve just found it amongst Carl’s papers. Read it…go on…read it.’
Peter takes the sheet and I stare at a glass vase of white lilies on the coffee table in front of us, knowing it’s not my place to join him. There’s a delicate tick of a clock coming from somewhere in the room.
‘It’s not dated,’ says Peter, looking up. ‘Where was it?’
‘Hidden away,’ she snaps, ‘this is the first I’ve seen of it.’ She grips her forehead. ‘He says it’s all over between us…that he’s really fallen for her…says he’s going to leave me and the boys, this time…I can’t…’ Her voice splinters, then breaks off and she drops, finally, into the armchair beside the fireplace.
He hands me the sheet and I skim-read it. It’s a handwritten letter, signed by Carl, declaring his love for an unnamed ‘other’ woman. It’s the sort of letter you might leave behind once you’ve secretly packed your bags, ready to leave.
‘He never sent it to you…’ Peter reminds her.
Amelia is in tears, snuffling and sniffing into her hands. She finds a tissue down the side of the chair and dabs at her eyes.
‘Yes, but, he meant to. He was just waiting for the right time, wasn’t he?’ She narrows her eyes at me. ‘It has to be your daughter.’
She swings her scowling glare over to Peter. ‘And you? Did you know about this? He was your friend. Have you been keeping this from me?’
Peter is leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He’s too far away to reach out to her.
‘Of course not. This doesn’t make any sense to me. I mean…’ He taps the sheet against the edge of the table. ‘When did he write this? It could have been months, years ago.’
‘No…this is recent. This is about that woman! That flighty young thing who seduced him when he was vulnerable.’ She glowers at me. ‘I’m in a total state, I’m not thinking straight, there are unpaid bills…’
‘This isn’t about Beth, Mia. Honestly,’ Peter persists. ‘You don’t know her. She’s not…’ He clears his throat. ‘Look, Beth has gone missing. No one has seen her. Haven’t you seen the news?’
She looks momentarily taken aback, but holds herself in check, not wanting to betray any shred of concern.
She sniffs. ‘When?’
Peter and I speak at the same time. He says Monday and I say Sunday. We look at each other. ‘We’re not sure,’ I say, ‘but, it’s been at least two days.’
‘Well…that shows you, then, doesn’t it?’ she says without elucidating.
There’s a long weighty silence apart from the sound of the silver carriage clock. I’ve located it now, on the oval table by the window – reminding us of the passing of time.
‘Carl never ever rang Beth’s number or emailed her,’ Peter says, pedantically. ‘The police told you that. If anything was going on between them, don’t you think he would have contacted her?’
‘The police said he didn’t call her from his personal phones or his office, but it doesn’t mean he didn’t ring her…from the street.’ She says the words as if it’s a disgusting concept.
Peter ploughs on. ‘There was no evidence that the necklace was for Beth, you know that. And the photograph at the party – when Carl and Beth are supposed to be “sharing a moment”– well, that’s completely open to interpretation. She probably trod on his foot, or something…’
Amelia gets up and snatches the letter. She raps it with her nails. ‘This was serious. He was going to leave me…look it’s here, in black and white…’ She tosses it onto the carpet. ‘Beth Kendall killed him, I know she did. Something must have gone wrong between them. She must have given him an ultimatum or threatened to confront me and it got out of hand.’ She turns to the two of us. ‘You see, this letter means there was a motive!’
At that moment, the door swings open and Anna shuffles in with a tray. She sets it down on the coffee table and stands back meekly, her head bowed.
‘Shall I pour?’ she whispers, sensing an atmosphere.
Amelia flaps her away. ‘No, it’s fine.’
‘I tried my best,’ says Peter, as we stride back to the front drive, shortly afterwards. A taxi is on its way.
‘I don’t think there was anything either of us could have said to change her mind,’ I tell him.
In fact, I’d said virtually nothing the entire time. There didn’t seem any point. If she wouldn’t pay attention to Peter, why would she listen to me?
My phone buzzes. It’s Adrian.
‘Is she back?’ I ask eagerly.
‘No, but I remembered something. About the night Beth was last here. A sound outside the window. It was a diesel engine. I got out of bed and looked down. A Land Rover had stopped near the gate.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. I’m not sure of the colour…grey, beige, green…I don’t know, but definitely a Land Rover. One of the doors was open and the light was on. It was late.’
‘Anything else? Did you see anyone?’
‘No. That’s all. Nothing else.’
‘Okay, Adrian. That’s really helpful.’
I end the call and turn to Peter. ‘What does Amelia drive?’
‘A mini. A re
d one,’ he says, without hesitation.
‘Oh…nothing else?’
Then as an afterthought, he adds, ‘There are horses over at the farm. A few of Amelia’s friends shift them around in horse boxes. To shows and events.’
‘Amelia, too?’
‘Yeah. Not using the mini, obviously.’
I wait for the words.
‘She uses the Land Rover.’
48
Beth
I’m looking up at the sky. A swirling fantasy in blue. It’s like walking around inside someone’s eye, surrounded by flecks of white and grey. I must be half-asleep, dreaming of wispy clouds on the move as they wait for no one. They slip away like whispers, like ghosts.
I blink and realise it is the sky.
I’m in the open air. A breeze kissing my hair. I can breathe at last. Am I dreaming? If so, I want to stay in this dream forever. To wake is to be locked away, incarcerated in the suffocating shadows.
The sun slides out from behind the next cloud and is blinding. It’s then I realise this is no dream. I am awake. Alive. Outside. The realisation sends a shiver of bliss through my entire body. I wanted my confession to change everything and it has. Somehow. I am free. I lay back, let time stand still, mesmerised by the feathering clouds melting above me, like snowflakes. There’s a gentle lulling movement beneath me. I am a baby in a cradle, a leaf bobbing along a winding brook. I let it go on and on.
A sound startles me, and I try to sit up. A cough. There’s a blanket over my legs and I am not alone. Someone is sitting watching me. I struggle to get upright.
It’s Amelia. I knew it!
When I come to my senses, I realise my hands and feet are tied. Surrounding us is an endless expanse of water.
‘Where are we?’ I croak. My lip splits as I speak and I taste the salty, metallic taste of blood. ‘I need water,’ I whisper.
‘One thing at a time,’ she says grumpily, as though I’ve been pestering her for hours.
She squats low beside me and tips water from a plastic bottle between my eager lips.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
We’re in a small rubber dinghy and appear to be drifting in the middle of nowhere.
‘This is one of Carl’s favourite spots,’ she says conversationally. ‘We’re in the English Channel, by the way. We used to regularly cruise to Alderney – did you know that?’
My eyes flick around the interior of the orange dinghy. It looks battered to me, with frayed seams and shiny patches of wear and tear, like it’s been around for years. There’s a bracket on the back for attaching an engine, but it’s not there. Instead, two oars are clipped on the sides. Neither of us are wearing life-jackets. As if to warn me of how precarious we are, the kink of a wave suddenly kicks us up and my stomach lurches.
‘It’s probably the wake from a tanker somewhere…’ she says, looking vaguely into the distance. We ride over the swell and bob up and down. The sun is low and bright and I can’t see anything on the horizon, just open sea stretching for miles.
‘Wind south-westerly,’ she says, ‘force three to four.’
She’s completely mad, bringing me out in a tiny inflatable somewhere in the English Channel.
‘We’re safe,’ she says, as if she’s heard my thoughts. She reaches to the back of the boat and points to a thick rope attached to a plastic loop that trails into the water. ‘We’re attached with this rope to Carl’s yacht. I can get us back on board any time I like.’
I whip around fully and spot a white shape in the distance. Carl’s yacht. We are not alone.
‘We used to see dolphins,’ she says. ‘Carl used to catch mackerel with a hand-line.’
A cloud the colour of pewter claims the sun and the temperature drops instantly. The breeze picks up. It’s going to be dark before long. A blast of panic seizes my throat and I press my chest as my lungs fight to take in air.
‘Asthma…my inhaler. I really need it…’ I rasp at her.
She reaches into her pocket and as if by magic produces a blue inhaler. I’m starting to wonder if I’m hallucinating.
‘My son, Alex, has asthma,’ she says. ‘This is his spare. It won’t be the right dosage, but it’ll tide you over.’
I take it tentatively and punch the spray into my mouth. The hit gives me instant relief, but it makes me cough.
‘A stronger dose than you’re used to, I expect,’ she says lightly. ‘He’s got it far worse than you.’
I nod and splutter my thanks.
She carries on, ‘I just wanted a little privacy to sort a few things out.’ Her eyes are hard as pebbles. ‘You confessed,’ she says, her tone menacing.
Instinctively, my eyes dart over the side. I’m a hair’s breadth away from going overboard. One little shove and it would all be over. My limbs are tied, I can’t possibly swim. My body would never be found – not all the way out here. It’s the perfect murder.
‘So, you and my husband, eh? Sneaking around behind my back…’
I sit up tall and rigid, trying to figure out how I’m going to defend myself if she…when she…comes at me.
‘People will be looking for me,’ I tell her defiantly.
‘Will they?’ She examines her nails. ‘Not doing a very good job of it.’
My heart rate is racing off the scale, thudding in my ears like bongo drums.
‘Was it you?’ she says.
‘Me who what?’
‘Was it you who killed him?’
I face her head on. ‘No.’
‘I need to know. You were screwing him, but what happened after that? Did you kill Carl?’
‘No.’ I make sure my eyes meet hers. ‘I didn’t.’
At least that part is true, but she’s not going to stop there. I must be strong and keep my nerve. If Amelia knows the truth, no matter what happens here, no matter how things turn out for me, she’ll go straight after Mum and hunt her down. I can’t let her go through anything like this. I have to keep her out of it, I have to protect her.
‘Are you lying to me?’
‘No. I didn’t do a thing to hurt him, honestly. I swear on the life of my mother, my grandad…I did not kill Carl.’
‘He was going to tell Peter about the two of you, wasn’t he? He was going to blow the whole thing out of the water.’
‘No – that’s not how it was. Why would Carl do that?’ She hesitates, perhaps seeing the baffled look on my face. ‘Peter and I were…getting married. He was the one I wanted.’
She laughs. ‘Funny way of showing it.’
‘I made a mistake. The whole thing with Carl should never have happened. It was just one of those “in the moment” things. Carl wasn’t the least bit serious about me. There was nothing for him to gain by telling Peter, only everything to lose…’
It’s her turn to look confused. ‘Weren’t you cooking up long-term plans together?’
‘God, no!’ I retort. ‘It was just a silly fling. Mostly role-play. Ridiculous.’
‘So, Carl wasn’t going to leave me…the boys…for you?’
‘No! Never,’ I snort. ‘It was stupid. Barely more than a game. It meant nothing. There was no way he was going to leave you. Not for me. Really, he wasn’t.’
‘You see – you’re actually a better actress than everyone says, because I found the letter.’
‘What letter?’
‘The one Carl wrote. I found it amongst his personal papers. The one about having met someone special. It said you’d been seeing him for over a year.’
I shrink back. ‘What? Me? No. That can’t be about me. I only met him three months ago. At the party for the Hepworth Theatre. You were there, remember?’
She contemplates my response. ‘Mmm. Three months. That’s what Peter said…’
‘You’re looking in the wrong place, you really are.’
The tiniest glimmer in her scowl indicates she might believe me.
‘Peter said that Carl made more than a few enemies over the years,’ I say, seeing an ope
ning. ‘Apparently, Carl dropped out of contracts at the last minute. Various colleagues held grudges, he annoyed a lot of people.’
I’m not making it up. Peter had mentioned it once, during an awkward moment when Carl’s name cropped up.
She twists her mouth to the side. ‘That’s true,’ she says, ‘he was fickle. He changed his mind about projects and people lost money.’
‘So, what about these people who lost out? And the ones he fired? The actors whose careers he destroyed? Couldn’t one of them be his killer?’
She stares at her feet. Her expression sours from one of snooty superiority to horror and for a split second I think I might have just planted the right seeds of doubt to make her reconsider.
But I’m wrong.
She’s not paying attention to what I’m saying; she’s fixated on something else. Water. The dinghy is leaking and we’re sinking fast.
49
Rachel
‘I’m going back to Amelia’s,’ I tell Peter, grabbing his arm.
He comes to a standstill halfway along the drive. ‘What? Why?’
‘You go back home in the taxi – here’s the key.’ I pull out my key ring and unclip the front Yale. ‘I’m going back to look for Beth. My father says a Land Rover stopped outside his cottage that night, the night she went missing.’
He laughs. ‘You think Amelia’s taken her?’ He tosses out the words in a preposterous fashion.
‘It would make sense. She’s furious. She’s convinced that Carl was seeing Beth and she’s clearly off her trolley. You said she’d done crazy things before.’
He frowns, but doesn’t contradict me. He wraps both my hands in his. ‘I may not look it, but I’m going out of my mind, too. The police know what they’re doing, though.’ He glances down. ‘I’m not sure your father is a reliable witness, from what Beth has said.’
‘I know. He might have dreamt it and even if he didn’t, it’s probably pure coincidence that Amelia drives a Land Rover, but if I’m wrong, at least I tried. Searching for her is better than doing nothing.’