Friends for Life
Page 37
“Come on,” she said, draining her glass. “That carrot juice was something else, but now I’ve got to get into that pool. Race you!”
• • •
Duncan hung up with increasing exasperation. She still wasn’t home and he had rung four times, so where on earth could she have got to? He hated to feel possessive but he was really missing her and badly needed to hear her voice. It was seven o’clock in the morning in Perth and he’d been up all night at the hospital, pacing a sterile corridor hour after hour, waiting for a verdict on his father’s chances and thinking obsessively about Beth.
Just lately, everything in his ordered life seemed to have spun into a downward spiral; first Catherine, then Georgy, now Dad. Meeting Beth had been the one bright beacon in these weeks of catastrophe, but now he couldn’t reach her and that made him tense. It was a feeling entirely alien to Duncan’s normally easygoing nature. He had never felt like this before; it simply wasn’t his style.
He never had got round to having that meaningful conversation with her, and that was what he regretted most. All they had was a hurried conversation over the telephone from the airport and since then he’d been so occupied with the worry of his father’s health that he hadn’t done more than make one brief call to give her a contact number, should she need one. And now he couldn’t reach her and it rattled him.
He kept on thinking about Sally and their aborted encounter in the surgery. She was, on the surface, a good enough sport but there was something about her he still couldn’t trust, nor could he shake off the memory of the look in her eyes when he thwarted her attempt at seduction. It drove him mad to think of her now, back there close to Beth, telling her God knows what, with her confidential manner and that winning smile.
Time was hanging heavily on Duncan’s hands, away from his real life, confined to this dull backwater for an indefinite period which could well drag on for weeks or even months. He loved his parents and was glad he had got there in time to hold the old man’s hand, to comfort his mother and talk to the doctors on her behalf. Having come so far, he knew he must stick around, at least until his father’s future was more settled. Duncan was an only child who had been traveling since he first quit college and took off to Europe to see the world before he settled down. That period had extended until here he was, a middle-aged man, based in London with a thriving veterinary practice but without any proper roots.
His mother was longing to hear his intimate secrets, he could see it in her eyes, but there was really nothing he could tell her, even if that had been his style. So he went off in search of his misspent youth and found it, alarmingly unchanged, down at the local bar where some of his boyhood cronies still hung out. It was amazing. After the hectic pace of Chicago and London, life in Perth jogged along at a far slower rate, a good thirty years behind what he had become used to.
It was fun for a while, catching up on their lives, talking about old times, but he was already beginning to chafe. Of his inner circle from adolescence, three out of four remained in town; a banker, a lawyer, and a golf professional. The fourth one, Paul, had astounded them all by taking holy orders right after he graduated and was now a hospital chaplain in Parramatta, a suburb of Sydney.
“You ought to look him up, mate,” said Greg. “Hasn’t changed a bit. Still the same randy old bugger.”
“Why did he do it? Rather extreme behavior, even for Paul,” said Duncan, remembering with a touch of regret his closest pal among the group, the jokes they had shared, the girls they had chased, the pints they had consumed.
“Got the call, or so he claims. Personally I think it was just an excuse not to have to marry that dork who was always hanging around.”
“You mean Giselle?”
“The very same!”
They roared.
“Man, was she some dog!”
Duncan realized he was homesick—for the traffic, pollution, overpopulation, and political unfairness of London, a city he had once found so oppressive. He longed for soft summer rain, the sight of a red double-decker, warm beer, and Capital Radio, with its cheerful reports of traffic snarl-ups and signal failure on the Tube. Right now he was missing the end of Wimbledon, the cricket at Lord’s, and Shakespeare in the Park. He loved his family, was happy to catch up with his old mates and to sleep in his boyhood bedroom again, where his sports trophies and framed diplomas still held pride of place. But he also saw there was no longer room for him here. Life had moved on.
Most of all, he longed for Beth, who dominated his every waking moment. Being this far away only helped to accentuate just how heavily he’d fallen and, like measles, when it hit you this late, it was that much more devastating to the system. If only he’d found the time to tell her how he felt. He had held off deliberately for far too long from a strange, misplaced delicacy and a basic fear that he was still not ready to make a firm commitment. Now, through a quirk of timing, he might have succeeded in wrecking everything. Women like Beth weren’t exactly thick on the ground and she already had a whole bunch of admirers; witness her triumphant rescue from police custody.
And what was also nagging in his mind was the fact that she might not need him at all. She had her child, her business, her friends, and her freedom. In Duncan’s mind, a recipe for total happiness with no strings attached. She was financially independent, surrounded by love, her health was good, and she was happy. The only thing she lacked, as far as he could see, was the thing he was now prepared to offer her. A great, abiding love, in sickness and in health. And he’d managed to screw up his timing.
If only she’d answer that damned phone. He dialed again and again got the machine, with Beth’s cheerful voice inviting him to leave a message and she’d get back to him as soon as she could. Where on earth could she be? He banged down the receiver in total frustration and went back to pacing the bleak corridors.
Duncan was starting to panic. It was, he knew, entirely irrational, but a terrible premonition was beginning to take hold of him. From just around the corner of his memory.
Chapter Forty-six
Georgy was getting better by the minute, stretched out by the pool all morning, then moving onto the terrace as the sun grew too hot to bear. Sylvia waited on her personally, making her fresh coffee whenever she needed it, bringing her peaches from the orchard with the dew still on them.
“You’re spoiling me,” said Georgy, stretched out like a cat. “But I’m not complaining.”
She was really enjoying this sybaritic existence and her wounds were beginning to heal, even though she still needed painkillers at night. But not too many; memories of Catherine made her cautious. Georgy was determined to beat this thing as far as possible through her own resources. She was nothing if not a fighter, always had been.
She still had nightmares about it but that, she reckoned, was healthy. All she could recall was that hesitant walk down the pitch-dark stairs, holding on to the rope, then the flood of moonlight through the half-open kitchen door, followed by the awareness of someone just behind her and the awful impact. That was always the moment she woke up sweating, but even when it was a waking dream, there was no further light she could throw on it. All she knew was that someone had been hiding behind that door, someone who hated her enough to want to kill her. Not a comforting thought, especially since she hadn’t a notion who it might possibly have been.
The joy of her days in this Californian paradise was getting to know her small half-brother, Ariel. He was the most enchanting child she had ever encountered, loads more fun than her sisters, Risa or Lois, had ever been, and she could not get enough of him. He was funny and zany and wise beyond his years, yet surprisingly unspoiled. Sylvia worried he might be sapping too much of Georgy’s strength.
“Don’t let him be a pest,” she said, whenever she found them together, heads bent over the computer or some book, or playing a game of Scrabble which Ariel nearly always won.
“No chance of that,” said Georgy placidly. “I’ll shove him in the pool if he
steps out of line—and don’t think I won’t, brat!”
She wished she had a camera with her so that she could take some really good pictures before he lost his childish radiance and developed into an adolescent lout. He’d have to come to London, she decided, so she could show him off to her friends. And maybe one day, when he was old enough, he’d get the photography bug too, even join her in the business. Kirsch, Kirsch, and Nugent perhaps; it felt good. And that was when she realized the trauma was slowly beginning to recede, that she was thinking about the future again—looking forward to returning to London and Vivienne’s dream.
“I guess I knew it would come to that someday,” said Sylvia with a sigh. To her own extreme surprise, she was really enjoying this sojourn with her stepdaughter and knew she was going to miss her when she’d gone. This sun-soaked paradise was all very well but Georgy’s returning energy reminded Sylvia of what she had sacrificed for love.
“It’s my life,” said Georgy. “It’s where my work and all my friends are, my home.”
For the first time she talked about Gus and Sylvia listened intently, eyes fixed on her delicate stitchwork, giving Georgy her full attention. Stretched out like this, miles away, Georgy began to see the whole thing in perspective; how hopeless it had been from the start, how ridiculous. How pathetic, really, to have worn her heart on her sleeve so long for a man who could never care for her. Not in any way that really counted.
“He’s just the most perfect man I’ve ever met,” she explained, feeling gauche and foolish at betraying so much of her secret longings, yet able for the first time to open up to an older woman, which felt good. This was something else she owed to Beth; learning to trust and share her feelings.
“Why do you think that is?” asked Sylvia.
“Don’t really know.”
Georgy lay back on her recliner and stared across the pool at the distant orange grove. “I guess maybe I was looking for . . . a father?”
The realization came swiftly and knocked the breath out of her. She turned to stare at her stepmother in shocked horror but Sylvia was smiling gently and nodding her head.
“I know how you feel,” she said quietly. “I’ve been down that road myself.”
“Really!” Georgy was astonished. One of the things she admired in Sylvia was her composure, the impression she gave of always being able to cope.
“Why do you suppose it took me so long to settle down? It took a real man, your father, to wake the sleeping princess from her dream. Love at arm’s length can be so much . . . tidier. Altogether less threatening, don’t you agree?”
She put down her cushion cover and slipped away to make tea, leaving Georgy to ponder this startling revelation.
• • •
Vivienne Nugent was waiting for him when he came through Customs. She was easy to spot, standing slightly apart from the rest of the waiting crowd, distinctively elegant in her ice-blue linen suit, set off by a discreet emerald pin. He was surprised to see her, touched too, and pushed his way through the other, slower passengers to grasp her firmly by both hands.
“Good of you to meet me,” he said gruffly, taking her by the elbow and steering her skillfully through the crowd to the lift to the car park. He had remembered her as a beauty but had forgotten how chic and classy she was as well. Emmanuel Kirsch had always had an eye for a striking woman and this one definitely fulfilled all his criteria. Though he was not entirely sure if she had a sense of humor.
“It was the least I could do,” she explained as they stepped out on the third level and she led the way to her Mercedes coupe. “I want to hear all about Georgy and what I can do to help you while you’re here.”
Later, over tea at Claridge’s, he told her more about his mission. Georgy was finally on the mend, he was pleased to report, so now he could focus all his energy on the next most important issue, tracking down the perpetrator of the terrible crime that had very nearly cost her her life. The police knew of his visit to London but he could tell from their rather guarded responses to his calls and faxes that they did not want him meddling in the case and resented the implication that they were not doing their job effectively. He smiled and squeezed more lemon into his cup.
“They think I should butt out, but what am I to do? For chrissake, I’m a criminal psychologist by profession and this is my daughter’s life.”
Vivienne sat bolt upright, poised on the edge of the sofa, gazing at him with bright eyes and a willing smile, showing a becoming extent of leg and all the alertness of a well-groomed fox terrier. As Tonto to his Lone Ranger she might seem an unlikely choice, but she’d do. In fact, he was rather looking forward to working with her.
Vivienne was impressed by Emmanuel’s methodical mind. He had already done a considerable amount of thinking about the case and produced a yellow legal pad covered with notes in his small, precise handwriting. He handed Vivienne a list of all Georgy’s known contacts in London and together they scrutinized and updated it.
“You can forget about Duncan Ross, the vet,” she said. “He’s away in Australia and, besides, she hardly knew him. Apart from Beth, I’m the one who knows him best, but Georgy didn’t meet him till Catherine’s funeral, and then only fleetingly.”
“That’s just my point,” said Emmanuel grimly. “If he was at the funeral, he was acquainted with Catherine and there is still the outside chance that the two cases may be connected.”
“She worked for him,” said Vivienne. “She was his receptionist.”
Emmanuel raised one eyebrow and made a note, nodding slowly to himself.
“There you are, you see. Possibly implicated in her death. You can’t rule anyone out until you have firm evidence that they are in the clear. How long did she know him?”
“I’m not quite sure, her mother would know. Certainly a year or so, since I’ve been going there. He was very good to her, particularly at the end. And he still keeps an eye on the mother, which is entirely beyond the call of duty.”
“When did he last see Catherine, do you know?”
“Shortly before she died, according to Sally.”
Emmanuel nodded again, lips pursed, and made another annotation beside Duncan’s name. Vivienne peered at the list and was startled to see her husband’s name as well as her own.
“I can understand how I might be a suspect,” she said, “but why Oliver? What’s he got to do with it?”
“No offense,” said Emmanuel, “but this list has to be comprehensive to be at all effective. You could be implicated because you were investing money in Georgy’s career—for which, incidentally, I am profoundly grateful—and money is always a potential cause of discord.”
“But Oliver? He scarcely knows her and has nothing at all to do with our proposed partnership. I am financially independent of him, I am happy to say.”
And she was. She had never really thought about it that way before; it was a pleasing revelation.
“He’s still your husband and therefore potentially suspect. Whoever attacked my daughter did it with such savage force, it is more likely to have been a man than a woman.” He looked at her with a slightly flirtatious smile. “With all respect, with your delicate wrists I doubt you could wield a weapon with such force.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Vivienne faintly, remembering with sudden apprehension Oliver’s unexpected savagery during their last sexual encounter. For a moment she began to wish she had not become involved in this inquiry, then remembered poor Georgy and hardened her resolution. Whatever the outcome, no matter what skeletons might be unearthed, there could be no going back. The sooner it was resolved, the sooner they could stop suspecting each other and get on with their lives. Though it was a truly sobering thought that one of them might be guilty. Vivienne hadn’t really faced up to that before, preferring to believe in the casual intruder theory.
“Beth Hardy the police have already dealt with,” said Emmanuel, flicking through his pages of notes. “Although she seems to be a suspect—she is the
owner of the weapon—I doubt she’d be so stupid as to use her own knife and leave it carelessly at the scene of the crime. And,” he went on reading, “her daughter has vouched for her presence at home at the time of the crime. Though, of course, that evidence would not stand up in court.
“Her husband, however, Gus Hardy. He knows Georgy well, I understand, and must therefore still come under suspicion.”
It seemed unlikely, though. Vivienne thought of Gus with his immaculate manners and easy charm and the detached kindness he had always shown to Georgy who could, she knew, at times be a pest. But Karl was a different kettle of fish entirely, all the more so since the police had discovered he had two previous convictions in Germany for aggravated assault. Luckily, he was locked up and out of harm’s way for the time being.
“Tell you what,” Vivienne said, brightening. “Why don’t I make things simpler for you and invite the lot of them to dinner?”
“Would they come?”
“Yes, I rather believe they might. All except Karl, of course, but he’s not in a position to go anywhere at present. They all cared about Georgy and were shocked by her attack, and each, presumably, has a stake in clearing things up. Let’s give it a try and see what happens.”
• • •
Vivienne fixed her dinner party for Friday night and rang round to see if she could corral all the names on her list. To her surprise, each one accepted, which was, she felt, a tribute to Georgy, tinged perhaps with curiosity. Even Oliver graciously agreed to stay home for once that night. Lately he’d seemed less busy in the evenings; she did not want to think about why.
“The vet can’t make it since he’s still away, but the doctor will be there,” she reported. “That makes eight in all, with Phoebe, his wife. Beth and Gus, Oliver and me, yourself—oh, and Sally, of course. I thought about including poor Lady Palmer but really don’t think she’d want to come. And she cannot possibly be relevant.”