by Marni Graff
Declan re-entered. “DI Barnes returning at 19:25. Miss Rogan, I feel it would be in all of our best interests if you were to spend the night in Her Majesty’s holding cell to continue to assist with our inquiries in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“It seemed to me that I had just gone to bed that Monday night when I heard the telephone ringing and had to crawl out again.”
— Mary Roberts Rinehart, Miss Pinkerton
7:30 PM
Nora pushed food around her plate, noting Simon and Janet picking at the Indian take-away in the same desultory fashion. There had been no news from Val, and the walls of Nora’s flat seemed to close in on her tonight.
“She must be exhausted,” Janet said. There was no need to specify who she meant. “I know she didn’t get even the few hours sleep I got last night after I took that pill.”
Simon tried to reassure them without much success. “Maybe they got started later than they thought, and it’s just taking a long time. Or maybe they’ve taken a dinner break.”
Nora gave Simon a brittle smile. He could be irritatingly cheerful at times, always the optimist, but she shouldn’t take her anxiety out on him. In any case, Janet wouldn’t be served by her jumping down his throat. “I expect that’s it. I’ll do the dishes,” she said smartly, gathering up their paper plates. The chicken masala she usually enjoyed lay heavily on her stomach, and she felt the desire to go to sleep immediately. What she needed was to move around and get her oxygen going. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we? It’s cooled off, and I’ll bring my cell phone.”
Janet agreed, closing up paper cartons of leftovers and joining Nora in the tiny kitchen. She handed the cartons to Nora, who stowed them in the refrigerator. Janet laid her hand on top of the one Nora was using to hold the door open.
“I see now why Val admires you. You’re a very caring person—you remind me of my Bryn.”
Nora smiled at the woman’s candor. “That’s a lovely compliment. And I think it’s very good to talk about Bryn, so please don’t hesitate to speak about her. After my father died, my mother and I were determined not to let a day go by for the first few months when we didn’t somehow mention him. When I was a little girl, trying to understand my grandmother’s death, Dad told me we carry our love for the person in our hearts. Every time we thought of Nana she would live again for that moment. I find it a very healing way to think.” Nora’s throat tightened with emotion. She closed the refrigerator door.
Janet nodded in understanding. “How did your father die?” she asked.
Nora hesitated. “He drowned in a sailing accident,” she replied, leaving out the details burned into her memory. A teenaged Nora had preferred her newest boyfriend’s company over her father’s invitation to sail that summer night. A sudden squall capsized his tiny boat. In her memory she saw the crowds that had gathered up and down the beach by the time she returned home. Their flashlights were fairy beams, crossing and crisscrossing each other over the surface of the moonlit water. Her mother had tried to remain calm, and then there was a shout, and everyone started running in the same direction. Nora and her mother had stood rooted in the sand.
Nora carried around the firm conviction that if only she had gone with her father, the two of them could somehow have made it back. She had learned to deal with it but had never forgiven herself completely in the past thirteen years. It was the reason she had learned not to discount the potential significance of seemingly unimportant decisions she made every day.
“Sudden death is always worse,” Janet commiserated. “One has no time to accept the idea, or to say goodbye.” Both women were silent, joined for a moment in understanding the depth of the other’s pain.
“Right then, all set for that walk? I’ve even put my trainers on.” Simon filled the doorway with his lanky frame, his hair, badly in need of a trim, falling over his forehead. His smile was infectious, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He reminded Nora of a large, affectionate puppy, and she let go of her ghosts to join him.
They were at the door of the flat when Nora’s cell phone rang. She dug it out of her skirt pocket in delight. “Val, all set for leftover curry? … What? You can’t be serious! … Yes, of course I will, but … let me write it down … ” Nora had been rummaging around in her bag as she spoke and pulled out her notebook and pen. “Set, go ahead—27875, got it … as soon as we hang up. Stay safe.”
Nora hung up and started to dial a number, anger pinching her mouth. Her hands shook while trying to punch the buttons as she explained. “Our pal Barnes decided Val needs to stay at the station tonight to help with their inquiries—what crap! I’m to call May Rogan to get their family solicitor to send in someone local.”
Simon took the phone from her, consulted her pad, and dialed the number, handing the phone back to her. Janet hovered in obvious distress.
Nora spoke in a rush. “May Rogan? This is Nora Tierney, Val’s friend … I’m afraid I have some sad news to pass on, and Val really needs your help … ”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Every family has relatives they don’t talk about and others about whom they rarely stop talking.”
— Chaim Bermant, The Patriarch
8 PM
May Yates Rogan digested the news of Bryn Wallace’s death with mixed feelings. While she felt true repulsion for her step-daughter Valentine’s lifestyle, she acknowledged the importance of the role Bryn played in Val’s life. Her late husband would expect her to help Val. Lloyd Rogan had loved his first daughter deeply.
May reclined on a brocade sofa, considering what her course of action should be. She sipped a good port and flipped through television shows, settling on an A Touch of Frost repeat as she polished her nails. David Jason was perfect in the role of the disheveled, cursing detective, although she would never have him in her house. She pushed away any thought of acting quickly, distastefully imagining the gory details of her stepdaughter’s homosexuality. Val could sit in gaol for one night as a sort of penance, she decided, blowing on her wet manicure.
May had adroitly kept Val at arm’s length during her fourteen-year marriage, but she had truly been in love with Lloyd Rogan and grateful to him as well. When they met, Lloyd was a widower of many years who came equipped with a sixteen-year-old daughter. May’s devotion to him had been genuine. Lloyd had given May stability and an elegant lifestyle just when she thought she was too old to be taken from the shelf and dusted off. Then had come along a lovely child of their own, sweet Louisa, and May had created a comfortable home and been a delightful hostess for Lloyd’s business dinners, knowing how to present an attractive stage for these events.
In turn, Lloyd had been generous to her and a wonderful father to Louisa, when lulls in his busy law practice permitted it. At his death, May found he had thoughtfully left them financially comfortable with insurance that paid off the mortgage on their townhouse in Holland Square. This was of immense significance and a relief to May. She loved their home and its fine furnishings, the heavy satin drapes and well-polished antiques, the silver, the oil paintings, as much as she loved the neighborhood and its status. Not everyone could claim celebrated author P. D. James as her neighbor. Brief interactions on the street between May and the sprightly, grandmotherly writer were mentally recorded and then repeated at the frequent charity luncheons and teas May attended. Really, the only wrinkle in her marriage had been her inability at times—just at times—to hide her distaste of Valentine and her “friends.” A frown crossed her brow at the thought that she would probably be surrounded by them for the next few days.
With grim determination and a sense of selflessness, May decided that if respecting Lloyd’s wishes meant staying in Oxford for a few days, she would rise to the occasion. Louisa seemed fond of Val and would expect to be included—fine, as long as Louisa didn’t get involv
ed in Val’s bohemian lifestyle. It was warm in London and socially sluggish right now. May brightened at the thought of a jaunt to Oxford as a welcome diversion. They would stay at the posh Randolph Hotel, of course, and perhaps shop for clothes for Louisa. She would pack her new navy suit for the funeral, assuming there was to be one, hoping they wouldn’t all have to traipse into the wet countryside when a suitable site could be found among the many revered chapels of the University.
May sipped her port. She had no idea if Bryn Wallace even had family to bury her. She had met the young woman only once and had spent the occasion sizing Bryn up and trying hard not to let her imagination run wild. She’d never gotten near any personal conversation during the awkward meeting.
Frost ended, and May determined it was now too late for a solicitor to get Val out until the morning. Smoothing her cool blonde hair, she reached into a gilt table beside her and flipped through her address book, hazel eyes searching for Harvey’s number.
Harvey had been Lloyd’s partner, and May was confident he would recommend a capable solicitor in Oxford for Val. There was always the chance that if she sounded upset enough he would make all of the calls for her. Her father used to tell her she had rigid thinking and a closed mind, but May never understood that. She admitted to a low tolerance for frustration, allowing her to feel justified taking any actions to make her life easier. Mostly she felt clever. Why feel shame or guilt for exploiting a situation to gain as much as possible for oneself? May knew she was not a deliberately mean person, but she was definitely a self-serving one, possibly egocentric at times. All this was wrapped up in a pleasant-looking package, with the occasional capacity for compassion that kept her from appearing too brittle. She knew this was the quality that had attracted Lloyd. Her ruminations were interrupted when the phone was answered briskly by a deep, masculine voice, and May rapidly shifted gears.
“Harvey?” May’s voice trembled slightly and got husky. “I need your help.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Painfully hungry, achingly sleepy, hot, uncomfortable, ignored, Esteban had given up even crying.”
— Oliver La Farge, Sparks Fly Upward
Sunday
8 AM
Val spent a sleepless night in the cell block on the first floor of St. Aldate’s Station. Normally detainees were housed in the basement of police stations. The unusual location of the cells at St. Aldate’s required a special lift that let out directly into the secure car park on the ground level; this lot was accessed through fifteen-foot-high remote-controlled metal gates.
Val knew this because throughout the long night the gates banged and slammed. Their hollow clanging reverberated in her ears while she listened to the sounds of others being brought into the block to sleep their drugs or alcohol away. The unfamiliar noises, coupled with thoughts of things crawling over her in the dark, kept her awake. She was reminded of the time she’d been in a car accident and had to stay overnight in the hospital. Then, too, she’d been kept awake by the continuous activity cycle of such an institution.
At least she was in a tiny cell by herself, a holding room of sorts. The guard passed by every fifteen minutes, ruining any chance at privacy. The metal slab with a thin mat that passed for a bed had quickly turned to stone beneath her as the hours passed. Val became inured to the mixed scent of disinfectant trying to mask body and urine odors. Her skin was covered in a dusty mix of grime and perspiration she desperately wanted to shower off. Her clothes clung to her in annoying places, the thick denim seams of her jeans rubbing her raw between her slender thighs. She thought her odious breath would kill a mouse.
She’d felt a mixture of embarrassment and shame when she realized she wasn’t going to be allowed to go home. The young sergeant had done his superior’s bidding, escorting her quickly to a desk so she could make her call and then checking her into the cell. She had used her call to reach Nora, who could tell Janet what had happened and reach May for a solicitor. But no one had showed up to get her out, and she had had too much time during the night to think. The detective had indicated she was not being formally arrested for Bryn’s death—not yet—but it was only a matter of his putting together a few loose ends, stringing them into a loop he could tighten around her.
Now that morning had come, Val’s nerves were stretched taut; her muscles were painfully stiff, and her back ached. Memories of Bryn caused fresh bouts of pain, alternating with anxious stabs of fear that left her cold and clammy. She was glad her father wasn’t around to see her now.
While she had no idea how this horrible story would end, she knew for certain that when it was over, Bryn would still be dead. She would have to face life without her—if she had a life to face at all after Barnes was finished with her. She didn’t pray often and had stopped trying to decide whether she believed in a Higher Being or not; the jury was still out on that one. In the last few days she suspected she had chosen to believe mostly when it was convenient or necessary. She closed her golden eyes in exhaustion, slumped against the wall, and silently asked anyone who might be listening for help.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“To have a reason to get up in the morning, it is necessary to possess a guiding principle.”
— Judith Guest, Ordinary People
8:15 AM
Nora waited for Simon to finish showering. Last night she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep on the couch, one ear waiting for the ringing phone. Janet had promised to call her the moment Val arrived at the flat, regardless of the hour, but no call had come. As much as May Rogan had promised to help, Nora questioned the woman’s dependability.
And then there was Val’s temper, which, Nora knew, surfaced when Val was tired or frustrated, and she was certain Val had been both by last night. Even though she had no alternative, Nora felt she had run out on Val yesterday at the station, and the thought disturbed her. She sighed and looked out her back window onto the peaceful garden. It was too early for tenants to disturb the slick grass or inhabit the scattered chairs, but a few butterflies were enjoying the cosmos. A lone grey squirrel ran across the expanse of shimmering lawn, sprinkling the dew. It was clear and sunny, without the intense heat and humidity of the past few days.
Nora had missed the spring bulbs this year due to her stay in the Lake District. They were her contribution to the garden, but she knew she wouldn’t see them again if she stayed in Bowness. The next tenant wouldn’t know Nora Tierney was the one responsible for the fragrant purple hyacinths, yellow and white daffodils, and blue scilla that poked up in early spring. This, she knew, was silly thinking. She didn’t own this house or garden; she was definitely on the verge of becoming mawkish.
Simon whistled in the shower, his unquenchable spirit amazing Nora. She considered herself an optimist, but Simon had a bottomless well of good cheer and patience. That quality had served her well when she was embracing the idea of her pregnancy. There had been times this summer in Bowness when his encouragement and support had let her see herself and her child living happily in that naturally majestic place. This trip was supposed to be a bridge to that future, but instead it had been filled with death and confusion. The garden blurred in her vision as she returned to thoughts of the hellish night Val must have spent in an uncomfortable cell. Nora knew Val must barely be able to believe the events that had crowded in on them in the past three days, for she could hardly believe them herself.
Who could have wanted to murder Bryn Wallace? Despite her moment of doubt, she did not believe it could be Val. Bryn’s murder had not been a random act of violence, a car-jacking or purse-snatching gone awry. This was an act of anger and deliberate malevolence, perpetrated by someone Bryn Wallace had let into her apartment late at night without a thought to her own safety.
She thought DI Barnes had been sympathetic when he’d interviewed Janet, but he seemed blind to Val’s innocence. Nora’s lov
e for Val, coupled with her anger at the person who deliberately took Bryn’s life, gave her plenty of motivation to find out who was really to blame for Bryn’s death. Simon would just have to stuff it if he didn’t approve. She looked for her pad, tucking her hair behind one ear. Nosey parker she might be, but she was damned if she was going to let a murderer go free.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“The relevant questions, as it happened, came by chance.”
— Sybille Bedford, A Compass Error
8:40 AM
Declan Barnes woke suddenly in his Headington flat, the dream dissipating quickly but leaving its imprint of a carnival scene, bells and whistles clanging noisily, while knives hurled toward a green-eyed girl with red hair who rotated on a huge striped wheel. He heard her saying, “You know she didn’t do this,” as the man throwing the knives turned to him, but his face became the clock Declan saw as his eyes popped open, and the telephone continued to trill. He snatched up the receiver, clearing his throat and sitting up in the big bed, thinking maybe it was time for him to get a dog. All as he said, “Barnes here.”