I want to scream at him to get to the point.
‘Valentine’s Day tends to bring the bad feeling to the fore, as you can imagine,’ he says, scratching the back of his neck. ‘The contest’s a bit of fun, designed to make the girls forget about the cards that never arrive because hardly any boys know they exist, tucked away in the middle of the countryside. It’s a shame, really. But they all love the contest—it’s the only one where the boarding houses go up against each other, you see. Usually the competitions are against other schools and the girls have to present a united front. They have that drummed into them from their first day: Villiers is one big happy family, and it demands absolute loyalty. And it is happy, to be fair. I wouldn’t have minded sending my daughters. Not much chance of that.’
The boarding houses. I read the paragraph again: ‘This year, for the first time since our Valentine’s Day Talent Contest was launched in 2001, Goundry was the winning house, with a massive total of 379 points. Well done, Goundry! The traditional slap-up victory breakfast will take place on Saturday 1 March in Goundry’s dining hall, and we’ll have no girls (or house mistresses or masters) from other houses trying to sneak in, thank you very much—we know that’s gone on in previous years and this time we’re cracking down!’
It’s crazy, but I’m going to ask him. ‘You don’t happen to know how many boarding houses there are, do you?’
‘Course I do. There’s not a lot about Villiers I don’t know. I’ve been—’
‘How many?’ I focus on his pink neck, try not to think beyond it.
‘Let’s see, now.’ He starts to tap the steering-wheel. I count the taps, feel a numb disbelief take hold of me when they stop at nine. ‘Nine in total.’
‘What are they called?’
Amiably, as if reeling off his children’s names—the daughters he couldn’t afford to send to Villiers—he begins to list them, unaware of the horror that burrows deeper into my mind with each one. ‘Abberton, Blandford, Darville, Elstow, Goundry—that’s the house that won this year’s talent contest. Caused an uproar, that result. Goundry’s a sporty house. Darville and Margerison are more intellectual. Winduss is your drama and your singing, so of course they expect to win every year.’
Knowing what was coming did nothing to prepare me. New sweat sticks my shirt to my back. I don’t know who they were. They never told us. Isn’t that funny? I’d forgotten Mary saying that until now. ‘Us’: the pupils. The girls weren’t told who the nine boarding houses were named after. Real people, presumably.
‘Where did I get to?’ says the driver. ‘Oh, yes. Goundry. Then there’s Heathcote. Margerison, which I mentioned—one of the more academic houses. Rodwell and Winduss—or Luvvies, as it’s known unofficially—those are the last two.’
The traffic has started to move, slowly but picking up speed all the time. The gaps between the cars are growing wider. ‘Looks like we’re on our way,’ he says.
‘Stop. Please,’ I say shakily. Everything has changed in the time it took him to list nine names.
‘This is a motorway, miss. I can’t stop. Are you all right?’
‘Can you pull over?’
‘I can do, if you want me to.’ For the first time, he leans out of his seat and turns to look at me. The skin of his face is as pink as the back of his neck, puffy around his mottled cheeks. He has a white moustache that covers the whole space between his mouth and his nose, and a grey beard. His would be a good face to paint; it has more colours and textures than most.
My mind swings back to Mary’s portrait of Martha Wyers, to the different textures and colours death gave her face: the white-encrusted lips, the blotchy chin . . .
I pitch forward and grab the headrest in front of me, breathing fast and hard as certainty rushes in. The picture of Martha . . . oh, my God.
‘Are you all right, miss?’
‘Not really. Can you stop on the hard shoulder?’
‘It’s a bit dangerous, is that. There’s services coming up. I’ll stop there for you.’
The discoloured patches on Martha Wyers’ chin. I assumed they were bruises, or some kind of bodily fluid that had come from her mouth—vomit or blood. I shied away from the specifics because they were grotesque.
Maybe there was some blood or bruising, but there was something else as well: a pale brown smudge below Martha’s lower lip, shaped like a child’s drawing of a dog’s bone. A birthmark.
I think of the paint splashed over the pile of cut-up paintings, of the cows mooing in the fields beyond Garstead Cottage. Mary walking in a slow circle around the heap of debris in her dining room, letting out a low moan, an animal sound . . .
‘Do you have a mobile phone?’ I ask the driver. ‘I need to borrow it. I can give you some money.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he says. ‘You’re welcome to it.’ He passes it through the gap between the driver and passenger seats. ‘Don’t you have one? I thought everyone had one these days.’
‘Not me,’ I say. Not Aidan either. It was one of the many things we found we had in common early on; both of us hated the idea of having our privacy invaded by ringing wherever we went.
I dial directory enquiries, and, lowering my voice, ask to be put through to Lincoln police station. I expect to hear a recorded greeting, but a woman answers. ‘Good evening, Lincolnshire police. How can we help?’
I ask for PC James Escritt, steeling myself for bad news: his shift ended an hour ago; he doesn’t work there any more; they have no idea where he is now.
I can only ask him, no one else. If he isn’t there . . .
‘Hold the line,’ says the woman, and a few seconds later I hear a voice I haven’t heard for years. He sounds no different.
‘It’s Ruth Bussey,’ I tell him, knowing he hasn’t forgotten me any more than I’ve forgotten him.
I wait for him to ask me how I am, make small talk. Instead, he says, ‘I’ve heard the news.’
‘News?’
‘Gemma Crowther’s death.’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ I tell him. The taxi swerves slightly to the left.
‘I know that,’ says Escritt.
‘I need to ask you a favour,’ I say. And then, not caring how odd it sounds, either to him or to the man whose phone I’m using, I ask if he’d be willing to check my gardens. Not all of them—there are too many for that. Only the ones that appeared in magazines, the ones I won awards for. There are three of them. I give him the addresses. After a short hesitation, I say, ‘And Cherub Cottage.’
Escritt doesn’t ask for a reason, or quibble about the strangeness of my request. ‘What am I looking for?’ he asks.
‘I want to know if any of them have been interfered with in any way. Destroyed.’
‘You mean by new owners?’ he says. ‘Ruth, you can’t expect—’
‘No, that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about attacks on the gardens. Have any of the owners reported any criminal damage last year or this year?’
There’s silence as Escritt wonders why I think anyone might want to vandalise work I did years ago. He knows my answering silence means I’d prefer not to explain.
‘I’d say no to most people,’ he says eventually.
‘Thank you.’
‘It might take me a while. Can I reach you on the number you’re calling from?’
‘For a bit. I’m not sure how long, but . . . yes. I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you try to be quick? If anything was reported . . .’
‘I’ll ring you,’ he says curtly.
I clutch the phone. The driver doesn’t ask for it back. He doesn’t say anything. I pull my diary out of my bag and find Charlie Zailer’s number. After my conversation with James Escritt, I want to talk to someone else who knows who I am, who will call me ‘Ruth’ instead of ‘Miss’.
There’s no ringing, only a recorded voicemail message. She must be talking to someone else, or have her phone switched off. ‘It’s Ruth Bussey,’ I say. ‘Ring me back as soon as you get this messag
e. The number’s . . .’ I break off.
‘07968 442013,’ says the driver. His voice carries no trace of his former bonhomie. It’s full of apprehension, or disapproval; I can’t tell which.
I repeat the number and press the ‘end call’ button, then lean forward and drop the phone onto the passenger seat. ‘Thank you.’
‘Services coming up. Are we still stopping?’
Say no. Go back to Spilling. Go home. Let the police deal with it.
‘We’re going back,’ I say. ‘To Villiers. Drive along the hard shoulder if you have to—just get me there as quick as you can.’
24
5/3/08
Charlie had hoped things would be winding down by the time she got to the Spilling Gallery, but the party seemed still to be in full swing at nearly nine o’clock. The lit interior was dark with bodies, and she heard the noise as soon as she got out of her car: laughter and clashing voices.
She’d rung Saul Hansard at home first, having found his number in the phone book. His house was listed by name: The Grain Store. That’s right; she remembered him mentioning the dilapidated building he and his wife had bought and converted. Charlie knew Saul from an initiative she’d been in charge of last year to combat business crime. Most of the local shop-owners had been involved; Saul had been among the least obnoxious and demanding.
Tonight there was a private view at the gallery, Breda Hansard, Saul’s wife, had told Charlie. The windows were so heavily misted that you could hardly see the pictures on display. As Charlie walked in, she was hit by the competing smells of wine and sweat. Now she could see the paintings; they were of local scenes, made prettier by unrealistically bright colours and what looked like pieces of gold tin-foil stuck to each one to represent the sun, or yellow flowers growing beside the road. Twee. Just the sort of thing the people of Spilling were bound to love.
Saul saw Charlie, and broke off from the group of people he was talking to. ‘I’m glad they sent you,’ he said. ‘Let’s go through to the back.’
‘Glad who sent me?’ Charlie pulled off her coat and draped it over her arm. The gallery was uncomfortably hot with the thick, moist heat that could only be generated by too many people crammed into too small a space.
Saul hadn’t heard her, so Charlie repeated her question.
He looked puzzled. ‘You’re not here because I phoned?’
‘No. Who did you phone?’
The back turned out to be a large room that might have belonged to an inspired but undisciplined child with artistic leanings. Marker pens were scattered everywhere, on every surface and on the floor; Charlie’s foot rolled on one as she walked in. There were large sheets of white cardboard with paint splashes on them leaning against walls, paintings both framed and unframed in tottering piles, aerosol paint cans with dried paint dribbles down their sides that had spilled on-to the table, tissue paper, mainly torn, occasionally screwed up into uneven balls, wood shavings, glue . . .
‘I wanted to talk to someone,’ said Saul, fiddling with his red braces, the same ones he always wore. ‘I’ve had all sorts of police in and out yesterday and today, asking me questions. They wouldn’t answer any. I was worried. I think some people I care about might be in trouble, or missing, and . . .’
‘Would those people be Ruth Bussey, Aidan Seed and Mary Trelease?’
Saul looked satisfied, briefly, then anxious. ‘You’re also here to ask about them?’
‘Unofficially.’
‘Mary Trelease isn’t a person I care about,’ he said thoughtfully, as if reluctant to declare himself unconcerned. ‘Though of course, I wish her no harm. She’s a very strange lady. Difficult. I lost Ruth because of her. You know Ruth used to work for me?’
‘Ruth told me about her row with Mary. It happened here, didn’t it?’
Saul nodded.
‘Did you see it?’
‘Only the end of it. That was bad enough.’
‘What exactly happened?’
‘Wait a minute. Sorry.’ Saul seemed agitated, pressing the thumb of his right hand into the palm of his left as if trying to drill a hole in it. ‘Can you at least tell me if Ruth and Aidan are all right? Both are . . . well, I couldn’t bear to think of either of them being in any trouble.’
‘I don’t know if they’re all right,’ Charlie said, feeling awful when she saw the effect it had on him. ‘You’re better off asking whoever you’ve been dealing with from London.’
‘London? I haven’t spoken to anyone from London.’ Saul was growing twitchier by the second. ‘The policemen who came here were local. I’ve seen them going into the Brown Cow. And coming out, sometimes, very much the worse for wear. I’ve seen you with them. I can’t remember their names. One of them was tall and . . . large-ish, with a northern accent.’
‘Was the other short and dark, with a face like a vindictive rat?’ Charlie asked. Sellers and Gibbs. Coral Milward’s little helpers. They must have been beside themselves with glee when they’d found their former skipper’s misfortunes plastered all over Ruth Bussey’s bedroom wall. Charlie remembered how Milward had taunted her about those same misfortunes, and rage flared inside her. ‘Tell me about Ruth’s fight with Mary,’ she said.
Saul looked caught out. ‘I thought you said she’d told you.’
‘Mary brought in a picture to be framed, Ruth wanted to buy it, Mary didn’t want to sell?’
‘That was the essence of it, yes. Mary’s the only artist I’ve ever met who refuses to sell her work. She doesn’t even like people to see it. She once told me she’d prefer it if I could put the frames on without looking at the pictures. I told her it was impossible. Knowing what she was like, I’d never have dared to ask to buy anything, though she was extremely talented. I should have warned Ruth.’ He pressed his thumb harder into his palm. ‘Has Mary hurt Ruth again? I’ll never forgive myself if she has.’
‘ “Again”?’ said Charlie. ‘What happened between them exactly? How badly was Ruth hurt?’
‘No bones were broken, if that’s what you mean. The damage was mainly psychological. Mary pushed Ruth up against a wall, took a full cylinder of red paint and sprayed it all over her face. After which Ruth completely withdrew into her shell, wouldn’t come to work, wouldn’t speak to anyone.’
‘What aren’t you telling me?’ Charlie inclined her head, forcing him to meet her eye. ‘Listen, Ruth came to me for help last week. I think she might be in danger. Anything you tell me, anything at all, might make the difference between me finding her and not finding her.’
‘This won’t, I promise you.’
Charlie had assumed Saul would be a pushover, but he seemed to have taken a stand. Which made her all the more determined to break him down. ‘You can’t possibly know that,’ she said. ‘Please. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.’
Saul stared at the floor. ‘Ruth wet herself, all right? It was horrible. It must have been awful for her. In front of Mary and me, and the couple who’d walked into the gallery a few seconds before, hoping to see a few nice pictures on their way round town, not a sobbing woman with red paint all over her face, standing in a pool of her own pee!’ He sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. How would you like it if someone repeated a story like that about you?’
‘People know worse things than that about me,’ Charlie told him abruptly. ‘Have you heard the name Martha Wyers before?’
Saul’s forehead creased. ‘Martha . . . Yes. She’s a writer, isn’t she? Aidan knew her. They were both part of an arts promotion some years back. I seem to remember they had their pictures in the papers. Glamorous, young, sexy artists—you get the idea.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘Yes, I think I did. Aidan had an exhibition at a gallery in London.’
‘TiqTaq.’
‘That’s right.’ Saul looked surprised that Charlie knew. ‘I think Martha Wyers came to the private view. I can’t remember her face, but the name rings a bell. Aidan might well have introduced us. Any rate, I se
em to remember her being there.’ He picked up a marker pen from the table and spun it round as he thought back several years. ‘With her mum, possibly. Yes, that’s right, because the mum told me about Martha’s book.’
‘Ice on the Sun.’
‘I have no memory of the title, I’m afraid. But Mum was rather full of her daughter’s achievement, as I recall, and Martha found it embarrassing.’
‘Do you remember seeing Mary Trelease at Aidan’s private view?’
A tremor passed across Saul’s face. ‘Why would Mary have been there?’ he said. ‘Mary doesn’t know Aidan.’ When Charlie didn’t contradict him, he muttered, ‘Please, don’t tell me they know each other. I’d never have sent Ruth to Aidan if I’d known he had any connection with Mary.’
‘When did you first start framing for Mary?’ Charlie asked him briskly. People who were determined to blame themselves did so even when others advised them not to—that was Charlie’s conclusion, based on her own experience. Better to move on and distract him from his concerns rather than allow him to dwell on them. She was meeting Kerry Gatti in a pub in Rawndesley at half past nine; she couldn’t waste time.
‘A while ago,’ said Saul. ‘A good three or four years, I’d say. I’d offer to check, but I doubt I’d be able to find anything dating back that far.’ As if to prove his point, he lifted a piece of paper from the table, stared at the scarred wood beneath for a few seconds, then replaced the paper in an almost identical position.
‘When Mary first came to you and told you her name—Mary Trelease—did it sound familiar?’
‘No. Why? Should it have?’
Charlie saw no reason not to tell him, since he’d attended the private view and could easily have seen it for himself. ‘In Aidan’s exhibition at TiqTaq, there was a painting called The Murder of Mary Trelease.’
Saul looked appalled. ‘What? But . . .’
‘You didn’t see that title?’
The Dead Lie Down: A Novel Page 41