It was a moment or two before she questioned why. Then she straightened abruptly and stepped back. The monitor had shut down automatically because the computer hadn't been used for a preset number of minutes, usually fifteen. Someone was in the house, and a reactive prickling between her shoulders told Sasha she was being watched. With a look of annoyance, she consulted her watch again, then retraced her steps to the front. She took a business card from her pocket, scribbled, "FAO Louise Burton. Please call me. Need to speak to you urgently re: Cill Trevelyan" on the back and pushed it through the door. As she left, she had a strong suspicion that, even though she hadn't seen any cameras, all her movements had been recorded.
25 MULLIN STREET, HIGHDOWN, BOURNEMOUTH
THURSDAY, MAY 15, 2003, 3:30 P.M.
George opened the door and smiled inquiringly at the visitor on her doorstep. "How can I help?" she asked, assuming the young woman was a constituent.
Sasha took in the bizarre hat and red face without inching. "Are you Councillor Georgina Gardener?"
"Yes."
Sasha produced her operating license. "I'm Sasha Spencer. I work for WCH Investigations. You visited our offices a month ago asking for information on Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan. My colleague took your details but was unable to assist you for confidentiality reasons. I was wondering if you'd be willing to give me a few minutes of your time now."
George was too surprised to say anything for several seconds. "Well, well, well!" she then declared. "And Jonathan doesn't believe in coincidences!" She chuckled at Sasha's expression. "You'd better come in. We're in the garden."
Sasha felt at a distinct disadvantage as she was shepherded outside, introduced to Dr. Hughes, whose head attire was even more peculiar, and given a kitchen chair to sit on. She had no idea who he was, didn't take greatly to his amused smile and wasn't given a chance to run through her spiel before Councillor Gardener piled in with her own comments. She was better informed than Billy Burton realized and canny enough to recognize that Sasha wouldn't be there unless the Trevelyans had authorized it. She asked the young woman bluntly what had made them decide to do it. "It can't have been my approach to your colleague, because I didn't explain why I was there. And you wouldn't have driven all this way just to find out why I asked for their address."
"I'm afraid the issues of confidentiality remain the same, Councillor Gardener. I'm not at liberty to say."
"Has someone else contacted you?" She took the woman's silence for assent and looked at Jonathan. "It must have been William Burton. Interesting, eh? Why does he want his sister investigated?" She turned back to Sasha. "Have you spoken to her?"
"Who?"
"Priscilla Fletcher."
There was a pronounced pause before Jonathan took pity on Sasha. In a funny sort of way, she reminded him of George. A little on the chubby side, inappropriately dressed for a warm day in Bournemouth and certainly no beauty. Her mouth kept reaching nervously for a smile, as if she'd been trained to defuse difficult situations by offering a symbol of good will, but it wasn't something that came naturally to her. As usual, he failed to take into account the effect his intense gaze had on people and decided she hadn't been long in her job.
"Why don't you let Ms. Spencer tell us why she's here?" he suggested to George. "At the moment she's looking a trifle shell-shocked ... which was rather my experience the first time I met you."
George promptly pulled an apologetic face. "I'm so sorry, dear. I thought it would be simpler if we just got on with it ... but Jonathan's right. Please-" she made an inviting gesture-"go ahead."
Sasha wondered what to say. She had been taught to go through certain formalities, but she was more used to the nervous responses she'd had from the Burtons than to this amused impatience. She played for time by opening her briefcase and taking out her notebook. "If I may, I'll begin by explaining my company's policy with regard to your rights and the rights of my clients. You are under no obligation to answer my questions, however-" She broke off as Jonathan cleared his throat. "Who are you?" she demanded abruptly. "Why are you so interested in CillTrevelyan?"
Jonathan gave a nod of approval. "How prepared are you to share information?" he asked. "We're fairly well informed on her story, but there are gaps in our knowledge that you might be able to fill."
"I can't breach client confidentiality."
He exchanged a glance with George. "Then there's no incentive for us to help you," he said. "We've put time and effort into researching Cill's story, and you wouldn't know Priscilla Fletcher was worth investigating if Councillor Gardener hadn't paid a visit to William Burton."
Sasha tried another smile. "Do you know where Cill Trevelyan is?"
"No."
"Do you know if she's still alive?"
"No."
"Then what do you know that's worth my breaking company rules?"
"Enough to give you a helping hand," said George. "Have you spoken to Priscilla Fletcher?"
Sasha shook her head. "I've just come from her house. I'm pretty sure someone was inside but they refused to answer the door. I've no idea if it was her or her husband." She hesitated. "Her brother says you have a photograph of her as she is now. May I see it?"
"As long as you show us one of Cill as a child," said George. "The Trevelyans must have given you one, but all we have is a black-and-white newspaper cutting. Trade for trade? We'll tell you something ... you tell us something."
Sasha wasn't as naive as Jonathan thought, so she played with her pencil and pretended to think about it. They'd be freer with their own information if they thought hers had to be enticed out of her.
As if to prove her point, Jonathan leaned forward. "Live dangerously," he encouraged her, "otherwise George'll psychoanalyze you ... and that's a nightmare."
Louise spotted the card the minute she entered her front door. It lay on the carpet a meter from the doormat as if a current of air had wafted it from the letter box. She picked it up and read it, then thrust it hurriedly into her pocket. If she gave any thought at all to the cameras and tapes that ran in twenty-four-hour loops in Nick's office, it was only in relation to her own arrival. She retreated through the door, her busy mind already working out excuses for her rapid turnaround, and left as quietly as she'd arrived.
Jonathan passed David Trevelyan's statement to George and bent his head to read Jean's. The noise of an occasional car filtered through from the road outside, but otherwise the only sounds were a distant motor-mower and the hum of crickets in the grass. Sasha sat patiently waiting, wishing there was an umbrella. Her skin was reddening in the sun and sweat was running down her back.
"Why don't you take off your jacket?" said Jonathan suddenly. "You'll fry if you're not careful."
Sasha gave her automatic smile. "I'm fine, thank you."
"Have a hat," said George, whipping off the pink straw creation and offering it across.
"No ... I'm all right ... thank you."
Jonathan came to the end of the page and pushed it away. "Very interesting." He turned his attention to Sasha again. "Have you met either of them? What are they like?"
"No, it was a predecessor who interviewed them. He noted down his impressions afterward." She sorted through her briefcase, looking for them. "I've listened to the tapes and spoken to Mr. Trevelyan on the phone, but that's all. Here we are." She read from the page: "'David Trevelyan: Big, impressive man with easy manner. Did most of the talking. Clearly blames himself for what happened. No sense that he was keeping anything back. Jean Trevelyan: Slender, good-looking woman. More subdued than her husband. Spent most of the interview in tears. Also blames herself. No sense that she was keeping anything back. Some disagreement between them over the rape. Jean believes it happened. David can only focus on the way it allowed Cill to be portrayed as a tart. This still makes him angry.'" She looked up. "That's it."
"Does he talk on the tapes about the argument with Robert Burton?"
"All the time. He's convinced the Burtons set out to blacken Cill's name
deliberately."
"Why?"
"He's not very sure. He keeps talking about the end result-that the police decided she was promiscuous, probably had a boyfriend she'd never told anyone about, and therefore wrote her off as a runaway." She paused to collect her thoughts. "He accuses Louise of lying about everything, including the rape. He says she was diverting mention from something she'd done and accuses the Burtons of backing her up to avoid the police taking too close an interest in their own daughter."
"That last bit is probably true," said George thoughtfully, mulling over what Sasha had told them. "They wouldn't want anyone taking an interest in Louise if William's right about the abuse." She folded her hands over David Trevelyan's statement. "I wonder how much the mother knew."
"She enabled it to happen," said Sasha.
"Mm." George pursed her lips in thought. "Except she couldn't know about the abuse and the rape. One or other, perhaps ... but not both."
"Why do you say that?" asked Jonathan.
"Because she'd have told Louise to keep her mouth shut at the police station. There was no guarantee they'd accept Louise's story. If they'd had her examined to see if she'd been raped as well, then her father's abuse might have shown up."
There was a short silence. "So what do you think happened?" asked Sasha.
"God knows," said George despondently. "There's too much to take in ... I can't see the wood for the trees."
"It's not that bad," said Jonathan reassuringly, reaching for a clean sheet of paper. "Let's start with what we know to be true." He jotted them down as he spoke. "The rape. The names of the rapists. Cill and Louise's connection with Grace. Mrs. Burton's knowledge of it. Her readiness to lie to the police." He glanced from one to the other. "Anything else?"
"Abuse," said Sasha.
"We'll come to that in a minute. I'm after anything that's supported by an independent witness."
"The fight between the girls," said George, "presumably also the fight between Robert Burton and David Trevelyan ... and Robert Burton's remark about Cill deserving what she got. The fact that Cill didn't disappear until after her father left for work." She gestured toward Sasha. "The Trevelyans' known commitment to trying to trace their daughter. The Burtons' willingness to let theirs go. Louise's troubled history-marriage to one of the rapists ... remarriage to a man of the same type-"
"Do we know that for a fact?" Jonathan broke in.
"She had a black eye when William saw her," said Sasha.
"We don't know it was given to her by her husband-" he tapped Andrew's bullet points-"and it may not have been real, anyway. She turned up with fake bruises when she went to see our agent."
"What do you know about her husband?" Sasha asked. "William tells me his name's Nicholas Fletcher and he's a bookie, but he hasn't been able to find out anything else."
George shrugged. "We haven't done much better. He had a fight with Roy Trent over Priscilla on one occasion-" she pulled a wry face-"assuming you believe my not very reliable source at the Crown and Feathers who got the information secondhand off a customer. The barmaid," she explained. "She told me the other day after Jonathan and I had a set-to with him."
Sasha looked interested. "Did Mr. Trent report it? I might be able to find out Fletcher's details if he did."
"I shouldn't think so. He gives the police a fairly wide berth."
"When was this?"
"Two years ago. It was before Tracey started working there, which is why it's hearsay."
Sasha consulted her own notes. "Didn't you say Priscilla was at the pub in February when she stole Dr. Hughes's wallet?" George nodded.
"Does her husband know she's still seeing him?"
"No idea ... and it may not be relevant, anyway, if she's still working as a prostitute and her husband's her pimp." Her mouth turned down disapprovingly. "It's all very murky, whichever way you look at it. My father would be spinning in his grave if he knew the antics people get up to these days. What's wrong with being loyal to one partner? It always used to work."
Sasha caught Jonathan's gaze and a flicker of amusement shivered between them.
George pretended not to notice. "If she isn't in her house now, then she may well be at the Crown and Feathers. She's like a bee to a honeypot where Roy's concerned. I never noticed her car before, but now, almost every time I pass the pub, it's there in the road. You'd think she'd be worried about Nicholas seeing it. I mean, if I've noticed it, why hasn't he?"
"What sort of car is it?"
"Black BMW," said Jonathan. "We can even give you the registration number."
Sasha eyed him thoughtfully. "What about Nicholas? What does he drive?"
"Pass."
"Then perhaps the BMWs his. It's worth a try." She took out her mobile telephone. "There were no cars at the house when I was there," she explained, "but I'm sure there was someone in the house." She punched in a number. "Can you write out the registration?" she asked Jonathan. "This is a check I can run quite quickly through the office."
Louise slid through the kitchen doorway and watched Roy peeling potatoes. He was working at a chopping board near the monitor, and he had his back to her. It was funny how he reminded her of her father. They had similar builds and similar ways of speaking, but she didn't think either of those triggered memories of Robert. It had more to do with the fact that Roy was always preparing meals. "I don't know why you bother," she said into the silence. "Who's going to eat them?"
He'd known she was there. Just like her father, he always heard her come in. "Private room's booked out till midnight," he told her. "Card game." He wiped his hands on a towel and turned round. "What's up?"
She walked round the table to give him Sasha Spencer's card. "That bitch George must have told them. What should I do?"
Roy squinted at the writing on the back. "How did you get it?"
"It was posted through the letter box."
"Did you tell Nick?"
"Don't be an idiot!"
Roy jerked his head toward the monitor. "I've been watching him. He was waiting by the letter box when this Spencer woman poked it through." He tucked the card back into her pocket. "You'd better start working out how to tell him who Louise Burton is. He'll probably kill you for it ... but I'm past caring."
She raised her mouth to his and teased him with her tongue. "Nick I can handle. What do I do about Sasha Spencer?"
He stared into her eyes before pulling her into a rough embrace. "What you always do," he said with a grim smile. "Tell her it was someone else. Cill'll not stay buried this time. There's too many people asking questions."
George went inside to make a pot of tea, Jonathan suggested moving the table to a spot further down the garden where a neighbor's tree offered some shade. Sasha accepted gratefully. He tucked her chair well under the tree, then retrieved the other two, placing his in the sunshine, at an angle to the table, and stretching his long legs in front of him. "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"
"Strange things genes," said Jonathan nonchalantly. "My father was a Jamaican road sweeper and my mother was a Chinese maid."
Sasha glanced at his card. "You've done well," she said. "They must be proud of you."
Perhaps they were, he thought. "So what got you into tracing children?" he asked.
"An ad in the local newspaper," she admitted honesdv "I thought it sounded more interesting than my previous job."
"Which was?" "Office work." "What sort?"
"I worked for the Inland Revenue." She laughed at his expression. "Now you know why I wanted to leave."
"It's not that," he said. "George used to be a tax inspector in London." He laughed. "You'll be telling me you have degrees in psychology and behavioral science next."
"I wish I had. They'd be more useful in this game than medieval history." She paused. "She's an interesting person. Have you known her long?"
"Not really." He rearranged the postman's hat so that the peak settled more comfortably on his neck. "It just seems as if I have.
" He smiled at Sasha's expression. "That was a compliment. She has a disproportionate effect on the people she meets ... her influence on them is stronger than theirs on her."
"Some people are like that. Louise Burton, for example."
"Do you think so?" Jonathan asked curiously. "To me, she has all the attributes of a loose cannon."
Sasha shrugged. "Then why does everyone protect her? Her brother ... Roy Trent ... possibly even Nicholas Fletcher. Why does your agent want to believe she's telling the truth? There must be something about her that attracts people. You said yourself you felt comfortable with her until you discovered your wallet was missing."
"It's a man thing," he answered cynically. "Miss Brett wouldn't agree with you. She didn't like her at all."
"But she didn't punish her the way she punished Cill," Sasha pointed out.
George picked up the tail end of the conversation as she brought out a tray of cups and a teapot. "Cill went back to rescue her before the rape," she reminded Jonathan as she resumed her seat, "which suggests she perceived Louise as more vulnerable than she was. Weakness can be a strength in certain situations, particularly if it's used to manipulate emotions."
"It didn't work for Howard or Grace," he said.
"No," she agreed, "but they weren't manipulators."
"And Louise is?"
"She was very successful at persuading you to let her look through your briefcase ... and Andrew into feeling sorry for her." She wagged a finger at him. "She had a good teacher, Jon. There's no more manipulative personality than an abusive father ... and no one with less moral sense. It's an appalling role model for an impressionable child. You should know that better than anyone."
"Are you saying I'm manipulative?"
George chuckled. "You could write a book on it, my dear."
Louise lit a cigarette. "Don't tell me what to do, Roy. You're not my bloody keeper. Never have been. You all think you own me because of what happened, but you don't ... I own you." She moved away from him. "You're so like my dad, darlin', you wouldn't believe. Love you, love you, love you, baby ... now gimme what I want or I'll thrash the living daylights out of you." Her eyes flared disparagingly. "I used to think he was God till he started feeling up Cill ... then I realized what a dirty little creep he was ... and I hated him. It was OK when he told me he loved me better than Mum. It wasn't OK when he said Cill was his favorite."
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