by Kathy Shuker
‘Either J.D. or J.P. It wasn’t clear. And the date might have been the twenty-third of the eighth instead so…’ Jo shrugged. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘Lawrence might be more helpful. He probably arranged the meeting himself.’
‘Of course, he might have. Thanks.’
Afterwards, Jo reflected on what she had learnt. Not a lot. Reading all evening? Maybe. The phone call from Mari might be worth checking but she didn’t truly suspect Imogen. She had intended to pump her about the other tutors and about Lawrence but Imogen had quickly put up barriers. The strategy had seemed simpler in the planning. It had been a mistake to underestimate Imogen and treat her as naïve. None of the tutors were that.
But she had managed to rule out Charlotte. The previous day, using a spurious excuse, Jo had waylaid the housekeeper as she did her weekly morning clean and linen change in Lawrence’s annexe. It had been a chance to see inside his sophisticated and somewhat austere apartments too though they had afforded no real insight into the man. But, using the same fictitious note excuse, she had found out that Charlotte had gone with her daughter to the theatre in Plymouth the evening of the fall so Jo had happily struck her name from the list.
She hoped she was doing the right thing. Now Imogen knew of her suspicions, it wouldn’t be long before the others knew but she had allowed for that; it was a calculated gamble. It would be interesting to see what happened next.
*
Eleanor heard the night staff at the nurses’ station speaking in low tones. Somewhere further away, an old man’s reedy voice was calling out, ‘Nurse? Nurse? Please someone.’ She was dimly aware of the sound of the double doors to the ward swishing open and now a man’s voice and the metallic clang of a trolley. They had become the background sounds to her life and she barely registered them.
The girl had brought some photographs in that afternoon, pictures of a house and a garden and snaps of people. Some of those images still circulated in her head. Candida had been among them. She remembered Candida - how could she not? - larger than life and endlessly trouble. And there had been a picture of her mother too. Eleanor frowned. Her mother. Ursula Lambe, novelist. Sweeping historical romances. She remembered those, sort of. There were things coming back, pictures in her head from the past, some clear, some very fuzzy.
‘You were all novelists,’ Candida’s daughter had said. What was that girl’s name? It had gone again. ‘Your mother, your sister and you too, Eleanor. You still are. Very well known. Political thrillers, that’s what you write. Brilliant they are.’
Yes, Eleanor sort of knew that, not the well-known or the brilliant bits, but she knew she wrote. That was odd. How did she know that? She just did. Like she knew that she loved strawberries and hated apricots. She almost smiled. Yes, that’s right. And she loved pasta but hated goat’s cheese. Ha.
She turned her head towards the locker where Jo had put the photographs. Joselyn - that was it. Jo. It was too dark to see them now and she didn’t have her glasses to hand anyway but she remembered the photograph of herself.
‘This is like the one they use on your books, Eleanor,’ Jo had said. ‘Very chic, aren’t you? I love your hair like that.’
Eleanor raised a hand to her face and ran her fingertips over it and then the hair which was growing rapidly but still felt spiky and odd. It was hard to believe she was the same person.
You know you had an accident? Yes, they kept saying that. She had grasped that but she still didn’t remember it. She did know that a lot of her mind seemed to be missing. Gone. She fingered cautiously at the scar on her scalp. There was something she knew she should remember but it wouldn’t come. There were many things that wouldn’t come, images and words that teased and flitted at the corners of her mind but slipped away when she tried to fix on them. And there were some that scared her, even though she couldn’t recall them. They seemed dark, heavy shadows deep in the recesses of her mind. Maybe she shouldn’t try to raise them.
Eleanor frowned. She wanted the toilet. They’d taken that tube out earlier in the day and she was so grateful - it was a hateful thing. She fumbled about in the bed: there was a button here somewhere to press which would call the nurse. She found it and thrust her thumb down on it hard but it was too late. She felt the hot liquid seep round her legs and cried out in frustration.
Chapter 11
On the Monday morning Jo was sitting at Eleanor’s desk when the study door was rapped twice and Lawrence walked in. She produced a smile, eyebrows raised enquiringly.
‘Morning Lawrence.’
‘Morning.’ He glanced round as he always did, checking for any changes, something to pick on, then slowly drew his inscrutable gaze back to rest on her. ‘I’ve been hearing a strange story. Perhaps you can clear the matter up?’
‘Try me.’
He came to stand the other side of the desk, looking down on her.
‘You found a note Eleanor had written about a meeting on the Friday she fell, is that true?’
‘Yes.’ Lying didn’t come naturally to her but she knew how to do it. Jo had watched her mother lie to every lover she had ever known: eyebrows raised just a little, gaze steady; look accessible and easy-going.
‘Can I see it?’
‘The note? Erm, I think it’s in my bag upstairs. Tell me, how did you hear about it?’
‘Vincent. He said it was two initials and a time and you’d been asking a lot of questions about it.’
‘I only remarked on it to Imogen actually. I wondered if she’d seen anyone that evening, hanging around. Did you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Sorry, I assumed you were home that night so…’ She shrugged. ‘…perhaps you went out for a walk at some point or went to get something from the car?’
‘I was out.’
‘In the car?’
‘Yes. Your point being?’
‘If you were driving in and out you might have seen someone.’
‘I would have said so before.’
‘You saw no-one?’ She sounded surprised.
‘That’s right. I saw no-one.’ He leaned his knuckles down on the desk, bending forward ominously towards her. ‘And I didn’t arrange any meeting for her that night. What exactly were the initials on the note?’
‘J.D. or J.P.’
He shook his head. ‘They mean nothing to me.’
‘Not to worry. It was just a thought.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t think you can fool me, Joselyn. It’s a pathetic story. There is no note is there? It’s a fabrication to ask questions and point fingers. I object to being cross-questioned about my movements, like a criminal.’
Jo rose to her feet, obliging him to straighten up. ‘You aren’t being accused of anything, Lawrence. And anyone who has nothing to hide has no reason to be concerned about answering questions.’
He frowned, momentarily taken aback. Jo had never answered him back before.
‘Anyway, tell me about Vincent,’ she said. ‘He came to me asking about a play he’d written based on one of Eleanor’s novels. They were working together on it, he said. I’ve found the play so that much is true. Do you know anything about it?’
‘No,’ he said coldly. ‘And she would have told me if they were working together on anything. It’s impossible to imagine. Though Vincent did come to see Eleanor that Friday and he did look angry when he left.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I don’t know: sevenish.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘I believe so. Eleanor made light of the visit but Vincent is always trying to take advantage of her.’
‘Have you challenged him about it?’
‘No. I leave these matters to the police; it’s not amateur night. I’d advise you to do the same.’ He paused. ‘I assume you’ll be at the festival meeting tonight. And I trust that this nonsense won’t spread outside this estate?’
He raised his c
hin, walked briskly to the door, and left.
*
They were nearing the end of another tedious committee meeting and Matthew had surreptitiously watched Jo at intervals throughout. She had arrived at the hall slightly late, alone, yet Lawrence had been in his seat before seven-thirty and they sat well apart. Matthew had watched Lawrence too: efficient and precise but officious, he had barely glanced at Jo all evening. Matthew wondered what was going on in that house up on the headland. More than Jo was letting on for certain. She had given a report on Eleanor’s progress, had ventured for the first time to suggest that it was unlikely that her aunt would be well enough to speak at the festival and that, despite the short notice, she was looking into finding a replacement speaker.
Nancy closed the meeting. Some quickly left including Lawrence, but a small group gathered near the door to go for a drink. Matthew saw Steve, one of the organisers of the festival stewarding, invite Jo to join them. She appeared to accept. The next minute he too had fallen in with the group and was wandering up the hill with them.
They went to The Mill. Sitting alongside the stream and set back from the winding road out of the village, the redundant old stone mill, converted and extended, was now a smart wine bar and restaurant with a separate function room to the rear. Matthew had only been there once before. Opening at ten each morning, it served coffee and continental pastries through the morning as well as bar drinks and meals later in the day. Gareth had described The Mill to him as ‘the opposition’ but Matthew didn’t see it that way. It had a different ambiance: The Mill aimed for muted, chic and sophisticated; Millie’s was beach-side, bright and cheerful. Unpretentious.
That evening the main bar of The Mill was a crush of people and noise. There were six of them and they looked round vainly for a vacant table. A large conservatory extension had recently been built on the side and they found space there, squeezing onto two cane sofas either side of a long low table. It wasn’t comfortable and conversation was stilted. They didn’t stay long, desultorily picking over the discussions of the evening, joking about Nancy’s micromanaging. Jo spoke rarely unless addressed directly, giving little of herself away and even less about Eleanor.
Steve left first, pleading an early start the next day. Jo got up soon after and suddenly they were all on their feet and moving to the door. The others lived further up the hill and Matthew and Jo walked together back down towards the cove. It was nearly ten o’clock. The sun had long since set but a waxing moon cast a silvery glow over the village and bounced white light from a strip of sea in the distance. They could hear the distant sound of waves rolling onto the shore. Matthew found it both pleasing and a little eerie; he had never lived anywhere like this before.
‘So what will your son be doing while you’re out?’ Jo asked him.
He gave a short laugh. ‘The same thing he does when I’m there, I imagine: play music in his bedroom very loud. He’s into rap…or hip hop. Or both. I’m afraid I don’t know the difference.’
‘Don’t you do anything together? Watch films or something?’
He flicked her a glance, taken aback at the question. ‘No, not really. We can’t seem to agree on what to watch.’
They walked on several paces in silence. Her head was tilted down to watch the road and her bobbed hair fell over her face, obscuring her expression.
‘What sort of film would you watch?’ he asked her.
She looked up quickly, hair swinging back. ‘Me? From choice? I don’t know…a thriller maybe, or a classic like A Room with a View, or something like The Imitation Game. I don’t watch much - whatever’s on usually.’ She hesitated. ‘And you?’
‘I like a thriller too. Or a Bond movie. I enjoyed The Lord of the Rings. I haven’t done that in a while either.’
A car drove up the road from the coast and they both stopped and stood close to the banked hedge, out of its way. It passed and they started walking again.
‘I guess teenage boys like different films,’ she remarked. ‘I wouldn’t know what.’
‘Harry wouldn’t like anything I liked on principle.’ It came out more bitterly than he’d intended.
Jo turned her head to stare at him. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, he’s a teenager.’ He affected a lighter tone. ‘It goes with the territory.’ The silence between them yawned wide. ‘No…honestly…it’s since his mum died. He’s not been the same kid.’
‘I see. I’m sorry.’ Again he felt the scrutiny of her eyes in the half light. ‘How long ago was that?’
‘About two years.’
‘It must have been difficult for you too.’
He shrugged but didn’t answer, felt the familiar clenching of his jaw, the sudden inability to articulate any part of how it had been, and they walked on in silence. Now they were looking full down on the bay and the piercing moonlight reflecting off the water’s surface. Matthew began trying to pick out his house among the jumble of the settlement, checking for lights, wondering if Harry had been true to his word and stayed in.
‘Ow.’ Jo had stopped and was reaching down to her ankle.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I didn’t see a hole at the side of the road and I put my foot in it. My ankle went over.’
‘Is it bad? Can you walk? Do you need a hand?’
She tentatively tried a step. ‘It’s fine. Just a bit sore.’
He put a hand to her elbow all the same and she didn’t pull away, limping on beside him till they reached the turning for Skymeet. They both stopped and again there was that awkward silence.
‘Would you like to come in for coffee?’ she offered.
He hesitated. Was she just being polite or did she genuinely want him to come back? He wanted to. She was interesting and pretty and there was something gentle and understanding about her. Jesus, she smelt good too, some light musky perfume.
‘Thanks,’ he heard himself say, ‘but I’d better get back to Harry.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
He hesitated. ‘But I was thinking maybe we could go out for a drink sometime, just us, I mean?’
She didn’t reply and immediately he regretted the remark: he had misread her. What an idiot.
‘Sorry, I only meant something casual,’ he mumbled. ‘But of course, if you’d rather not…’
‘No, no,’ she said quickly, and smiled. ‘A drink would be good.’
He produced a smile too. ‘Good. I’ll ring you then.’ He pointed down at her ankle. ‘You should put an ice-pack on that.’
‘Yessir.’ The suggestion of a teasing salute. ‘Night, Matthew.’
He stood, watching, as she limped across the road. She stopped and looked back.
‘Just checking you’re OK,’ he said.
She gave an embarrassed wave then turned and made slow progress up the track towards the estate gates. He walked on down the hill towards home.
‘Nice girl,’ Sophie told him. ‘But she’s not me, darling.’
‘I know she’s not you.’
‘Do you? Good. Are you sure about that?’
‘Why do you think I’m going home to Harry?’
‘Because you feel guilty, Matthew.’
*
Harry stood on the shingle, idly skimming stones over the water. He was wearing earphones connected to something in a holster attached to a belt around his baggy shorts. His new phone presumably. And between bending over to pick up stones and flicking them he occasionally waved his arms in some semblance of a dance, shuffling his feet and stamping them to a beat.
He was wrapped up in his own world and he looked unusually content. Jo watched him for a couple of minutes, pleased to see him that way, reluctant to break his personal spell, jealous even of his absorption. It was ten-thirty in the morning - a fine, dry Thursday but with a chill breeze coming off the sea - and she had struggled to settle to work, her mind too full of other issues. Eventually she’d abandoned her computer and made her way ou
tside instead and, seeing Harry on the beach, had climbed down to join him.
Now, caught in her indecision about disturbing him, she watched him raise bent arms, shift them side to side rhythmically, then do a violent pirouette, jumping his feet round and making a pumping fist movement with both hands. He was facing her and his mouth dropped open, his cheeks colouring. He immediately pulled the earphones out.
‘How long’ve you been there?’ he demanded.
‘I’ve just arrived. I guess you didn’t hear me because of the music.’ She could hear the throbbing beat of it buzzing out of his earphones; it sounded like the rap music Matthew had mentioned. ‘Great moves, by the way.’
‘No need to be sarcastic.’
‘I wasn’t being sarcastic. Trust me. I can’t dance for toffee.’ She pointed towards his belt. ‘You’ve got your new phone already?’
‘Yeah. That was part of the deal - getting it now.’ He pulled it out of its holster, looking down at it with clear satisfaction.
‘At least it’s safer in there than your pocket. So what did you have to do for your part of the deal?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m working in the coffee shop a bit so I could get a decent phone straight away and not have to wait for my birthday. It was Gail’s idea. She works there.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘I’ve only done two days. It’s all right. Freddie’s cool. He works there too.’
‘The tall guy with the ponytail?’
‘Yeah.’
She bent over, picked up a stone and skimmed it out over the water. They both watched it skip four times and plop into the water; neither remarked on it.
He put the earphones back in and turned to face the sea again.
‘Harry?’
He grunted, still staring at the water.
‘Harry, please take those out. I want to talk.’
He pulled them out impatiently. ‘What?’ he demanded rudely.
‘Hey, hey, c’mon. Don’t be like this. I don’t want to shout. I’m guessing you wouldn’t have spoken to your mum like that, would you?’