Good grief! Sylvia thought as she heard her. The change was incredible. The old, prim, Pam had vanished and in her place was this new, feisty, sexy Arabella.
“You haven’t met him before,” Arabella was saying, “so I’m going to book him for you that weekend.”
“Sounds great. What about you?” Sylvia asked. “Will you try someone else?”
Arabella laughed down the phone, a throaty chuckle. “No, not yet. I’m still learning from André!”
So Sylvia was really looking forward to her next weekend in London, so much sooner than she could have afforded again for herself. Arabella had offered to make her a gift from her winnings, but Sylvia had turned her down. She didn’t want presents of cash, but she was quite happy to accept this sort of thank-you present occasionally.
It was a story in the next edition of the Chronicle that brought Sylvia up short. She had dropped into Neighbourhood News to buy the paper on her way to school and found herself being served by Emma Wilson, whom she used to teach.
“Oh, Miss Durston,” Emma greeted her warmly. “How are you? What can I get you?”
“I’m fine thank you, Emma,” Sylvia replied. “Just the Chronicle, thanks.”
Emma took the money and as she gave change she said, “How’s your friend, Miss Durston? The lady that won the lottery?”
Sylvia looked at her sharply, but quickly controlled her expression. “Sorry?” she said. “Who?”
“The lady who was with you at Easter. The one that won the lottery.”
“I’m sorry, Emma, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sylvia said firmly and turned towards the door.
“She came in here to check her ticket,” Emma persisted, “and it was a winner. Then I saw you with her later on.”
“Sorry,” Sylvia shrugged, “I think you must have been mistaken. I don’t know anyone who’s won the lottery…wish I did.” She smiled and walked out of the shop before Emma could say any more.
During the lunch break, Sylvia sat down with a coffee and opened the Chronicle. She liked the local paper, and always flicked through to find out what was going on in Belcaster. Today, however she saw a headline that made her pause and read the article in full.
Police divers search flooded quarry.
Police divers were brought in by the Belshire Constabulary yesterday to search the flooded quarry at the foot of Spar Hill. An abandoned car discovered by two boys recently was confirmed as that of Mr Roger Smith of Bristol. Roger Smith’s wife, Pamela, has not been seen since she allegedly left home at the end of February, and certain items in the car have caused concern for Mrs Smith’s safety. So far the divers have found nothing in the quarry, but Mrs Smith’s whereabouts are now in doubt. Her husband, Roger, is helping the police with their enquiries.
Helping the police with their enquiries! That sounds ominous for Roger, thought Sylvia. Are they accusing him of her murder, I wonder? Surely not! It would serve him right, though. Then she gave a rueful laugh. Of course Arab will definitely have to let the police know that she is safe when she gets back. Disappearing is one thing, letting Roger be arrested for her murder is another altogether. Pity though.
Sylvia actually considered an anonymous call to the police to stop them wasting any more of their time, but then she thought, It won’t hurt Roger to sweat a little before she lets him off the hook. Anyway, Arab would think I was a real traitor to go behind her back. She must do it herself. I’ll persuade her next weekend in London.
Even so, Sylvia made a promise to herself that if Arab refused to go to the police for any reason, and she could see Arabella coming up with several reasons why she shouldn’t, she, Sylvia would tip them off. It wasn’t that she wanted to betray her friend, but she could not live with her own conscience if she allowed Roger to serve what would probably be a long sentence, for something he hadn’t done. Sylvia even considered ringing Arabella on her new mobile in Paris to let her know what was going on, but thought better of it. If she needed to talk Arabella into going to the police, she knew she had a far better chance of doing so face to face, and without giving Arabella time to think up her excuses.
That evening Sylvia went home taking the paper with her. She would keep the article to show Arabella next weekend.
When she awoke next morning it was to a horrible day. The weather had closed right in with louring grey skies embracing the tree tops, and blanketing the world with a fine but steady drizzle.
It’s more like November than June, Sylvia thought as she made a dash out to the car, except that it’s warmer. She tossed her brief case onto the passenger seat and rubbed rather ineffectually at the steamed up windows. Once the engine was running the de-mister began to clear the windscreen on the inside and with the wipers going double time, Sylvia set off down the track.
“What a foul day,” Sylvia said to herself as she nosed out into the lane. Her last words. She hardly saw the car that hit her. It careered round the corner, and as the driver attempted to break, it hit a patch of mud on the road. The driver was young and inexperienced and unable to control the skid at such a speed, his car cannoned into Sylvia’s Saab, ramming the driver’s door and spinning it a hundred and eighty degrees across the road, hurling it into a tree. His own car, driven into the ditch with force of the impact, rolled onto its side, so that he was left suspended by his seat belt. Sylvia had been crushed between her seat and the steering wheel; thrown violently sideways her head whipped up and back and her neck snapped, so that she lolled against the steering wheel like a broken doll.
The young lad, extremely shaken but otherwise unhurt, struggled free of his seat belt and managed to scramble out of the window of his car. Once outside his legs gave way under him and he sat down in the road leaning against the back wheel of his car, his head in his hands, sobbing. This was how he was found when the next motorist came around the same corner and skidded to a halt. One look through the window of the Saab told him it was too late to do anything for the woman in there, her head was hanging at an impossible angle and her eyes were staring. He dialled 999 on his mobile and turned his attention to the lad sitting, crying, on the ground.
Sylvia was a well-known and popular member of the community, well-liked by most of the hundreds of children who had passed through her care, and her death made the front page of the Belcaster Chronicle.
Emma Wilson looked at the picture of her history teacher and tears sprang to her eyes. Miss Durston looked so happy in the photo, her head back laughing, just as she remembered her at school.
“I can’t believe it,” she told Justin tearfully that evening. “She was in here only two days ago, talking and laughing, like, and now she’s dead.”
“Yes, dreadful,” Justin agreed. “Her car was almost cut in two.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that,” Emma cried. “I don’t want to know details like that. Poor Miss Durston. That boy who was driving the other car should be put away for life. He as good as murdered her.”
“Hardly,” Justin shook his head. “It was an accident, that’s all. There was mud on the road, he skidded.”
“I bet he was going too fast,” muttered Emma, unconvinced. “I bet he was. He must have been. Stands to reason if he did that much damage. What do the police say?”
“They don’t yet,” Justin replied, “but I expect they’ll be looking into it. They were measuring the skid marks when I went out there.”
Emma shuddered. “I don’t know how you could go and look at a dreadful accident like that,” she said.
“It’s my job, Emma.”
“Yeah, well I’m glad it’s not mine.”
When Arabella got back from Paris she rang Sylvia to discuss their weekend plans. She had enjoyed her trip with André and she was looking forward to telling Sylvia all about it. She sat on the window seat of her room at the Sylvester, looking forward to a good natter, but the number rang and rang, and no one answered.
That’s strange, Arabella thought as, eventually, she hung up. Sylvi
a very rarely goes out in the evenings during the week. Perhaps its parents’ evening or something. I’ll ring again later.
Arabella tried the number several times later that night and again first thing in the morning, but there was no reply, even though she let the number ring for a long time in case Sylvia was asleep.
She had sent André home when they’d got back to London. She wanted an evening to herself, and now the next morning, propped up in bed with the receiver to her ear ringing endlessly, she began to worry.
“Where the hell are you?” she muttered into the ringing phone. “Come on Sylvia, wake up!” The ringing continued and at last Arabella put the phone down. Clearly Sylvia wasn’t at home. But where could she be? She had friends in the area, of course, but none that she was likely to stay the night with. That, after all, was why she came to London from time to time. Anyway, today was a school day, Sylvia would be going into work.
Arabella ate breakfast in her room and as she sat over her second cup of coffee, she decided to ring Sylvia at school. She would ring her on her mobile and leave a message, but when she tried, she found that Sylvia’s mobile was switched off and not even her voice mail activated. This really is weird, Arabella thought. Where is she? With sudden decision, Arabella dialled directory enquiry and asked for the phone number of Crosshills Comprehensive School in Belcaster. As soon as she had the number she rang the school secretary’s office.
“Oh I wonder if you can help me,” Arabella began when the secretary answered. “I am trying to reach Miss Sylvia Durston, but there is no answer at her home and her mobile is switched off. Please could I ask you to give her a message for me?”
“Miss Durston?” The voice sounded uncertain and thinking that the secretary might not want to go and find Sylvia, Arabella said hastily, “I don’t need to speak to her now, I just need to leave a message for her to ring me this evening.”
“Just one moment please,” said the voice and went away. Arabella could hear muttered voices in the background and the next person to speak to her was a man.
“Good morning, this is James Faulkner, the head teacher speaking. How may I help you?”
Arabella was amazed. “You’re the head? Look I’m sorry, I don’t need to trouble you at all. All I wanted to do was leave a message for Sylvia Durston.”
“Excuse me for asking, but are you family?” asked the head.
“No, my name is Arabella Agnew, I’m an old friend of Sylvia’s. I’ve been staying with her recently.” Arabella began to feel alarmed. “Look, Mr Faulkner, what’s going on. Has something happened?”
“Mrs Agnew, I’m sorry, but I have to tell you there’s been an accident, a dreadful car accident. Sylvia was killed.”
Arabella was stunned and for a moment she could say nothing.
“Mrs Agnew? Are you there? Are you all right?” James Faulkner sounded concerned.
“Yes, I mean no,” faltered Arabella. “Oh my God, this is awful. Is she really dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” the head said gently. “She was killed instantly. They say she’d have known nothing about it.”
“What…what happened?” asked Arabella huskily.
“She was hit by another car as she was coming out of her drive onto the lane. He skidded on a patch of mud.”
“That dreadful corner,” wailed Arabella. “Oh poor Sylvia. I’ll come up straight away. What’s happening? As far as I know she hasn’t any family. Who’s seeing to things?”
“I believe it’s her solicitor, a chap called David Watson, do you know him?”
“No, I haven’t met him, but I know of him. Look, Mr Faulkner, I’ll come straight up and go to the cottage. As I said, I’ve been staying with her on and off for some time now. I’ve got my key. You don’t happen to have this David Watson’s phone number do you?”
“No, but I can get it for you if you hold on a moment.”
“Yes please, if you would.” As Arabella waited she could hear muttered voices again and then he returned to the phone and gave her the number she needed. Arabella thanked him and rang off.
She sat perfectly still for a while staring out over the garden of the Sylvester Hotel. She felt cold and empty. How could Sylvia be dead? She was the only real friend Arabella had ever had, certainly in her adult life. She had taken her in when she needed somewhere to go, she had lent her money to tide her over until she had money of her own. She had kept Arabella’s secret and given her moral support, and now she was gone. Arabella buried her head in her hands and felt truly alone. She wanted to weep, but the tears didn’t come. The grief inside her was bordered with anger. It wasn’t fair. Why should this happen to Sylvia? Who was the lunatic who had wiped her out? For a long time Arabella’s insides twisted with a mixture of grief and rage as she tried to come to terms with the awful news. At last she began to pull herself together. She needed to do something practical, it was the way she always coped with things. It was time for action, not sitting about being miserable. She got up and ringing down to the desk asked them to organise her a rental car. She had not yet bought herself a car as she didn’t have anywhere to keep one in London, but she was in no mood to travel on the train. Anyway, she thought as she had a quick shower, I shall need a car while I’m there.
Within the hour she had checked out of the Sylvester and was on her way, driving a nippy VW Golf. As she drove, she thought about what she should do when she arrived. She had considered ringing the solicitor, David Watson, before leaving London, but had decided against it. She wanted to go the cottage first and make sure there was nothing there to connect her with Pam Smith. She was pretty sure there wasn’t, though of course she had left some of her clothes there, but she had to check..
She reached St Jude’s by early afternoon. As she came round the corner just before the track that led to the cottage, Arabella pulled in and got out of the car. There were still skid marks on the road and the hedge was shredded where it overhung the ditch. She stood at the mouth of the track and looked about her. The hedge still branched out on either side, cutting the visibility splay to a dangerous level.
Poor Sylvia, Arabella thought, it was an accident waiting to happen and even when it had, the bloody council still haven’t bother to cut the back hedge.
She climbed back into the car and drove up to the cottage. It stood in the warm summer sunlight, waiting, it seemed to Arabella, for Sylvia to come back, for all this to be a hideous mistake. She let herself in and gathering up some post that had accumulated on the hall floor, went into the kitchen. It was tidy, no breakfast dishes in the sink, the pedal bin emptied and relined. Sylvia always left her home as she wanted to find it when she came back…only this time she wasn’t coming back. Arabella dumped the post on the table and wandered into the living room. This, too, was tidy, with newspapers stacked neatly on the shelf under the coffee table; a vase of summer flowers, wilted now, on the top of the television and a CD case lying beside the stereo. Some papers in a neat pile on Sylvia’s desk. Arabella could almost see Sylvia sitting there, music flooding round her as she marked her pupils’ work. She turned abruptly and went upstairs. Her own room was just as she’d left it, waiting for her to come home again, too. There was nothing there to connect her with her former self, and she went into Sylvia’s room. The bed was made, the dressing table tidy, and on the bedside table was the book Sylvia had been reading. Arabella picked it up and it fell open where Sylvia had marked her place. Arabella was about to put it down again when she noticed the book mark…a cutting from a newspaper with the headline Missing Wife. She read the cutting through twice and sunk on to Sylvia’s bed.
Where did this come from? she thought in panic. She turned the piece over and saw that Sylvia had written on the back ‘Daily Telegraph’ June 3rd. Just last week. Why had Sylvia cut it out? Arabella wondered. To show me, I suppose…unless she’s been to the police and told them about me. No, Sylvia wouldn’t do that…not without telling me…would she? No, definitely not. But thank God it was me found this cutting not
someone else, or they might have wondered at it and put two and two together.
She remembered the pile of newspapers downstairs and wondered if there was anything else about her or Roger in any of those. She ran back down to the living room and pulled the papers out onto the floor. Sitting on the sofa she worked her way through each one, searching the columns for any further reference to Roger or her disappearance, but found nothing. When she reached the Belcaster Chronicle she almost didn’t bother to look, after all there’d be nothing about them in a local paper, but she dared not leave anything to chance and so she flipped through that as well. When she saw the paragraph headed Police divers search flooded quarry her heart missed a beat. She read the article with a faint smile. So, they had found the car and they were questioning Roger about it. Good. Serve him right.
It was then that it struck her. Now that Sylvia was dead, there was no one else who knew about her change of name. No one else in the whole wide world knew whom she had become. There was no record of her deed poll, she had not registered it; her passport was issued in her new name, as was her driving licence. She was entirely safe, Roger could never find her now. Unless Sylvia had already been to the police. Finding the cutting had made her wonder about Sylvia’s loyalty. Had she been going to tell the police about Arabella? Despite her sadness at Sylvia’s sudden and tragic death, Arabella couldn’t help wondering.
Well, if Sylvia was going to tell, or if she was going to try and make me tell, it’s too late now, Arabella thought, with some satisfaction. Nothing would make her reveal her whereabouts to the police.
She made herself some coffee and then she rang the number James Faulkner had given her for David Watson. When she explained that she had been living with Sylvia for the past few months, the receptionist put her through straight away.
“Mrs Agnew…” Why did they all assume she was married? Arabella wondered…. “Mrs Agnew, what a dreadful thing this is. I am so pleased that there is someone to take care of things for her. I’m afraid I have already made arrangements for her funeral. I believe she has no close family and I am her executor, so I got on with things.”
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