For a moment, I think of Vince and close my eyes and hope that he is also safe and free. It’s time for us all to move on.
53
Alexis
I support Olive as we stroll through Highgate Cemetery. The wind gusts around our ears and my frail friend is very shaky on her feet. But she was determined to come, without Bob. She needed to get away from the house and be with her two new best friends. Gary wanders along behind us and every so often stops to read the inscriptions on the gravestones, taking snaps of the more elaborate tombs and ghoulish deathbeds. I throw him a few dirty looks to try to quash his overzealous photographic activities.
Bonnie is off the lead, scurrying along the ground; her little stomach hangs so low that small dried sticks and leaves attach to her fur. Every few seconds she stops, smells the grass and runs on again. But not before her wary little eyes check I’m still here.
‘Why don’t you get a proper dog?’ Gary makes a derisive snorting sound.
‘Bonnie is a proper dog, thank you all the same.’ I give him a stern look. ‘Just because she’s small doesn’t mean she’s not a proper dog.’ Bonnie comes bounding back and I scoop her up and feel her pimply wet little tongue lash my face. ‘If I had a so-called proper dog, I wouldn’t have this pleasure.’ Olive watches us as she rests for a moment on a wooden bench.
‘Yuk. That’s disgusting. Anyway, I thought she belonged to someone else.’
‘She’s mine now. Her owner’s gone to live in France and I offered to keep her.’ I don’t tell Gary that I always wanted a dog but Adam forbade it. ‘It’s either me or a dog,’ he’d said on more than one occasion. Perhaps I should have stood firm and chosen a dog.
As we move on, Gary stops again and takes a photograph of Bonnie with her little leg aloft against a headstone. He thinks it’s hilarious. We all laugh, amused by the irreverence.
‘Show some respect,’ I call over my shoulder. He smiles, determined to ignore his boss on this rare occasion. He’s been talking of a scrapbook to record all the details of our first real case. The fact that Olive solved it isn’t relevant and he’s milking his involvement with childish enthusiasm.
We finally reach the graveside and mingle with the motley gathering of mourners who keep silent vigil by the gaping hole in the ground. I wind Bonnie’s lead in and she lies down quietly, puffing out a steady stream of hot air, tongue hanging loosely to one side.
‘Must have cost a bomb to get a plot here,’ Gary whispers in my left ear.
Olive, clinging once more to my arm for dear life in case she topples over, answers for me. ‘At least twelve thousand pounds. I’ve been googling,’ she announces.
‘Since when did you google?’ I can’t help a wry smile as she bobs her tiny head towards me and winks.
There are no more than twenty mourners, who wait patiently for the vicar to begin his eulogy. The sight of three random women, standing separately, all dressed in dark reverential colours, makes me wince. I surmise that they might all have known the deceased from their inroads into online activities. One of the ladies blows into a tissue, finding it difficult to keep the noise down.
‘Ashes to ashes,’ begins the minister. I let my eyes wander further afield. There’s a large oak tree off to the right of the mourners and I can see an older woman whose head is covered by a dark netted veil. She looks familiar. I nudge Gary and nod in her direction. He stares at her and I have to dig him somewhere below the ribs to get him to avert his eyes. He knows who she is and smugly waits until the service concludes.
‘Go on then, Sherlock. Who is she?’ I ask.
‘Don’t you remember the pictures I showed you? That’s the last woman Jason was seen with. It’s Francine Dubois. The psychotherapist from Highgate.’ Of course. She lifts her veil and starts to move away.
‘Here, Olive. Hold on to Gary. I’ll not be long. Gary, you hold on to Bonnie.’ I pass him the lead before he has time to object. Bonnie’s eyes follow me closely.
Olive knows where I’m going. We work well as a team. I move a little faster across the rough ground and join the small path which leads back to the car park. I don’t want to alert Francine that I’m following her. She seems intent on getting away, unnoticed.
‘Hi,’ I say as I finally catch up and fall into step alongside her. ‘At least the rain’s held off. It’s still threatening though.’ I glance heavenwards. She doesn’t look at me. I notice dark bags under her eyes and the pale bloodless complexion. I carry on.
‘Did you know the deceased?’ I’m intrigued by this woman as I think she might hold some more clues as to Jason’s life. Who is she?
We walk in silence and I’m about to give up when she stops, unpins the veil from her hair where it’s been clipped neatly into place. I watch her fold the lace and put it carefully into her black handbag. Her eyes are a deep mahogany brown and her high cheekbones augment what would once have been a breathtaking beauty. I think of Sophia Loren, the aging but timeless Italian sex siren. A squirrel runs past, bobbing and weaving between the trees before it pauses.
‘Perhaps that’s Jason,’ Francine muses, watching the tiny animal stand up on its hind legs and survey the landscape. The furry creature has something small clasped between its tiny front feet, a nut perhaps or an acorn. ‘I don’t think he’ll leave me altogether. He always comes back and I let him go when he asks.’ She drops a glove and bends to pick it up. Her thick brown hair is highlighted through with subtle blonde streaks but stubborn grey strands are discernible in the sunlight. It falls free of the clipped restraints as she bends and her thick tresses rest softly on her shoulders. I’m mesmerised by her beauty. I realise why Jason would have been drawn to this enigmatic woman.
‘Yes, I knew him. We go back a long way, to the beginning of time really,’ she says facing me, a smile on her lips. As she speaks, her full mouth opens to display perfect white teeth. She falters and puts a hand against a random gravestone to steady herself. She reads the inscription out loud. It helps steady her voice and calm the emotion.
George Mortimer, aged 25 years. Beloved husband of Greta and son of Paul and Rachel. Taken too soon. 1956–1981
She runs her finger along the wording lost in thought.
‘Yes I knew Jason. Since he was born actually.’ She turns round. ‘He was such a beautiful baby and an even more handsome child.’
We are alone among the gravestones, the other mourners linger some distance behind. I hold my breath, and suddenly realise what her next words are going to be.
‘He was my son. My only son. My perfect child.’
I’ve left Bonnie in the car, exhausted from all the activity, but she’ll not lie down until I get back. I’ll make it up to her later. Tonight we’ll snuggle up on the sofa, wine for me and doggy treats for her, and while I watch a movie, she’ll fall asleep, safe and secure at last.
Meanwhile Gary, Olive and I have ended up in tearooms in Highgate Village, having decided against tea and sandwiches in the old rectory with the vicar and the motley crew of mourners.
‘Not sure I could cope with any more gruesome revelations,’ Gary chirps as he shakily deposits two full cups of tea in front of Olive and me as we settle down by the window. When he goes back to pick up the scones and jam, Olive turns to me.
‘Looks can be so deceiving. I’ve watched families come and go for years and often wonder what really goes on behind closed doors. I try to guess from the smallest details but I don’t think even I could have worked out what was going on in the Swinton household. Just imagine. Sleeping with your own mother.’ Olive’s teacup wobbles in her hand which she tries to control with her gnarled fingers. I lean across to wipe at the dribbling hot liquid with a serviette but she shoos me away.
‘Don’t worry, love. There’ll be a few more drops before I’ve finished.’
Gary returns and the three of us sit at a small square table. The red and white linen tablecloths give the room a homely feel and freshly cut flower posies emit a delicately scented aroma. I lift my cu
p and reach it into the centre of the table towards my new friends.
‘She must have reverted to her maiden name of Dubois or else conjured it up as a more exotic surname for working purposes,’ Gary suggests. ‘Anyway, it would have taken the sharpest detective in the world to have worked that one out.’
‘Cheers. Glad you could Join Me,’ I say and we all laugh, cautiously touching our cups together.
‘And here’s to many more successful cases,’ Gary says. He seems to have grown in stature since we first met and as I glance round the small tea shop, I surmise that people will think we are three generations of the same family; grandmother, mother and son. Although I must admit that Olive and Gary do feel like a real family to me. I sip the warm sweet tea and realise I’m excited about working together and getting to know them better. As I call the waitress over to ask for the bill, Gary produces a small notebook from his suit pocket.
‘By the way,’ he says, pointing to some scribbled writing inside. ‘We’ve got a new client. Mrs Pennington from Bishops Avenue.’
‘Another errant husband?’ Olive asks.
‘No. She wants us to find her cat. It’s gone missing apparently.’
Olive and I burst out laughing as Gary reads out a full description of the missing pet.
Acknowledgements
Writing is frequently a solitary lonely task but it is the people along the way who keep you going with their unwavering encouragement and belief.
I would like to thank all my friends and family who offered support and survival tips. Firstly, thanks to my sister Linda Pigott who has always believed in me and pushed me to persevere when things got tough. Thanks to Susan McCarthy, Lindsay McQuillan and Gloria Green for their enthusiastic feedback on all my work, and to Jane Badrock who encouraged me to contact Bloodhound Books, which turned out to be the best home for this novel. To Margaret Fitzpatrick who took the time to read early drafts and to the many other people who ask me every day how things are progressing.
I am so grateful to all at Bloodhound Books, especially to Betsy Reavley who believed in the manuscript on first reading, and to her wonderful staff who have worked tirelessly to get it ready for publication. Morgen Bailey has been the most amazing editor with her sharp and focused attention to detail. Thanks also to Tara Lyons, whose prompt response to so many questions marks her out as a true professional.
Finally biggest thanks of all to Neil and James, the two men in my life. Neil for giving me the time and support to get on with the job, and James for promising that one day he might get around to reading my books.
About the Author
Diana Wilkinson graduated from Durham University with a degree in geography then after a short spell in teaching, spent most of her working life in the business of tennis development. A former Irish international player, Diana finally stepped off the tennis court to become a full-time writer.
The inspiration for much of her work has come from the ladies she coached over the years and from confidences shared over coffee. 4 Riverside Close is Diana’s first crime novel.
Born and bred in Belfast, Northern Ireland, during the height of the civil unrest, she now lives in Hertfordshire, England, with her husband Neil and son James.
A note from the publisher
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