Almost a Crime (106 page)

thought it sounded a bit like that. But Zoe said she just

needed a knight to move on to the board.’

There was a long silence. Then, ‘I always rather fancied a knighthood,’ said Nico Cadogan.

Octavia switched on the TV, in lieu of anything else to do.

A terrible film was just ending, and then there was the

news. More endless footage about the funeral, the procession

to Althorp: Mother Teresa had died. Apart from film

of her own life, there were endless shots of her with Diana

when she had visited her clinic in Calcutta. More reactions

about that round the world, very little else. Then the local

news.

‘A small girl is missing tonight, after disappearing from

Brands Hatch racecourse. Minty Fleming, aged ten

months …’ The picture of Minty she had given them,

sitting and laughing in her highchair, the only recent one

she had had with her, appeared on the screen: Octavia

stared at it, frozen with horror and shock, even though she

had known it would happen. ‘Minty was at Brands Hatch

with her parents when she disappeared, apparently with a

friend of the family … Police have been searching the

course and the surrounding area, so far without success.’

Nothing could have prepared Octavia for the horror of

that moment: when the deadly, dreadful item about a

missing child, so often at that point during the news, the

one over which normally she tutted, sympathised, said, how

dreadful, poor things, I don’t know how people stand it,

and went on very often then to say she didn’t know why

people let their children walk down roads on their own, or

play unattended: when that item had been about her, her

child, her missing child, her unattended child. She didn’t

know how they stood it, those parents; and she didn’t know

how she would stand it. She didn’t even know yet what she

had to stand.

She felt violently sick, rushed into the bathroom, threw

up; and then feeling slightly better, washed her face, and

walked back slowly in the bedroom. She sat down on a

chair by the window, staring out. It was almost dark, a

horribly lovely night, warm and starry, with an almost new moon. Louise didn’t deserve that night, she deserved something stormy and ugly, threatening her. And then she

thought that Minty did deserve, did need a lovely night, as

warm and as tender as it could be.

‘Oh, Minty,’ she said aloud, as she said to her every night

tucked safely into her cot, ‘darling Minty, God Bless. Keep

safe. I do hope you’re safe.’

Her own foolish words made her start to cry again: don’t,

Octavia, don’t. Try to remember what it was Melanie said,

keep calm, think clearly.

The tug came again; the important thing struggling to

surface, forcing its way up into her brain. What was it,

what? Something Melanie had been saying: something so

important.

Marianne. Her father. And something about going round

the country when she was small. In a caravan. Yes. The tug

was harder that time. That was definitely it.

‘God,’ said Octavia aloud. ‘God, what is it, what?’

She stood up, started pacing up and down the room. A

caravan. What about a caravan? A harder tug, the flash of a

picture then in her head. Just for a moment, then gone

again. This was like that psychometric testing they did,

when they were interviewing people for top jobs, the

modem equivalent of the ink blot test. Flash a picture in

front of their eyes, and if they said it made them think of

their mother or something equally uncompetitive, you

didn’t hire them. Or maybe you did. She couldn’t

remember. Lot of nonsense anyway.

Concentrate, Octavia, concentrate.

Travelling round the country. In a caravan. Another hazy

picture.

And then it came: beaming into her head, brightly

brilliant, a proper vision. Anna, the last time she’d seen her:

before she died. Anna worried, saying to Louise, ‘Daddy

mustn’t know about this, he’d be so cross.’

Asking Louise what Charles would be cross about and

Louise saying, carelessly, ‘Her parents had an old caravan.’

And then — yes: ‘In a field on a farm somewhere. Daddy said she had to sell it but she couldn’t bear to.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Octavia in a whisper. She stood up,

staring into the darkness as if it could tell her more still.

‘Oh, my God.’

That was where Louise would have gone: to the caravan.

Who would know she was there, dumped in a field on a farm? She would be there, in it, with Minty, thinking she was safe. Octavia felt faint, her head swirling, had to sit

down on the bed again. She realised her fists were clenched,

her hands sweating. But - yes. She felt quite quite sure. It

was where she would go, what she would do. So

anonymous, so secret, so safe. When everyone was watching

hotels, airports, buildings. An old caravan in a field.

What could be more perfect? She must go there, quickly.

But - where? Where was it, where was the caravan, where

was the farm?

Charles would know. It would be terrible having to ask

him, she shrank from the thought of it, but he would know.

She picked up the phone, took a deep breath, dialled the

number. It rang for a long time; Janet answered it.

‘Oh, hallo, Octavia,’ she said, her voice with its lovely

rolling accent heavy. ‘I’m so sorry about all this. Very very

sorry.’

‘Yes. Yes, Janet, thank you. Um — is Mr Madison there?’

‘He is, yes. Shall I get him for you?’

‘Yes. Well…’ She hesitated. Janet might know; she’d

been with the family since Louise had been born.

‘Janet, can I ask you something? In confidence. I mean

I’d rather not worry Mr Madison with it, if I don’t have to.’

“Course you can, Octavia. I’d save him all the worry I

could, poor man, at the moment.’

‘There was an old caravan. It - it belonged to Mrs

Madison’s parents.’

‘Yes, that’s right. It did. Sold, though, long time ago.’

‘Well — yes. But, Janet, do you know where it was?

Where it was kept?’

‘Yes, of course. I went there once or twice, with Mrs

[

Madison and Louise. When she was really tiny, before the

boys were born. Lovely place, in Cornwall.’

‘Cornwall!’

So far away. Impossibly far. No, not impossibly far.

Nothing was impossible.

‘Yes, near a place called Constantine Bay, little bay just

further along called Tresilith. There was a farm there, down

one of the lanes at Tresilith, one that led to the sea. Now

what was it called? Plenty Farm, yes, that’s right. And the

lane was called Plenty Lane. Anyway, it was two or three

fields across from the farmhouse, out of sight, all on its own.

Lovely spot, you could see the sea from it. Probably a car

park now.’

‘Yes, probably.’

There was a silence; then Janet said, ‘Octavia, you don’t

think that - that Louise is - that she’s gone there?’

‘I don’t know, Janet. I think perhaps she has. But I’m

trusting you not to say anything. It’s important.’

‘I won’t, Octavia. You’ll - you’ll let me know, won’t

you?’

‘Yes, Janet, of course I will. Thank you. Good night.’

She went down to Reception, asked them if they had a

road atlas. Found Cornwall, found Constantine Bay. And yes,

there was Tresilith. God, it was a long way. Poor, poor

little Minty. Dragged right across England, in a hot, strange

car.

But at least now she knew where she was. She was sure

of it. And at this time of night, she could be there in four or

five hours. Nothing.

Octavia took the map and left the hotel; she got into the

Range Rover, filled it up with petrol, and turned on to the M20.

Nearly there. Well, at least in the right county. In

Cornwall, at last. Driving across Bodmin Moor, Louise felt

desperately tired. She had had to stop twice, stand outside

the car, take deep breaths of air, to keep awake. She had

vast supplies of sweets, had munched them steadily; that always helped. She would have liked to play the radio

loudly, another trick, but she didn’t dare. Minty was asleep

again, after a long spell of screaming, another dirty nappy;

she’d changed her in the car this time, it had been terribly

difficult, on the back seat, Minty’s legs flailing, she’d got

mess on her jeans and her T-shirt, and Minty’s little pink

dress was filthy and smelly. She couldn’t wait to get her

there, change her into something clean, wash her - she

wasn’t quite sure what with, maybe just the baby wipes

until tomorrow, when she could get the caravan’s water

tank filled up — soothe her, cuddle her to sleep. Well, not

long now.

She reached Bodmin, turned in the direction of Padstow.

The lovely names that had meant nearly journey’s end as a

child, nearly nearly there, Land-end, Washaway: then

through Wadebridge, asleep, silent, much bigger than she

remembered, and then St Issey Little Petherick. And finally,

actually a signpost to Constantine Bay and Tresilith. She

had done it. She was alone, all alone in the night, no one

had followed her, nobody knew where she was …

She paused, looked up at the stars; behind her, Minty

woke, looked as if, she might start to cry again, but then saw

her and for the first time smiled a sleepy smile.

That had to be a good omen.

Felix woke up; suddenly, and clearly painfully. It hurt to

watch him. Marianne had been half asleep herself; she

looked anxiously at the monitors. They meant nothing to

her.

They meant something to the medical staff; they had set

off an alarm somewhere. Sister half ran in, looked at Felix,

examined the machines, checked the drip.

The doctor followed her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to

Marianne, ‘his condition’s worsening. I must ask you to

leave for a while. I’m sorry.’

She went out and sat in the corridor. She felt oddly calm.

At least she was here, at least he knew she was here. For the

moment, that seemed all that mattered.

‘Mrs Miller?’

Marianne started. She had been nearly asleep, on her

chair, out in the corridor.

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Miller, I’m afraid — I’m afraid he’s had another heart

attack. Not so severe this time, but on top of the other

one… You might like to go and see him.’

She went back in. Felix’s eyes were closed. She took his

hand again; he opened his eyes. It was all like a grisly, well

rehearsed play.

He began to pull at the oxygen mask with both his hands;

she watched him anxiously. The nurse had come in.

‘He seems to want it off,’ said Marianne.

‘Maybe he wants to speak. Say something.’

‘Yes. Could I — just for a moment?’

‘I will.’ The nurse removed the mask.

Felix licked his dry lips very slowly. Marianne watched

him. He opened his mouth, clearly wanted to speak.

‘Felix, do you want to — to say something?’

‘Yes. Yes — please.’ He reached for her hand again, kissed

it. She looked down at him, at the great head bent over her

hand, and thought she couldn’t bear it. She stroked his hair,

his thick white hair, so symbolic, she had always thought, of

his own vigour and strength.

‘Octavia—’ he said with huge difficulty.

A slug of disappointment went through Marianne. ‘Yes?

What about Octavia? Do you want her to come?’

‘No. Not today. But tell - tell her …” A long pause; he

was clearly exhausted. He closed his eyes again, waited.

‘Yes, Felix, tell her what?’

‘Tell her Tom — Tom loves her.’

‘Tom?’ She was so astonished to hear this, she felt

breathless indeed herself: that Felix, who hated Tom, who

had wished only for Octavia to hate him too, to see him

gone from her life, should say such a thing.

‘Loves her — very — very

And then there was a great shudder through him, and then a gentler sigh: and then the cardiac monitor stopped its

regular bleep and orderly zigzag on the screen and sent out

instead a gentle high-pitched buzz and the line became

dreadfully and hopelessly level. And before Marianne had

told him how much she loved him, as she had intended and

wanted to do, stolen from her by Octavia in death as he had

been in life, Felix had died.

Octavia looked at the dashboard clock: eleven thirty. She

was doing well. Almost at the M5 turnoff. She would stop

at the next place, fill the car up again, have a coffee. She felt

very calm, very confident.

She had switched her mobile off; she didn’t want anyone,

anyone at all, not even Tom, to know where she was going.

Whatever she said, whatever he promised, he might tell the

police. He should tell the police, she should tell the police.

But she couldn’t. This was between her and Louise: nobody

else. If she was to get Minty back safely, she had to talk to

Louise quietly, and listen to her too. That would not be

achieved by a mass of police swarming round the caravan.

She was not persuaded by all the people who had told her

Louise wouldn’t hurt Minty. Louise was mad; she was