Betrayal (13 page)

‘Well – old friends, I suppose. Though we hadn’t seen each other for many years.’

‘Nothing more than that?’

So David was right: I was to be cast as Sylvie’s secret lover. ‘No,’ I said.

‘You weren’t involved in a sexual relationship?’

I took a moment to answer. I wanted to strike the right note, somewhere between indignation and candour. ‘No.’

‘Just . . . er,
friends
?’

‘That’s right.’

His old man’s eyes appraised me coldly. ‘You had known each other in the past?’

I had already told him this. ‘Yes.’

‘When was it that you met exactly?’

‘It must be . . .’ I frowned with the effort of the mental arithmetic. ‘Sixteen years ago.’

‘And what was your relationship then?’

I didn’t want to answer that, not with anything that approached the truth anyway. The very thought of telling this leery grey-faced man with his pasted-down hair and tight collar what I had once felt for Sylvie made me bristle. Eventually I said, ‘We used to go out together.’

‘She was your girlfriend?’

‘For a time, yes.’

‘Was it a sexual relationship?’

My resentment rose in a hot wave. I threw a glance at Tingwall, who was already protesting, ‘That can hardly be relevant to your present inquiries, Inspector.’

‘We’re talking about sixteen years ago,’ Henderson said reasonably. ‘Surely that’s not a problem, Mr Wellesley?’

Before Tingwall could interject again, I said hotly, ‘Well, it is, actually, because it’s really none of your business.’

‘You prefer not to answer the question then, Mr Wellesley?’

‘That’s right,’ I said shakily.

There was a shift in the atmosphere then, a palpable hardening in their attitude towards me. I felt as though I had the word
suspect
tattooed across my forehead.

‘May I ask how long this non-specific relationship lasted?’ Henderson asked drily.

I thought about not answering that as well, but murmured grudgingly, ‘A year and a half.’

‘You were how old at the time, Mr Wellesley?’

I had no doubt he knew the answer to that, he just wanted to hear me say it. ‘I was twenty-six.’

‘And when you met Sylvie Mathieson she was fifteen years old?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Er . . . Not if it was sixteen years ago, Mr Wellesley.’

‘I remembered her as sixteen – but you may be right.’

‘I ask because I’m wondering if that’s why there appears to be a difficulty over the question.’ When I made no response he explained, ‘If she was fifteen, a sexual relationship would of course have been illegal. If it would help, I can ask about your relationship after Miss Mathieson had turned sixteen. What was the nature of it then?’

Tingwall broke in angrily, ‘I think we’ve established that this question can have no relevance to the present inquiry, and that my client is perfectly entitled not to answer it. He is here to help with your inquiries, Inspector, not to be grilled on his personal life.’

Henderson accepted this with a splaying of his thick fingers, a slight shrug of the shoulders, as if the approach, though doomed to failure, had been worth one last try.

‘Well, let’s move on then,’ he said, sticking out his fleshy chin with something like relish. ‘Perhaps we could go over your movements last weekend? In some detail.’

He wanted everything. What time I had left for work on the Saturday morning, what I had done in the office, who could vouch for the fact that I had left Hammersmith at about three.

‘There was no one else there,’ I explained. ‘I was alone in the office.’

‘No security staff?’

‘At the main door, yes. But I don’t know the weekend staff, and they don’t know me. There are dozens of companies in the building. I just rent rooms there.’

‘So no one saw you leave?’

‘No.’

‘And nothing to confirm the time you started your journey?’

I thought for a moment. ‘No.’

‘And you say it took you four and a half hours to reach Dittisham?’

‘Well – a little less. I arrived between seven-fifteen and seven-thirty. But longer than usual, certainly. The traffic was terrible. There was a crash on the M4 near Swindon, a big tailback.’

‘No one saw you arrive at Dittisham?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, no. Someone in the village, maybe.’

‘You came through the village?’

‘It’s the only way to the house.’

‘What car were you driving?’

‘My BMW.’ A memory stirred. ‘But I did stop for petrol.’

‘Where was this?’

‘I can never remember the name of the place. It’s on the motorway somewhere this side of Bristol. But I’ll have the receipt somewhere.’

A glimmer of something like disappointment showed in Henderson’s face. ‘So what time would this have been?’

‘I don’t know. About five-thirty, I suppose. Maybe even later. Six, possibly. The jam was terrible.’

Henderson leant back in his chair and eyed me thoughtfully before saying to Tingwall, ‘Perhaps this receipt could be found?’

Tingwall played hard to get. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he said.

Henderson brought his attention back to me. ‘So you didn’t see anyone when you arrived at Dittisham?’

I was finding this a strain and made no effort to hide it. ‘No,’ I sighed heavily.

‘You went straight to your late father’s house?’

‘Yes.’

We established that on arriving I had done some fairly normal things like putting on lights, having a drink, taking a look around.

‘And then?’

‘I went into Dartmouth to buy some food.’ Anticipating the next question, I added, ‘It must have been about eight-thirty when I got to the Co-op and found it shut.’

‘If I may interrupt,’ Tingwall cut in smoothly. ‘It couldn’t have been any later than eight when Mr Wellesley arrived in town.’

There was a silence while we stared expectantly at Tingwall.

‘My client’s brother, Dr David Wellesley, left a meeting in the town just before eight and saw Mr Wellesley driving along Duke Street shortly afterwards.’

‘Dr Wellesley is sure about that?’ Henderson asked.

‘Quite certain.’

‘Was he alone?’

‘Was who alone?’ Tingwall asked, deliberately choosing to be obtuse.

‘Doctor Wellesley.’

Tingwall pulled an expression of exaggerated surprise, as if he couldn’t imagine the relevance of the question. ‘I
believe
so, yes. I could check, of course. But, er, there’s no doubt about the time and place.’

‘And he can make a statement to that effect?’

‘If
necessary
, of course.’

Henderson turned back to me with a fusion of disappointment and irritation written on his face. He had thought I was his man, and he didn’t like the idea of getting it wrong.

‘And your wife arrived at about nine?’ he asked mechanically.

‘Yes.’

‘And you were together for the rest of the weekend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well, Mr Wellesley, that’ll be all for the moment,’ he said crisply, pushing his chair back. ‘But I’d be grateful if this petrol receipt could be found,’ he said to Tingwall. ‘And I’d like Mr Wellesley to return in the morning to make a formal statement, if he would be agreeable. And I’d be grateful if Mrs Wellesley could make a short statement too.’

Catching my glance, Tingwall launched into negotiations over Ginny, asking if a statement was really necessary, and if so, whether she couldn’t make it in London. Then they moved on to David’s statement and whether that was really necessary either, but by that time I was hardly listening. I was adjusting to the idea that I seemed to be off the hook.

David slowed as we approached the entrance to Furze Lodge. ‘Sure you won’t change your mind?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Thanks anyway.’

‘The children’ll be doing their own thing. They won’t bother you. I’m lucky if they talk to
me
.’

‘It’s not that. Really.’

David shrugged as he accelerated past the gates. ‘There mightn’t be any bedding at Dittisham, you know. Mary’s been clearing things out.’

‘I’ll find something. Don’t worry. I just need to crash out . . .’ I explained lamely.

‘Fine.’

For several minutes we continued in silence towards Dittisham, with only the hiss of the wipers and the swish of the wet tyres and the blurred beams of the headlights on the shining road ahead.

Since picking me up from the police station David had talked almost continuously, a dry monologue about tying up the last details of Pa’s estate, about the children’s progress at school; about anything except what had just happened. I was grateful not to have to talk, I needed time to regain my equilibrium, but now there was something I had to say. ‘I’m not sure you did the right thing, you know – telling Tingwall that – but thanks anyway.’

He knew perfectly well what I was referring to but affected a lack of interest and understanding.

I said it for both of us: ‘Telling Tingwall you saw me in town.’ I had already broached this at the beginning of the journey, but he hadn’t responded then either. ‘But look, David, I don’t want you to get yourself into a corner.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘You say that, but what happens if they find out? Who knows, I might have been seen somewhere else at eight, driving through Dittisham, something like that.’

‘But you
did
go into town about then, didn’t you?’ And he threw me a look of complete innocence.

‘David – it was more like eight-thirty.’

He tossed a hand in the air. ‘A few minutes. So what?’

‘Half an hour,’ I argued unhappily.

He slowed to take the steep hill down through the village. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘Wouldn’t it be best not to tie yourself to a definite time, though, just in case?’

‘Really, Hugh.’ He shook his head as if I were a total mystery to him.

A whorl of leaves spun across our path as we turned through the gates of Dittisham House. The security lights blinked on, the shrubs glinted darkly, we rounded the slight bend and the house rose up before us, its tall windows gaping blackly like empty eyes. This was the moment I had been dreading, the moment when the memories would pounce. And for an instant the images did rear up, of Sylvie leaning lazily against the french windows, the sunlight making a halo of her hair, and then, like turning the page of an album, a darker picture took its place, of Sylvie on the boat, shivering in my sweater, hair dripping wet, mouth poised provocatively in that laughing way of hers.

Then we parked, the wind shivered against the car and the images faded. I thought that if this was the worst it would get then I would survive it.

Something was different about the house but in the shadowy beams of the outside lights it took me a moment to work out what it was. The ceanothus that covered much of the stonework, forming a ledge for the upstairs windows and an arch for the porch, had come away from the wall and fallen, broken and shrivelled, onto the gravel in a forlorn heap of rotting leaves. Pa had only been dead a few months, yet already the place seemed to have acquired a long-abandoned air. For a moment I felt so woebegone that I considered going to stay at David’s after all.

‘Lucky to be getting the price for this place, you know,’ David remarked. ‘Not many houses fetching the full whack nowadays.’

‘It’s the water,’ I suggested. ‘People love the idea of water.’

David, having chosen to live inland, wasn’t ready to admit to the drawing power of the river. ‘Mmm,’ he grunted dubiously. ‘It’s a good-sized house, remember. Not so many of those around.’

And not so many that were quite so pretty either. An early-nineteenth-century villa with an Edwardian extension, it had floor-length windows and on the river side two bays with a verandah supported by iron trellises. The garden fell in a succession of two terraces and a lawn to the river below.

‘Drink?’ I asked brightly.

David hesitated, and I realised how much I wanted him to accept.

‘But if you can’t . . .’ I offered immediately. ‘If you have to get back . . .’

‘Well . . . Unless you’re desperate?’

I was desperate to talk, but this wouldn’t be what David had in mind. For him a couple of stiff drinks were a palliative against the trials of the day, not an excuse for unburdening the soul, an exercise he had always regarded with the greatest suspicion.

‘No, I’m fine,’ I said.

‘You’ve got a key?’

‘I left one in the porch, thanks.’ I pushed open the door and the wind swooped into the car. I couldn’t leave without saying, ‘You were dead right, by the way.’

‘Oh?’

The wind shook the door, threatening to slam it, and I pulled it shut again.

‘About what the police had in mind. I was meant to be the jealous lover.’

David gave a derisive grunt. ‘I told you, they’re cretins.’

He restarted the engine and, still shaking his head, waited for me to get out.

‘Look, when you said she had lovers—’

He made a face. ‘Did I?’

‘Yesterday. You said she was all over the place, that she had several lovers,’ I persisted.

He shrugged dismissively. ‘It was just gossip.’

‘But this gossip – did it mention me?’ I was still brooding over what had brought the police to my door.

‘No,
no
.’

‘Nobody even hinted . . .?’

‘No! There was no mention of any names. It was nothing like that.’

‘What about the chap with long hair, the one she went around with? Presumably the police are on to him?’

‘God only knows. Really, I have no idea.’

‘You’d think the police would be on to him.’

‘Perhaps they are,’ he said briskly.

But still I couldn’t leave it alone. After the events of the last week I had to talk to someone. ‘The thing is . . . well, I didn’t quite tell them everything. You see, I did see something of Sylvie this summer. More than I said I did, anyway. She . . . I—’

‘Look, I’d forget it, if I were you,’ he cut in, his eyes alight with impatience or anger. ‘I wouldn’t discuss it with anyone.’

I felt like saying: Since when were you anyone? With an effort I stayed silent, but the reproach must have shown in my face because he made a grudging gesture of appeasement. ‘Best to let things lie.’