Betrayal (14 page)

‘I wasn’t actually planning on talking to a whole lot of people about it,’ I protested.

‘Not with anyone,’ he repeated in the tone of a stern parent.

It’s amazing how your family can undermine you, how in the space of a few words they can catch you unawares and demolish your confidence. What did David imagine I might be about to admit to? What did he think I knew? When we were young he had had a talent for putting me down, for ridiculing my efforts, and for an instant I felt echoes of old humiliations and childish resentments, the younger brother once more.

We said a stiff goodnight. Watching him drive off, I felt relieved to be alone.

The house was cold but once I had turned on some lights and put a match to the gas fire in Pa’s study the gloom soon lifted. The good furniture had gone to the salerooms some weeks ago, but the heavy damask curtains still hung at the windows, the carpets and older rugs remained, Pa’s battered kneehole desk still straddled one corner, and there was a comfortable chair to pull up to the fire.

The Scotch wasn’t on the mantelpiece where I had last seen it and for an anxious moment I thought Mary or Mrs Perry, the cleaner, had removed it, but after a quick hunt I found it standing in solitary state in the cupboard where the family photo albums had always lived. There were no albums there now, and I assumed the family mementoes were accumulating at Furze Lodge with David and Mary.

I poured myself a hefty measure and took several large gulps before topping the glass up again. Until this summer I’d never been a great drinker – I’d never particularly liked the sensation of losing my wits – but tonight like a few other nights recently I wanted a small measure of oblivion.

The wind was racketing in the chimneys, the windows were humming and rattling to a frenetic rhythm and, outside, the rushing trees sounded as though they were about to storm the house.

The phone made me start. Imbued with the day’s paranoia, I considered not answering it.

‘There you are,’ gasped Ginny when I finally picked up the receiver. ‘How did it go?’

‘Not an experience I’d like to repeat.’

‘But it’s over?’

I gave a pale laugh. ‘I sincerely hope so.’

‘They’ve finished with you?’

‘It looks like it.’

She made a slight sound, an exhalation or a sigh. ‘Well, thank God for that.’ A pause, then: ‘You’re staying there?’

‘I’ll get a train back tomorrow.’

‘When will you arrive?’

‘In the afternoon some time. Not sure when.’ I didn’t say I had to go to Exeter first to make the statement.

A hesitation, then she said in a rush, ‘Why did they want you back? What was it all about?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘But there must have been a reason,’ she said, and there was an edge to her voice.

‘They didn’t say, Ginny. But they want you to make a statement, I’m afraid.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s a routine thing,’ I said, playing it down. ‘Establishing where everyone was. They just want to confirm that we met up at nine that night and left for London on Saturday evening.’

She didn’t reply.

‘Ginny?’

‘When? When do I have to make this statement?’

‘There’s no hurry, I don’t think. There’s this lawyer Charles Tingwall who’s arranging it for us. He’s fixing it so you can do yours in London. It won’t be very complicated.’

‘And it’s a routine thing, you say? They’re asking everyone?’

‘Well – people who were around,’ I lied.

I could hear her breathing, always a sign that she was getting tense. ‘I see.’

‘I’ll tell you more tomorrow. All right?’

Another pause, and I knew she was working up to something. ‘But why did they want to see you? Please tell me. They must have given you a reason.’

‘They didn’t.’

‘What did they ask you, then? What sort of questions?’

‘Look, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’

‘Will you?’ I caught a note of accusation in her voice.

‘Of course.’

‘Of course,’ she echoed in a tone of open scepticism.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Ginny – they had it all wrong.’

‘Did they?’

Suddenly I felt beleaguered. Where was the unconditional family support? First David, now Ginny. Suppressing a dart of self-pity, I said, ‘Tomorrow, Ginny. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’

Her voice broke slightly as she said a curt ‘Fine’, and I could picture the uncertainty and reproach in her face. I nearly called her back, I fully intended to, but, unable to face more questions, I poured myself another Scotch instead.

I took my drink to the window and stared out into the darkness. A light on the far side of the river blinked through the flickering branches, the wind whistled in the eaves. Draining my glass, I pulled at the bolts of the french windows and walked out into the blustering gale. Crossing the stone terrace to the steps, I felt my way down to the next level where sodden grass pulled at my shoes. A last flight of steps and I was descending the sloping lawn towards the water. The arches of the pergola rose dimly to one side, the bare branches of the fruit trees swished angrily near by, the deeper blackness of the summer-house loomed somewhere to the right. Misjudging the distance, I almost walked into the low wall that marked the river boundary.

The wind was barrelling down the deep cut of the river, pulling at my jacket, buffeting my ears, and it was much colder. The darkness was so thick that I couldn’t make out the state of the tide, whether the water was high or there was a sea of mud, though I fancied I could hear the rip of the ebb close by. A sprinkling of lights gave height and form to the ridges and creeks of the opposite banks, while away to my right the lights of Dittisham and the ferry landing gave shape to the curve of the river. But the water itself was hidden, a secretive ribbon of ink coursing towards the sea.

Somewhere in front of me was
Ellie Miller
, lying to her mooring, her squat shape lost against the greater blackness of the night. No cabin lights showing now, no laughter echoing across the water, no lazy rippling of the tide in the warm summer air. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the tensions of the day, but I felt such a jumble of emotions that my eyelids pricked with fierce heat and I gasped for breath. Visions came: of water pressing into Sylvie’s mouth and eyes, of her body bumping against the rocks, of unspeakable wounds in her flesh. The images were vivid yet curiously opaque, like my images of Sylvie as she had been in life. I saw her clearly: I saw her dimly. She was featureless and exhilarating and proud; she was distant and elusive and cold. She was open and devious; she was sensuous and cruel and base. I realised then that she would baffle me just as thoroughly in death as she had confused me in life.

I turned away and stumbled up the slope. Above the thrashing of the trees I heard a baleful cry. I stopped. It rose again, a chilling sound carried high on the wind. It seemed to come from the river, and in a moment of disorientation and fear my nightmare roared back to life and everything stalled inside me, my heart and breathing seized, and I was overcome by a sensation of imminent disaster.

The next whoop brought me bumping back to reality. It was a very human sound, very much in the present. Looking up the slope I saw a figure outlined against the french windows.

‘There you are!’ sang Mary as I climbed the last of the steps and entered the pool of light. Drawing me inside the house, she gave a theatrical shiver. ‘Wow, it’s wild out there!’ Railing against the climate, she pulled the windows shut and drew the curtains. ‘I’ve brought some sheets for you!’ she declared heartily. ‘And some breakfast. Can’t have you camping! But how are you? I want to know how you are!’

I couldn’t hide my feelings, perhaps I didn’t try, because when she took a better look at me her face creased into a picture of concern. ‘Oh, Hugh!’ she sighed. ‘That bad?’

‘Just a bit tired and emotional.’ I laughed to make it sound like a joke. I went in search of another glass. ‘I’m awfully glad to see you.’

‘You should have come and stayed with us, you twit. But I know –’ she added with a laugh and a flip of the wrist ‘ – the kids are home for the weekend! You’re not the only one. They get too much for me sometimes. All those teenage moods. All that ghastly music – rock or rap or whatever it is.’

I fetched a chair from Pa’s desk and offered her a whisky which she accepted with a show of conspiratorial glee, as though drinking was always a bit of a lark.

We sat on either side of the fire.

‘So,’ she grimaced sympathetically. ‘What a beastly day for you.’

‘Yes, as days go . . .’ I sank back into my chair. ‘Cumberland put another million quid on the price of the buyout. Just when we’d raised most of the money.’

‘I hope that wasn’t Howard’s doing.’

‘Oh . . . I wouldn’t have thought so.’

Perhaps it was my hesitation, perhaps it was something in my tone, but Mary rolled her eyes and sighed, ‘Oh, you don’t have to hide it from me. Nothing surprises me about my brother. You know, I’ll be glad when the buyout’s over and our two families never work together again.’ She tutted, ‘But this extra money – will you be able to raise it?’

‘I don’t honestly know.’

‘It’s too bad, after all your efforts . . .’ She watched me for a moment. ‘Now what about the police? Were they horrible?’ Her tone was feisty, like a warrior who at the slightest provocation would take up cudgels in my defence.

‘It may seem crazy,’ I said, ‘but for a while back there I really thought they were going to lock me up.’

She wasn’t sure how seriously she was meant to take this and her mouth jerked into an uncertain smile. ‘Poor Hugh! How awful!’

‘They seemed so
fixed
on me. That’s what was so bloody terrifying.’

She looked fierce again. ‘They gave you a bad time?’

‘It felt like it, but then I haven’t exactly got a lot of experience to measure it against. But you know the worst thing? It was not knowing why they’d called me in. Was my crime to have been seen with Sylvie? Christ, if that’s a crime! Or did they think they had something else on me – you know, something they didn’t tell me about? I suppose that’s how they get people,’ I laughed grimly. ‘By making them think they know something damning about them.’

‘Skunks!’ Mary declared. ‘It’s just bullying, isn’t it?’ Taking a gulp of her drink, she eyed me over the rim of her glass. ‘They didn’t give you any idea then? What it was?’

I shook my head. ‘With all these lovers she was meant to have, you’d have thought they’d have had plenty of other candidates to interview.’

Mary looked at me with open interest. ‘She had lots of lovers?’

‘According to David.’

‘Really?’ Her eyes flashed, she gave a sudden snort. ‘Well, well! We all knew about the youth with the long hair – at least, we
assumed
he was the lover – but as for the rest . . . Mmm!’ She widened her eyes in anticipation of disclosures to come. ‘I must get David to tell me more.’

‘He says he doesn’t know any more. It was just a rumour.’

‘A rumour. Ahh.’ She looked away into the fire, then, trying to lift my mood: ‘But they’re satisfied now, the police?’

I considered this. ‘You know something? I’m really not sure. I have this feeling that they’ll come back.’

‘Come back . . . But, Hugh, that’s ridiculous – why should they?’ Yet the question wasn’t entirely rhetorical, there was curiosity behind it, and I realised that Mary, like the rest of my family, didn’t seem to have ruled out the possibility that I had something to hide.

‘I was going to ask
you
actually,’ I said. ‘Was I meant to be having an affair with Sylvie? Was the neighbourhood buzzing with it? If so I’d really like someone to tell me because I seem to be the last to know.’

‘I’ve never heard anything.’ But her tone was so hedged with reservations, her manner so strained, that I looked up sharply. Taking the opportunity with obvious relief, she said, ‘Look, Hugh, I’d better tell you – it’s just possible Mrs Perry may have told the police something.’

‘Mrs
Perry?
But what?’

‘That she saw your car outside Sylvie Mathieson’s cottage. In fact . . . well’ – she made a regretful face – ‘we both did. I was driving her, you see. Her car had broken down, she hadn’t been here for weeks, and the place was getting so dirty that I drove her here one day and picked her up again when she’d finished. And on the way back we saw your car . . .’

Something folded in me then, my defences evaporated, and all the accumulated tensions spilled out in a rush of dread. ‘Oh God . . .’

Mary asked tentatively, ‘You, er . . . didn’t tell the police you’d been there?’

‘No.’ I clasped a hand over my eyes.

I heard her scramble to her feet. Crouching beside my chair, she gave me a rough comradely hug. ‘Hugh, they can’t make too much out of that.’

‘No?’ I exclaimed bitterly. ‘They’ll assume I’ve lied about everything, won’t they?’

She sat back on her sturdy haunches. ‘But an assumption? That’s nothing,
nothing
.’

I looked into her strong irrepressible face, I saw the concern there, and the fierce loyalty, and I said, ‘Mary . . . It wasn’t the only thing I didn’t tell them about.’

She said in a small voice, ‘Oh dear.’

Neither of us spoke for a long moment, then she said almost gruffly, ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

Aware that I was taking a step whose consequences I hadn’t begun to consider but not caring too much, I said weakly, ‘It’s a complete mess, Mary.’

‘Hugh . . . don’t be silly!’ She grasped my shoulder and shook it, as if to imbue me with optimism. ‘Wait . . .’ Getting up, she replenished our glasses from the bottle on the mantel before pulling her chair closer and sitting down with a look of anxious concentration.

‘I don’t know where to start . . .’

But I did know. I knew exactly where I should start if I was going to make any sense of it. ‘There was this dreadful week,’ I began slowly. ‘A nightmare week at the end of the most appalling month.’ I paused. ‘I think I cracked up a bit . . .’ I thought about this. ‘Yes – that was it, really. At the end of the day, Mary, I think I went off my head.’