Betrayal (20 page)

Julia told me the photographer had abandoned his vigil twenty minutes before.

‘And it was definitely me he was looking for?’ I asked, knowing the answer.

She put the messages in front of me and nodded. ‘He tried to get information from the security man. Wanted to know if you’d been in today.’

I tried to shrug if off, I tried to tell myself that they would lose interest quickly enough, but all the time a small doom-laden voice wondered why they should come now, when the police had finished with me.

Julia waited for me to read the messages. ‘Oh, that petrol receipt?’ she said. ‘I got the MasterCard details. It was the Gordano service station on the M5. Just past Bristol. And the time – you’ve no idea what I had to go through to get this, I had to bribe the station manager to sort through all his till rolls! Anyway, it was four-fifteen.’

I felt a pull of apprehension. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ But giving me the benefit of the doubt she hurried into her office and came back with her notebook. ‘Here we are.’ She showed me the entry. ‘Four-fifteen.’

I’d been miles out then. I had told Henderson five-thirty to six. What on earth had made me say that? I realised that, far from leaving the office at three, I must have left long before, maybe as early as two. I had been in such a state of confusion that afternoon that anything was possible.

I could see now that it had been a mistake to commit myself to such a firm guess. Being half an hour out might have looked understandable, but a whole hour was going to seem careless. Yet it was the easiest thing in the world to make a mistake about the time. Well, I hoped that was how the police would view it anyway. Suddenly I needed reassurance. I was about to call Tingwall when Julia buzzed through to tell me Mary was on the line.

‘Hang on,’ called Mary the moment I greeted her. In the background I could hear the squawky voices of cartoon characters on the television, then, rising above the sound, Mary yelling good-naturedly to someone to turn the thing down.

‘Henry’s home with flu,’ she complained cheerfully. ‘If it’s not one thing it’s another. Listen, did you speak to David? Did he call you?’

‘Yes. Look, I’m really very grateful for your support.’

‘But it’s only fifty thousand.’

‘Whatever you feel comfortable with is fine with me.’

‘Well, it’s not fine with me,’ she declared in the crisp authoritative tones she’d retained from her legal days. ‘I’d like to put in some of my own money.’

‘Mary, that’s sweet of you, but I couldn’t accept it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because . . . I wouldn’t feel happy.’

‘Why wouldn’t you feel happy? It’s my money. Nothing to do with David. Oh, I’ll tell him, if that’s what you’re worried about – though I very much hope it isn’t!’

I knew Mary had money of her own; quite apart from the HartWell shares which she and Howard had inherited from their father, they had also been left antiques and silver and cash, though I’d never been clear on how much was involved, nor the extent to which Mary’s capital had been merged with David’s or tied up in the children’s trusts.

She asked, ‘How much do you need?’

I laughed, ‘Mary, you don’t want to ask!’

‘I am asking!’

I laughed again. ‘Okay . . . As of today we’re still short by three hundred and five thousand. Assuming Cumberland agrees the valuation.’

‘Can’t manage all of that, but you can count me in for a hundred thousand.’

‘
Mary
.’

‘Actually on second thoughts I might not tell David. What do you think? No, no . . . I’ll have to, won’t I?’ She sighed, an overblown sound made for effect. ‘He won’t like it, will he? You know how he is – caution, caution. Never backed a horse in his life.’

‘Mary, I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t say anything, then. Oh!’ She gasped. ‘One person who must never find out – Howard!’

‘There’s no risk of that, Mary. We’re not exactly speaking.’

‘You’ll keep it totally anonymous? Just you, me and David?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, there we are then!’

‘Mary, you’re amazing.’

‘Since you mention it . . .’ And she gave a gravelly laugh.

‘You don’t want time to think about it?’

‘I’ve done my thinking. And my thinking says you’re going to make me rich.’

‘Mary, I’ll certainly do my best.’

She gave a hum of amusement and we said goodbye.

I sat in a state of barely controlled elation, knowing that there was still some way to go, that I mustn’t on any account think of celebrating, but feeling too optimistic and too starved of good fortune not to do so.

Julia came in and, catching my mood, demanded, ‘The good news?’

‘Only two hundred and five thousand to go!’

Julia thrust a fist into the air, and performed a curious shimmy with her hips.

Pushing thoughts of the press to the back of my mind, I rang Hartford to tell George, then spent the rest of the afternoon calculating the revised figures for Zircon, which Julia typed and sent off by special messenger, and arranging the necessary meetings for the rest of the week. There were three sets of documents to be finalised urgently: the company articles for the new firm, Hartford Crystal Ltd; the Shareholders’ Agreement with Zircon; and the agreement for the new company to purchase the assets, trading names and working capital of the old Hartford Division. I wanted everything ready for signature before the end of the week, in case Howard pulled a fast one. It was an ambitious schedule, but not an impossible one.

At five, lifted by the satisfactions of the day, I said to Julia, ‘You know something? I’m beginning to think we’re making some progress.’ I was too superstitious to talk about success.

‘I keep telling you – the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t always an approaching train.’

I had been trying Ginny all afternoon and getting the answering machine. Now the line was engaged. I hoped the doctor had given her some vitamins. It was a long time since I had seen her so low, though I hardly needed reminding that much of the responsibility for that lay at my door. I hated the idea of having made her unhappy, yet it seemed to me that unhappiness had been creeping up on us for a long time, and that without it I would almost certainly have resisted the final slide into betrayal.

There are a dozen ways to block out unhappiness. Ginny and I had chosen work, as much as we could fit into a single day, so that we never had time to question the purpose of it all.

I knew the structure of Ginny’s days, where she went, who she saw; I knew about the committee meetings, the working lunches, the hours on the phone, the shopping; but I had never known if these activities were a real source of contentment to her. She had always taken her duties seriously, the duties of keeping house – the food on the table, the flowers and decorations, the supervision of the diary – and the duties of her charity work, which she undertook with immense conscientiousness; but did she feel a sense of achievement at the end of it all? She never expressed any views one way or the other. She seemed to distrust discussions of happiness, as though such scrutiny would tempt fate and undermine whatever joys she did possess.

I was packing my briefcase when Julia buzzed through to say that Tingwall was on the line.

‘I was going to call you,’ I said immediately, and started to tell him about the petrol receipt.

‘Perhaps we can leave that for another time,’ he interrupted. ‘I have bad news, I’m afraid. The police want you to come in again, and this time it’ll be as a suspect. They’ve served a number of search warrants on us.’

My heart thumped once against my chest. ‘What do you mean?’

‘They’ve obtained warrants to search Dittisham House, and the
Ellie Miller
, and to remove your car.’

The room seemed to sway, I felt the blood drain from my head. ‘You’re joking!’ I could hardly get the words out. ‘You’re bloody joking!’

‘They’ll arrest you on suspicion as a formality. But please remember it’s not the same as being charged.’

‘Christ . . .
Christ
. . .’ I found my way onto my chair. ‘Why?
Why?
’

‘They don’t have to tell us, I’m afraid. And we have no way of finding out.’

‘But there must be some reason!’

‘In so far as the police have to show the magistrate good cause before he’ll sign the warrants – yes, there must be. Magistrates do vary, of course, some let things through on a nod, but on the whole . . .’

My disbelief was overtaken by the painful realisation that, like it or not, I had to deal with this nightmare which had so suddenly and firmly attached itself to me. ‘The boat, you say? And the car?’

‘I’ve arranged for your brother to hand over the keys to Dittisham House and the boat. They’ve got your car.’

It took me a moment to grasp what he was saying. ‘They’ve got it?’

‘They’re at your house. I said you’d surrender to them there. I thought you might find it more convenient.’

‘They’re there
now
?’

‘Yes. And Mr Wellesley? I need hardly tell you not to say anything until you get to Exeter. I’ll see you there.’

‘Charles?’

‘Yes?’

It hit me suddenly, the enormity of what lay ahead, and my throat swelled, I felt a surge of panic and self-pity. ‘This whole thing is ridiculous!’

‘I’m sure.’

‘They’re quite wrong.’

A slight pause. ‘We’ll sort it out.’

‘They’re wrong.’ I heard the entreaty in my voice, and the desperation.

‘Just remember not to say anything on the way down. All right?’

I blurted something to an astonished Julia before walking blindly down to the street and hailing a cab. The driver set off at a fair lick and as we sped towards Chelsea I had the sensation that everything in my life was moving too fast, like a film run at double speed. I tried to prepare myself for what was to come but my mind was all over the place, caught between despair, reason and a growing panic. Sporadically I tried to reach Ginny on the mobile but the line was always engaged.

I’d forgotten the photographers. As we entered Glebe Place I saw them clustered around the gate. Thrusting money at the cabbie, I walked through their clicking lenses, not looking at them but not hiding my head either.

Ginny must have been watching for me because she opened the door as I approached.

Phipps and Reith were standing behind her in the hall.

Ginny whispered, ‘They have a warrant.’

Reith stepped forward and delivered in a dull monotone, ‘Hugh William Wellesley, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Sylvie Anne Mathieson—’

I began to shake my head.

‘—You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

My brain responded, but it took a little longer for my lips to obey. ‘I understand.’

Ginny said, ‘I would like to accompany my husband to Devon. I hope that’ll be acceptable.’

Reith exchanged a look with Phipps. ‘If you wish, ma’am.’

‘And my husband will need a few minutes to wash and collect a change of clothes.’

Reith looked uncertain, but he must have decided I wasn’t suicide material because he nodded abruptly and stood back to let me pass.

Ginny followed me upstairs to the bedroom and closed the door rapidly. ‘What have they found out?’ she breathed.

‘Do you think I know? Do you think they called and told me?’ Hearing the childishness in my voice, I groaned, ‘Sorry.
Sorry
.’

‘Hugh – we’ve got to think this through.’

‘There’s nothing to think through! There’s nothing we can do!’ I was choking with frustration. ‘This time it’ll be all over the papers – you realise that? Over everything. Christ!’

Ginny gripped my forearm. ‘Hugh – we must think!’ she gasped. ‘We must think!’ And her voice was trembling. ‘Listen – what did you tell the police? No, no,’ she corrected herself with an impatient wave of both hands. ‘No – what I mean is, was Sylvie ever in the car with you?’

I didn’t understand what she was getting at. ‘I think . . . once.’ I went through the exercise of sifting my memory, though I knew perfectly well I wasn’t mistaken. ‘Yes. Once.’

‘Did you tell the police that?’

I looked at Ginny and suddenly I began to understand. ‘Oh God.’

‘And the house? Did you say she’d been there?’

I shook my head miserably.

‘Tell me what you did say, tell me!’ And she was alive with a furious energy.

‘It’s not so much what I did say, it’s what I didn’t say. When they asked me when and where I’d seen her, I just didn’t mention the house. Or the car.’

Ginny closed her eyes for a moment as if to absorb the full impact of what I was saying. ‘And she
touched
things at the house?’

‘What?’

‘Doors. Glasses – I don’t know, I don’t know.
Things
.’

I saw Sylvie watching me over the rim of her glass, I saw her holding a cup of coffee. ‘Yes, she touched things.’

There was a silence like darkness. Ginny took a sudden breath and seemed to speak by sheer force of will. ‘They’ll know then.’

I sat on the bed and leant forward with my head in my hands. ‘Oh, Ginny . . . I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘Listen!’ She sat beside me and pulled my hands away from my face and shook my shoulder until I looked at her. ‘I’ll say that
I
invited her to the house.’

‘What?’

She nodded sharply. ‘I’ll say you introduced us, and I saw her in the village and invited her for coffee. I’ll say it was just at the end of August. I’ll say you were out on the boat, getting it ready for the weekend—’

‘Ginny,
Ginny . . .
’ My heart squeezed with gratitude, she meant so well. ‘But darling, they’ll want exact dates, times. It simply wouldn’t work. If – no,
when
they found out you weren’t there – it would only make things worse.’

She clamped her lips together, she intertwined her long nervous fingers, she gave a small ironic laugh. ‘But I
was
there that weekend, you see.’ She took a breath halfway between a rasp and a sob. ‘And I did see her. I saw her at the house.’