Betrayal (36 page)

I called Dr Jones’s secretary and cancelled the message.

The decision was straightforward, the implementation harder. Who would watch over Ginny when I wasn’t around? While she had been away I had been opening her mail, and though there had been cards and messages from two or three of her London girlfriends, there was nothing that amounted to a wild rush of unconditional support. And the people who lived around Melton, the people who had been glad to dine at our table, had, whether from reticence or disapproval, been conspicuously silent.

But then friends might not be such a good idea anyway. The few I had seen in recent weeks had expressed the sort of embarrassed sympathy people normally reserve for those who are bankrupt or caught up in a messy divorce. So anxious were they not to seem in the slightest bit curious that they had been breezily distant, almost offhand. Such encounters were not likely to get any easier.

Our families offered even less choice. Ginny was an only child, her father long dead, her mother living abroad. On my side there were only David and Mary, both of whom had heavy commitments and couldn’t get away at short notice.

It occurred to me then that Ginny and I had no one but each other, which was, perhaps, all that we had ever had. Despite the frantic pace of our socialising and travelling, neither of us had ever been deeply gregarious at heart. We had gone about our business, we had been surrounded with people much of the time, but at the end of the day we had been glad to retreat to the safety of our own company. Until things had gone wrong between us and we had lost our one safe haven. Then, it seemed to me now, we had both begun to drift.

I called Julia and asked her if she wouldn’t mind coming down to work at Melton the next day. Julia, who was staying on until the buyout was resolved, not only had the benefit of being instantly available, but was loyal and discreet. While she wasn’t someone Ginny would be able to talk to, she wouldn’t intrude either.

The post brought the mysterious missive that George had hinted at. It was a giant greeting card packed with the signatures of the Hartford staff. Above the printed best wishes message had been written:
We’re still backing the buyout all the way
. I was touched. At the same time I couldn’t help wondering if this gesture of support and encouragement was entirely spontaneous, or something a little more Machiavellian, engineered by George who, in my absence, seemed to have developed unsuspected tactical skills.

I stood the card on my desk, a reminder, if I needed one, that life roared on in the world outside.

I went upstairs to check on Ginny, but she was asleep again, curled up in bed, her mouth slightly open, a faint frown showing above the mask. I glanced at the bottles of pills on the bedside table, but didn’t recognise the names of any of the drugs. Taking the extension off the hook, I stole out and closed the door.

Tingwall was in court all morning, his office told me, and it wasn’t until after noon that he returned my call.

‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘Very tired.’

‘When do you think she’ll be up to seeing me?’

‘I don’t know. But Charles – she won’t talk to me. She won’t talk about what happened. And I have the feeling she won’t talk to you, either.’

‘Well . . . it’s early days yet. And, Hugh, sometimes people tell their solicitors things they don’t tell their own families. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger, particularly when that person is duty-bound not to tell anyone else.’ He didn’t say: even the husband, though that was what he meant.

‘I hope you’re right.’

We arranged for me to bring Ginny down to see him in two days’ time.

‘Dr Bagnall’s preliminary report came through.’

The pathologist. The post-mortem. Sylvie’s body cut up on a slab. The stench of formalin, like the lab at school. ‘And?’

‘Nothing very startling, I’m afraid. He agrees with the cause of death, and there’s nothing to suggest that the attack couldn’t have been carried out by a woman of average height.’

I saw a flash of it then, an image so violent and graphic that it caught me like a panic. Ginny thrusting a knife up under Sylvie’s ribs, forcing it home.

To drive the picture out I said quickly, ‘But it doesn’t prove anything?’

‘It certainly doesn’t prove that any particular person did or didn’t commit the crime.’

‘It could have been a man then?’

‘Well . . . yes.’ That caution had come into his voice again.

‘What about the rest of the forensic stuff?’

‘I’ve tracked down a DNA expert, and there’s a top fingerprint lab in Wolverhampton. The DNA man isn’t free for a couple of weeks, but the fingerprint people can get onto it straight away.’

‘And if they don’t find anything?’

‘Then I think we have to accept there’s nothing to be found.’

‘We don’t have to say that in court?’

‘What? No, no. Our barrister will decide what evidence to use, and he’ll only use what will actively
help
our case. What did you think of Grainger, by the way?’

‘I thought he was pompous and conceited and overbearing,’ I said without hesitation.

‘Oh.’

‘And surprisingly effective.’

‘Well, we don’t have to commit ourselves to him yet. When the prosecution serve their evidence we could ask him for an opinion, and take it from there.’ A pause. ‘While we’re on the subject – have you come to any decisions about me?’

‘You?’ I said, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

‘Do you want to retain me?’

‘You’d better ask Ginny that.’

‘Yes, of course. It’s just that the real work’s about to start and I thought . . .’

‘As far as I’m concerned, you’ll do, Charles.’

And he laughed, because it was in his nature to take this as a compliment.

I had put out some feelers about Tingwall among my barrister friends but even before the word came back that he was considered competent I had made up my mind to keep him. As a lawyer Tingwall had a rare advantage: he was prepared to become emotionally involved. Let the QC be the bleak professional; for this stage of the case Ginny needed someone who was prepared to go the extra mile.

‘Are you married, Charles?’ I asked.

‘What? Yes. Six years now. Twin boys of two and a half. A real handful.’

I thought: Then you understand. You understand the need to believe that there is going to be a way out.

‘I must tell you,’ he said, resuming his lawyer’s voice. ‘The strangest thing. A witness has come forward to corroborate your story.’

‘
My
story?’

‘He saw you just outside Totnes, driving south, at about six-forty on the Saturday evening of the murder. He was away on holiday when you were arrested. He only heard about it when he got back. Contacted me through your brother last night. His name is Horrocks. An assistant harbour master, I believe.’

I remembered Horrocks. He was one of the men I had stood a drink in the pub when I was trawling for information about
Samphire
.

‘He was absolutely adamant about the identification. Knew your car, recognised you. Even waved to you, he said. And – the dream witness – he was in no doubt about the time, because he was due at his sister’s silver wedding party and was already ten minutes late. Anyway . . . there we are. Just thought you might be interested.’

‘Does Henderson know?’

‘I doubt it. But I wouldn’t be in a hurry to tell him. Best not to offer information unless it’s needed.’

‘Ginny could do with a witness like Horrocks.’

‘Yes,’ he said, as though considering this afresh. ‘It would help a lot.’

I woke Ginny for lunch and came down to prepare pate and smoked salmon and salad. I hadn’t tackled a french dressing in years, but I made a passable effort with a combination of the balsamic vinegar and olive oil that Ginny always used, and a dash of mustard.

Ginny appeared and sat down obediently at the kitchen table, like a guest in someone else’s house. She looked no less exhausted than she had done that morning. While I cajoled her into eating, we discussed her health. Or I talked about the importance of taking care of herself while Ginny agreed in a vague placatory way. When this subject lapsed I led us on to the practicalities of selling Melton and we discussed it for the rest of the meal. The disposal of the furniture seemed to be the one topic that roused a spark of interest in Ginny, as though she were eager to rid herself of non-essential possessions.

To avoid meeting the prospective purchasers we arranged for Mrs Hoskins to let them in, and drove up onto the downs for a walk. The wind wasn’t cold but it was blustery, and Ginny took my arm as we climbed slowly up the rabbit-tracked hill.

‘Do you remember that holiday in Brittany?’ I asked, resorting to the comfort of nostalgia. ‘When we got caught in that downpour?’

She gave a single nod.

‘God – the weather!’ It had been overcast and rainy for all but two days of our stay. But then La Baule with its long sands and
belle epoque
hotels had not really suited either of us. I’d found myself hankering after the craggy coast of North Brittany which had been the scene of so many childhood holidays on
Ellie Miller
, while Ginny had missed the warmth of the Mediterranean and having friends to dine with.

‘Not the most successful holiday in the world,’ I smiled.

‘You wanted to be sailing.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said with half a laugh. ‘Did I?’

‘I think so.’ She corrected herself: ‘I know so.’

‘But I still enjoyed the holiday.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ she said with a directness that was quite new to her. ‘The holiday was the worst of both worlds. Trying to please each other and ending up doing what neither of us wanted. You should have said, you know. What you wanted. So should I. Perhaps that’s where we went wrong.’

She had never spoken like this before. While I welcomed the opening of these dusty attics, I was faintly apprehensive as to what might emerge next.

‘But you didn’t like sailing,’ I ventured.

‘Not the long trips, no. But I could have flown across the Channel and joined you in France. I wouldn’t have minded going from harbour to harbour.’

‘I felt it was too much to ask.’

‘But I would have fitted in, I was desperate to fit in,’ she said almost to herself. ‘I felt it was a necessary part of loving someone, to fit in.’

This thought settled over me uneasily as we climbed the last few yards to the ridge of the hill and paused to look out over the prairie of ploughed fields below.

I said, ‘But we were happy in Provence, weren’t we?’

‘Oh yes,’ she agreed without hesitation. ‘It was the one place where you were free of it all. The business. And your family.’

‘My family?’

She cast me a glance, gearing herself up to voice something that I wouldn’t like. ‘Your family,’ she confirmed. ‘Your father mainly. But David and Mary too.’

‘But I didn’t need to be
free
of them.’ Even as I said it, the idea lodged in my mind as a startling and disturbing possibility, made all the more real by the realisation that I had never allowed myself to consider it before. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you were the one they expected things from. The business. The tradition. All the rest.’

‘But my father never interfered. My father never asked anything of me.’

‘No?’ Her tone betrayed her doubts. Then, attempting to close this unsatisfactory argument: ‘But Provence – yes, we were happy there.’

‘Hang on,’ I said, not ready to let go. ‘Are you saying my family put pressure on me? Because you’d be quite wrong, you know.’

The wind spun her hair across her face and she pushed it back and held it against her head. ‘Not pressure like that. Not . . .
open
pressure. But it was still there, wasn’t it?’ She looked at me with a touch of her old uncertainty. ‘You having been groomed to take over. Being your father’s favourite. The way he made the business into this great and holy thing. This sacred inheritance. I always felt’ – the thought emerged bitterly – ‘that you were doing it for him.’

‘For him? But it was for us too! Always for us! I don’t know how you can think that.’

She gave up the argument with a submissive twist of both hands and walked on. But as we tramped along the undulating ridge her words still rankled.

‘How could you think I wasn’t doing it for us?’ I asked hotly.

She came to a slow halt, as though in her tiredness she could not concentrate and walk at the same time. ‘Because you went on and on pushing yourself, spending more and more time away, hardly being at home. Not choosing to be with me. It didn’t look to me as though you were doing it for us.’

‘It was only because it was all going wrong, Ginny. The business, I mean. I was desperate to save it. I thought if I just kept trying harder . . . And then I seemed to get
overwhelmed
.’

She absorbed this silently and looked away into the wind. ‘And all that time I was feeling useless, you see. As though I had nothing to offer you any more.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘No!’ she argued, a harsh edge to her voice. ‘It’s not ridiculous. You always say things like that, you always brush things off as if that’ll make the subject go away. But I’m telling you – that was how I
felt
. I felt I had nothing to offer you any more.’ She stated this with exasperation, as though I had never made any real effort to understand her. ‘Oh, it took me ages to work out that I wasn’t getting it right, that you hated the people and the parties and the social scene. It took me ages to realise it wasn’t what you wanted. I was as bad as you were, you see – I clung on. When things began to go wrong, I just kept trying harder. Because it was the only thing I was good at, organising things, making things happen. I didn’t know any other way.’ She gave a small shudder. ‘But I got there in the end. That weekend when you rushed off to Dittisham, I finally got the message. But by then . . . it was too late.’

‘Oh Ginny.’ All the accumulated misunderstandings of the years seemed to hang over us like so many missed opportunities. ‘What a pair.’

Something in this brought her emotions to the surface and, turning swiftly away, she made a move for home.