Betrayal (50 page)

I asked, ‘When do we have to make up our minds?’

Grainger addressed Tingwall. ‘Perhaps you would like to discuss the matter further with Mrs Wellesley, come back to me with any questions, and perhaps we can make a decision in the next week or so?’

We all stood up and Grainger moved fluidly to open the door. Ginny paused beside Grainger and said in an undertone, ‘I have one question.’ She frowned over the thought. ‘If Old Gordon is a good witness, if he’s going to be absolutely certain that he saw me, then . . . wouldn’t I do better to plead guilty?’

‘Absolutely not,’ I protested over the taut silence which followed.

Grainger observed Ginny for a long moment. ‘In some cases a guilty plea to a lesser charge can prove the best course. But, Mrs Wellesley’ – he fixed her with cold eyes – ‘only
you
can decide if this option is open to us.’

‘Why on earth did you say that?’ I demanded, taking an aggressive weave through the traffic.

Ginny looked ahead, her profile unreadable. ‘Because in the end it might be best.’

‘But you can’t plead guilty to something you didn’t do. It’s ridiculous.’

‘It could be the least bad thing to do. You heard what he said.’ And there was a nervy finality in her voice, an attempt to shut me out.

‘The least bad thing. For Christ’s sake, Ginny – how can you even
think
of it?’ I kept glancing across at her but she didn’t reply. ‘Promise me you won’t even think of it.’

‘But Old Gordon was there,’ she argued finally. ‘He saw me all right. He even nodded to me. We were just feet apart. He’s not going to be mistaken in court.’

‘Ginny, for
heaven’s sake
– it’s still early days yet. Anything could happen. All sorts of things might turn up. I don’t know – witnesses, somebody who . . . somebody who . . .’ I broke off in sudden misery, knowing I couldn’t put the problem of David off any longer. I had spent most of the last two days persuading myself that there was no point in dragging him into our nightmare, that he had nothing to contribute to Ginny’s case. Yet his story had left out too much, the gaps and evasions had left me with the wretched suspicion that he had given me something less than the truth.

Grasping some of my turmoil, Ginny had turned to look at me. I hadn’t told her about David, partly because I’d been coming to terms with it, partly because the implications of what he’d told me had frightened me too much. ‘Listen, something’s come up,’ I began unhappily. ‘I didn’t have the chance to tell you before. Well – I
did
,’ I admitted, ‘but I couldn’t, I was feeling too bloody sick about it, too . . . The thing is’ – and my throat tightened, I could hardly say it – ‘I wasn’t the only one having an affair with Sylvie.’ I felt a fresh surge of incredulity. ‘
David
was. David was having a great big affair with Sylvie. All the way through last winter and most of the summer too. They used to meet on the boat – some of the time, anyway. And I think—’ I had to force the words out: ‘I think he was on the boat that day. At least he didn’t deny it, for Christ’s sake! I think he was there, and I think – oh
shit!
’ And suddenly all my emotions shot to the surface and I couldn’t see the road, it had become so blurred.

‘Stop,’ Ginny begged, casting nervous glances at the speeding traffic. ‘Stop,
please
.’

I drew into the kerb amid a storm of protesting horns. I pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed it furiously across my eyes.

‘
David?
’ Ginny echoed as though she’d only just understood what I was saying. ‘All through the winter?’

‘The summer too.’

She digested this. ‘It was serious then.’

‘Serious? Well,’ I scoffed, ‘I don’t think it was
love
exactly. From what he told me, more like lust. Lust and drugs. He used to supply her with drugs.’ I had made it sound sordid, but then maybe I had intended to. ‘He swears there was no more to it, he swears it was just an affair, he says it fizzled out. All I bloody know is that they met on the boat regularly and he didn’t bloody deny he was there that day. He didn’t –
Christ
, I don’t know!’ I suppressed a fresh burst of emotion. ‘If he’s lied to me I’ll bloody kill him.’ And even as I said it I felt the old ache of responsibility, the old instinct to defend him.

Ginny was looking blankly ahead. ‘Tell me,’ she murmured in a reminiscent tone, ‘what was so special about her? What was it that made you both forget everything – everybody – else?’

I blew my nose savagely, I took my time but in the end I could only say, ‘I don’t know.’ I added, ‘But perhaps that was it, perhaps it was the very fact that she was impossible to know, that she was anything you wanted her to be. She gave this great impression of freedom, of anything being possible.’

Ginny gave an ironic murmur as if to say: And I didn’t, I suppose; I was the one who held you back.

‘And the sex?’ she asked calmly. ‘Was that especially terrific?’

There are some truths that must never be told. Bracing myself for the lie, I replied, ‘I think it was like they say – it’s the secretiveness of these things that gives them an edge, the danger of discovery. So, in that way – yes, it was exciting, I suppose.’

‘She didn’t do anything amazing that I didn’t do?’

‘No,’ I said, trying to push pictures of Sylvie at her most adventurous and uninhibited from my mind. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘
David
.’ Turning the idea over in her mind again, she shook her head. ‘He always seemed so – immune. So unemotional. Well – she must have had something.’

I thought: What she had was allure without conscience.

Ginny took a puff on her inhaler and coughed a few times. A new phalanx of traffic roared past and the noise seemed to invade the car. I restarted the engine and pulled out.

Ginny asked unsteadily, ‘So you think that . . .?’

‘I don’t know what to think!’

She kept looking at me. ‘What will you do?’

Making up my mind, I said, ‘I’ll go and see him.’

‘And then?’

‘And then I have no idea!’ I answered sharply, not wanting to imagine what would happen to David’s life if he were interviewed by the police.

She was quiet for a time, then: ‘Don’t assume too much, will you?’

Jerking my head round, I almost jumped a red light. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t think the worst.’

‘I’m not thinking anything!’ I exclaimed, feeling a dart of indignation because she had touched on the truth.

As we came up the drive in the twilight the figure of Julia appeared at the front door with three brilliantly coloured helium balloons in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. She waved them energetically and called out to us, ‘The deal’s been done!’ Then with upstretched arms, in loud theatrical tones as if announcing it to the whole county: ‘Hartford is yours!’

‘Good God,’ I laughed uncertainly.

‘The most deserved event of the year!’ And she hugged me enthusiastically, champagne, balloons and all. ‘George just called. It’s in the bag!’ She went to embrace Ginny.
‘And . . .’
She made another grandiose gesture, a flourish of both arms. ‘You have exchanged contracts on the house. It was sold at three this afternoon. I tell you – it’s all happening!’

I smiled because everyone else was smiling, and because deep down I did feel glad: glad for George and everyone else at Hartford, glad for Ginny because she could finally get to grips with the move, and, if I thought about it, glad for myself, though, in the shadow of everything else that was going on, the pleasure emerged as a rather pale and inconsequential emotion.

David’s surgery said he was out on a call, so I left a message on his pager, and then, with some hesitation, tried Furze Lodge.

Mary answered. ‘I gather hearty congratulations are in order!’ she cried. ‘I’m
so
delighted, Hugh! What a triumph! You must be thrilled!’

‘I am. All thanks to you, Mary.’

‘Well . . . I’m proud to be part of it all, Hugh.
Proud
. And I know you’ll make a success of it. I never had any doubts.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘You must be over the moon!’

‘Yes.’

Her tone shifted. ‘You don’t
sound
very happy.’

‘I’m just incredibly tired, that’s all. Hasn’t sunk in yet.’ I tried to relax my voice as I said, ‘Is David around tonight?’

‘Tonight? Hang on . . . The diary, the diary.’ She made searching noises. ‘Here we are . . . He’s in after seven-thirty. In theory anyway.’

‘If you speak to him, can you tell him I need to see him?’

‘What – tonight?’

‘I should be with you about eight.’

A short pause. ‘Can I say what it’s about?’ And her voice was taut with curiosity.

‘Oh – just—’ I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘A legal thing.’

‘To do with the buyout?’

Feeling cornered, I said, ‘Pa’s estate, actually.’

‘Pa’s
estate?
’ She didn’t try to hide her surprise. ‘And it’s urgent?’

‘I want to get it out of the way.’

‘But you sound so grim, Hugh. Is there something the matter? Not Ginny, I hope?’

‘No. No, really.’

‘Well, if you don’t want to tell me . . .’

‘Nothing to tell,’ I said stubbornly.

Her reproach hung in the air. ‘You’ll have some supper at least?’ she said.

‘No, Mary.’

‘I’ll tell David you’re coming then.’ And when she rang off her tone contained a note of faint injury.

I stayed long enough to make a quick congratulatory call to George, who from the sound of it was holding a party for the entire Hartford staff, and to glance through the mail and messages, which Julia had laid out in order of importance. I skimmed the letters until I came to an unopened envelope marked Strictly Private. It was from Jones. I sat down and read it quickly, then again more carefully.
‘. . . nothing has happened to change my original opinion . . . she has developed severe paranoid delusions with marked persecutory tendencies . . . increasingly retreating into unreality . . . convincing herself of plots, including the notion that I am opposed to her and scheming to give evidence against her. I am concerned that if she continues to refuse medication she may suffer a major crisis . . .’

With a chill in my heart, I read the letter a third time before locking it away in a drawer.

Charged with a new sense of urgency, I went through to the sitting room to find Ginny.

She looked up from her conversation with Julia. ‘You’re going now? It wouldn’t be better to wait until tomorrow?’

‘No. No, I must go now.’

She tilted her head to be kissed.

I asked, ‘You’ll be all right?’ Feeling traitorous, I examined her expression for signs of impending crisis.

Sensing this or something close to it, Ginny frowned, ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I’ll bag a bed for the night, if that’s all right,’ Julia announced from the far side of the room. ‘Not safe on the roads.’ She raised her glass and cast me a meaningful look.

Ginny got up suddenly and followed me into the hall. ‘You won’t forget,’ she breathed nervously.

‘What about?’

‘About keeping an open mind.’

‘You make me feel that I’m being unreasonable,’ I said accusingly. ‘For Christ’s sake, Ginny, somebody killed Sylvie!’

She dropped her eyes. ‘Yes.’ She kissed me again and her lips were cold against my cheek.

‘He’s been delayed. Some emergency.’ Mary closed the door behind me. ‘Come and have a large drink. You must be exhausted.’

She led the way into the drawing room and threw open the drinks cupboard.

‘Whisky,’ I said. ‘Please.’

She poured a glass and, bringing it over, came up very close and smiled up into my face. ‘Now what on earth’s this about?’ she asked. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘The matter?’

‘Why you’re here.’

‘I told you.’

‘Come on.’ She cast me a reproving smile that suggested I could do better than that.

I exhaled unhappily. ‘It’s rather complicated, Mary.’

‘You can tell me, surely,’ she said coaxingly. ‘David and I have no secrets.’

I felt like saying: Everyone has secrets. Instead I murmured, ‘In that case he can tell you himself, can’t he?’ I hadn’t meant to sound dismissive, I raised my hand as if to take it back, but a purposeful expression had already settled over Mary’s face. Taking my hand, she led me to a chair by the fireside and, pulling up a stool, sat facing me, knee to knee, as she had done all those weeks ago at Dittisham House. Recalling my uninhibited outpourings about Sylvie, I felt an abrupt and belated vulnerability, a sense of having disclosed too much.

‘Hugh . . .’ She flashed me one of her warmest smiles. ‘You’re very dear to me, you know. After David and the children . . . well, you’re probably the most
precious
person in the whole world to me. I want you to be all right, I want you to be happy, I want you and Ginny to be over this whole ghastly business.’ The smile again, which somehow failed to illuminate her heavy features. ‘But Hugh darling’ – a dipping of the voice – ‘it would be quite wrong of you to think that David has the answer to your problems.’ Her avid eyes searched my face to see if I had grasped her message.

She had caught me totally off-balance. ‘My problems? I don’t understand,’ I stammered, having a suspicion that I might understand rather too well.

She gave me an appraising look and began again. ‘Hugh darling – I believe you have ideas about David that are quite mistaken.’

‘Do I?’

‘
Indeed
you do,’ she said firmly. Then, disdainfully: ‘Oh, he got waylaid by that woman’ – she gave a scornful laugh – ‘if that’s the right expression. He had his head turned – but then I don’t need to tell
you
about that. But that’s
all
, Hugh.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘That’s
all
.’

I stared at her. ‘You knew?’

‘Of course,’ she declared with a touch of pride. ‘All that stuff about a wife being the last to know? Well, I knew immediately. I may be many things, but I’m not stupid. There were a thousand things.’ She gave a tiny snort. ‘I knew.’

‘You never said anything?’

‘Oh
no
. The thing was bound to burn itself out quickly enough. She was such a user, wasn’t she? Off to the next man, off to the next meal ticket. I knew she’d disappear sooner or later.’ She gave a dismissive shrug. ‘And I was right. She ditched him, didn’t she? Oh, he was upset for a while, went around looking like a whipped dog, but it was just his pride, wasn’t it? Feeling his age, needing to know he could still
pull the chicks
’ – she used the expression derisively, with a roll of the eyes – ‘all that stuff. He was over it in no time. I knew he would be. But Hugh—’ she leant forward, arms on knees, eyes locked on mine ‘—that’s all it was. He doesn’t deserve to have his career ruined, his life wrecked. He doesn’t.’