Cold in the Earth (28 page)

Marjorie grimaced ruefully. It was a bit late now to ask her mother for a crash course in how to handle a difficult husband. She’d never had one before; she’d just have to learn on the job.

The Galloway Arms was a cosy, old-fashioned hotel with tables covered with starched white cloths and a fire burning in the hearth. Its menu was old-fashioned too, featuring such homely fare as lentil soup, Scotch broth and shepherd’s pie, though it was none the worse for that; as Conrad said, it wasn’t really the weather for rocket salad, and laughing, Laura agreed.

Outside the sun had struggled through and a deep covering of sparkling snow had transformed shrubs and bushes into exotic sculptures and embellished every flat surface with a glittering layer of white candy-floss. It gave an air of unreality to everything, making Laura feel somehow that this moment of time was frozen too, dissociated from both past and future.

They talked as normal acquaintances do, of likes and dislikes, books, films, interests. Not, however, about family, background or the tragedy which was in both their minds – Laura couldn’t help but notice how gracefully they skated round that. The elephant on the table, in psychological jargon: a huge, major issue which by unspoken mutual consent was ignored completely.

But, she told herself firmly, all that was on the table at the moment was shepherd’s pie – and very good it was too. She was actually enjoying herself.

The snow had stopped for the moment at least so there would be no problem, Conrad assured her, about his delivering her back to Burnside Cottages. At the garage, the good news had been that they’d recovered her car, the bad news that it would take two or three days to get it back on the road. Still, she had stocked up with food, drink and reading materials and was looking forward to getting back for a cosy evening with the red curtains drawn, the lamps lit, a glass of wine and perhaps even some pleasantly mindless TV. It was just what she needed – peace and space and time to recover from the bone-deep weariness she still felt from the constant strain of grieving. Even so, she was almost regretful when it was time to go; lunch with Conrad had been surprisingly relaxing.

Yet, as they drove back towards Glenluce, she felt the mood change and conversation faltered and died. The road had been cleared and the verges were piled high with filthy brown sludge; the sun had gone, obscured by thick, dirty-grey clouds, and Laura felt as if the superficial glitter of their amusing lunch had vanished too as dark thoughts gathered again like the clouds themselves. Dizzy was still dead and Laura was in the company of someone who, at the very least, had been there when she was killed. All her uneasiness returned.

When Conrad stopped outside Burnside Cottages she didn’t ask him in and when he offered to drop by to see if she needed anything while her car was off the road, she was firm in her refusal. He had been more than kind and she was very grateful, of course, but Mrs MacNab had promised to look in and there was no problem. She was forced to be blunt before he accepted that this was not mere politeness.

After a moment, he shrugged. ‘Fine. As you wish. You’ve got my number anyway.’ He didn’t look at her as she got out, and drove off as soon as she had shut the car door. He was irritated, obviously; she felt guilty about that but it still wasn’t going to change her mind. Apart from anything else, Mason family rivalries were more than she could handle at the moment. She could only hope that he wasn’t going to go back and gloat over their lunch to Max.

It was barely three o’clock but with the heavy cloud a leaden gloom had already descended. She set off across the little bridge, clutching her shopping bags.

A lot of snow had fallen since she left. There was no sign of her earlier footprints and in front of the cottages the surface was pristine apart from a track of small footprints crossing at an angle towards the rough ground beyond the low fence – a fox or a deer, maybe, though she wasn’t skilled enough to interpret it. There were no friendly lights in the cottages, no signs of human life, and as she walked along where she guessed the path should be she sank in snow over her boot tops. They’d been ruined already, with the wet.

She’d been happy enough in her isolation before and there was no reason, she told herself firmly, to feel imprisoned by it now. She let herself in, turned on every light, boosted the heating and switched on the electric kettle. Then, though it wasn’t quite dark, she went to draw the curtains.

There was a strange, purplish tinge to the sky, and as she watched it started to snow again – small flakes, as yet, but after this morning she knew what that could lead to. With a shiver she replaced the view of the brooding desolation outside with the artificial cheerfulness of the red curtains and settled down to the quiet evening she had promised herself.

After a few minutes, though, she got up to switch on the television. Even raucous voices and canned laughter were preferable to the intrusive silence, broken only by the low keening of a rising wind.

Marjory Fleming arrived at the hospital during visiting hours. The foyer was busy, with the WRI shop doing good business, and she had to wait in a queue at the reception desk to get directions to Jake Mason’s ward. The receptionist, she noted approvingly, asked to see ID before giving out the information.

When she reached the ward there were several people at the nursing station, deep in conversation with the duty nurse; disinclined to queue again and spotting a uniformed policewoman outside one of the doors, Fleming slipped past. She could have a word later on.

As she approached the constable got up and Fleming saw that it was Jackie Johnston. They’d obviously found her a job where she couldn’t do too much harm and was out of the way of Tam MacNee, whose views on her were unprintable. Johnston was smiling a nervous, ingratiatory smile; if she were a dog, Fleming thought, she’d be rolling on her back and squirming submission. If the sight of an inspector did that to her, you had to ask yourself how she’d handle an armed robbery. Making allowances for her sensitivities, Fleming said in her friendliest fashion, ‘Everything all right, Jackie?’

Jackie shrank back as if the innocent question were a threat of violence. ‘Y-yes – er, well, I think so.’

There were limits to tolerance when there was a job to do. Exasperated, Fleming said crisply, ‘Fine,’ and opened the door.

She had expected the tubes, the machines, the charts. What she hadn’t expected was the elegant woman with silver-blonde hair sitting by the bedside holding the patient’s unresponsive hand and talking to him in a low voice. She broke off as Fleming came in.

‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ Fleming challenged her. ‘There are police orders that no one is to be admitted without authorisation.’

The woman rose and came towards her composedly. ‘I’m Rosamond Mason, Jake’s wife.’

Fleming stared at her in astonishment. ‘But – there’s been a nationwide search for you! Why haven’t you made contact to say that you’re alive and well?’

A faint flush coloured the delicate skin. ‘I’m sorry. When I came to the hospital –’ she hesitated for a second, then went on – ‘today, I told your young officer who I was and she said it would be all right to go in.’

‘Did she, indeed?’ Fleming said grimly. ‘Of course, Mrs Mason, no one would have any wish to keep you from your husband’s side. But you have caused everyone considerable concern and expense.’ Thinking with irritation of the digger and the excavated wasteland, she decided not to spare her. ‘We thought you might have been buried in that field too.’

‘Buried – oh no!’ Rosamond was horrified. ‘I had no idea – but then I suppose Jake was the only person who could have assured you that I had simply left, and he . . .’ Her voice faltered.

We wouldn’t have believed him, though. Whatever he told us, he’d have been the prime suspect, just as he is at the moment.
Fleming didn’t say it, though. Instead, she introduced herself formally, then went on, ‘You and I have a lot to talk about, Mrs Mason.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. But not here – not in front of him.’

Fleming turned her head to look properly at Jake Mason for the first time. He had been, as her mother had told her, a very good-looking man with his curly dark hair, strong features and the blue eyes which were now staring blankly straight ahead. It was sad to see one side of his mouth drooping and his hands lying in a lifeless position.

Rosamond followed her gaze. ‘Yes, I know he looks far away. But they say they think it may be something called locked-in syndrome where he can see and hear and understand, but can’t do anything.’

It was a shocking thought. Soberly Fleming said, ‘I see,’ as the other woman went over to the bed, smoothed the curly hair with a loving hand, kissed his brow and said, ‘I’m going now, darling, but I’ll be back soon. If that’s all right?’

She looked a query at Fleming, who nodded, puzzled and touched by the evident affection. This was a woman who loved her husband: why had she so ruthlessly eliminated herself from his life, and her son’s?

Outside, she said, ‘I’ll go and arrange for a room to be made available. Perhaps you could wait in the sitting-area over there?’

As Rosamond Mason went to sit down, Fleming turned to PC Johnston. ‘Explain yourself,’ she said shortly.

Johnston looked startled at first, then terrified. ‘Oh – Mrs Mason? Shouldn’t I have let her in?’

‘What were your orders, Constable?’

‘Not to let anyone in. But she said she was his wife—’

‘Did she produce evidence of identity? No? She could very easily have been a journalist with no respect for his privacy or his dignity, or someone who intended to harm him – even if she was his wife. You were there to protect him against both those things.

‘And leaving that aside, didn’t you know that police forces up and down the country have been searching for Mrs Mason, and the first thing you should have done was contact HQ and have everyone informed?’

Johnston was sniffing. ‘Well, when she just came up like that I thought you must know about her. I thought—’

‘Thinking isn’t your job. Your job is to follow orders until such time as you have enough experience to make sound judgements. It’s not your fault that your temperament isn’t suited to police work, but it is your fault that you haven’t learned what you’ve been taught about the basic principles.’

The ward sister was approaching down the corridor. Her face set in lines of disapproval, she ignored Fleming and went to the now-weeping Johnston. ‘What’s going on here? What’s wrong, dear?’

Fleming cut in. ‘I’m sorry, Sister, this is an internal disciplinary matter. I’m Detective Inspector Fleming. Can you find me a private room, please, where I can talk to Mrs Mason?’

Glaring at her, the woman led the way to a small waiting-room off the main sitting area; Fleming beckoned to Rosamond Mason and ushered her in. As she shut the door, she heard the nurse say as loudly as she dared, ‘Fascist cow!’

Perhaps she was, at that. Sweetness and light didn’t cut much ice in police work.

‘I wanted to see him first, just by myself.’ Rosamond Mason had taken a lacy handkerchief out of her neat black leather envelope purse and was systematically picking it to pieces. ‘I didn’t realise – I thought he could tell me what was going on.’

‘You know what has happened?’

‘Only from what I read in the newspapers. I – I haven’t really been in contact for a long time. More or less since I left.’

‘Why did you leave?’ It was the obvious question, but one which had apparently no simple answer. Rosamond looked round the confines of the narrow room as if she were working out an escape route.

‘It’s – complicated.’

There was a long silence. At last Fleming prompted, ‘But from what I saw today, you still love your husband?’

The response to that was immediate. ‘Oh yes. Oh yes, I love him. I always have. Too much, perhaps.’ She smiled wistfully and Fleming could see how very pretty she must have been when she was younger and happier. ‘I think I caught the Mason disease – excessive passions.’

She paused again but this time Fleming said nothing. At last Rosamond began to tell her story, hesitantly at first. ‘We were so happy to start with, those first few years. Oh, Edgar was a problem, but that was – that was an
external
problem, if you see what I mean, one we could tackle together.’

What was the problem with Edgar?
Fleming wanted to ask, but feared it would break the flow.

‘Then Brett came home. Brett—’ She stopped. ‘It’s not my habit to be disloyal or unkind, but I think, in these circumstances, it may be important for you to hear the truth as I see it?’

Encouraged by a nod, she went on. ‘She’s possessive and extremely vindictive. She’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants and when she came home after her marriage failed what she wanted was to be the centre of attention with her father – and Jake.

‘Jake shouldn’t have let her, of course. He doesn’t even like her, but theirs is a very complicated relationship. Their mother died when Jake was ten and Brett was eight and they were left in the care of a father who was, from time to time – well, mad, not to put too fine a point on it.

‘Brett uses that to manipulate Jake. He’s always rejected any notion that Edgar’s problems came from anything other than the absinthe they drank in Spain in the Thirties, but whenever Brett has one of her
petites crises de nerfs
– how I hated that stupid expression – Jake panics. He needs to calm her down, see her normal again, which of course means giving in to her.

‘One of her main objectives was to break up our marriage. She didn’t succeed; despite the difficulties we were still together, still a couple, until—’

She stopped. The handkerchief was rags now; she looked down at it as if surprised. ‘Oh dear, this is very difficult. Could I have a drink of water?’

Fleming looked round. There was a small sink in one corner, beside a tray of tea-making equipment; she filled one of the cups with water and brought it over.