Death Comes First (9 page)

She would find out the truth, but she would do it alone. Much as she would have liked to share the burden, Joyce didn’t have anyone she could turn to. She hadn’t stayed in touch with old school chums and Charlie had been her closest friend and confidant at university. She had never worked so there were no workmates past or present. She didn’t do the daily school run, so she’d never mingled with other parents at the school gates. Her golf and tennis partners were no more than that; they might have the occasional lunch at the club after a game, but they never socialized beyond that. Ever since she could remember, her family had been her entire world. So she had no choice but to keep her own counsel.

It was possible that Charlie’s unnerving warning was the product of a disturbed mind. If that was the case and her father was blameless, to share the contents would only cause unnecessary distress to her parents. If, on the other hand, her children were genuinely at risk, she needed to identify the threat and act upon it – and she would have a better chance of success if no one knew what she was up to. Not even her mother.

‘Sorry, Mum, but I must go,’ she said lightly. ‘I left Molly with my credit card so she could order the pizzas. She’s probably bought herself the latest iPad by now!’

And then she was out the door without a backward glance, though she was conscious of her mother’s eyes following her. She wondered what Felicity would say to Henry when he got home – it was inevitable that she would mention Joyce’s visit, but would she mention the questions Joyce had asked about Charlie, about William, about Henry himself?

Despite her newfound sense of purpose, Joyce felt apprehensive and unsettled as she hurried home to her children.

Four

She made it just in time for the pizza delivery. She put on a bright smile and bustled about the kitchen, determined not to infect the children with her fears. They had enough to contend with, grieving for their father and adjusting to life without him.

The three of them sat up at the kitchen table, but they ate their pizzas with their fingers straight from the boxes, in big drooping slices. The proper way. That was part of the fun, particularly for Fred, who was delighted to be having junk food for supper rather than the healthy home-cooked fare Joyce usually prepared.

Not long after they’d finished the meal Joyce’s mobile rang. She glanced at the screen –
missed call: Henry 18.33
– then switched it off. She’d been half expecting it. Felicity must have told him about her visit the moment he stepped through the front door. Even so, Joyce hadn’t expected him to call so quickly.

A few minutes later, as Joyce was stacking the dishwasher, the house phone rang. Before Joyce could stop her, Molly picked up the nearest receiver from its bracket fixed to the kitchen wall.

‘It’s Granddad, for you, Mum,’ said Molly.

Joyce kept her back to Molly and carried on filling the dishwasher. She daren’t take his call now; he was bound to start interrogating her about her visit earlier and there was a danger she would blurt out more than she meant to. If she was going to succeed in fobbing him off, she needed time to come up with a strategy. Flustered at the thought of her daughter waiting expectantly for her to take the phone, she dropped a plate and cursed as it clattered noisily to the floor.

‘Tell him I’m about to have a bath. I’ll call him later,’ said Joyce impatiently, focusing on picking up pieces of china rather than facing her daughter. She could sense Molly’s puzzlement even without looking at her. It was unheard of for anyone to tell Henry Tanner he’d have to wait for them to call him back at their convenience.

‘Go on,’ instructed Joyce, waving both her hands at Molly.

She reminded herself that she’d only been a couple of years older than Molly when she’d hatched her plan to break away from the family fold and attend the university of her choice. She’d outplayed her father on that occasion, achieving the result she’d set her heart on even though it went against his wishes. That all seemed a lifetime ago now, but for her children’s sake Joyce knew she must dig deep and tap into that old Tanner guile. She just wasn’t ready yet.

She heard Molly repeating her words down the phone. There followed a brief conversation, with Molly responding to questions about her day at school, and telling him what kind of pizza she’d had. The usual trivial family stuff. But Molly still looked puzzled when she replaced the phone in its wall bracket.

Joyce hated asking her daughter to lie for her. Even though it was only a little fib, it went against everything
she’d tried to instil in her children about the need to be honest.

‘I am going to have a bath in a minute, darling,’ she said guiltily. ‘And you know what your granddad’s like. I could have been on the phone to him for hours. I’m a bit wiped out, to tell the truth. I’ll perk up later.’

‘Cool,’ said Molly. ‘You don’t have to explain, Mum. I know what granddad’s like.’

But the look she shot Joyce was a sharp one. A few minutes later Joyce felt obliged to retreat to the bathroom and run herself a bath, whether she wanted one or not.

When she emerged half an hour later, Fred asked her for help with his homework. Joyce was good at history, obviously, and not bad at English and geography. But she was hopeless at maths. That had been Charlie’s department. Although he had chosen to read politics at university, he could have been a mathematician had he so desired. But maths had been too dry a choice for Charlie – the young Charlie at any rate.

Tonight was a maths night. Joyce could just about manage the maths curriculum of an eleven-year-old, and she was glad of the diversion. But she feared it wouldn’t be long before she would be out of her depth with Fred’s homework. Charlie’s children were going to miss their father in so many ways.

Molly also had homework. Mercifully, she’d reached the stage where she knew better than to ask her mother about anything except history. Molly was astute for a fifteen-year-old. Too astute, Joyce sometimes thought.

Molly had earlier indicated that she had an essay to write, but claimed to have finished it within half an hour or so. Then she settled down in the sitting room to watch TV until bedtime – nine thirty for her on schooldays, and eight thirty for Fred.

Joyce remained in inner turmoil throughout. She couldn’t wait until it was time for both children, after the usual protests and requests for ten minutes more, to retire to their bedrooms. She was not a big drinker, but the events of the day had left her desperate to open a bottle of wine. She and Charlie had frequently shared a bottle over dinner, when they were going through a good patch anyway. But Joyce felt there was something intrinsically sad and undesirable about drinking alone in front of her children, and since Charlie’s death she had avoided doing so.

She shut up the house and took the bottle to bed with her. Her mobile was switched off and she intended to keep it that way until she’d sorted out what she was going to say to her father. The house phone rang once more, shortly after ten. She assumed it was Henry calling, though she made no attempt to check the display panel on the receiver, let alone answer the call. Neither of the children had extensions to the house phone in their rooms, and she only hoped they were both asleep and would not be woken by the ringing. It seemed that her hopes were realized. And the phone did not ring a second time.

More than anything Joyce wanted to go to sleep, then wake up in the morning and carry on as if today had never happened. Things had not been easy since Charlie’s death, but Joyce had been coping. Before the letter arrived she had started to think about studying for a teaching diploma, or finding a way of attaining that MA at another university with different academic stipulations to Exeter, or even through the Open University. The years were flying by. She had to prepare for the day when her younger children would move on, even if it was only down the road to the flat above Henry’s garage, as Mark had done
 . . .

Every train of thought seemed to bring her back to the letter. Mark, like her late brother William, had elected to stay in Tarrant Park and join the family firm. So there couldn’t be anything seriously amiss, either with Henry or the business, could there?

Why then was Charlie so adamant there would be dire consequences if Fred were to do the same? Try as she might, Joyce could make no sense of it.

Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep. Her alarm went off at 7 a.m. to give her plenty of time to get the children ready for school. Twenty minutes later the house phone rang again. She answered, even though she knew, without checking caller display, that it would be Henry. She couldn’t dodge him for ever.

‘Your mother’s worried about you, darling,’ Henry began.

‘Mum’s always worried about me, Dad,’ replied Joyce, reasonably.

‘Oh, darling, she’s convinced something has happened to upset you
 . . .
’

‘Yes, it has, Dad. My husband has died at the age of forty-three, leaving me with two young children to bring up. Something’s happened to upset me, all right.’

Selective honesty, Joyce had decided, would be the best policy. She would stick to the truth with her father, but not the whole truth.

‘Joyce, sweetheart, you know what I mean
 . . .
’

‘No, I don’t. I’m trying to come to terms with Charlie’s death and to rebuild my life and keep everything together for Molly and Fred. Some days I manage, and some days I struggle, that’s all.’

‘Well, if you want a break any time, you’ve only to say the word. Your mother would be straight over to take care of
things. And it goes without saying that if you want to talk, we’re both here, and you are always welcome—’

Joyce couldn’t stop herself interrupting.

‘Dad, we’ve never had those sorts of conversations, you will only talk about what suits you,’ she said.

‘I don’t think that’s quite fair, dear,’ responded her father mildly.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk, anyway.’

Joyce did want to, but not to him. What would be the point? He was never going to let his guard down and talk openly with her. And thanks to the letter, she was now wary of talking openly with him, at least until she had established whether there was any substance to Charlie’s warning.

‘I just want to get on with things,’ she said briskly. ‘Now, I’m sorry, I have to go. I need to go up and drag Molly and Fred out of bed so they can get ready for school.’

‘All right, darling. But maybe later your mother can pop over—’

‘Dad, I can’t stay on the phone a moment longer. I’m saying goodbye now.’

Joyce replaced the receiver. It had been a long time since she’d tried to fob off Henry, but it hadn’t gone too badly. No doubt she’d get better at it with practice.

After Molly and Fred had departed with Geoff, Henry’s driver, she cleared up the breakfast things and made the beds. She’d given up on trying to persuade them to make their own beds on school mornings; they were always racing against the clock and she had enough stress as it was without getting into a daily battle with the pair of them. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had to make beds and do the housework every day. Ever since the start of her marriage she’d shared a daily with her parents. Until the beginning of last year it had been Josie,
but when she retired they’d taken on an Albanian girl called Monika.

Thankfully, this was not one of Monika’s days at The Firs. Not that Joyce didn’t like the girl, although she did find her a bit hard going sometimes. Her English was excellent but Joyce’s attempts to get to know her and learn about the life she’d left behind in Kosovo had met a stone wall. In the end she’d given up trying to cultivate the sort of chatty camaraderie she’d had with Josie and simply left Monika to get on with her chores. Today, however, she wanted the house to herself.

She’d woken up with the beginning of a plan forming in her mind. Still wondering how to execute it, she wandered around the house, picking up and putting away the odd pair of trainers, or even the odd trainer, straightening the cushions, adjusting the curtains and generally pottering until nine thirty.

Then she made a call to Stephen Hardcastle at the office of Tanner-Max.

She had first met the tall handsome old Etonian during her first term at university. Stephen, four years older at twenty-two, was in the final year of his law degree. To Joyce, young for her age and still a virgin, he seemed urbane, sophisticated, exotic – he’d told her his Zimbabwean father was a tribal prince – and wildly attractive. In short, everything she aspired to be. He’d asked her out for a drink, and after several glasses of Prosecco, tipsier than she’d ever been in her life, she had allowed herself to be seduced by him. The following morning she’d had no regrets whatsoever about losing her virginity. Stephen had proved an experienced and sensitive lover, and virginity always was and, Joyce suspected, would
always remain, a heavy burden to carry around a university campus.

Nonetheless it had come as a shock to learn that she was merely the latest in a long line of conquests. Stephen, she discovered, was a serial seducer with a penchant for deflowering virgins. Joyce had been hurt, but she dealt with it in true Tanner fashion. She had no intention of allowing her much longed-for university life to be destroyed by one brief encounter. Even such a significant one. Neither would she allow herself to show her true feelings. She merely drew back from Stephen, with minimum fuss, vowing to be more careful in future.

He hadn’t disappeared from her life though. After she took up with Charlie, Stephen had become a close friend of JC and had been best man at their wedding. Shortly before Mark was born he had joined Tanner-Max and his willingness to take on the extra workload had made it possible for Charlie to take extended paternity leave. Charlie had been blissfully unaware of their brief fling, and so far as Joyce was concerned it was ancient history. Until a week ago.

In the months since Charlie’s death, Stephen had been attentive and solicitous of her welfare, calling to see whether she needed anything and inviting her for lunch whenever she was in town. It was after one of these lunches that history had repeated itself. She’d had too much to drink, so Stephen drove her home afterwards and in a moment of lonely, alcohol-fuelled weakness she’d invited him into her house and into her bed.