Fruitful Bodies (31 page)

‘The police will want you to tell them everything you saw,’ she said. ‘Remember, it won’t be Andrew, it might be—’

‘Not Bridger?’ James lay back and groaned. He and Bridger had met before, and not socially. ‘How embarrassing.’

‘Well, at least this time there’s no need to invent your own alibi,’ Sara said, and suddenly wondered if, Bridger being Bridger, that were true.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well—’ She looked hard at him. ‘Well—from what you said. You found him, and with Bunny still there in the room. Warwick was just sitting there, wasn’t he, and he was … well … dead.’

Not wishing to interrupt James’s returning calm she had tried to speak the word softly as if it were something
harmless, like ‘tired’ or ‘off-colour’, knowing it to be ridiculous. No mental ploy or careful tone of voice would prevail against the truth that a murder had been committed, just as other phrases such as ‘resolving issues’ or ‘strains and pressures’ (her current euphemisms, she realised now, for basic emotional dishonesty) should shield her from the unhappy possibility that she might not be up to the Dvořák, and that she and Andrew might be falling out of love with each other. She began to cry.

‘Och, ye saft old witch,’ James said. ‘Don’t take it so hard. Here, finish this.’ He handed her his half-full cup.

Sara looked up. ‘It’s not that. Not just that. I don’t know what it is. It’s the Dvořák. I can’t give it what it needs, I don’t mean technically, it’s not that. You know.’ She emptied the teacup and blew her nose. ‘Now, I want you to tell me again what happened,’ she said. ‘When you went in, you saw Bunny first, didn’t you?’

James nodded. ‘Didn’t see either of them exactly at first, the room was so bright and the light was behind Warwick, and Bunny had her back to me. When I did see Bunny, she couldn’t speak. She’s probably had a stroke, that’s what Sister Yvonne said.’

‘Brought on by the effort of killing him.’

‘Or the shock of finding him.’

There was a miserable silence, during which Sara considered that to all her other worries—starting with Joyce, including Dvořák and finishing with Andrew—she must now add this, another murder which would draw Andrew’s attention. Would he now simply forget that she was struggling with the Dvořák, would he even notice, when she left for Salzburg, that she had gone? In the midst of the self-pity which always accompanied such reflections, Sara was
suddenly struck by a truth so simple and overwhelming that she immediately felt stupid for not seeing it before: she could just as well order an incoming tide to go out as she could demand, plead or cajole Andrew into diverting his attention, at such times, towards herself. If she wanted to keep Andrew (more profoundly, if she wanted to stay in love with him) then she should give up and let the tide come in. What was the worst that could happen if she did? She suddenly said aloud, ‘
Wet feet’
. James looked at her. She laughed.

‘You are weird,’ James said. ‘Whose feet?’

‘I just worked something out. God, I’ve been stupid.’

‘Cold feet,’ James said. ‘I’ve got cold feet. And my hands, they feel hot, then cold.’ He squirmed under the blankets.

‘That’s shock for you,’ Sara said, standing up. ‘Where do you keep your socks?’

As James was settling back under his blankets with his feet wriggling in two pairs of socks, there was a knock at the door and Andrew came in.

‘Bunny’s had another stroke. She’s completely unconscious now,’ he said, settling himself on the white sofa. ‘And I’m off the case, now Askew’s here and they’ve got the SOCOs in. All the staff and visitors are waiting to give statements. They’ll be sending someone up to talk to you in a little while, James.’

There seemed nothing to say. James murmured and closed his eyes, about to drift into sleep.

Sara met Andrew’s eyes. ‘Any idea yet if—?’

Andrew leaned forward with a shrug. ‘Hard to believe she killed him. He’s a sturdy bloke and she doesn’t look
strong. Although,’ Andrew shook his head slowly, ‘it’s amazing what strength people can find.’

They thought about this for a while. James half-opened his eyes and said, ‘Oh, she’s tougher than she looks, I reckon. Warwick is a pussy cat, though.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘Was. Oh, God.’

‘If she did kill him, if she had to find the strength somehow, do you mean it could have been in self-defence?’ Sara asked. ‘Do you think he might have been attacking her?’

Andrew shook his head again, indicating non-committal rather than denial. ‘It’s a theoretical possibility, I suppose. The PM might tell us something, but I doubt it. There were no obvious signs of a struggle, no other obvious injuries on either of them. You’d expect at the very least facial scratches, clothes pulled about and so on. No, it looks as if he died in his chair. Probably strangled from behind.’

‘But he was facing the door. So that means he’d have seen whoever came in,’ Sara said, sitting up. ‘So that must mean he knew his assailant!’

‘Oh brother,’ Andrew said, casting his eyes to the ceiling, ‘here we go.’ He turned half-amused, half-irritated eyes on her. ‘My darling, it means nothing of the sort. It
might
mean that. Or it might mean he was surprised by someone coming in behind from the french window. Or it might mean that he had nodded off to sleep, or had turned to look out the window, or he saw a stranger enter but saw no reason to move, or he wanted to move but wasn’t quick enough, or was threatened in some way and told to sit still, or—’

Sara looked past him. ‘I was only trying to help,’ she said.

‘And, of course, all that implies that Bunny wasn’t in the room at the time, that she came in later and found him. If she was there at the time, the next question is what she had to do with it. We can’t be certain that finding him dead brought the stroke on.’

‘She could have witnessed it,’ Sara said, stubbornly.

‘Quite. Leave it to the police.’

‘Oh, now, don’t be mean to poor little Miss Marple,’ James said. He turned to Sara. ‘And you stick to your knitting, dear,’ he mocked, ‘and never mind him.’

‘Actually, James, we shouldn’t even have had this conversation. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have discussed any of this.’ Andrew stood up with an impatient grunt and moved to the window. ‘Look, when you give your statement, try to tell them exactly what happened, exactly what you saw. Forget anything I’ve said, I’m only speculating, anyway. At this stage it’s wide open, and it’s very important that your recall isn’t affected by what we’ve been saying. Don’t try to interpret things when you talk to the police, just try to remember accurately. It’s very important. You do understand that, don’t you?’

James pursed his lips and turned to Sara. ‘Oooh, isn’t he lovely? I could really go for him, you know, when he goes all
stern
.’

‘Oh yes, ha ha. But James, I promise you, I am quite serious,’ Andrew said, irritated with himself. ‘This is a murder enquiry. You do appreciate the seriousness of that, don’t you?’

James nodded, either exhausted or chastened. ‘Don’t worry. I can remember it all quite clearly. I rather wish I couldn’t.’ He wriggled his feet under the blankets and
closed his eyes again. ‘I think I really might like to have a sleep now,’ he said. ‘Would you mind?’

Andrew nodded and walked to the door. Sara waved him goodbye. ‘I want another minute,’ she said, and after Andrew had left she came and sat on the end of James’s bed.

‘What is it? Tell Uncle,’ James said. ‘Not happy, are you?’

Sara hesitated to burden him with it, then did so, sighing. ‘I can’t get the Dvořák right. I know just what I want to do with it, and I can’t get it. I can only do it
okay
. I’m not … 
big
enough.’

As James considered, she went on, ‘You did hear my Prom, didn’t you? You said you didn’t but you never forget. You
did
hear it.’

‘All right. I did, yes. But as you were due to play it again and record it, I didn’t think it was the moment to say anything. Or to lie, which you always spot.’

Sara groaned. ‘It was that bad, then.’

‘No. No, it wasn’t bad at all, it truly wasn’t. But it wasn’t great either, not the way you could do it. Can’t quite place why not.’

‘I’ve tried and tried and tried to do the right things. I’ve
really
tried.’

‘Maybe you should stop trying. Stop thinking so hard about doing the right thing and just love it a bit more. Maybe that was it—there wasn’t much love in it.’

After a silence James said, ‘Joyce seems to resent you rather, doesn’t she? And I believe I detected a little frost between you and PC Plod?’

‘Oh you are horrible to me,’ Sara said. ‘And don’t call him that. All I try to do for them is the right thing, too.’

‘And might that not be the problem? I think,’ James said quietly, ‘that you might try forgetting about the right thing, whatever that is. Do you want Andrew to do the right thing? No—you just want to be loved. So does he, I expect. And Joyce. And Dvořák. Forget the right thing and just love ’em. That’s all they need.’

‘You sound like
The Little Book of Vomit-Inducing Truisms,’
Sara said crossly. ‘Love them? All of them? How am I supposed to do all that?’

‘Fuck knows,’ James murmured comfortably. ‘Are you coming tomorrow?’

Sara got up and drew breath to say that she did not really have the time. ‘I will if I can’ was as much as she could manage. ‘Look after yourself.’

James raised a theatrically limp hand. ‘Bye-bye. Oh, would you mind asking Yvonne if she could find me a hot-water bottle? My feet are still cold.’

T
HE NEXT DAY
Andrew and Sara had reached the bottom of Bathwick Hill before Andrew said rather sarcastically, ‘Saving all your conversation for James? You haven’t spoken to me all day.’

‘Of course I have. Anyway, you’ve only grunted back.’

‘You’ve been in the music room for over seven hours. And now you seem unable to conduct a conversation.’

‘I’m still thinking,’ she said. The truth was that she was worrying, not just about the concert which was in itself too important for her to be anything less than brilliant, but also the live recording of it that would be made for release next year. Her inadequate Dvořák would be digitally enshrined for ever. ‘And anyway, all you want to talk about is the Takahashi case or Dan. Daniel.’ Realising how mean that must sound, she stroked his leg and said, ‘Sorry. Don’t mean to be so quiet. I completely understand. I’m just nervous, I think.’

‘You’ll be fine by tomorrow, the minute you’re on that plane.’

‘And you’ll be fine too, as soon as you get Daniel to yourself for a few days. It’s just what you both need.’ She hoped she was right. Since Daniel’s murder attempt
Andrew’s first bewilderment had mounted to something close to quiet panic that his familiar little boy had somehow been transforming before his eyes into a homicidal pre-teenager. Andrew felt responsible, and it filled him with horror to think that he may have driven Daniel to such an extremity without even noticing that he was inflicting such damage. With a feeling of sick urgency he had arranged to take his son on a cycling trip while Sara was away. He had had to argue hard, mainly with himself, to take leave in the middle of a murder case, but it was not as if they were overwhelmed with leads and the Warwick Jones case was a separate enquiry with its own momentum. The Takahashi case would not collapse if Andrew took a few days’ leave, but his relationship with his son might if he did not. Daniel needed him, or so Andrew hoped. He needed his full attention, at any rate. They would be just a dad and his boy on their bikes, covering as many or as few miles as suited them, staying in B&Bs and bonding madly.

Andrew took Sara’s hand and squeezed it. ‘After we’ve seen James you can go back and do some more work. I’ll cook.’

‘Great,’ Sara said. She was smiling to herself about how wondrously, unnaturally accommodating of the other’s needs they were suddenly managing to be and questioning whether it could last. ‘I’ll probably do a bit. And I’ll have tomorrow morning as well, don’t forget. My flight’s not till the afternoon.’

‘I hope James appreciates it, us taking time to visit him again.’

‘I think he does. Anyway, we don’t mind, do we, as long as he’s pleased to see us.’

James was not pleased to see them, however, being oblivious of their presence. Sister Yvonne came out of the treatment room to the left of the front door just as they came into the hall, and beckoned them in. In what Sara thought an unnecessarily hushed voice, she said, ‘James is quite poorly still, after yesterday. Got a headache up the back of his head that won’t shift. Couldn’t sleep. Awake practically all night.’

‘I’ll go up and see him now,’ Sara said.

‘Well, actually, I wonder if you’d mind not. He’s finally got to sleep, you see. In fact, I put my head round the door just a couple of minutes ago and he’s out for the count. Really, it is what he needs. Dr Golightly looked at him at lunchtime and he says his whole system is crying out for rest in response to the shock of You Know What. And I’ve never known Dr Golightly to be wrong about these things.’

‘But I’m going to Salzburg tomorrow. That means I won’t see him before I go. I promised I’d see him before I went.’

Andrew said, ‘We can’t go and wake him up though, darling, can we? Look, I’ll come and see him when you’re away, and you’ll be back on Thursday night anyway. I’ll make sure he knows you were here. He’ll understand.’

Sister Yvonne said, ‘That does make sense.’ Seeing that Sara’s unhappy face had not brightened, she added, ‘Look, tell you what. If you’re not in a hurry now why don’t you wait a while? You could sit out in the garden or in the drawing room and wait. And if he wakes up, well, he might feel up to seeing visitors.’ Behind the magnanimous suggestion was the near certainty that James would be doing neither of these things within the next four hours.

‘Or we can go and find Joyce. We came to see her, too. We can go up and see Joyce,’ Sara said.

Sister Yvonne shook her head. ‘Sorry, I happen to know she’s just popped out. I saw her go down the drive after lunch. No music therapy today, you see, because so many of the patients are having bed rest.’