Grave Doubts (33 page)

With the advantage of falsely improved CVs they joined a computer games company in Telford. He started to specialise in computer security and Wayne in development. That had been the best time. All the while he and Wayne had indulged their shared interest, becoming better with each experiment. Life could have gone on like that forever if Wayne hadn’t got them fired. He identified the start of Wayne’s decline to when he lost his job.

That’s when the testing started, to give them both a new purpose in life. He would set Wayne a challenge: a location, a woman wearing a certain colour, a time of day, and Wayne would have to deliver. Occasionally it worked in reverse and Wayne would test him but the trials were always too easy. He had been superior in every way: technique, daring and intellect.

The thought returned his mind to his unfinished business in Telford. It had been a stroke of genius to follow that policeman. True he knew the taxi girl’s address already from the telephone directory but there was sweet irony in being led to it by a pig.

He started to clear the house, working from the top down. It would be sold; he could do with the money and he had the deeds. He would find a solicitor to handle the whole thing before he left. It was past two in the morning but he wasn’t tired. Sleep was a luxury rather than a necessity. With the help of a few pills he could make do with three or four hours a night for weeks on end and still feel sharp in the mornings. By four o’clock he’d selected items to take with him and packed them into the panniers on his motorbike. Everything else was burning in the grate or tied up in a rubbish sack by the back door.

His laptop was still connected to the dial up phone line. He was about to pack it away when he thought of the policewoman. She had to be found, tedious as it was. Once he’d killed her he could leave the country on top again. She’d seriously inconvenienced him and had to die in order for him to feel free.

He forced himself to concentrate and logged onto the PC as daylight found the edge of the lake. Perhaps it was the early morning clarity or the freshness of his brain but he realised almost at once that he’d been wasting his time going through the data. He didn’t need it. The Internet café that she’d used must have been owned by an enthusiast. It had its own server, an extraordinary idea, which meant that there was a registered location and individual IP address he would be able to trace. The two years that he’d spent in IT security were not to be wasted after all. It had been over a year since he’d done any searching but it wasn’t something you forgot how to do.

He flexed his fingers, cracking the knuckles, then hovered over the keyboard. The hunt was on. He would trace the location, finish his business in Telford and then go and find her. A ray of sunshine found his open window and he knew then that it was going to be an exceptional day.

Nightingale woke late and lay in bed staring at the shadows cast by the sunlight on her bedroom walls. Physically she felt fantastic but her mood was restless. She took a mug of black coffee into the garden and noticed fresh weeds growing among her runner beans. Over two dozen slugs had died in a drunken haze in the beer traps she had set and birds had pecked at the salvias. She went to explore the farm outbuildings, like a beachcomber hoping to find distraction in the flotsam. In the old cheese-store ancient apples had rotted to a dried brown skin. Hundreds of swallow tail butterflies, attracted by the sweet cider smell, had died, littering the desiccated fruit in a brightly patterned carpet. Beside the butterflies Nightingale found an old trunk that she dragged outside.

It was a travelling chest that had been used to store her aunt’s cast off clothes. She opened it and sorted the contents onto an old blanket. In the bottom drawer, underneath faded silk petticoats, she found a leather writing box stuffed full of photographs and bundles of letters tied with ribbon. Curiosity triumphed over scruples and she spread out the contents on the blanket.

The first photo was of three people at a picnic – her aunt, father and Lulu. The next was labelled ‘Christmas’ and showed her aunt and father, his mouth wide in laughter. She sniffed and blinked hard before covering the picture quickly with another that stopped any suspicion of tears.

Her father was captured in black and white kissing Lulu firmly on the mouth. The date on the back was the same year that her parents had married. In another photograph, Lulu was leaning back against him, her head resting easily below his chin looking serious but not sad. Her father’s hands rested on Lulu’s swollen stomach. There could be no doubt that she was pregnant.

Nightingale stared into her father’s eyes and experienced an unexpected burst of anger. She’d seen her parent’s relationship as one of contractual acceptance, dry and accommodating, punctuated by episodes of verbal aggression. Humiliated, she realised that she’d had no idea what caused the rot in her parents’ partnership.

She ripped the ribbon from the letters. The period of writing was contemporaneous with the photographs. There was a letter from her aunt to her brother, on which he had scribbled a hasty reply.

Dear Henry,

Hope you’re well, we missed you at the weekend – that is to say Mother missed you. It was her birthday and you said you’d be here. But enough of that. I don’t want to become the latest in a long line of nags. Horror – it might be hereditary!

How’s Mary, still suffering from morning sickness? Mother thinks it’s going to be twins – be warned – she seems to know these things.

Lulu was asking after you. I know you don’t like me mentioning her but she’s my friend and you owe her an explanation about the marriage. I know she hurt you going off like that but she’s back now and I think she still cares for you despite how she’s behaved. She’s not been well and her work is suffering. You could at least send a letter asking how she is.

Her father’s lazy scrawl filled the space at the end of the letter:
Message received and understood.

She searched the remaining correspondence impatiently and found a note dated three months later.

Dear Ruth,

I’m coming to stay for a few weeks. Mary’s having a touch of the vapours and is going to her parents – too ghastly to contemplate and I could do with a break quite honestly. Marriage is
hard work and we don’t even have kids yet. Lord help us. What am I going to do with two? One’s enough. It’s a nightmare.

Nightingale’s eyes blurred again. Second born, second child, a girl. She had never felt wanted and her father’s callous words cut deep. She blinked and read on, finding a reference to Lulu in the last lines.

Lulu called me at work. Don’t get angry but I said I’d see her. Just to talk, try and sort things out. She told me that she’s staying the summer with you. You are kind.

I know I have handled this badly. I was too soft, that’s the problem but I really am contrite this time. I’ve caused so much pain – to her yes, but to you too and that hurts most of all. Somehow, I want to put it right but I just don’t know what to do. You’ll help me won’t you? You’re a good friend to her and I depend on you so. I can’t wait to see you again – I’ll be down next Tuesday.

Nightingale tried to suppress her rising anger towards her father. He had put the load of sorting things out, including managing his pregnant ex-lover, onto his younger sister’s shoulders without apology. The emotional blackmail in the letter was palpable.

And what had become of her own mother, pregnant with twins? Nightingale felt sorry for her for the first time in her life. The ribbon on the third and final bundle of letters had been drawn tight into a knot and it took her several minutes to unpick it. She saw at once that the first note was dated three days before she’d been born.

Ruth, I need you. Mary only has two weeks to go but she won’t budge from the farm. Come back and be with us. I’m sorry to break into your holiday but please?

There was no further correspondence from her father. A yellowed newspaper cutting announced the births of Simon John and Diana Nightingale on the 3
^rd
of September. Finally, she found three letters, still in their envelopes, all written on soft lilac paper. Nightingale checked the postmarks. They were from London and had been sent in the autumn following her birth.

Dear Ruth,

Thank you for your letter. I’m all right, really and I’m glad everyone is well. No, I don’t have any message for Henry and I certainly don’t want you to give him my address. I’m applying for a job at one of the private galleries. It’s nothing much but the proprietor seems decent…

Lulu sounded in control. What had happened to her baby? Perhaps it had been given up for adoption. Some of her sympathy for Lulu disappeared as she opened the remaining letters.

Dear Ruth,

Great news. Roger – he’s the prop – has expressed an interest in my work! He’s very kind…

There was a lot more about Roger and Nightingale skimmed it, interested only in how Lulu was adjusting to life with or without her baby, but of that there was no mention at all.

Dear Ruth,

You don’t need to keep giving me the updates you know. I think it’s better in fact if you didn’t.

I have an exhibition planned for the week before Christmas. Will you come?

The only item left in the bundle was a clipping from a society magazine dated the following year. It was a professional photograph of Miss Lulu Bullock on the occasion of her engagement to Mr Roger Appleby, son of Colonel and Mrs A Appleby of Windsor. Lulu looked lovely and the engagement ring was so large it seemed to weigh down her hand.

No regrets then.

Nightingale bundled the correspondence together, curiously disappointed. The sense of adventure with which she had embarked on her exploration had evaporated, leaving her tired and with a threatening headache. That night, it took a long time for sleep to come and when it did it was full of dreams of abandoned children crying and of her father’s laughter behind a succession of closed doors. At one o’clock she fetched a fresh glass of water and lay awake listening to the grandfather clock chime the hour. Some time after three she drifted down into another fitful sleep haunted by dreams of her childhood from which she struggled awake as the birds were singing.

After breakfast Nightingale went for a long run along the cliff top before collapsing onto the sharp sea grass to stare at the sky. She was physically fitter than she had been for years. The painful thinness had gone, to be replaced by sleek tanned muscle. Her face was years younger and had lost lines of tension that she’d thought would be permanent. She refused to become a nervous wreck again.

Back in the house she drank a pint of orange juice and lemonade and started gardening, her mind full of bitter childhood memories. She had been a strong child but her brother had been sickly. Simon had been treated as precious and delicate whilst she had been the tough one, expected to get on with life without any fuss.

At first she’d tried to earn her parents’ affection by being the most amazingly brilliant child. School prizes, Brownie badges, swimming cups, netball trophies, she had delivered them all. Nothing changed. Drops of moisture splattered the leaves of the sunflowers she was staking. She told herself it was sweat and sniffed loudly.

When being the best daughter in the world hadn’t worked, she had become the worst. A rebel, rude, untidy, difficult. She was expelled from school twice before fourteen and her mother gave up on her. Her father had used detached humour to cajole her when what she’d really wanted was a hug. That’s all it would have taken, a few cuddles from him and her mother, Mary, the ice queen.

A memory of a family picnic came back to her. She’d been stung by a wasp and her aunt and father had scurried around, sucking out the sting, putting cream on it, soothing her with promises of ice-cream. Her aunt had enveloped her in a huge cuddle, kissing the swollen hand to make it better but her mother had pulled her away. ‘For heavens sake, don’t molly-coddle her. She’s too spoilt already!’ She had been eight.

Nightingale sniffed again and went to deal with the dead slugs until a strong westerly wind brought in a front of rain that enveloped the farm in a solid curtain of water. She had a compelling urge to leave the house and put on her waterproof before pulling the front door tight closed. At once she was surrounded and deafened by the rain. It had the force and density of a power shower and she abandoned her original plan to walk up to the top of the cliff and watch the storm in the bay. Instead, she turned downhill, towards the tiny hamlet and the church.

Amelia was arranging flowers on the altar. As she closed the heavy oak door it creaked and Amelia spun around in surprise. Nightingale threw back her hood and waved in reassurance. Her dark hair was plastered close to her skull, longer and more unkempt than ever. Amelia opened her mouth in shock. Her hand flew to her chest as if to ward off a blow, then her face cleared.

‘You startled me, Louise.’ She tried to smile but her eyes remained wide and staring.

‘Sorry.’ Nightingale walked down the chequered aisle, automatically stepping over the worn brass tombstone. ‘I needed to get out of the house.’ Amelia was still staring at her, flowers forgotten as water trickled over the alter cloth and dripped on to the tiles below. ‘Can I give you a hand?’

Amelia turned with a start and mopped at the spreading stain with her apron.

‘I’ve only two more arrangements to see to, thank you.’ She kept her back towards Nightingale as she spoke but her body radiated defensiveness, as if she had been caught out in some indiscretion.

Nightingale shook her head in puzzlement and retreated towards the font and its vibrant pantheistic carving. She traced the relief with the tips of her fingers. There was something essential about the font. Despite Lulu’s strange lifestyle and beliefs she could believe that it had been sculpted with faith to hold this most holy water. Behind her Amelia bustled. Perhaps it was the moodiness of the day, or a bad reaction to the weather, but Nightingale found herself irritated. She was reminded of the story of Mary and Martha. Amelia was Martha, hardworking and earnest, relied upon but fundamentally missing the point.

‘There!’ Amelia placed an arrangement at the base of the font and stood back with satisfaction. ‘Pointless putting delphiniums in at this time of year. They never last. I told Lily that when she brought the flowers in but she wouldn’t have it. These crysanths are far more practical.’

Nightingale glanced at the clump of determined maroon flowers and quickly looked away. She resumed her tracing of the sculpture.

‘I like this piece. Somehow, it calls out to me.’

Nightingale’s simple statement provoked a nervous twitter from Amelia.

‘Yes very nice,’ she said, head bowed. She was tweaking the flowers, fussing at them unnecessarily with her podgy fingers. Nightingale had no doubt that she was seeking to avoid her eye and her detective’s curiosity brought her to full alert.

‘What was Lulu like?’

Amelia reached over to pick up her coat from a pew, her back to Nightingale.

‘Why do you ask?’

Something, an instinct or a thought so buried in her subconscious that it had as yet no shape, prompted Nightingale to answer as if she knew far more than she did.

‘Why do you think I ask? Don’t I have a right to know?’

The anger and hurt in her voice surprised them both. Amelia turned around but kept her eyes on her handbag as she fiddled with its clasp.

‘It was a long time ago, Louise. You may be upset but I think it best for the past to be left undisturbed.’

‘But it’s
my
past, and I have a right to be told everything, don’t I? They’re both dead now, what harm can it do? You’re a Christian. You’re supposed to believe in truth and compassion. If you have nothing more to tell me, swear so now, in this church.’

Amelia looked at her at last and Nightingale was ashamed to see tears in her eyes.

‘I can’t do that; it’s not my place to tell you. I made a promise and even if the person I made it to has gone, I still can’t break it.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’ Any sympathy she had been feeling towards the older woman vanished in a flash of frustration that brought fire to her eyes. Amelia stepped back, her bag held defensively in front of her. Nightingale sensed that she was weakening and pressed on, mixing lies with half-formed thoughts.

‘Do you think I don’t know already? I’m not stupid! Why can’t you confirm the truth for me? All these weeks, you’ve been pretending to be my friend yet you’ve been keeping things from me, very important things that I deserve to know. You’ve left me to investigate and guess. That’s hardly kind is it? I can’t believe that you could have been so cruel.’

As she spoke, Nightingale was horrified to find that her pretended emotions became real. She had been scared by Amelia’s reaction. Perhaps there were even more secrets to be uncovered beyond her father’s infidelity and the half-sister she’d become determined to find. Her vision blurred with tears she was too angry to want to shed.