Grave Doubts (5 page)

An ancient iron chain hung from an even older lever and she pulled it, listening for the jangle from deep in the heart of the house. Seconds later her sister-in-law opened the door and greeted her with a warm smile.

‘Di! Sorry, Louise – I will get used to it someday. We were worried that you might be called away at the last minute. Come on in, Simon’s in the conservatory.’

They hadn’t changed the furniture in the hall, but a gloomy picture of a stag at bay had at last been put down. In its place Simon had hung a gilt mirror. She averted her eyes from her reflection and glanced into the front sitting room but could see only the grandfather clock. To her surprise it showed the time incorrectly, another sign that life had changed.

‘Hi Sis.’ Simon was standing in the doorway to the large glass extension that her mother had insisted on calling the orangery. They were the same height but he was around fifty pounds heavier. His pale grey eyes were exactly like their mother’s, and completely different from her own. In fact, they so little resembled each other that Nightingale had once challenged her mother to prove that they were twins.

Her mother had thrust a birth certificate under her nose that showed she’d given birth to a boy and a girl, Simon David and Diana. Nightingale had noticed that she had not been given a second name. Her chosen name of Louise, the one her father had always said was her second name, was missing and she’d protested the fact. Her mother had flushed bright red and shouted at her not to be so rude. Two days later Nightingale had run away from home for the first time. Two months later she was sent to the boarding school from which she was eventually expelled.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ Simon’s voice brought her back to the present, ‘you look tired.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Forget I said that. Come on, have a drink – we’re both off duty for once.’

Simon had changed since he’d married Naomi. The bully of a boy she had grown up with, a mummy’s darling who was spoilt into meanness even before he’d started school, was a vague memory now. They had barely known each other by the time she’d finished boarding school – or rather by the time the school had finished with her. When he returned from university, already engaged to Naomi to their mother’s horror, he had changed into a friendly, rugby-playing extrovert whom she had found it surprisingly fun to be with. Naomi was working steadily to rekindle an appropriate affection between them, much to Simon and Nightingale’s mutual amusement.

At six o’clock they were still sitting at the dining table. Naomi went to make some tea, leaving brother and sister alone. Simon had had more to drink than usual and spoke without curbing his bluntness.

‘You’re too thin, you know Di…’

‘Louise.’

‘Sorry, it’s the booze. You could do with putting on a good ten pounds at least.’

‘You sound just like Father.’ Simon grimaced. ‘Look it’s been a tough year, and I’m not sure that it’s going to become any easier. The superintendent wants to transfer me.’

‘Is that such a bad thing? Are you really happy over there in Harlden? I would’ve thought that you’d welcome a change whilst you’re still young and unattached.’

She didn’t answer. How could she explain to him that she was quite the opposite, firmly attached to a man who barely knew she existed and feeling old before her time.

‘Penny for them? You look really down.’

‘Don’t push it Simon, can’t you tell when a girl’s in love?’ Naomi put a mug of tea in front of Nightingale, noticed her white face and changed the subject quickly. ‘Have you mentioned Mill Farm yet?’

‘Has something happened? Is the house all right?’ Nightingale looked at the couple with concern.

‘Oh it’s OK. Almost derelict because Dad let it go but still standing, just.’ Simon helped himself to more sugar than would be good for him in a few years time. ‘We’d like you to have it.’

Nightingale was stunned into silence.

‘We don’t need two houses,’ Naomi explained, ‘and we both feel that your parents should have left it to you, not us.’

‘They left me an income. There’s capital in trust and I’m entitled to the interest on it. I rarely spend what I receive each month.’

‘That may be, but we still feel that the will was unfair, don’t we Simon?’

Her husband nodded emphatically.

‘Downright Victorian. It still annoys me to think…’

‘But it doesn’t annoy me. It’s very sweet of you both but you shouldn’t feel obliged to change what they decided.’

‘It’s not an obligation. You’d be doing us a favour. An old run down farmhouse in the depths of Devon is not our sort of thing whereas you always loved it there.’

The idea was tempting. She didn’t care that the house was almost falling down. It was the one place as a child that she’d been completely happy.

‘We’ve had all the documents drawn up. It’s a deed of gift so there won’t be any tax to pay as long as we live long enough. I’ll go and fetch the paperwork.’

Naomi watched her husband leave the room.

‘Please, he wants you to have it. He feels guilty about everything we’ve been left. Whatever you say it wasn’t fair.’

‘But not entirely unexpected. They virtually disowned me. When Aunt Ruth died and left Mill Farm to my father I think she had hoped it might pass to me, but I had no expectations. It’s where Simon and I were born you see, and that meant I had no chance. Mother would be very unhappy with this.’

‘There’s nothing in the will to stop us.’

‘I doubt the idea that you would give decent property away ever occurred to her!’ Nightingale laughed then became serious. ‘I need to think about it. Owning an old house is a big responsibility and it’s miles away. I don’t want to sound ungrateful but could you and Simon hold onto the paperwork while I think this through.’

‘Of course, but take the keys anyway, just in case. Simon says that it’s far too run down to live in without work but you might want to look at it to help you make up your mind.’

‘I doubt it but thanks for the thought.’

She took the keys to keep them happy then turned the subject away from family memories and onto safer topics of conversation with practiced ease.

The screams reached Fenwick in a dream in which he’d been swimming far down under water. As he surfaced, the cries became louder. For a sleep-numbed moment he lay motionless. Then he sat bolt upright and grabbed his dressing gown from the foot of the bed. He stumbled as he caught his bare toe against the chest of drawers and banged his bad knee on the edge of the door.

He was limping as he ran towards Bess’s bedroom. By the time he reached her side, the noise had subsided. He lifted her head onto his shoulder and rocked the nightmare away. Gradually her breathing slowed and she settled into a deeper sleep. He laid her back down and lifted the sheet to tuck it in under her chin. What would Monique think of their little girl now? Nine already, scaring him with her occasional flashes of sophistication and feminine insight.

In his large, empty bed he lay awake, unable to return to sleep. This was the third time in a fortnight that she had been disturbed by dreams frightening enough to make her cry out. Yet in the morning she was as sunny and cheerful as ever, with no recollection of the night’s distress. His children were a constant source of concern but fretting in the dark hours of the night was not his way. Fenwick got up and pulled papers from his briefcase, which he worked on until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He fell asleep sitting up with the light on and the contents of an investigation file strewn over the pillow beside him.

When his alarm clock rang he groaned. Just one more day and then he could look forward to an uninterrupted weekend with the children. On his way to the station he realised that he hadn’t visited Monique in nearly a fortnight. Although the doctors assured him that she would never again be aware of his or any other presence he still felt guilty. He must try and fit in a trip to the nursing home.

At six o’clock he’d finished clearing his desk and was heading for the door. When the phone rang he cursed under his breath.

‘Yes?’ He hoped his voice reflected the impatience he felt.

‘Andrew? It’s Claire, Claire Keating.’

‘Claire, what can I do for you?’

‘I was wondering, if you weren’t doing anything this evening, we’re having some drinks at the College – nothing fancy, just a pre-exam pick-me-up. Life becomes frenetic for the next six weeks. This do helps to fortify us.’

He had forgotten that she lectured for a living and that her work for the police was a sideline. The invitation surprised him. He liked Claire and had it just been a drink with her he might have accepted, but the idea of spending an evening drinking bad wine with a bunch of academics with whom he had nothing in common was not to his taste. And anyway, the children would miss him.

‘It’s a nice thought but I’m busy.’ A vague sense of politeness made him add, ‘Perhaps another time.’

‘Of course. It was just an idea. Have a nice weekend.’

He opened the front door to sounds of television from the sitting room and a clatter of pans from the kitchen.

‘Hello!’ he called out, ‘I’m home.’

Chris grunted without turning his head from the screen. Bess leapt up and ran to greet him, a shocking vision in lime green and pink.

‘Daddy, you’re early!’ She gave him a hug as he hung up his coat. He blinked at the fluorescent T-shirt and violently striped leggings, neither of which he had seen before.

‘Do you like them, Daddy? I went shopping with Lucy and her mum after school. They were in the sale, ever so cheap.’

Fenwick wasn’t in the least surprised, but at whatever price they would never be a bargain.

‘You went shopping?’ He avoided a direct answer to her question, feeling out of his depth. He’d never thought that he would have to be a source of fashion guidance, trusting as he had in Bess’s inevitable good taste. No daughter of his would ever be tempted to buy trash, or so he’d thought. How wrong could a man be?

‘Yes, but do you like it?’ She stamped her foot just slightly for emphasis in an uncharacteristic gesture. Fenwick began to suspect Lucy Wells of being a bad influence on more than Bess’s dress sense.

‘It’s an interesting fabric. Oh, sorry, is that glitter meant to rub off?’ He stared in appalled fascination at the spangles that had transferred themselves from cartoon apples on the T-shirt to his fingers.

‘Oh don’t worry, it comes off all the time. Mrs Wells says the first wash will fix it.’ She looked up at him, her dark brown eyes huge under heavy lashes. ‘You don’t like it, do you?’ Her mouth turned down. There was a curious blend of defiance and pleading in her voice. Fenwick recognised the warning but ploughed straight ahead anyway, honest as ever.

‘Truthfully, the pink is a little babyish for my taste but the important thing is that you like them. They’ll be great for parties.’

She looked back at him with Monique’s eyes and Monique’s expression on her face. Her chin jutted out.

‘They aren’t party clothes. I’m going to wear them every day, except for school.’

‘Fine. Whatever. Just don’t wear them out. I’m going to change.’

He’d had the last word, or so he thought. As he walked up the stairs, she called after him.

‘When I’ve saved up some more, I’m going to buy some leopard shoes – you can get them in every colour from yellow to bright orange! Unless you’d like to buy some for me tomorrow, of course.’

He turned round and came back down to the hall. This was too like the never-ending sparring with Monique to be comfortable. He sat on the second-to-bottom stair, eye to eye with her.

‘Do you deserve a treat?’ He wrapped his arms around her and her hard little face melted as her hands went around his neck. He tried to ignore the heavy deposit of glitter on his jacket.

‘I came top in spelling.’

‘That was last week’s test.’

‘What if I promise to come top next week as well?’

He had to smile at her confidence, as she never broke a promise. She was bright but not the smartest in her class. What distinguished her was her determination. Once she’d set her mind to achieve something she never failed.

‘We’ll see. Go back to your brother, I must change,’
and take this suit to the cleaners tomorrow with the hope that it’s not ruined
, he thought but didn’t say.

When he came back down Chris was still lying in front of the television where he’d last seen him. The cartoon channel was on.

‘Fancy a game of Monopoly, anyone?’

‘This is a good bit. Maybe later.’ Chris didn’t even glance up at his father.

Bess nodded her agreement. ‘Later.’

Fenwick looked at the cat and mouse on the screen, both much older than he was yet somehow more appealing despite constant repetition. He bent down and ruffled Chris’s hair.

‘I’ll collect a hug later then.’

Chris nodded briefly and smoothed his hair flat. Fenwick heard a slippered footstep behind him.

‘Ah, there you are, Andrew. I thought I heard you come in.’

‘Hello, Alice. Have you had a good day?’

‘Passable. I had to do the laundry by hand because the machine broke down and they need clean uniforms but apart from that…’ Her voice trailed away as she walked back towards the kitchen.

Fenwick followed her. His housekeeper frequently left her sentences unfinished and Fenwick had given up trying to conclude them for her. Alice Knight was a small, round woman, widowed in her early fifties and now just approaching sixty. She’d happily moved out of her rented flat and into the apartment Fenwick had adapted for the previous nanny and was clearly enjoying running a larger house.

He’d tried to disabuse her of the idea that he was a man of means, despite the size of his house, which he’d explained several times was affordable solely because of a legacy and some insurance money. In the end, the only way in which he could force her to live as modestly as he would like was to limit the weekly housekeeping. Now, he suspected, she thought him wealthy but mean and probably put it down to his maternal Scots blood. Alice was a woman who found nothing wrong in applying stereotypes as a way of saving time that would otherwise be wasted on original thought. Despite that, and her occasional extravagances on his behalf, she had proved a good addition to his household. She was warm-hearted but firm, a seasoned cook and the children liked her.

‘Something smells good.’

‘Shepherd’s pie. But don’t worry. I minced the beef myself, and it was a good cut. I thought…’

‘Delicious. When will it be ready?’

‘Half an hour. You’re earlier than I expected. Plenty of time for you and the children… They’ve had their tea already.’

He went back and watched the cartoon, then another until his meal was ready. The pie and gravy were delicious, the cabbage good for him, or so he told himself. Two glasses of his best red wine were an indulgence but helped ease him into a routine weekend with a feeling of contentment.

The children played up a little at bedtime, probably regretting having declined the offer of a game earlier, but they settled eventually. At nine o’clock he found a film on satellite TV, poured another glass of wine and settled down with a small sigh of satisfaction. Alice was upstairs watching taped soap operas; the house was quiet, his time finally his own. He should have been content but he couldn’t settle and became increasingly restless as the evening passed.

In the comfort of his armchair, he tried to work out what might be ailing him and ended up with the uncomfortable realisation that he was either lonely or bored, perhaps both. Monique had been in hospital for over three years. His one affair in the year following her illness had been a disaster that could have wrecked his career and jeopardised his family. Since then he had kept his feelings, and his passions, under tight control.

That night he dreamt of Claire Keating, except that when he looked at her face, it wasn’t Claire. There was another woman hiding behind her eyes. Bess had another nightmare at three in the morning and this time she woke up. He shushed her until her breathing slowed and her fingers relaxed their hold on the duvet.

In the morning they bought leopard print shoes on the strict understanding that they would be worn for parties only. They were patterned in neon purple and white, a shade that astonished him and delighted Bess in equal measure. Christopher was allowed an Action Man tank and for a few brief hours his father was a hero again. His son bestowed esteem cautiously, in irregular doses interspersed with almost savage tests of Fenwick’s omniscience and affection. He could already feel the future shadow of challenge and rivalry in his son, as if having been failed by one parent he knew that it was only a matter of time before the other disappointed as well. Fenwick had barely known his own father and was determined that his son shouldn’t suffer the same absence of affection that he’d had to live with.

Despite the recurring showers they all enjoyed themselves and Fenwick decided to round off the visit to town with milkshakes and a coffee in their favourite café. They scrambled into a corner table away from the crowds and the children sucked their flavoured milks contentedly before Chris suddenly pushed his drink away.

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes, Chris.’

‘Is Mummy ever coming back?’

So simple, so quietly said. It was as if he was making conversation but his words stopped Fenwick’s breath. Bess looked at her father, eyes intent on his face noticing every hint of expression. He forced himself to answer normally.

‘No, Chris, she’s not.’

‘Is she dead then?’ There was no trace of the nervy hysteria that used to accompany any conversation about his mother.

The absolute stillness in both children frightened Fenwick. They seemed preternaturally calm, as if waiting for a storm they knew was about to break. He was aware that his words would drop heavily into that silence, increasing or easing the tension depending on his skill in crafting an answer. He was still struggling to find exactly the right phrase when Bess took Chris’s small hand in her own and said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘No, Chris, not yet. She’s very, very ill and the illness has scrambled her brains all up. They’re like mashed potato now, isn’t that right, Daddy? I heard you tell Alice when she came that they’d been turned into a vegetable or something.’

Fenwick didn’t have a chance to answer before Chris jumped in, excited.

‘So she could come home then. I mean if it’s only her brain that’s poorly we could keep her like a pet. My teacher said that the difference between animals and us is that we can think and they can’t. I like the idea of Mummy as a pet. We could all help to look after her.’

Fenwick reached across and rested his large hands on top of his children’s. This hope had to stop before it turned into expectation.

‘No, my loves. She’s too poorly to come home. She needs doctors and nurses to look after her and she’s asleep all the time. There’s a special word for it, could you remember it for me?’

They both nodded solemnly, their eyes huge and too bright.

‘Mummy’s in a coma…’

‘A coma.’ They both repeated.

‘That means she’s fast asleep, she doesn’t feel ill but she has to stay in the hospital.’

‘Does she have nightmares?’ Bess’s voice was full of horror.

‘No, she can’t dream. She just has a very peaceful sleep.’

‘Could we see her, Daddy? You visit, I know you do.’ Chris looked at him hopefully.

Fenwick thought of Monique’s wasted white body, with machines, tubes and drips doing everything for her that her own organs could no longer.

‘She’s a long way away, Chris. I don’t think that’s possible. She wouldn’t know that you were there.’

He regretted his honesty now. He should have told them that she’d died. They’d be over their grieving by now instead of living this half-life of mourning. But he couldn’t lie to his own children. They were too like him to forgive such a gross dishonesty. Chris opened his mouth to argue but it was Bess who shook her head and said.

‘No Chris, don’t. There’s no point. She’ll be dead very soon now anyway.’ Her words brought both men’s heads up sharply. ‘It’s in my dream. I’m at the seaside and Mummy’s walking down a long beach away from me. I try to run but I can never catch her. She’s just walking and I’m running but I can’t reach her. She’s almost at the sea now and I know that when she gets there she’ll die.’