Maestro (15 page)

She owed her sudden interest in art to Gillane. Being around beautiful works of art made her feel that he was still a part of her life. 

She admired the painting he had given her but confessed it was not a masterpiece. Yet it was beautiful for its meaning and the spirit in which it had been given. 

Sara never stopped thinking of Gillane. Although the memory of him on its own was enough to sustain her, she was dismayed that he had neither called nor written since her return from Glymeer. 

Given the new direction she had chosen in her life, she decided not to dwell on it. There was much to do. She bought more plants for the house and nurtured the surviving ones back to health.  

Next, she thought of rearranging the furniture, to accommodate her new social circle. One of her Art Society friends suggested Feng Shui. A consultant came around and educated her on the potential benefits: remove bad energy and all will flow smoothly in her life.   

Several hundred pounds later in Feng Shui fees, Sara agreed to only a few of the proposed changes. Hang mirrors, yes. Position flowers throughout the house, yes. Always put the toilet seat down, which she already did. 

The good vibes flowing, Sara threw her house open and began entertaining her forgotten and new-found friends. Sunday lunch with her old pals, Jane Fillowbright and Fiona McCartney, who came round with husbands, Tim and Philip, was a great success. Up to the point where all four kept repeating how well Sara had done for herself. Although the comment resonated loudly in her ears, Sara felt genuinely pleased to be reunited with them again. After years of indifference. She even forgave them the indiscretion of suggesting that she must be involved with a married man, to be able to "afford such an extravagant lifestyle". 

Sunday lunch aside, there were the Friday night dinners which she hosted. On these occasions, she would invite six or seven members of the Art Society to dine at her house, each of whom in turn, reciprocated and invited her to theirs.  

In spite of spending her days juggling the Maestro and every other spare minute on the speeding circuit of dinners and cocktails, Sara still found time to wonder. About Gillane.  

Evenings alone were the worst. Late at night, when London is voiceless. She would pull a chair into the hallway and look at the painting. For a sign that Gillane might be thinking of her. An hour or two would pass as she drew herself beyond. 

It had all been a dream. Surreal. Macabre.   Glorious. Sacred. Profane.  

She fantasised about seeing him again. Her desire for him had not changed.  But she chose not to do anything about it. 

The vision of a woman with red hair in a long white dress and Gillane's enduring silence, compelled her to wait. 

He would know by now of her attempts to expose him as a murderer. He would not come to her. 

Sara consoled herself that she would not be the one to forever be haunted by the memory of Sarah Lunn.  

*************************** 

Sara met a young lawyer at the Art Society whose face beamed into a great smile as he shook her hand. She agreed to dine with him. Although she found his incessant chattering and desire to impress her somewhat nauseating, she felt appreciative of his efforts and his bright smile. 

Frequently, they would dine together. Once or twice per week, where Sara would listen to David describe every last detail of the latest case he was working on.  

Sara enjoyed these one-sided conversations even though, they revolved entirely around his work. She accepted David's friendship; it filled up a space and helped her pass the time. 

The Ali Baba Restaurant became a favourite haunt. They often met up at eight or eight thirty, on David's way home from the office. 

David had just finished his cumin-spiked lentil soup and Sara her plate of houmous bi tahini. With twenty minutes to spare before the next course, David resumed the description of his day spent in court. Sara poured herself another glass of wine and listened.  

"So, what I'm trying to prove is that the company is registered on paper but it doesn't exist. I mean, they say that the company has assets and is a trading company. I say that the accounts are fudged, any old accountant, devious enough, could whip up false accounts. They maintain that is not so. It is so difficult to get a conviction for money- laundering. That's what the company is used for, it's a transit point to shift money. Where to? And how much? Both are impossible to prove. Somebody on the inside has to crack and spill the beans, otherwise, I think I'm going to lose this case. I tell you Sara, given half the chance, I'm going into mergers and acquisitions. Big deals, big money. All this hopeless stuff takes up too much time. And what for? Its like trying to prove a man is a murderer, without a body. No evidence. The judge is going to throw this case out......" 

Sara choked on the olive she had just popped in her mouth. 

"What did you say?" 

"The judge is going to throw this case out. I'm cooked....."   

"No, you just said something else. About a murderer..." 

David looked at her, reflecting on his words. There had been so many. 

"Oh the murderer bit! That was an analogy I used to describe the mess I'm in..." 

"David! I know it was an analogy but what is a murderer without a body, all about?" 

"Well there have been a couple of cases that I can think of. One in the last century and one in the 1960s. Ummmm. Let me see. The one in the sixties was two West Indians, can't remember their names, convicted of murder, jailed for life. Never found the body. Apparently, they fed it to the pigs. Very nasty stuff. Let's not talk about it..." 

Sara couldn't believe her ears. Something snapped inside of her. The silvery thread that bound her to Gillane. 

"Of course! Of course! She loved him, damn it!" she exclaimed, pounding the table with her fists.  

"Sara! Goodness gracious me! What are you on about?" 

Her face as white as a sheet, Sara looked blankly at her companion. 

"You wouldn't believe any of it. Let's finish quickly. I must get home." 

From his expression, Sara sensed that she had hurt David's sensitive nature. He assumed that she wanted to get away from him, as quickly as possible. She put it right by explaining, if only partly, the reason for her outburst. 

"Sorry. I just thought of something. It has nothing to do with you. I assure you." 

She smiled reassuringly at him. Content to accept her explanation, David continued the description of his latest courtroom drama. 

********************* 

It was too late of course. There are some things in life that we are desperate to forget and others that we are destined to remember. 

The conversation over dinner brought Gillane back.   Sara spent the night trawling the Internet for information about the case David had spoken of. She found details of the famous case on the website of a Trinidadian newspaper. Trinidad, a country Sara had never heard of. The newspaper had posted its top stories over the last twenty-five years under the listing BACK IN THE OLD DAYS. 

Sara clicked the mouse and travelled back to the good old days.  The case had been big news in Trinidad which, she learned was where the murderers were from.  Lawyers for the State had been jubilant with the verdict. Life imprisonment. The convicted men maintained their innocence. 

Corpus delicti. The substance of the offence proven as an intent to harm. 

The Inspector Jay may have suspected Gillane but could not prove his intent to harm. 

Sara logged off the Internet and switched off her computer. She dialled the French, Spanish and Italian international telephone operators. Something in Gillane's history had led him to commit a crime. She must find out what it was. None of the operators could find a listing to match the strange name. In Italy, the nearest they could find was Giullani. In France, Gitane. In Spain, nothing came close. 

Sara hung up the phone. She knew she was wasting her time. Gillane had lived at Old Henley's farm for over twenty years. Sarah Lunn had spent her entire life within walking distance of that farm. 

But where had Gillane acquired the money to purchase the farm? 

"Leave it alone. Damn it, leave it alone!" Sara repeated going downstairs to find a cigarette. 

She had reneged on the oath she had taken that day in Glymeer. The day she had decided to leave and abandon her holiday. And then Gillane had come down the pathway and everything changed. 

Those last days spent with him now seemed totally irrational. A huge folly.   But they had also been the most wonderful days of her life. Half of her wanted to be condemned forever for the sake of those few precious moments. And the other half, to forget.  

The terrible possibility that someone who she had been drawn to, whose hands had touched every inch of her body, that those same hands had taken a life. 

"Each man kills the thing he loves..." 

Gillane was capable of love. And by the same token, of murder. 

************************** 

Christmas was three and a half weeks away. Sara was busy preparing for the Maestro's annual jaunt to Switzerland where he would spend the holidays and be gone for six weeks.  

When the Maestro was away on pleasure, not business, there was very little for Sara to do. The rest of the world had learned from experience not to even bother to try and reach the Maestro between mid December and January 31st. Sara sent everyone that mattered the dates of the Maestro's vacation along with the usual MERRY CHRISTMAS & A HAPPY NEW YEAR. 

With the Maestro soon to be missing in action, Sara decided she would go back to Wales over Christmas. And this time, she would not go alone. 

The man and his shadow are one. Instead of focussing on Gillane, where she had failed, she would turn her attention to another. 

Sarah Lunn's memory had been kept alive by Mag. And by the two people who would not speak her name. Gillane and Sarah's mother. 

"If my name is on someone's lips, I am still alive." 

One day, those words should engrave Sarah's tombstone. 

Sara called one of the Maestro's lawyers. Michael Twickenham had managed the Maestro's property portfolio for years. He was well placed to dig for information without arousing suspicion.  

"Hullo, Sara. How can I help you?" 

"Michael, we've got our eye on the most beautiful property in Wales. Angels Rest. Can you check it out? See if we can buy it? This is an ASAP job. The Maestro leaves in just under two weeks. Plus it’s Christmas. Sorry about the timing. I know I'm pushing hard..." 

The scent of a large fee was too strong an incentive for Michael to refuse. He agreed to get on the phone to his associates in Wales, right away. 

"Give me a week, Sara. Max. I'll be in touch." 

Sara hung up the phone, pleased at having found such a willing accomplice.  A hunch had inspired her to ring Michael. Sarah's parents could not have bought Angels Rest outright. The farms in Glymeer were too small and remote to command a high price. When John had bought theirs, it could not have been worth very much. Perhaps they were caretakers on Angels Rest and it belonged to someone else. 

With one week left before the Maestro beamed himself off to Switzerland, Sara was frantic with worry. There were all sorts of silly things to see to, in order for the Maestro to extract himself albeit, temporarily from London. 

Stressed and irritated, she had just got off the phone with David. She had cancelled their dinner that night, complaining to him that she was in a bad mood and would be rotten company. 

The phone rang again as soon as she put it down. Madame Colvin, the Maestro's housekeeper at the Swiss chalet, was desperate for Sara to come over "ahead of time." 

Sara reassured her that she would fly over in a couple of days. She resumed the series of calls she was forced to make every single year at the same time. 

She rang the traiteur near Gstaad. Don't forget to deliver 250 grams of pâté de campagne, flavoured with armagnac, not cognac, daily. Next, the boulangerie for a daily delivery of pain de campagne, baguette, pain complet and pain de mie. And the croissants, must, must, must arrive warm from the oven. Then onto the flowers. Lots of them, large bouquets to be replaced every two days. 

Two hours later, Sara was still on the phone. This time to Frédéric in Bordeaux who was responsible for shipping a colossal amount of grog over to Gstaad. French reds only, champagne, cognac and every other imaginable alcohol. Gallons of it. Frédéric assured her that as per the usual, the shipment was all on consignment. Sara insisted on this to save a few pounds. Why she bothered, she didn't know. She calculated that the six weeks holiday cost over one hundred thousand pounds. Neither did the Maestro eat 250 grams of pâté de campagne every day. He just wanted it there. Like the bread and the flowers. 

What the Maestro actually did in the chalet no one would dare say. But judging from the desperate phone calls she normally received from Madame Colvin, just having the Maestro around was a hell-raising nightmare. 

Sara understood a thing or two about that. The last couple of days before the Maestro left, were to put it mildly, insufferable. Forced to make numerous trips to purchase a new skiing outfit or thicker socks or whole boxes of chewing gum, Sara began to contemplate murder.