Maestro (8 page)

"Leave well enough alone. Leave it alone." 

If Mag was so distrustful of Gillane, why hadn't she pursued the inspector relentlessly? Why hadn't she pecked away mercilessly at him until she had got him to see her side of the story? 

The inspector would have had the resources to dig deep into Gillane's past. But twenty years ago, things were done differently. The Establishment was still in gestation. CCTV and credit ratings were just beginning to take control. 

Sara remembered a story she'd read in the newspaper. A Nigerian boy had come to Britain to attend a private school at the age of fourteen. His parents stayed behind in Nigeria and after some months, could no longer afford to pay the school fees. Forced to support himself, the boy dropped out of school. 

Twenty-five years on, he has become a successful businessman. A pillar of society. Britain is his home. He lives in a nice house, treats his employees well, pays his tax on time. 

At age forty, he decides to go abroad on holiday. He needs a passport but first, must approach the Home Office to regularise his immigration status. 

The Home Office promptly serves him with a deportation notice. Friends, employees, vouch for the man. A good and honest man. After all, he has committed no crime. 

Crime. 

What if Gillane had a criminal record? A travelling stranger, moving between three countries, France, Italy and England, able to elude the authorities by living in a remote village. 

Sara could understand taking a holiday in Glymeer - but living here? It didn't add up.  

The Establishment has its uses. Use them. Sara trawled through the address book in her laptop to find the address of the credit agency where twice a year she would write, requesting a copy of her file. 

Banks, mail order companies, anyone could request a copy of an individual's credit history. The charge for providing the information was a democratic, egalitarian, measly two pounds. For the price of a couple of cans of beer, the course of an individual's life could be changed forever. 

Sara considered requesting a copy of Gillane's file. She could use the name of the Maestro's company to request the search. But she would be gone from Glymeer in the two weeks it would take to arrive. Worse yet, her search would be recorded. Gillane would eventually find out that she had been investigating the intimate details of his life. 

Sara threw up her arms in frustration, painfully aware that she was behaving like a rank amateur. Gillane's credit history was useless information. The most she would find out was that he borrowed money or bought things on credit. So what? Big deal. Every man and his dog owe the world money.  

She turned the laptop off, frustrated at the depths to which she was sinking in her boredom. 

She should leave well enough alone. 

******************************* 

Mag was stacking magazines onto the rack near the door as Sara walked into the post office. 

"Hello, Mag." 

Despite the post office being empty, Mag pretended to ignore her. 

Sara leaned over and picked up a copy of the
Goldarn Voice
. She walked towards the counter. Mag continued stacking the magazines into place. 

"Can I have some stamps to go with this, Mag?" 

Mag dropped the bundle of magazines she was holding, with a thud. 

"What'll it be then?" she asked scowling behind the counter. 

Her eyes were puffy and red. She had been crying.  

"Two First Class stamps please. And this," Sara replied pointing to the newspaper. 

"You'll have to pay for that separately." 

Sara dutifully handed Mag fifty-two pence to cover the stamps, then waited to hand her twenty pence extra for the newspaper. 

Mag handed the stamps to Sara, their hands touching briefly.  

"Mag? Can I have a word?" 

"What about? You been with that Gillane then?" blurted Mag crossly. 

Mag's vitriolic words stung Sara's ears. She was stunned by the undisguised curiosity behind the question. 

Sara's cheeks went flaming red with anger and embarrassment. 

"Look here, Mag," she started, then changed her mind, "Can we talk? I've found out a few things..."  

"Why'd you want to be telling them to me then?" replied Mag sullenly. 

"Because I want to know what you think, Mag. Now, can we talk or not?" 

"Go round the back then."

Mag gave in although her expression did not improve. 

Mag was filling the kettle as Sara let herself into the kitchen. 

Without saying a word, Mag finished preparing the tea. She put the teapot on the table and sat down. She handed Sara a cup of black tea, remembering that she took neither milk nor sugar. 

"Mag, I went to see Inspector Jay yesterday." 

"The Inspector! I'm surprised he isn't dead by now!" 

From her tone, she clearly wished he was. 

Sara continued to tell Mag most of what she had learned from the Inspector. She left out the part about whether the Inspector knew if Sarah and Gillane had been romantically involved.  

Mag listened carefully to her every word. Occasionally she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. At other times, she stared into her teacup, her face completely blank.  

"Mag, did you know that Sarah's parents had told the police that she had gone away?" 

Sara chided herself for not anticipating Mag's reaction. Mag covered her face with her hands and started crying loudly. 

Sara understood at once, the reason for this fresh set of tears. Mag had fallen out with Sarah's mother because of what she had told the police. Sarah's mother had been happy to dismiss her disappearance, probably even grateful to be rid of the girl. 

"Is that why you haven't spoken to your sister in all these years?" Sara asked gently. 

Her face hidden in a crumpled handkerchief, Mag nodded her head. 

Sara stood up and placed her arm across Mag's shoulders. She realised that there was nothing more that Mag could tell her.  

"Mag, is Sarah's mother close by?" 

"Nar. I don't know where they've gone. John bought the farm from them fifteen years ago." 

"Would John know?" 

Mag shrugged her shoulders, the rift between her and her own sister too great to care anymore.  ********************* 

Sara did not relish needling John Sheeley for information but she had little choice. John might remember something Sarah's mother had said. For example, why had they left Glymeer? 

Deliberating as she took each step, Sara walked slowly from the post office to John's shop at the other end of the street. 

John was standing behind the counter in deep conversation with a young man. He didn't notice Sara come in, pick up a hand basket and return outside to the fruit and vegetable stands. 

Outside, Sara couldn't help looking at John through the glass facade of the shop. The young man’s back was towards her so she couldn't see his face. John was standing rigidly, his arms hanging at his side. The young man began to gesticulate, banging his fists on the counter. He was speaking loudly but he was too far for Sara to hear what he was saying. John didn't move. 

Intrigued, Sara craned her neck closer to the glass. Suddenly the young man swung around and began walking towards her. 

Thinking he had seen her, Sara began to fill her basket with the first thing she could lay her hands on. 

"These will make lovely jam," she said out loud, choosing a fistful of burgundy plums, aware that the young man was standing in the doorway looking at her. 

The man stared at her, his jaw dropping. He pulled his hat down over his ears and walked quickly past her. 

Basket in hand, Sara stood on the edge of the pavement watching him walk away. Barely twenty yards ahead of her, the young man stopped, turned around and caught her looking at him. Their eyes met.  

Seconds later, he was gone, running towards the opposite end of the street. 

It was John's turn to be startled as he found Sara shaking like a leaf, outside his shop. 

Sara gathered her wits about her, enough to notice that John's face appeared strained and pale. 

John composed himself sufficiently to acknowledge her. 

"What'll you have then?" he asked gruffly. 

"Just these...just these." Sara stammered. 

"Come in, then." he said pushing the door so powerfully that it almost slammed in her face. 

Once behind the counter, the usual sullen expression returned to John's face.  Sara handed him the plums, which he diligently weighed. 

"Five pound," he grunted, scowling.  

Sara legs were shaking beneath her. She leaned against the counter, fearing they would give way. 

With one hand, she rummaged in her bag for the five pounds. She was able to extricate the money and hand it to John, her hand trembling. 

John took the money and slammed the till drawer back into place. 

The bag of plums sat in the middle of the counter protecting Sara just barely from the scowling grocer.   It was now or never. 

"John.....I....need to ask...you something.." 

Sara wrapped her hands firmly around the bag of plums, ready to defend herself with it, if need be. 

"John, do you know where Sarah Lunn's parents live now?" 

John reacted with a grace Sara hadn't seen before. 

He pulled out a pen from under the counter and began to write on a brown paper bag.   The pen moved rhythmically across the paper. John handed the bag to Sara. On it was an address in Wales. 

Sara read the address out loud. 

"Angels Rest. Cymru." 

She folded the bag John had written on and slipped it in her pocket. 

"Thank you," she said smiling gratefully. 

The scowl etched permanently into his face, John did not respond. 

********************** 

Sara returned to Downswold and emptied the bag of plums onto the kitchen table. If she ate nothing else, she calculated it would take three days to finish them. 

She removed her jacket and sat down. Drained by the day's encounters, she considered that she had never, ever, in all her life, come across such a surly, sad bunch of individuals. Mag. John. The strange young man who had forced her to buy the surfeit of plums. 

To her surprise, Sara began to laugh. A loud guffaw. Her chest seized up painfully and the laughing stopped. She became petrified at the thought that she might be going a bit mad. 

She went into the bathroom and pulled the mirror off the wall. She stared at her reflection. Her skin looked supple and smooth but her eyes were dull. Not sparkling, like they used to. 

Sara sat on the laundry box, her head in her hands. She felt wretched. Insecure, unattractive, overwhelmed by what, she didn't know. 

The cottage was stuffy and dark. There was no pleasure in being there alone. She had spent little of her time between the four walls of her "ideal getaway." Most of her "holiday" so far had been spent pursuing a senseless, young girl, long forgotten. 

A perfect stranger, the search for whom was becoming her cause célèbre. 

Every day thousands of families in Britain argue, quarrel, fight. Sarah Lunn didn't get on with her mother. Did it matter? 

Still remembered when she should have been forgotten, the thought of Sarah made people scared, afraid, sad, desperate. 

Why? 

Women die, are killed in crimes of passion all over the world. In rousing that passion in another, Sarah would have lived a full life. 

Sara drew her breath in sharply, horrified at the perversity of her thoughts. 

Sarah deserved to die. She had swung so out of control that she endured a terrible fate. But she was only a young girl with hardly any understanding of life. How could she have known how to control her own destiny? One never controls destiny. The present is inevitable. 

Sara walked back into the kitchen, her head bowed with regret and pain. She needed comforting. She made a cup of tea. A beverage that she secretly despised drinking outside of a breakfast routine. It was something to do, drink tea all day. Like smoking.  

She stood at the kitchen sink, drinking her tea. The fruit trees at the bottom of the garden were covered in leaves. In another few months, their branches would be laden with fruit. Sarah Lunn collected those apples once and experienced the wrath of her aunt. 

Sara opened the back door and walked towards the copse of trees. The stones and pebbles were cold and pinched her bare feet. The trees were clustered together, their sturdy trunks upright, though gnarled with age. The biggest of them all was the walnut tree. The base of its trunk raised above the ground as if the roots had pushed the earth away, wanting to grow up towards the sky. The earth had resisted and what was left of the wayward roots made the tree trunk look as if it had collapsed on itself. Three ridge-like structures protruded out of it, each providing a space wide enough to sit on.