Next Door to Murder (9 page)

His eyes narrowed. ‘How
did
it happen? You told me you were on the pill.'

She looked away, and the answer hit him like a sluice of cold water.

‘You stopped taking it,' he accused her. ‘Didn't you?'

‘I might have forgotten once or twice.'

Anger replaced his sympathy for her. ‘You little fool! You meant this to happen! Didn't it occur to you that at my age, the last thing I'd want is another child? My youngest is nineteen, for God's sake – not much younger than you.'

He realized, to his annoyance, that their altercation, low-voiced though it had been, was attracting interest. Several heads had turned their way, and he forced himself to sit back in his chair, drawing a deep breath.

‘That being the case,' he went on, a little more calmly, ‘what do you propose to do? Will you keep the baby?'

But again she avoided a direct answer. ‘Didn't you ever love me?' she asked.

‘I was fond of you; I never pretended it was more than that.' A sense of injustice fuelled his anger. ‘You might be young, but don't play the naive, wronged girl with me. It won't wash, and I refuse to be cast as the Big Bad Wolf. You told me yourself you'd had other affairs; how was I to know you were taking this one seriously?'

She didn't reply. He was wondering how to resolve the impasse, when she suddenly gathered up her handbag and rose to her feet.

‘I have to go,' she said rapidly, and almost ran from the room. Taken by surprise, he half rose himself; then, as she hurried across the foyer and disappeared through the swing doors, he sank back in his chair, furiously aware that her exit had been observed by everyone in the room. An intensely private man, he swore fluently under his breath before reaching for his mobile.

‘You want me to man the barricades?' Carla enquired, before he could speak.

‘They've already been breached,' he answered shortly. ‘Have you any plans for lunch?'

A surprised pause. Then, ‘None that can't be altered. Why?'

‘I'd be grateful if you'd join me. In the restaurant in ten minutes?'

‘Yes, sir.'

He flicked his phone shut, slid it into his pocket, and, rising abruptly, went in search of a drink.

The afternoon was overcast, the air heavy. Rona had taken Gus to the park that sprawled up Furze Hill overlooking the town; if there was a breeze to be found, it was there that she'd find it. And, indeed, the air did seem fresher on the park's upper slopes, where Gus, freed from his lead, ran joyously ahead, searching for a stick for her to throw.

Her last day of freedom, Rona thought fancifully; tomorrow, she would begin working on the Willow story. She sighed, wishing she could summon up more excitement. Initially she'd been looking forward to the project, but from what Julian had said, the Willows' history was so meticulously annotated, it seemed there'd be little for her to do other than reproduce it. And, she thought ironically, travel to Yorkshire to pay her respects to the gentry.

Gus bounded up, a stick in his mouth, dropped it at her feet and looked up at her expectantly, his flag of a tail waving. Obediently, she bent and threw it for him. Perhaps, she told herself, the family had hidden depths; perhaps she'd discover some unknown facts that would add interest – though hopefully, this time any skeletons she might unearth would be of the strictly metaphorical kind.

She followed Gus up the steep, grassy slope, grateful for the breeze lifting her hair. At the top, where the ground levelled out, was a bench from where one could look over the roofs and chimneys of the town spread below, and Rona often paused there. She enjoyed the sense of perspective the view gave her, a distancing from the problems and questions that awaited her down in the town. Today, however, the bench was occupied, and she was about to walk on when something about the seated figure struck her as familiar and she realized, to her dismay, that it was Louise Franks.

She was tempted to continue, affecting not to have seen her, but, sensing someone behind her, Louise was already turning her head, and Rona, resigned to the inevitable, smiled and walked over.

‘Hello, Louise. I thought it was you.'

‘Rona. Come and join me.' She patted the bench beside her, and Rona sat down. ‘Fantastic view, isn't it?'

‘Yes; I often sit here for a while before starting back.' She flicked Louise a glance. ‘Your father at the dentist's again?'

Louise smiled and shook her head. ‘No; I've managed to persuade them I shan't collapse in a heap if I'm out alone.'

‘Good for you.'

Gus, resenting the interruption to the game, deposited the stick at Rona's feet, and Louise scratched his ears. ‘Thanks for not asking,' she said abruptly.

Rona turned to look at her. ‘Asking what?'

‘Why I'm kept wrapped in cotton wool.'

There was an awkward pause. ‘Your father told me you'd been ill,' Rona ventured.

‘It's a little more than that, as you must have gathered. Actually, I've lost my memory.'

‘Oh, no!' Rona exclaimed involuntarily. ‘How awful for you!'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘How did it happen?'

‘As the result of a car crash, in Canada. I suffered severe head injuries, and was in a coma for two weeks. In all, I spent a couple of months in hospital.'

‘I'm so sorry. Was anyone else in the car?'

‘No, and there was no other vehicle involved. They never discovered what happened.'

‘So – what
do
you remember?'

‘Coming to in hospital. And, of course, everything that's happened since.'

‘But nothing before?'

‘Not even my name, or where I lived. When they handed me a mirror, I didn't recognize myself; it was a stranger staring back at me.'

Rona shuddered. ‘What about your parents?'

‘Well, obviously, I didn't know them. They had to convince me who they were, and try to fill in my background.'

‘But it didn't help?'

Louise shook her head. ‘No, it didn't. Or at least, it hasn't yet.' She leant forward, hands clasped, gazing unseeingly over the town below them. ‘You know, the worst thing is the loss of – of self. It's hard to explain, but when you think about it, it's memories that make us who we are. They're unique to each one of us, and no two people have the same. Even shared memories are remembered from personal angles.'

‘But – you didn't, for instance, have to learn how to speak again, or read, or walk?'

‘No; they explained that there are different kinds of memory, and the type of amnesia you have depends on the head injury. The memory dealing with skills, like reading or driving, is called “procedural”, and that, thank God, was unaffected in my case. Then there's “semantic memory”, which is general knowledge – what year it is, who's the president of the USA, that kind of thing, and that did come back. But the intensely
personal
memory – about things you yourself experienced – is known as “episodic”, and that's what I've lost.'

‘But that might come back, too?' Rona suggested, trying to lighten the bleak picture Louise was painting.

‘Possibly, but I was warned it could take years. In the meantime, I've no idea where I've been, who my friends were, or what ambitions I might have had. It sounds paradoxical, but without a past, you can't really have a future. I'm existing in a perpetual, disembodied present.'

‘But your parents filled in some of the blanks?'

‘Oh, they did their best. They told me, for instance, that I'd recently been through an acrimonious divorce, and reverted to my maiden name.'

Rona smiled. ‘As I told you, I never gave mine up.'

‘Good for you. They even think the stress of the divorce could have affected my driving and contributed to the accident.'

‘Did your ex get in touch, to check how you were?'

‘No, but he's in the Far East somewhere, so he wouldn't have heard about it. Other than that, I was apparently born and brought up in Yorkshire. I met Kevin when I was sixteen, and there was never anyone else. After university, he was offered a job in Toronto, so we got married and went out there.'

‘Your parents too?'

‘Not at first; they came when Father retired. I was all the family they had, and they wanted to be nearer.' She gave a harsh laugh. ‘So I could look after them in their old age, I suppose. But as things turned out, they had to look after me.'

She stood up suddenly. ‘God, I'm sorry, Rona. I didn't mean to saddle you with all this. It's just that you're the first person, other than medics or my parents, that I've actually spoken to.'

Rona also stood. ‘I'm sorry you've had such a rotten time. If there's anything I can do . . .'

‘Just put up with me letting off steam sometimes, if you can stand it. Every so often, the sheer frustration of it gets to me.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

Gus was nudging her foot and she belatedly picked up the stick and threw it for him.

‘Are you starting back now?'

Louise shook her head. ‘I'll stay a bit longer. Thanks for being a good listener.'

‘Any time,' Rona said awkwardly, and, as Gus came galloping back, she started to walk slowly down the slope towards home.

The address Julian had given her was in an area of Marsborough Rona didn't know well. Normally, she drove down Alban Road only en route for the station, and Oak Avenue was a turning some distance beyond it. The houses were all detached and stood in large gardens, but the styles varied, giving added interest to the road.

The Willow home was on the right hand side about halfway down. A gravelled drive swept in a semicircle from one gate to another further on, but since neither was open, Rona parked on the road. She then found the gates to be operated by remote control, and, feeling slightly annoyed, had to press the button to announce her presence. A disembodied voice said uninvitingly, ‘Yes?'

Rona's irritation increased. She had an appointment, for God's sake. ‘It's Rona Parish,' she said a little sharply. ‘I
am
expected.'

‘One minute, please.'

A consultation appeared to take place off air, as it were, after which the voice became more placatory. ‘I'm sorry, Ms Parish. Please come in.' There was a loud buzz and the gate swung ponderously open.

It hadn't sounded like the friendly Felicity, Rona thought as, still disgruntled, she crunched her way up the drive. A secretary, perhaps, but if so it was inefficient not to know of the appointment. The front door opened as she approached and Felicity stood there, flushed and smiling.

‘I'm so sorry, Rona, on two counts. First, Julian had to go out unexpectedly, though he should be back soon. And secondly, I was in the garden and didn't hear the buzzer. Do come in.'

She led the way through a spacious hall and an attractive sitting room to a conservatory running along the back of the house.

‘Tara's making coffee,' Felicity said, indicating a cushioned wicker sofa. ‘I thought we could have a chat before you go up, and with luck Julian will be back by then.'

So the disembodied voice belonged to the absent Tara. Maid? Au pair? Or secretary, as she'd first thought? No explanation had been offered. Rona seated herself, leaning her briefcase against the leg of the sofa. Beyond the glass in front of her, a garden laid mostly to lawn stretched green and luxuriant, giving rise to ignoble doubts about adherence to the hosepipe ban.

‘As we explained,' Felicity continued, ‘all the archives are stored here, on the second floor. When Julian was young, the top of the house was converted into a flat for his grandparents, but now it's used as offices. The lift still comes in useful, though.' She smiled. ‘The children spend many a rainy afternoon zooming up and down, though they're barred from it when Julian's working.'

‘He works from home, then?'

‘Occasionally. We have all the necessary, of course – fax, Internet, and so on – but he also has an office in London, which is more convenient for business contacts, and he spends a fair bit of time on the continent. Ah, here's coffee!'

Rona looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and experienced a jolt of surprise. For the young woman who'd come into the conservatory and was laying a tray on the table was none other than Julian's London companion.

Rona held her breath, wondering if she herself had been spotted there. To her relief, it seemed not. Seen at close quarters, Tara – as she presumably was – looked even more attractive than from across the restaurant floor. Tall and slim, her shining brown hair was cut in a style that screamed ‘Mayfair', and she was dressed with careless elegance in a black silk shirt and white trousers. Seeing the two women together, Rona's heart sank, doubting if Felicity could hold her own against such competition.

‘This is Julian's cousin, Tara Delaney,' Felicity was saying. ‘Tara, meet Rona Parish, who's going to write the family history.'

Tara spared her a glance. ‘Sorry to have treated you like a tradesman,' she said lightly. ‘Flick hadn't mentioned you coming.'

‘I thought Julian would be home.' Felicity glanced at the tray, noting it held only two cups. ‘Aren't you joining us?'

‘No, I really should get back. Love to Jools, and I'll call you at the weekend. Thanks for baling me out, as usual.' She bent and kissed Felicity's cheek ‘Nice to have met you, Rona.' And she was gone. A minute later, they heard the front door close behind her.

‘She's been having a bad time,' Felicity explained. ‘A long-term love affair broke up about a month ago, and it knocked her sideways, poor love. When she feels particularly low, she comes here for a few days, for a bit of TLC.'

Rona smiled but made no comment. Was this seemingly lovelorn woman repaying Felicity's kindness by sleeping with her husband? It seemed more than likely.