Requiem Mass (40 page)

‘Why me? Yes, that’s a good question, why me?’ The momentary hysteria had evaporated.

Fenwick watched her back, seeing the tension in her shoulders. He sensed an immense struggle within her. Finally, she raised a hand to massage her neck and turned to face him with a return to her customary relaxed grace. ‘You have to understand the whole story, Andrew, from the beginning.’ She sat down again beside him and started the staccato sentences of her long narrative.

‘I’ve done well, Andrew. Not at first, of course, oh no. I was born into a snivelling, narrow-minded family – I was the disappointment of a daughter who arrived during the wait for a son who was never born. My father never forgave me, my mother ceased to care. I hoped – oh I hoped so much – that they would love me, forget about the might-have-been boy. But they never did. They started to accept me, though, gradually. As I grew up long and bony, thin and undernourished, I worked at my exercises, the sports, stealing extra milk from doorsteps and fruit from lunch boxes at school to build myself up. I made my own luck. I tried anything, everything, that would make them notice me, make them realise that they didn’t need a son. The crime was always minor, the gifts never questioned when I took them home. And then the sports and games. My medals and cups always stayed on the mantelpiece for exactly one week, then they’d be gone, I never knew where.

‘But things started to change as I grew older; adolescence
and women’s rights! I rebelled – but in secret. I was a closet feminist, a secret new-age suffragette. Craving their affection at home, damning their stupidity outside.’ A stranger looked at Fenwick from Octavia’s eyes. ‘Hate is incredibly liberating – did you know that? And it forgives one any deficiencies. Suddenly, you’re allowed to be as you are. It was wonderful. I found other women, other girls, who hated too, and suddenly it wasn’t really hate any more but a cause! And the power was wonderful. At fourteen, I looked nineteen and felt fifty. But I started to believe in myself as a person, as a woman, not as a butt for crude sarcasm and a foil for other people’s disappointments.’ She took a deep breath; telling the truth at last was an obvious relief but even now there was hesitation. She searched Fenwick’s face again as her hand gently rubbed her neck.

‘And then there was Julia. She was in her early twenties, worldly wise to me, a helper at the youth club. We … we became lovers. It was the first time for me and she loved me so much. She told me I was beautiful! Made me
feel
beautiful, as if I belonged in the world at last.’

She looked at Fenwick through slanted eyes. ‘And she made me feel so good. The pleasure. You wouldn’t understand; you don’t know what it’s like to have a woman’s body, to live in it day by day, month by month. But she did. Julia did.

‘It was all very secret, exciting, but it became too much. I was only just fourteen. I began to feel trapped, restricted, and I had this voice, growing inside me. At first Julia encouraged me. She helped me to practise, even arranged youth club events to give me an opportunity to perform. But I kept on growing. They became trite and trivial, all of them – the club, my friends, even Julia. Their appreciation wasn’t enough. I wanted to break away.

‘Then, a miracle happened. There was a county competition for under fifteens; Julia persuaded me to enter. She coached me, trained me – I was receiving proper tuition by then but Julia seemed to have a gift for stage craft – she knew how to help me
be
on stage. I chose to sing a piece from
The Mikado
– ‘The sun, whose rays’ – that was ambitious enough but for my
second I insisted on ‘Je veux vivre dans ce rêve’, you know, from Gounod’s
Roméo et Juliette
? It’s deceptively difficult but for that one performance I knew I could do it!’ She paused for a long time remembering.

‘Julia was against it, said my programme was too big, but I knew I could do it. My life became one long rehearsal, everything else disappeared. The voice,
my
voice grew. I was very nervous but then, on the day of the competition, I woke up and I knew what I was, what I could become. As I practised my exercises I could feel the power in me build. I floated through the journey to the concert hall – the first proper hall I’d ever entered. Julia took me; neither of my parents wanted to waste the time. Julia said I was distant and remote. She put it down to nerves but she was wrong. I was being carried by an amazing power. It was there inside me, an incredible feeling. She wanted me to practise with the accompanist just once, ‘to loosen up’ – I refused. I didn’t even open my mouth; I daren’t, I was afraid to let that incredible feeling escape.

‘When I was called – I was second to last in my class – I glided up on to the stage, all her training giving me an assurance I was unaware of. I can remember the pianist looking at me with concern but I turned to him, nodded my head and said, ‘Now’ – and I could see him feel my power. He obeyed. He started to play, right tempo, and I started to sing. Only once since then have I given such a performance. That sounds incredible, I know, but it’s true. I had the joy of creation – freedom, liberation – in me. I could do anything I wanted with my life – and I would. I was finally in charge.’

Octavia shook herself free of the reverie. ‘There was a standing ovation. Of course I won. It was quite a sensation. I had two immediate offers to go to leading music schools but my parents refused to consider it; my place was at home. That’s when my only piece of real ‘luck’ came in. I received an offer to go to Downside; it was local, it had an excellent music facility and it was free. What’s more, there was the potential to gain an endowment at sixteen for a scholarship to the Royal Academy with specialist tuition. It wasn’t awarded every year and one of
the conditions was that candidates had to stay on to do ‘O’ levels and contribute to the musical life of the school. I didn’t mind though; I would only have to wait two years.’

‘What about Julia?’

‘Julia? Oh I don’t know. I hardly saw her again after the concert. She tried to hang on to me but I had power, you see. She didn’t stand a chance!’

‘And your parents?’

‘Oh they loved it – at least my father did for a while – whilst the novelty lasted. He was a celebrity. Down at the club people asked him about his famous daughter, bought him drinks, told him he must be proud of me. And so he became; all the time other people made something of me he was happy to own me. Unfortunately.

‘Within six months, even local fame had changed to acceptance and expectation. I didn’t care. I had a timetable by then and I was going to show them all.’

‘And Carol, what did she make of it all?’

‘I hadn’t met her then. Carol was already at Downside. As I got to know her she was happy for me, of course. We became good friends.’

‘You suggested earlier she was much more than a friend. Who took Julia’s place? I can’t see you giving up all those newly discovered pleasures.’

Anderson remained silent, avoiding his eyes.

‘Come on, Octavia, there’s no point in stopping now.’

‘For God’s sake, why the puerile interest in my sex life all of a sudden? Just let me be!’

‘Stop stalling and tell me; were you or were you not Carol Truman’s lover?’

‘Yes, yes, yes, all right! I was her lover. For one glorious year.’

Cooper, returning at that moment with a laden tea tray, quietly backed out again into the hall, unnoticed.

‘No one knew. No one suspected even, not really. I was her first. All the things I’d learnt from Julia I taught her. She was very nervous at first; she thought it was a sin. Carol was a
young fourteen, growing up on her own. She’d never had a boyfriend, no brothers, although her cousin doted on her, of course, but he was much older. I persuaded her it was natural, just part of growing up.’

‘Why? Why did you …?’ Fenwick paused, trying to find the right word, his tongue drawing back from ‘seduce’ as too lascivious. ‘How did you become lovers? Is it common for girls of that age? I don’t understand.’

‘No, you wouldn’t understand, Andrew, and I’m not sure I can explain. I’m not an expert, you know. Julia and Carol were the only two. But why I chose Carol is an easy one to answer. Carol was so lovely. She was absolutely beautiful to look at – slight, small for her age but still growing even at fourteen, long legs, masses of blonde hair. And her eyes, they’d call them almond-shaped in books but that’s not enough – they were a soft animal’s eyes, huge in her face, always gentle. And she came from the most ordinary of families; she must have been like a jewel to them. I could see it when I visited, how they looked at her almost with awe, as if they couldn’t believe they had produced something so beautiful. But she wasn’t precocious. She was shy, natural, quite unsure of herself in new things. I’d always thought that she was lonely at school – she had lots of friends but no one really close. But when I got to know her better I found I was wrong. She wasn’t lonely, she just liked everybody equally well and she somehow expected them to like her in the same way.

‘It was a challenge, to make her like me
more
, and I succeeded because of my music. My singing would charm her; she would creep close to listen. When I first arrived at school, we would play singing games – she’d join in, she had a sweet voice, light but pretty. Then, later, we would disappear to the music loft and sing and play the piano together. She was a good pianist, her parents gave her every encouragement; they had very little money but she’d had lessons since she was four.’

‘Was she going to be a musician too?’

‘No! Of course not. She had brains – one of those rare people who are good at most things. No, she thought she might
try to be a doctor – if her grades were good enough.’

‘And you became lovers when?’

‘In the winter, just before Christmas in the fifth form. It happened quite naturally.’

‘And were you still lovers at the time of her death?’

‘Yes, although we’d seen less of each other. We were looking forward to the summer holidays – it was to have been our final time together before I went to the Academy.’

‘What happened on the last day you were together?’

‘I’ve already told you, twice.’

‘Tell me again.’

She repeated her story, almost word for word the same as her previous statements, as Cooper entered with a cooling pot of tea. When she had finished Fenwick returned to the present and asked his final question.

‘Where were you on the 24th August at eleven o’clock?’

‘I was in Wiltshire, at a retreat. I can give you the address and the name of the General Manager.’

Cooper looked sceptical. There was something about this woman he didn’t like and it went beyond his distaste for what he regarded as her sexual perversion. He simply didn’t trust her and despite the increasing unlikelihood that she was the murderer he couldn’t help considering her as a suspect rather than a target.

Fenwick was more worried but after a lengthy discussion, Octavia declined police protection but did accept the offer of a police patrol outside her house.

Fenwick and Cooper left to pursue their separate inquiries; Cooper among the pampered and privileged in Wiltshire, Fenwick to the letting agencies and car hire firms of South London.

Octavia Anderson was preparing to leave for a relaxing few hours’ shopping in the company of a comforting and unattractive acquaintance. She didn’t hear the ring at the front door as she put the finishing touches to her make-up.

As she left her bedroom, she walked straight into her delighted maid, arms laden with three dozen regimented
crimson roses that she was convinced would cheer up her mistress. To her dismay, Miss Anderson took one look at the flowers and with a whispered ‘Oh no’, fell to the ground in a dead faint.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Cooper had an excellent day despite the unpromising start. He travelled to Wiltshire, determined to break Anderson’s alibi, but he ran out of luck. The proprietor of the exclusive health farm confirmed in minute detail Anderson’s presence for the critical times. She was one of their more famous guests and not easily ignored. Cooper lingered two hours, long enough to test out details with the staff, but after all his questioning, there could be no doubt that Anderson’s alibi for August 24th was solid.

It was after one o’clock by the time he’d finished. He bought an egg and bacon sandwich at the first service station he came to on the M4 back to London and was fighting his two o’clock biorhythmic low when the radio squawked into life. Rowland’s uncle’s house had been located – a small semi on the outskirts of Harlden. A SOCO team was on its way.

By the time Cooper was back in Sussex, they had finished much of their work and he had a good look round. Half an hour later he was called again: Mr Stanisopolous, the Greek restaurateur from Victoria, had positively identified Rowland from Bayliss’ description and E-fit, and Fenwick was on his way to interview him again. Things were looking up.

Mr Stanisopolous was delighted to have a senior plain-clothes policeman call on him. Fenwick didn’t disillusion him by explaining that he had only been a few miles away at the time. Keeping the copy of the restauranteur’s original statement
concealed, Fenwick carefully questioned him again about his encounter with Deborah Fearnside and Victor Rowland in April, breaking the news as he did so that she was dead.

‘Oh no! Then it is all my fault. I knew, you see, that she was in trouble, but that man – and the lady – they both tell me ‘go away’. Now she dead!’

Patiently, Fenwick listened as Stanisopolous went through his memory of the brief encounter again: the day had been hot and sunny; the lady flustered; the man had been in uniform; he had sunglasses; he was forceful, authoritative; and the car was definitely a new BMW. The colour? It had been a bright day – he could remember the sun on the metallic paint. Perhaps silver grey?

Fenwick recalled his earlier description of the car, circulating at that moment in hundreds of rental offices – ‘black BMW, Mercedes saloon or similar, probably new’ – and silently cursed the inconsistency in the Greek’s retold story. He pushed, but the man would not change from his new recollection of the colour of the car.