Stillwater (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

“What do you mean,
it's gone
?” Miranda said.

“I mean the novel's gone, deleted, erased,” Beth said, anger banishing any further tears.

“You didn't back it up?”

“It was on a USB stick.”

“That's a relief.”

“It's empty, Mirri. There's nothing on it.”

“Beth, did you forget to back up the file?”

“No. I didn't bloody well forget. You know how paranoid I am about losing work. When I first started writing, years ago, I had a long-hand original, and when it was typed up it was done using two carbons. I was reluctant to move to a word processor in case something like this happened, so I made a point of backing everything up
twice
.”

“So you used another USB stick?”

“One I keep on me at all times. It's on my key ring.”

“And?”

“Empty.”

Miranda sat back in her office chair, and tapped her teeth with end of her pen. “Beth, I'm coming up to see you.”

“Really, Mirri, it's not necessary.”

“Well, I think it is. If I leave now I can be with you by six. Do you have wine?”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts. I'll see you at six. And I'll be staying over.”

“Pour the wine,” Miranda said. She was sitting on one of Beth's leather chesterfields, her long legs tucked underneath her. She was smoking a cigarette, and dropping the ash into a saucer on the coffee table.

Beth reached out, and poured two glasses from a bottle of Merlot. “This really wasn't necessary.”

Miranda sucked in smoke, and exhaled through her nose. “Will you stop being so bloody independent, and let me do what I can to help you? What
can
I do?”

Beth gave her a long-suffering look. “Well, to start with you can give me a cigarette. I bought twenty after you last came, but I've smoked them all. Now I'm out.”

Miranda reached into her bag, and took out an unopened pack of twenty. She tossed the pack across to Beth. “Knock yourself out,” she said. “Do you need a light?”

“I'm good,” Beth said, quickly peeling back the cellophane and taking out a cigarette. She lit it with the green plastic lighter she'd bought at the supermarket. She drew in deeply, and blew the smoke out in a thin stream. “I still say it wasn't necessary coming all this way.”

“I think you'd better tell me everything that's gone on since you moved in here, up to and including your novel being wiped from your computer. Leave nothing out.”

By the time Beth had finished, the first bottle of wine was gone, and the second started.

“I'm worried,” Miranda said, as she filled her glass.

“About? About what specifically?”

“About you.”

“I'll be fine. I'll get to the bottom of what's going on here.”

“Are you still taking the tablets Dr. Meadows prescribed?”

“That was different,” Beth said hotly. “And a long time ago.”

“It was still a breakdown, and it was only two years ago.”

Miranda moved across to Beth's sofa and sat down next to her, taking her hand in hers. “Listen, Beth, don't be defensive. I'm here to help, not to criticize. I'm as anxious to get to the bottom of this as you are. But look at the facts. The phenomena you've experienced, drowning in your own bathroom, being attacked by your wheelchair—neither of which, you say now, actually happened—point to a person struggling with her own inner demons. And now your novel mysteriously disappearing…”

“But you read some of it yourself. You know I've been writing.”

“And I also know that what I read was nothing like anything I've read of yours before. It was a
ghost story
, Beth, for God's sake. And, lo and behold, you now find yourself living in a haunted house.”

“It
is
haunted, by Dolores and Jessica,” Beth said.

“Or, has your subconscious tricked you into thinking that, creating a living environment that mirrors what you're writing?”

“No!” Beth said, refilled her glass and lit another cigarette from the butt of the first, puffing furiously.

“So, are you still taking the tablets?”

Beth shook her head. “Dr. Meadows took me off them six months ago. I'm fine. He said I didn't need them anymore.”

“And yet, here you are demonstrating his diagnosis was premature.”

“Fuck you, Mirri! This is
not
all in my mind. It's real. And I thought you, as my closest friend, would be with me on this.”

Miranda squeezed Beth's hand. “Beth, I
am
with you, but you must see that what you're telling me is pretty hard to swallow. Especially for someone who has been with you for a long time. I've witnessed, firsthand, some of your darkest moments. Watching your last breakdown was a terrible, and a scary time for me. It was like you were traveling down a very dark tunnel, and I wasn't sure you were ever going to come out the other end.”

“But I did…I have.”

“Hmm. We'll see.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I'm staying for a few days.”

“Really, Mirri. It isn't nec—”

“If you say it isn't necessary, Beth, I swear I'm going to slap you.
I'll
decide what is or isn't necessary. And I think it is. If this place is haunted—I can't believe I'm even saying that—then I want to give the ghosts a chance to show themselves, to
me
. Then I'll support you with every fiber of my being.”

“And if they don't show?”

“Then I'm going to call Chris Meadows, and get you back on the program. Deal?”

Beth regarded her friend for a long moment. When Mirri wanted to she had balls of steel. It was why she was so good at her job. And, judging from the look on her face, the balls were in place, and she wouldn't take no for an answer. “Deal.”

“Good.”

By ten o'clock Beth was yawning.

“I think you should turn in,” Miranda said.

“What about you?”

“There's a 1940s Bogart and Bacall movie on soon. I'll watch it before I call it a day. But you need your sleep.”

“Christ, this is like living with my mother,” Beth muttered, as she headed to the bedroom.

“Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs…”

“Miranda, shut up,” Beth said.

“Love you,” Miranda called to the closing bedroom door.

Miranda waited ten minutes before fishing her phone from her bag and dialing a number.

The phone on the other end of the line rang three times before it was answered. “Yes?”

“James? It's Miranda Stiles.”

“Hello. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I get the sarcasm. Please, Jimmy, I'm sorry to call so late, but I needed to talk to you. It's about Beth.”

“Go on,” he said.

“She told me what happened today. You've got to understand, she's had it pretty rough over the last few years.”

“Are you phoning to try to justify her behavior?”

“No,” Miranda said. “What did Mr. Falmer say?”

“Nothing. Franklin hasn't phoned him yet. Maybe Beth was right and he won't. I don't know, but it's tough having the sword of Damocles hanging above your head.”

“I'm sure she didn't mean to make things awkward for you.”

“Well, she did.”

“She's sorry, Jimmy, really sorry. But she gets these ideas in her head and develops tunnel vision.”

“Okay,” he said, but the doubt was obvious in his voice.

Miranda paused, and lit a cigarette. “Will you give her another chance?” she said after drawing deeply, and filling her lungs with smoke.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Are you still there?”

“I'm still here,” he said.

“Well, will you?”

“What's it to you?”

“She's my friend,” Miranda said. “And I care about her. I want to see her happy.”

“I sympathize, sorry, Miranda, but…”

She didn't hear the rest of his response. The electric light at the top of the stairs came on, and chased away the shadows. The sudden burst of brightness startled her. She stubbed out her cigarette, and walked across, to peer up the stairs.

There was nothing to see, but she was suddenly aware that the atmosphere in the house had changed. She shivered, as the temperature dropped suddenly.

On the phone James Bartlett was still speaking.

“I'll call you back,” she said, and disconnected, dropping the phone into the pocket of her shirt.

“Right,” she said to herself. “Let's lay this ghost to rest once and for all.”

Slowly, tentatively, she started to climb the stairs.

At the end of the landing she paused. She'd been up there once before, before Beth moved in, and it was just as she remembered it—the mismatched furniture, the paintings hanging on the walls. But when she was last up there all the doors had been closed and locked—she'd tried a few of them just to be sure. Now every door was open, and light poured from each of the rooms.

She moved along cautiously. She didn't really believe in ghosts, especially Beth's ghosts—they were a symptom of something much darker going on in her best friend's mind—but the silence and solitude of the countryside unsettled Miranda. She was a city girl born and bred, comfortable walking the London streets in even the more shady parts of town, but rural Suffolk was alien to her, and she felt her senses heightening, her fight or flight instincts coming to the fore.

The meowing of a cat startled her, and made her freeze in her tracks. It seemed to be coming from the end of the landing. Pressing her back to the wall, she edged along until she reached the last room and then, drawing in a deep breath, she leaned sideways and peered past the doorframe.

“Teddy!” she said, to the ginger cat sitting on a small circular rug in the center of the room, licking its paws and cleaning itself.

But the cat was dead, wasn't it? Or was that yet another of Beth's fantasies? No. She'd seen it dragged from the open drain. The cat was—
or had been
—dead.

She crept into the room quietly, so she wouldn't alarm the cat, and sank gently to her knees, slowly reaching out to pet the animal. As her hand stroked the cat's fur she whispered soft words of encouragement. And then she touched something wet, and she withdrew her hand sharply. Holding her hand out in front of her face she stared incredulously at the blood covering her fingers. “Teddy?” she said, for the first time noticing the jagged tear in the cat's orange fur, and the deep and bleeding wound in its side.

With a hiss the cat sprang to its feet, and raced past her, and out of the room.

Miranda pushed herself to her feet, and stared all around. In the corner was a dressing table, one drawer pulled open. She walked across to it, and took out the sheaf of photographs lying on the neatly stacked pile of clothes.

Bringing them back to the center of the room, underneath the bare light bulb, she started to leaf through them, noticing the high-backed wicker chair, the rapt expressions of the young men sitting at the feet of the figure in the chair, and the figure herself, exquisitely beautiful, staring malevolently out of the photograph.

“And now you know the truth,” a silky voice sounded behind her. Miranda spun round, dropping the photographs to the floor. The room was empty.

“Go, now!” The voice sounded again.

Leaving the photographs scattered on the floor, Miranda fled the room, ran back along the landing and down the stairs.

Pausing only to grab her bag, she ran from the house, threw herself in behind the wheel of her car and twisted the key in the ignition. Within seconds she had driven back along the lane and hit the road, skidding on the tarmac, before straightening out and flooring the gas pedal.

As the road wound its way through the wood, Miranda slowly started to calm down. Her breathing was slowing, and gradually she was regaining control over herself. As her self-awareness returned, a slow-growing anger started to build up.
How could she just run out like that
? All she'd seen was a bloody cat and a handful of photographs. The voice had spooked her, sure, but that could just have been her imagination. Miranda saw herself as tougher that that.

Beth needed her, and she'd run away at the first obstacle. She slowed the car to a stop, turned around in the lane, and headed back to Stillwater.

And now you know the truth
. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

A bend in the road was coming up. She slowed slightly to take it safely. She was very aware she had drunk too much to be safe behind the wheel. The last thing she needed was to end up in a ditch. Her headlights lit the road ahead, and beyond it, through the trees, she could see the weed-covered surface of Stillwater Lake. She'd started to turn the wheel to steer the car into the bend, when the steering wheel was wrenched from her grasp. Her foot was knocked from the accelerator, and the pedal pressed down to the floor.

The car lurched forward, and in the same instant the temperature inside the car plummeted. Ice crystals crackled across the windscreen, blinding her, and the steering wheel was jerked savagely to the right. For a moment she felt that she was flying, as the car left the road, and then, with a sickening thud, it hit the ground and careened wildly, plunging down the steep embankment toward the wood.

Two saplings were ripped from the ground as the car ploughed on over them, but they did little to slow the momentum of Miranda's Audi R8. The ancient oak tree the car smashed into next barely shuddered as the Audi hit it full on. Miranda didn't make a sound as the impact forced the car's engine through the dashboard, bursting the airbag and crushing her to death in her seat.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Mirri! I've made coffee.” Beth put her ear to the bedroom door, listening for movement, but heard nothing.
Let her sleep
, she thought. She didn't hear her friend turn in the evening before, but then Beth had been so tired herself she'd fallen asleep seconds after her head hit the pillow.

Yesterday had been tense: the meeting with Franklin, falling out with James, the silent drive home from Cambridge and the visit from Miranda that could best be described as edgy. Beth understood where her friend was coming from. Miranda had been there for her after the accident when the cocktail of painkillers she was on, combined with her despair over her paralysis, sent her plummeting into something close to a nervous breakdown. If she were an outsider looking in on her life, she might be tempted to draw the same conclusions as her friend. It seemed crazy and unreasonable, but Beth was in no doubt that what was happening at Stillwater had its roots in something real and tragic.

She heard a car pull up outside, followed quickly by the ring of her doorbell.

“James?” she said, as she opened the door.

James Bartlett stood in the doorway, a grim expression etching tight lines on his face.

“Hello, Beth,” he said. “Where's Miranda?”

“Miranda?” Beth said, confusion clouding her eyes. “In bed. Why?”

“The police are at the lake. There's been an accident.”

“Accident? What kind of accident?”

“A car's come off the road. A red Audi R8. That's the car Miranda drives isn't it?”

“Yes, it is. But Miranda's parked out…” She was looking past him at the lane. There was no sign of Miranda's car. “Oh my God!” She spun away from him, and wheeled herself to the bedroom door, yanking it open, and staring incredulously at the empty bed. “But that's impossible,” she said. The bed hadn't been slept in.

“She called me last night,” James said. He'd followed her into the house, and was standing behind her, peering into the empty room. “Late, after ten.”

“Why would she phone you?” Beth said, trying to digest the barrage of information.

“She was worried about you.”

“Show me where,” Beth said. “The accident. Show me where it happened.”

James drove, Beth sitting in the passenger seat, chewing at the skin beneath her thumbnail. “The police were sealing off the area when I came through. I was lucky they let me pass.”

“But why would she be out here?” Beth said. “She was staying the night. The spare bed was made up and everything.”

“I don't know, Beth. We were talking and then suddenly she rang off. I was concerned, that's why I decided to come over before work.”

“Before…what's the time?”

“A little after eight. Had she been drinking?”

“Yes. We both had. I went to bed early. Mirri was staying up to watch a film. This is crazy, James. Why would she be driving at that time of night?”

The police had blocked the lane with a large red and white POLICE ACCIDENT sign. A uniformed officer was standing in front of it, gesturing for them to turn around and go back the way they had come. Beyond him Beth could see a yellow and white ambulance and a large truck fitted with a crane. A heavy-duty chain was fixed to the crane, the other end of it attached to a mangled red Audi. Inch by inch they were hauling it from the wood.

“Oh my…” Beth bit her fist, hoping the pain of her teeth sinking into her flesh would banish the horror show she was witnessing.

James switched off the engine, getting out of the car and walking across to talk to the policeman. A few seconds later he returned to the car, leaving the officer speaking into his radio.

“They want us to wait here,” James said. “Someone's coming to talk to us.”

They waited for ten minutes before another police car edged along the lane. A different uniformed officer got out and rapped on their window.

“You think you might know the lady who was driving?” he said.

“Miranda,” Beth said. “Miranda Stiles. She was staying with me. Is she all right? Is she hurt?” she said, then gave a small sob as she saw two men carrying a stretcher from the crash site. On the stretcher was a black plastic body bag. “Oh, no,” she said.

“There was one fatality,” the officer said. “It doesn't look like any other vehicle was involved. Do you live nearby?”

“Yes. Stillwater. Along the lane,” James said.

“Well, perhaps we can continue this there? Andrew Lawrence, by the way,” the officer said. “I'll wait for you to turn around and I'll follow you back.”

Half an hour later they were sitting in Stillwater's lounge as Police Constable Andrew Lawrence added to his already copious notes.

“Is this going to take much longer?” James said. “Ms. Alvarini is finding this very upsetting.” He squeezed Beth's hand, but she didn't respond. She sat in her wheelchair, staring into space, her whole body numb, her thoughts in lockdown.

Mirri, dead.

She was finding the concept hard to absorb.

Lawrence looked up at them. “I'm sorry. I just want to be sure I have all the details correct. It will save a visit from someone else at a later date to go through them again.”

“Shouldn't you be getting to work?” Beth said in a monotone to James. “You're going to be late.”

“I'm late already. I'll just phone them and tell them I won't be in. I can't leave you like this.”

Beth shook her head. “No. You must go in. I'll be fine.”

James frowned, took out his phone and rang the office, walking across to the back door, opening it and stepping outside.

“Ms. Alvarini,” Lawrence said to her, “you said you and Ms. Stiles had been drinking. Would you describe her as being inebriated?”

Beth looked at him bleakly. “Not when I went to bed.”

“But she may have continued after that?”

“It's possible. I don't know.”

“Why do you think she was driving down the lane so late? Was she heading home?”

Beth shook her head. “No. Her bags are still in the bedroom. She was going to stay for a few days. I don't know why she was out so late. It's beyond me.”

Lawrence snapped his notebook shut. “There will be an inquest. You'll be called.”

Beth nodded. “I understand.”

“Thank you for all your help.”

“Are we done?”

Lawrence smiled. “Yes, we're done. I'm sorry for your loss.”

James came back inside pocketing his phone. He showed the officer out, then went to the kettle and switched it on.

Beth sat there cradling her mug of coffee. “I should never have got her involved in this,” she said.

“Beth, this wasn't your fault.”

“Then why do I feel that it was?” she said.

He said nothing.

“She didn't believe me, James. Mirri, who knew me better than anyone, didn't believe me. She thought I was having another breakdown.”

“Another…”

She shook her head. “It doesn't matter. Nothing matters any more. Find me somewhere else to live, James. I can't go on with this anymore.”

He looked at her steadily. “It will take a little time,” he said.

“I don't care.”

“Listen, I have to go into the office. Edward Falmer wants to speak with me.”

“Oh, James, I'm sorry. I've really messed things up for you.”

He held up his hand to stop her. “It may not have anything to do with Bernard Franklin and what happened yesterday. He just says that he needs to speak to me urgently. Will you be all right here on your own?”

“I'll be fine. Actually, I need some time on my own. I need to think about what's going to happen next. Mirri has a sister. I'll have to call her to tell her what's happened. I don't think they were close, but it's still going to be a shock.”

“If you're sure,” James said. “I'll get back here as soon as I can. While I'm at the office I'll get the ball rolling in finding you somewhere else to live.”

She nodded and gave him a wan smile.

As the door closed behind him a sob broke in her throat and she started to cry.

On the high street James took a deep breath and pushed open Falmer's front door. Debbie was at her desk fielding a phone call. She looked up as James entered and pointed to the door of Edward Falmer's private office. “He's waiting for you,” she mouthed, and went back to her phone call.

James tapped on the door of the office, and went inside.

Edward Falmer looked up from the sheaf of property details, and waved him into a seat on the opposite side of the desk. “Thank you for getting here so soon. It can't have been pleasant. Very sad to lose a client like Ms. Stiles in such tragic circumstances. It must have been a shock to Ms. Alvarini. How's she taking it?”

“She's pretty shaken up. She wants me to find her another tenancy.”

Falmer sat up in his seat. “Does she? Does she? Understandable I suppose.”

James nodded. “I'll go through the files when we've finished here.”

“Yes,” Falmer said absently. “Yes, of course.” He fell silent.

James watched him for a moment, trying to gauge his boss's mood. He'd come to know Edward Falmer quite well in the years he'd worked for him, but he also knew that the old man could often surprise him. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, James. I did.” He rose abruptly from the desk and walked to the doorway. He thrust his head into the main office. “Debbie, hold my calls until I tell you otherwise.” He shut the door and came back to the desk, resuming his seat. He looked across at James. “I had a strange phone call this morning. Coincidental, you could say.”

James said nothing, but cocked his head to show interest.

“Bernard Franklin called me just after I arrived this morning.”

“Why did he call?” James said, fearing the worst.

“That's the damnedest thing. It came as a bolt from the blue. Took my breath away.”

He adjusted the sheaf of property details on his desk, shuffling them into neat pile. “He wants us to put Stillwater on the market for him.”

“He what?”

“Exactly!” Falmer said, beaming a smile at him. “You know I've been banging on at him for years to sell the place, and now, just like that, he's given me the go ahead to do it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I needn't tell you that we need the business. The last quarter was nothing short of disastrous. The recession has played havoc with the housing market. Selling Stillwater could be the shot in the arm this company has been looking for. Stillwater and all its land is a developer's dream. You could probably place four or five new builds there, and you wouldn't even disturb the landscape that much.”

“And you know a developer who'd be interested in taking it on?”

“I know three,” Falmer said triumphantly. “And that's before I start making phone calls. It's a prime piece of real estate.”

“Congratulations,” James said.

“Of course there's only one fly in the ointment as far as I can see. Ms. Alvarini. Her tenancy contract runs until the middle of next year. But now you say she's looking to rent somewhere else.”

“To be fair, she was in shock when she said it. She'd just lost her friend in a terrible accident.”

“Yes, for sure, for sure,” Falmer said. “Terrible circumstances, and I'd hate to appear ghoulish. But sometimes fate works in mysterious ways.”

“That's all Franklin wanted?” James said.

“Isn't that enough?”

“Yes, I'm sure it is. It's just…”

“Listen, I've given you a lot to think about. But I'll add only this. If the sale goes ahead we're going to be frantically busy, especially if I can negotiate the sale of the new builds. I'm getting no younger and I'll have to share the workload. I've watched you become a fine estate agent over the years, and I'm willing to give you the opportunity to buy into the firm. Falmer and Bartlett. How does that sound?”

James sat there, stunned. He'd gone there today, expecting to be fired for the run-in with Bernard Franklin yesterday. Instead he'd been offered a partnership in the firm, and a brand new life.

“Fancy a drink?” Edward Falmer said. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and produced a bottle of Glenlivet and two glasses. “I know it's obscenely early,” Falmer said. “But what the hell. How often do we get the chance to celebrate?” He poured two fingers of the twelve-year-old malt into each glass, and pushed one across the desk to James. He raised his glass. “Falmer and Bartlett,” he said. “It has a nice ring to it.”

James picked up his glass. “
Skol
,” he said.

“And once we've finished here, you set about finding Ms. Alvarini somewhere else to live.”