Telling Tales (35 page)

So, he’d been sitting at the front of the church, surprisingly calm, knowing absolutely that this was the right thing to do. The music had started. Not “The

Wedding March.” They’d decided against that. “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’. He’d known Emma was on her way, but he’d not looked round, not immediately. He’d waited a few beats before turning. And just at that moment the sun had come out, bleeding the colour from the stained glass onto the ivory satin of her dress. She’d caught his eye and smiled nervously, and it had come to him, like the melodramatic ending of a romantic novel, that everything had worked out for the best. His father’s death, the shame and the scandal, everything that followed, had all led to this moment, to his taking this beautiful young woman to be his wife.

The intensity of the sensation had quickly passed. The procession Emma on her father’s arm, two small bridesmaids in a state of imploding excitement had moved on towards the altar and he had to focus on getting the ritual right, but he was left with an optimism which had remained, unshaken, until the recent drama.

Now, sitting in the church, as the sun shone through the window and the elderly priest took his hand, the sense of well being returned. There was, after all, nothing to be concerned about. The unpleasantness of the last few weeks would pass, and things would go back to normal. He would continue to bring boats safely up the river, then return home to his wife and child. Nothing would disturb the equilibrium of their lives.

He had thought Mary and Robert would be unwilling to face the sc rum around the coffee pots and plates of biscuits in the church hall and they did pause for a moment in the porch.

“Would you rather go straight home?” Robert asked his wife. James had always thought of him as a strong and reliable man. The sort of man to hold his family together. And even immediately after Christopher’s death it had seemed he was still playing that role. Today though he appeared indecisive, vague. He wanted Mary to tell him what they should do.

“No,” she said. James saw that Springhead was the last place she wanted to be. “We’ll have a coffee first, shall we?”

Inside the hall she seemed embarrassed to be a customer and was all for rushing into the kitchen to find an apron and begin the washing-up.

“Sit down,” James said. “I’ll bring your drink over.” He stood in the queue and looked at them, holding each other’s hands across the Formica table, not speaking. They looked old. Around them the parishioners circled like birds of prey over a carcass, eager to make contact, to give their condolences. To get news.

Emma had stayed in the church after the rest of the congregation had left. She’d whispered to James at the end of the service that she needed time to herself. He respected that. She was very young to have suffered so much. Now she walked into the hall, oblivious to the sympathetic glances, her face pale and still, without expression. He had never been able to tell what she was thinking, and since Christopher’s death she had become more distant from him. He disliked violent displays of emotion. There had been too much shouting and raving, too many tears, when he was young. But now he wondered if he should have encouraged her to weep, if when she had asked if they might talk, he should have made it easier for her to confide in him.

He set the cups of coffee in front of his parents-in law. Two women had plucked up sufficient courage to approach them and Robert seemed to have recovered his spirits under their attention. James went to Emma, who was standing by the window, looking out over the churchyard, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

“I’d like to invite Robert and Mary to lunch,” he said. “Would you mind?”

“No.” She seemed surprised to be asked, as if usually he would have made the invitation without consulting her. And perhaps that was true, he thought. Throughout their marriage she’d been so passive that he’d always taken her consent for granted. Had he been more like a father than a lover to her?

In the Captain’s House he insisted on preparing lunch. He sat Mary and Robert in the living room and threw some logs onto the embers of the fire. The logs were dry and the bark caught immediately, curling back from the wood and sending sparks up the chimney. The couple stared into the grate, mesmerized, only moving when he handed them a glass of sherry each. Still they weren’t talking. Emma was upstairs settling Matthew into his cot for a sleep. A little later he heard her come down. He thought she would join her parents, but instead she came into the kitchen. She came up behind him and kissed his neck.

“Thank you for being so kind to them.”

She slipped away before he could respond and he heard her voice, no more than a murmur, in the other room.

This is who I am, he told himself. A kind man who cares for his family. Perhaps even a good man. There is no deception here.

At the table Robert became more himself again,

brightening as he had earlier, surrounded by people, in the hall. He said grace and complimented James on his cooking. He drank more than he usually did and James was reminded of Christopher’s last meal in the house. He had never thought father and son had much in common, but now he could detect a resemblance. A dramatic quality. The possibility of excess.

“Why don’t you both stay here for the night?” Emma asked. Mary didn’t like driving Robert’s car and James saw she thought her father was already over the limit. “You can go back early tomorrow.”

“No,” Robert said. “I need to get home. I’d like to go into work tomorrow.”

“Is that wise?” James had never questioned Robert’s judgement before and felt rather brave. “I’m sure they’d understand that you need more time. You could have until Christmas at least. It’s hardly worth going back for a few weeks.”

“I’d prefer to be at work. I brood too much at home.” But Robert reached out for the bottle of wine and topped up his glass.

“Besides,” Mary said suddenly, ‘if I don’t go home today, I’ll never face it.” She saw that she’d shocked them. “I know it’s foolish, but that’s the way I feel. I’ll never be able to walk through the door.”

“Why don’t I drive you back later this evening?” James said. “Then you can stay for a while, relax, have another drink. I’ll pick Robert up first thing in the morning so he can collect his car.”

Emma smiled at him and brushed her fingertips over the back of his hand.

Later there was an old film on the television. The room was hot. Robert and Mary both fell asleep. Mary had her mouth slightly open and snored occasionally. Matthew lay on his stomach on the rug surrounded by toys.

“I think the doctor gave them tranquillizers,” Emma said. “They seem spaced out, don’t they? Dad especially. But a bit more relaxed, at least.”

When they woke she made tea for them, and James toasted crumpets in front of the fire. He crouched and held his arm outstretched because the embers were still so hot.

“Comfort food,” Emma said. She watched with satisfaction as Mary finished a mouthful then licked the butter from her fingers. James thought Emma had worn the same expression when she’d persuaded Matthew to take baby rice from a spoon for the first time.

“We should go,” Robert stood up. The tray was still on the floor, the toasting fork lying on the hearth. “Are you ready, my dear?”

Outside, on the other side of the road, someone was waiting under the bus shelter.

“He’ll be there a long time,” James said, hoping to lighten the mood. “There are no buses on a Sunday. Do you think I should tell him?”

The man turned and stared at them though he couldn’t have made out the words. His face was lit by the orange glow of a street light.

“It’s Michael Long,” Robert said. James had recognized him at the same instant. “Perhaps it would be better to leave him alone.”

James went into Springhead with them. He’d always liked the house despite its discomfort and inconvenience. It was where Emma had grown up and there were reminders of her everywhere. School photos, books with her name in, her Wellingtons just inside the door. Now, as he stood awkwardly in the kitchen while Robert and Mary fussed with the lights, he wondered how they could bear the gloomy paint, the threadbare carpets, the piles of slightly damp books. He was irritated that they’d never organized the improvements which were needed.

“Will you stay here?” he asked. “You won’t move?”

“Of course not!” Mary spoke as if he’d suggested something unthinkable. “Where would we go?”

“I’m not sure. You could get somewhere smaller. In the village perhaps. Close to the shops and to Emma…” He tailed off as he saw her reaction.

“Impossible,” she said.

“It’s just that earlier you seemed reluctant to come back…”

“It’s painful. But this place is all we have of Christopher now.”

She didn’t speak to him again and he thought he’d offended her. Then, as he was getting into his car in the yard, she came running out to him, still in her slippers, a coat thrown over her shoulders.

“Thank you for this afternoon. For lunch. For looking after us so well.”

He wondered if the medication had worn off because she seemed desperate, rather manic.

“No problem. You know you’re always welcome.”

“I’d like to do something for you. For you and Emma. She was looking so pale today, didn’t you think?”

“It’s been a dreadful time for you all.”

“Let me have Matthew for an evening. So you can spend some time on your own together. Go out for a drink perhaps. I’d like to. If you’d trust me.”

“Of course we trust you. Have him whenever you like.”

“Tomorrow then. Bring him here.”

She rushed back to the house and James wondered if Robert had even realized she’d gone.

When James drew up outside the Captain’s House, Michael Long was still standing at the bus stop, his hands in his pockets, muffled in his coat. He watched James climb out of the car, held his glance, a sort of challenge. It was too far for James to shout and he started to walk over the road towards him. The church clock began to strike the hour. Michael stood his ground for a moment, then he turned and hurried away towards his bungalow.

Inside Matthew was in bed and Emma was loading the dishwasher.

“Were they all right?” she asked.

“I think so. They’re so self-contained, aren’t they? It’s hard to tell.”

“I thought that’s what you admired in them.”

“Perhaps it’s not always a good thing.”

“Can we go to bed?” she said.

He felt nervous as if it was the first time. Afraid of doing something wrong, something which would upset her, spoil the mood. “Of course.”

He was in the bedroom before her, went to close the curtains. Michael Long was back at his post under the bus shelter. He was looking up at the window.

Chapter Forty

Vera Stanhope liked Dan Greenwood, had done since the first time she’d met him at one of those dreadful training days her boss had forced her to attend. All keen young officers behaving like corporate managers, fighting amongst themselves to be most enthusiastic, most positive. No negative talk allowed there. Dan Greenwood had looked at her helplessly across the conference room, with its beech-effect tables and chairs, as if he’d been thrown into the middle of a game and he didn’t understand the rules. As if she was the only one there on his side. She’d thought, looking at him, that he shouldn’t be caged inside a building at all. Looking at him, scruffy and feral, you’d have thought he should be a gamekeeper, someone used to being outdoors. Perhaps he’d thought that was what the police would be like, keeping things ordered, tidying up vermin.

“Don’t worry, pet,” she’d said to him over coffee. “They don’t mean any of it. All that positive talk. Back at the station they’ll be griping the same as you and me, sloping home early and coming in late.”

“What’s the point, then?” he’d said, and she’d thought that he really didn’t understand. He had no ambition and no desire to impress. She’d thought then that he was incapable of deception.

That was before she’d seen the file on Abigail Mantel, which he kept in his desk and pored over, like some pervert slobbering over downloaded porn.

Pride had stopped her acting immediately. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that she could be that wrong about anyone. Then she’d stood in the village and watched him walking with Emma Bennett up the lane from the river, attentive and careful, and she’d seen the way Emma had looked at him. This was another bonny young lass. Not as young as Abigail had been when she’d died, but there were some days when Emma still looked like a teenager. And she’d known Abigail, found the body. Perhaps there was a thrill in that for Dan. You could never tell how some people’s minds worked. Not even the psychiatrist could manage that. Or perhaps he wanted to get close to Emma to find out how much she remembered. If he’d had any sort of relationship with the dead girl, he’d want to know if she talked about it before she was killed.

Pride was a terrible thing, Vera thought. It had always let her down.

So she swallowed her pride and went to see Caroline Fletcher. She did it properly too, calling in advance to check if it was convenient. There was no fuss this time when she stood on the doorstep of the desirable executive home, no show.

Caroline had changed from her business suit into jeans and a baggy jumper which reached almost to her knees. The boyfriend was nowhere to be seen and Vera didn’t ask after him. He’d be playing squash, she thought. Or staying late at the office. Something normal In the living room there was a bottle of white wine standing in a cooler on the floor by the armchair, one glass taken out of it. Caroline had been holding the glass when she opened the door.

“Would you like some?” she said, seeming ready to build bridges herself.

Vera preferred red, but it would have been churlish to refuse.

“What’s this about?” The woman’s voice was cautious but not unfriendly.

“Dan Greenwood,” Vera said.

“What about him?”

“What did you make of him?” Caroline looked at her without answering and Vera was forced to elaborate. “You worked closely with him. Did you ever have any concerns? I mean, did the breakdown come out of the blue?”