The Betrayal of Trust (36 page)

‘
You sacked her
?’

‘
I didn’t have time. She was
out, it was her day off. I put the earrings on the kitchen table with a note, asking her about the bracelet and saying I would talk to her in the morning. But when I got up around seven thirty, it turned out she’d already gone. We never saw her again
.’

‘
What about her things? Didn’t you have to forward anything to her
?’

‘
No. She’d taken her handbag and a sort of canvas tote bag she used but
left most of her other stuff. She never returned. I never saw her again. I thought she’d been too scared to come back and face us, maybe just run off. It was odd she hadn’t taken more if that was the case though – she didn’t have a lot of clothes, but there were some, and books
.’

‘
Did you ask any of your neighbours if they’d seen her
?’

‘
Yes. She used to work for someone else in the village because
once my kids had started nursery she had free time, so I said it was fine by us if she wanted to give someone else a hand. And so she got a job with some other people in Bransby, not au pairing, just general household help. She was very good, she’d do cleaning, cooking, shopping – and she could drive. So she worked for them two or three hours here and there, and as soon as I found her things
gone I rang, but they hadn’t seen her, they didn’t know anything. I wasn’t surprised. But interestingly, they said they had wondered if she had taken things from them – money had disappeared, and a silver ornament. But they were
a
bit – I guess you’d say chaotic, so I’m not sure how reliable that was
.’

‘
Can you give me their names and an address please
?’

‘
The address was Tadpole Cottage, and
I’ve been racking my brains to remember their names but I just can’t. My husband can’t either. We didn’t really know them
.’

‘
And you never had any communication with Agneta again? Or with her family? Did you have an address
?’

‘
Yes, but it was a PO box and I didn’t want to send her things there, so when we left England to come out here I gave all her stuff to the charity shop. No, we heard from
nobody. No one got in touch with us, but I wasn’t really surprised. Only of course now, now I find out what happened, which is truly awful, well, seems odd that no one did make contact. Her family must have had our address. You’d think so. She was a good girl, a nice girl, you know … this thieving was the only thing, and maybe it was … I don’t know. Maybe she’d problems at home, maybe she’d suffered
some sort of trauma. I’m sure we could have talked it through, maybe sorted it all out. I feel very bad about that
.’

‘
I don’t think there’s any need. Thank you very much for contacting us, Mrs Ryman, it’s extremely helpful. I’ll just read back your details to check I have them down correctly and someone will be in touch
.’

‘
Only don’t forget, it’s a nine-hour time difference. It’s early afternoon
here
.’

‘
Thanks for the reminder. Now, you are Mrs Celia Ryman, you live at
…’

The duty operator came back on the line. ‘And that’s it, guv.’

‘Terrific. Absolutely terrific. Good work.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Send it all across to my email please.’

‘Will do.’

As he turned away from the phone he looked over at Rachel, sitting with her feet up, head resting on the back of the sofa. This is love, he thought.
I have never known it before but now I do.

It seemed the simplest thing in the world.

Kenneth Wyatt woke out of a nightmare that he was drowning and could not breathe. Awake, he still could not breathe. His lungs seemed to be full of water, his throat was tight. But there was oxygen. There was Rachel. Rachel always woke on the instant.

He pressed the bell which was attached to his headboard,
never out of reach. No response. He pressed again. The house was absolutely still. Dark. Silent. Jason had not stayed – he remembered that now. But where was Rachel? Out in the car. He’d heard her drive away. Drive away, leaving him. Leaving him alone.

He kept his finger on the bell. Heard it ringing, ringing.

He could not breathe, his chest was tight now, as well as his throat, his heart racing.
Then he managed to draw a breath, but it was painful, the air dragged up from his lungs like water over shingle.

His finger weakened on the bell, but he had the mobile phone, tied to the headboard, switched on. One number to press.

‘Stay,’ Simon said, holding her face in his hands. Her eyelids had the faintest blue tinge, like the eyelids of babies. He breathed her.

‘My phone,’ Rachel said.
He let her go at once.

‘Ken. It’s too late for anyone else.’

She fumbled about in her bag.

Simon poured the last of the wine into his glass. Waited. Because he could not bear to listen or think of Rachel talking to her husband, he went over in his mind what he would say to Mrs Ryman in Santa Monica, California. If he had not been with Rachel now, he would have got onto it the moment the station
operator had rung off. But he would not feel guilty. Could not. It was a cold case. The girl had been dead and anonymous for sixteen years already. She could wait another day.

‘I have to go, Simon, I’m sorry … I knew something would happen if I left him on his own, I should never have done that, it’s the most appalling thing … I’m so sorry …’

‘Rachel … listen …’

‘No, please, leave me, don’t
touch me, don’t stop me.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it but you have to calm down for a couple of minutes or you won’t be safe.’

‘He could be dead in a couple of minutes.
Please let me go
.’

‘Let’s ring for an ambulance.’

But she was out of the door and flying down the stairs. He wanted to follow her, if only to check that she arrived home safely, but he had had more to drink than she had, he dared
not get into the car.

‘Rachel …’ He raced down the stairs.

She was fumbling with her keys, dropping them on the grass, letting out a shout of frustration. He jumped forward and retrieved them. ‘Listen – ring me. Tell me how he is. Ring me.’

She got in, looking quickly at him, her face full of anxiety, spinning the wheel as she reversed out of the space.

‘Ring me.’

He saw the dust kick up
behind the car as she went fast out of the close.

The oxygen cylinder was on the other side of the room. He could not have reached it, could not have used it by himself. Someone had to help him. Someone had to help him with everything. He was trapped. It came with the illness. But he minded that Rachel was trapped by it too, so he could never blame her if she went out. He did not blame her tonight.

She would come. He did not know where she had been, how far away she was, but she would come, she had said so, she was on her way the second she heard his voice.

Even that had calmed him, her voice, so that by the time he heard the car, her key, her running steps, his breathing was easier. She came flying through the door of his room, her violet eyes full of panic.

‘I’m so sorry, darling, I’m
so sorry. You’re fine now. I’m here, it’s OK.’ As she talked to him she was moving the oxygen to the side of the bed, hooking up the tubes.

She bent to kiss him. Rested her lips on his forehead. He smelled her. Something fresh. Sweet. Her forehead was damp. He moved his hand to touch her.

‘I’m so sorry.’

The mask was over his face, and he was breathing easily again. Rachel sat on the bed and
took his hand.

‘I am so, so sorry.’

He moved his head. No, he was saying. No. He pulled the mask down to speak but she replaced it gently.

‘No. I’m going to call the doctor.’ Though she knew that all she would get would be advice over the phone at best, that if she was seriously concerned she should ring for an ambulance. But she was not. It had happened before. He woke and found himself alone,
perhaps trying to cough, could not, panicked, his breathing tightened. Sitting with him, calming him, the oxygen, was all he needed. Then sleep. He always slept, from relief.

But she had never left him before. What if he had not rung her? If he had perhaps pulled the phone accidentally off the headboard or his coughing had become choking, his lungs had filled up and he could not clear them? She
would have stayed with Simon. She knew that. Perhaps all night, certainly for several hours. She could have come back to find Kenneth dead, alone.

She tightened her back against the shiver that ran down it.

Kenneth’s eyes were on her face. His breathing was normal.

‘I can take it off now. You’re fine.’

She did so, and gave him a sip or two of water. As she held the glass, he lifted his hand
slowly, and put it shakily on top of hers. Rachel bent her head to touch it. The hand did not stop shaking. No part of him ever stopped shaking, even while he was sleeping.

‘D-don’t,’ he said. ‘No …’

Later, when he slept, exhausted, she gazed down at him, a ruin of a once fine-looking, tall, strong man. She had married him when she was not thirty, he sixty-seven. She had loved him then, depended
on him. And even as the illness tightened its grip, she had come to like, respect, honour, care for him. These had been good grounds for a marriage, she had discovered, far better than she deserved. Any diminution of passionate love on her side had not seemed relevant. Until now.

She thought of Simon. The quiet, calm flat. The lamps in the close. The cathedral bells. Simon’s drawings on the white
walls. On the long elm table.

Simon’s hands. His mouth. His tall frame.

Simon.

She would have been there still, she knew that, and if he called she would be there again. She knew that too.

She felt deeply ashamed, and powerless to change anything.

SIMON WAITED FOR
an hour. Rang. Rachel’s phone went straight to voicemail. Rang the landline. The same. He sent a text but there was no reply.

After midnight was mid-afternoon in California.

Celia Ryman answered almost at once.

‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent Simon Serrailler.’

‘Hi, I was thinking you’d probably call.’

‘Thank you for ringing us earlier, Mrs Ryman, It was
extremely helpful. I wonder if I could ask you a few more questions?’

‘Sure, please. You know, I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. We had a bit of an upset but she was a lovely girl, really, underneath, the kids were so fond of her, she was great with them … I’m just so shocked by this.’

He went over the ground. It was all there. No discrepancies, nothing new. She was anxious to be
as helpful as she could.

‘You said Agneta worked for someone else in the same village?’

‘That’s right, and we’ve been struggling to remember the names …’

‘This was another family?’

‘Not exactly – it was a couple – well, it was a couple of women, you know what I’m saying? They were – well, together, you know?’

‘Can you remember anything at all that would help us trace them?’

‘I remember the
cottage … funny, ancient old place, roof sort of wavy in the middle. Tadpole Cottage. That name really suited it. The two of them used to be in the garden a lot, very keen. But we didn’t really know them, the cottage was tucked away, they weren’t often around the village. But I just don’t remember either of their names. I wonder if they still live in Bransby. They might do. They seemed staying-put
kind of people, you know?’

It was ten to one. He had to see Rachel. He had to know how her husband was.

He was unlikely to sleep but he knew he should try. He set his alarm for six. Woke at four with a headache, so unusual for him that he had not even basic aspirin in the flat.

He showered, drank coffee. At twenty five past five he was walking along the corridor to his office. No aspirin. He
went to the CID room. Empty. Down to the canteen. A couple of weary uniform were talking to the pretty Hungarian behind the counter. He bought tea, toast. Aspirin.

Is everything OK? Call me, txt me. Please. Love S
.

He hesitated, then sent it. She would be angry with him. Angry with herself. Would not reply.

Might reply.

He needed to see her.

The tea was good, fresh and hot. The toast was
cold and soggy. He left it.

The village of Bransby was quiet. Once, there would have been a couple of working farms, cow manure down the main street from the early-morning journey to milking, a cockerel crowing, the smell of pig. People about.

No one was about. He found Tadpole Cottage, up a narrow snicket between low hedges, and then he smelled not pig, but honeysuckle.

Perhaps this one cottage
had not changed a great deal. The thatch was moth-eaten, there was a rusty old water pump to one side, a shed with broken windowpanes. A cat stared at him from the step up to it, then half closed its eyes lazily, face to the sun.

The gate was at the side. Just beyond it, in a small turning space, an ancient grey van was parked. Serrailler walked up to it. The back doors did not close fully. The
body was dirty but not rusted, the tyres in order. It was not locked. The fabric of the seats was worn away here and there. The floor was a silt of paper, wrappings, plastic bags, a funnel, a piece of rubber hose, some half-torn cardboard boxes. The driver’s seat had a canvas backrest on a metal frame. The passenger seat was set as far back as it would go. The keys were on the dashboard.

He made
a note of the number, removed the keys and locked the van and walked back to the wooden gate.

The cat’s eyes gleamed briefly before the lids half closed again. Disdain, he thought. It was the look Mephisto had when he glanced up at anyone. Superiority and disdain.

The kitchen faced the front and the sound of Bach came from a radio on the open windowsill. He looked inside. No one. Walked round.
Creeper with small white flowers hung down over small windows. He cupped his hands to peer in. No one. The garden was untidy but someone had once loved it, someone had planted it with care. Someone had known what they were doing.