The Bones of You (20 page)

32

“B
limey!” Angus is reading the Sunday paper. We have a ritual as old as our marriage, which involves fresh coffee, scrambled eggs, and two or three Sunday papers at the garden table in summer or in front of the fire in winter.

Today is neither, however. Warm enough for the garden, but it’s raining, so it’s the sofa in front of an empty fireplace.

“What?”

“I know you’re not supposed to believe everything you read, but it says here that a couple of months before Rosie died, Jo took an overdose. I thought that happened more recently? Didn’t she do it when you were staying with Grace?”

“She did.... Can I see?”

He passes over one of the supplements, folded open at an article entitled “Family Guy.” I skim through it, deciding in the first few lines that it’s total rubbish.

“It says Neal was thrown off the orphanage project because he seduced one of the residents. An underage teenage girl.” I look at Angus. “Surely even he wouldn’t do that?”

“Probably crap,” he says.

“If Jo did take an overdose, maybe it’s because she’d discovered what he was up to,” I say loyally. “I didn’t know her that well then, did I?”

“I guess not.” Angus picks up another section of paper and starts reading. “Bloody hell, Kate. Did you know—”

“
Angus!
Shh, darling! I’m actually trying to read something myself.”

“Just thought you might be interested,” he says huffily.

“I know, darling, and it’s very sweet, but—”

“Annoying,” he says, then lapses into silence.

Then I read something that utterly astounds me. “Oh my God!”

Angus raises an eyebrow in my general direction, but I can’t stop myself.

“It says here Jo’s the daughter of acclaimed scientist Edward Pablo. I can’t believe it. Everyone’s heard of that man, and she’s never mentioned him. In fact, she never talks about either of her parents. . . .”

“Maybe they fell out,” says Angus reasonably. “Come to think of it, I haven’t heard anything about him for years.”

I wouldn’t know. I don’t read papers to the extent that Angus does. Then a curious thought strikes me, because as well as not mentioning her family, Jo hasn’t a single photo on show anywhere in her house.

 

I take it up with her, of course. “Don’t you have any photos?”

“What photos?”

“Family ones. You know, like of the girls . . .”

“We used to have a few. I took them down after Rosanna. . . . It was too upsetting.”

“What about your parents, Jo?”

She turns and stares at me. “What about them?”

I shake my head, feeling stupid, deciding to just come out with it. “Sorry. It was just that I read this article about your father being Edward Pablo. I’d no idea. He was a great man, wasn’t he?”

I’m half expecting her to deny it, explain it away as more rubbish from the press, but to my astonishment, she doesn’t. “It’s true. He was my father. He and my mother died five years ago. I prefer not to talk about it.”

“God.” I’m horrified. “I’m so sorry, Jo. How awful for you.”

“It was awful at the time. But don’t be too sorry, Kate. He was a vile, cruel man.”

It’s an assessment of her father that leaves me wanting to know more, but after that, her lips are sealed. She clearly has no wish to talk about him and changes the subject, as she does if I mention the trial.

“Well, at least now the house is straight.”

“When do the viewings start?”

“Next week. But the agent’s dealing with them. I don’t want to be here when they look round.”

I imagine the queue of strangers pointing, whispering behind her back. Bad enough when she goes out, but not actually here, in her own home.

“Have you found anywhere to go and look at?”

“Not really. I spoke to Carol. We might go and stay there—just for a while. When the house is sold.”

 

Even now, I get a sense of Rosie’s presence, usually when I’m with the horses. It no longer shocks me. I’ve an open enough mind to believe that if a sufficiently strong bond exists in this dimension, it could just as easily overlap with the next. And then, one afternoon, my heart nearly stops when I glimpse a back view of her across the field.

I rub my eyes, then see another flash as her pale hair catches the sunlight between the trees, and I realize this is no ghost.
Is it Rosie?
Has there been a mistake? Could she be alive?

Wondering if I’m hallucinating, then realizing with amazement that it’s Delphine, I start running. Oz immediately throws his head in the air and follows, and soon all three horses catch up, then overtake me, closing on the still-running figure.

Then, as I get nearer, just as I call out, thinking the horses are going to gallop into her, she stops, spins round, and faces them. Just in time, they shy away, snorting, circling her, but not going any closer. At last reaching her, I grab her arm.

“What are you doing? You might have got kicked.”
Or worse,
I’m thinking, but I don’t tell her that.

“I didn’t know. I don’t know about horses.” Delphine’s defiant. Self-possessed and scarily calm.

“Judging from what I saw just there, I’d say you do.” I speak sternly, a little guiltily, too, as I remember how I used to welcome Rosie here. But then, Rosie would never behave like that. She never took anything for granted.

“I didn’t mean to upset them.” She watches them, calm, as now that the excitement’s over, they wander off to graze.

“I don’t think they were too upset. They were just having a bit of fun with you, like they do with each other, only sometimes they get a little carried away. Take Shilo, for example, the biggest one. He has no idea how long his legs are. When he lets fly with them, it’s high spirits. He’s not trying to get you, but it’s not his fault if you happen to be in his way.”

She nods. “You have to think like them, don’t you? That’s what Rosie said.”

“Did she? She was right. She was good with them. They liked her.”

“She told me.” Delphine nods again. “I wish I could learn. Only, I don’t think Mummy would let me.”

I forget my irritation with her then, remembering she’s a young girl whose only family is a mother who’s barely coping with her own problems.

“Why not? I could ask her for you. . . . I know you’re moving, but that might not be for quite a while.”

I see something new in Delphine’s eyes. Something raw and pure. Like hope.

“Can you? She’ll probably say no. . . .”

“Leave it to me. I have an idea.”

 

The next time I see Jo, I know exactly how to play it.

“Jo? Can I ask you a favor? With Grace away and all the time I’ve spent on your garden, I’m really behind with my own chores. Could I borrow Delphine, d’you think? I need help with the things I always do at this time of year, and if I don’t, the season gets away from me. And there are the horses to exercise, too, if we have time. . . .”

Jo frowns. “You should have said. I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realized. But I don’t think Delphine would be much help. She doesn’t know anything about horses.”

“Oh, it’s mostly stuff like sweeping out the hay store and cleaning out the tack room. We probably won’t ride, but if by any chance we do, I can lend her Grace’s gear.”

Jo hesitates. I’ve no idea what her objections are, but she’s clearly looking for an excuse of some kind.

“It might be good for her. A change of scene. She’s had a lot to cope with, hasn’t she?” This time my sentiments are genuine.

“Okay. Thank you, Kate. You’re right.”

“Great! Well, this Saturday, then, if you’ve no plans. Here she is! Would you like to tell her, or shall I?”

Playing along, Delphine looks quizzically at first Jo, then me.

“Kate asked if you’d be able to help her on Saturday.”

There’s not a flicker on Delphine’s face.

“Only if you want to,” I add, puzzled. “Otherwise, I’ll manage. Don’t worry.”

“Okay,” she says, looking blank.

 

It remains a mystery as to why in front of her mother, Delphine is so emotionless, as well as why Jo is so reluctant. She calls me on Friday night and says that the weather forecast isn’t too good, that Delphine has a bit of a cold, and that maybe it would be prudent to put it off until a better day. In the end, I persuade her to wait and see what the morning brings.

When I awake the next day, the sun is rising in a clear sky. I call Jo and tell her we’re on.

Jo drops her over, looking far from happy about it, but once she’s left, I discover that Delphine’s not as different from her sister as I’d previously thought. More self-possessed, certainly, especially given her age, but then after what’s happened in her family, it’s hardly surprising.

“What are we going to do?”

“Oh, ride, I think, don’t you? I’ve dug out Grace’s old riding clothes, and we’ll find you a hat. Is that okay with you?”

She nods her head, looking pleased. “It is. Thank you.”

I show her where the spare room is so she can change; then we pull on boots and head down to the yard, where I tack up Reba because she’s rock solid, while Delphine watches me.

“Did Rosie ride her?” she asks.

“She did. But only once. I offered to give her lessons, too, but she didn’t want to. I don’t know why.”

The same reason Delphine thought Jo wouldn’t let her come here? I glance at her, looking for clues, but under the peak of her riding hat, the expressionless look is back.

Throughout the day she spends with me, she lowers her guard just once, when she has finished riding and slides off Reba.

“You can stroke her nose,” I tell her. “She likes that.”

But as Delphine walks round to the front of her, Reba lowers her head, then presses it so gently against Delphine. I watch Delphine’s arms go round her, and Reba’s eyes close with bliss. They stay like that for minutes, neither of them moving, until Delphine looks up, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

And just like with Rosie, I don’t ask and she doesn’t explain.

33

“Y
ou were so helpful today,” I say to Delphine when I drop her home.

Her eyes shine back at me. “I really enjoyed it. Especially the riding.”

“We’ll do it again, I promise,” I tell her. “In fact, why don’t I come in? I could talk to your mum now.”

“I think she’s going out,” Delphine says, the blankness back as she gazes out the window toward the house. “But I would like to. Thank you.”

She gets out, and I watch her go inside. There’s no sign of Jo. I wonder if she’s really going out or if Delphine had some other reason for me not to go in with her. Deciding I’m reading far too much into all of this, I turn the car around and go home.

 

Then, a few days later, another of those notes gets posted through my letter box while I’m out. And this one makes my spine tingle.

When he gets in from work, I show it to Angus.

“I’m sorry, but that’s far more sinister than a nutter talking.” Surely, this time he has to agree.

He frowns. “Maybe. Show it to Laura. If anyone knows about nutters, she does.”

I go to get the phone.

“Why not leave it till tomorrow,” suggests Angus. “It’s getting late.”

But I don’t want to. I’m freaked out by this one. When I call her, Laura is, too.

“You need to give it to the police,” she says.

“I know. I’ll call them first thing tomorrow.”

I don’t sleep well. I’ve a horrible, chilling picture in my head of someone quite calculating sending these notes to me. But why to me? Why should I be able to help? Or do I know something no one else does?

At two, I am still wide awake and, in the end, get up and go downstairs. The wind has picked up, the leaves tapping against the windows.

I pick up the note and read it again.

Is it even to do with Rosie? What other baby died? Who is the third baby?

Leaning against the Aga, I shiver.

What is it I don’t know?

 

“It’s got to be related to Rosie’s murder.” Sergeant Beauman frowns as she reads the note. “Obviously, we can’t be certain, but when you put them all together. . . .”

“I know.” That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.

She nods. “It looks the same, but I’ll take this and check it against the other notes. Let me know if there are any more.”

I leave the note with her, then go straight home, what seem like only minutes passing before Laura turns up..

“Do you have a minute, Kate? Only you won’t believe what I’ve found out. According to my contact, when I told her about the note, she told me there was another baby. Joanna gave birth to a baby boy. Before Rosie. Three months early. He was stillborn. Whoever wrote the notes obviously knows. And the police will know about it. If a child dies—in this case Rosie—any other deaths in the family would be flagged up, too, as a matter of course.”

“Which includes Jo’s parents, then.”

Laura frowns. “What about them?”

“Well, they died. About five years ago. She told me only recently.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “She didn’t want to talk about them. Something about her father being ‘vile’ and ‘cruel,’ I think her words were.”

“Interesting,” says Laura. “Only, her father’s Edward Pablo, isn’t he? According to the records I checked, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Pablo are very much alive and living in Switzerland.”

Our eyes meet.

“So why the lies?” I ask.

“I’m guessing she meant they were dead to her. Maybe they fell out and never made it up.”

I shake my head. “It didn’t sound like that. I said something about it being awful. She said it was, at the time.”

“She could have been talking about a row,” suggests Laura.

Could she? As I replay the conversation in my head, I wonder if maybe Laura’s right.

“On the downside, we’re still no closer to finding out who sent the notes,” says Laura. “Is there a pattern to when they arrive?”

I shake my head. “Not that I can think of.”

She shrugs. “There’s one other thing. I’m going to try to see Neal. Apparently, that rumor about him seducing an underage girl was just that, a rumor, spread around by a jealous colleague because his wife had a bit of a thing for him. He was genuinely nominated for that award. Did you know that? I looked into it.”

An image of Jo, excited, radiant, comes into my head, followed by another, of the ripped remains of her beautiful dress.

“So many people have it in for him,” Laura goes on. “But then, if you go around seducing other men’s wives, I suppose it’s inevitable.”

“It wasn’t a secret from Jo. She knew what he got up to.”

Laura nods. “What some people will put up with . . . Don’t you wonder why?”