The Closed Circle (24 page)

Philip smiled at her then, fondly and apologetically, and they made their way in silence to their adjacent rooms. Claire's was a double, which she was sharing with Patrick.

“Anyway,” she said, fumbling in her handbag for the electronic card. “That was a very nice evening. Thank you.”

“I enjoyed it too. Say hi to Patrick for me. I'll see him at breakfast.”

“Will do. If he's still up.”

It was later than they had both thought: almost 1:30.

“Shit,” said Philip. “I meant to phone Carol tonight. Find out how Benjamin was.” And then, at the mention of this name, he remembered something. “By the way—when you saw him a few weeks ago, did Benjamin say anything to you about a hairdresser?”

Claire stopped in the act of opening her door.

“Yes, he did. Why, has he mentioned her to you?”

“Only in the sense that . . . Well, he told me that he went to see her last week and tried to get talking, and it all went horribly wrong. Apparently, not only did he
not
manage to ask her out, and not only did he
not
get his hair cut, but the manager's banned him from going within a hundred yards of the place.”

“
Banned
him?” said Claire, disbelieving. “Why, what happened?”

“He just got nervous, I suppose,” Philip said. “And sometimes, you know, when you get nervous—the wrong words come out.”

“But all he was going to ask for was a cut and blow dry.”

“The ‘cut' bit came out OK,” Philip told her, deadpan. “It was ‘blow dry' he had some difficulty with.” He shook his head and unlocked the door. “I suppose he just had something else on his mind at the time.”

And for the next half hour, he and Claire lay listening to each other's laughter on either side of the dividing wall.

7

—— Original Message ——
From: P_Chase
To: Claire
Sent: Thursday, August 9, 2001 10:27 a.m.
Subject: Déjà vu

Great to see you last week. We must celebrate the painful and devastating severance of our marital bond more often. And what a weird surprise that we should run into Culpepper that night. He seemed so pleased to see us that, for a moment there, I'd got him marked down as nothing more than a harmless old bore—until I remembered what a bastard he'd been at school, and how he had made life hell for Steve, apart from anything else. Shows how dangerous nostalgia can be, blurring the sharp outlines of fact into something more palatable, more soft-focus . . .

Anyway: I was emailing for a slightly odd reason, namely that I just this morning remembered what it was that I *couldn't* remember the other night re. Paul Trotter and Miriam. And now that I have remembered it, it seems a bit embarrassing—too insubstantial, in a way, to be worth passing on. Also, I'm not sure that I should encourage you (or Patrick) to keep obsessing over this business. Some things simply have to be laid to rest, and a firm line drawn under them.

Anyway. This is what it was. One day at school, Benjamin and I were out with the Walking Option and we got lost pretty badly—as we did most weeks, I seem to remember. I can't say we tried very hard to get back to the others—my memory is that we'd taken some food with us, and possibly some beer as well, and we ended up just sitting down and making a picnic of it. That was when Paul came by, riding his bicycle. He was off sick that day—allegedly—though that didn't seem to stop him practising for the
Tour de France
up and down the Lickey hills, as far as I could see.

Benjamin and I were having one of those laddish (I'm not sure the word existed then, or was used much, at any rate) conversations about women. We were both rather ruefully admitting that neither of us had ever seen a naked woman except on the telly. And that (at least, this is how I remember it) was when Paul chipped in and reduced us both to silence by saying that he *had* seen someone naked—and then he mentioned your sister.

Now, I wouldn't attach any significance to this at all—because he could have been making it up, or he could have been referring to some pervy glimpse of her he got when spying on the girls' school showers one day (I wouldn't have put anything past him, at that age)—if it wasn't for one peculiar detail. Remember that we're talking about a conversation that took place probably about twenty-five years ago, so my memory of it is hardly going to be very clear; but on the other hand, I haven't thought about it since then—not once—which means that it hasn't had the chance to get distorted and rewritten in my head. And my recollection is that he said he had seen her down by a reservoir—a reservoir near Cofton Park. I suppose that means the one off Barnt Green Road.

Now—that would be a pretty strange thing to make up, wouldn't it? Ben and I just thought he was bullshitting us—took absolutely no notice of what he was saying, really, whereas if he had not been such a comprehensive pain in the arse we would at least have *registered,* I suppose, that this was a curious tale he was spinning. What I'm trying to sort out now, in my mind, is the date of this event. I mean, I have no way at all of knowing how recently Paul had had this experience (if it was a real experience); but I think I can say, with some certainty, when he told us about it. When he waylaid us on his bicycle he was singing “Anarchy in the UK”—I remember that, with complete clarity—so it can't have been any earlier than autumn 1976. Two years after Miriam disappeared. And it may even have been a few months later than that because I've got a feeling that Benjamin was already into his on-off-and-on-again thing with Cicely by then—which would date it after his famous “Othello” review came out at the beginning of the spring term, 1977.

Benjamin himself might remember more about this. I'll ask him when he gets in from work tonight. (Mind you, it's hard to get him to talk about anything other than the miserable state of his life at the moment.) Alternatively, you could contact Paul directly—get it from the horse's mouth, as it were. Rather you than me, on that one.

Look, I'm probably making a big deal out of nothing, here. I can't help feeling guilty even about sending this message off to you. I hope it doesn't start you off on some sort of false trail and just re-open all the stuff you tried so hard to put a lid on years ago. Don't rush into this, Claire, OK? Think about what you're getting into. Take a few days and try to decide whether you really want to start off on that road again.

Take care, anyway, and big love from
Phil XX.

—— Original Message ——
From: Claire
To: P_Chase
Sent: Thursday, August 9, 2001 11:10 a.m.
Subject: Re: Déjà vu

Hi Phil, thanks for that.

Can you let me have Paul Trotter's number please?
Much love Claire x

—Hello?

—Hello—am I speaking to Claire Newman?

—Yes, you are.

—It's Paul Trotter here.

—Oh. Hello.

—Is this a good time to call? Are you alone?

—Um . . . yes, this is a good time. And yes, I'm alone.

—I received your message on my answering machine.

—Good. Well . . . that was where I left it.

—Quite.

—It was nice to see you again, the other day.

—I'm sorry?

—In London—a couple of weeks ago—at the restaurant? It was nice to see you again.

—Ah, yes. You too. We'd . . . met before, then, had we?

—Well—at school, obviously.

—Ah! School! Of course. I thought you might have been . . .

—We haven't met since then, I don't think. I've been out of the country a lot—

—The message you left on my machine was rather extraordinary.

—Um . . . Yes, I'm sorry about that. It might have been a good idea . . . Maybe it would have been a better idea to explain things in person.

—I'm not at all sure that I can help you.

—No. Well, I understand that, of course.

—Your husband, Philip—

—Ex. He's my ex-husband.

—Ah. Ex-husband. I hadn't appreciated that. I was under the impression that you were celebrating your anniversary.

—We were—after a fashion. It's a long story. Not really relevant.

—Your husband is a journalist, isn't he?

—I'm not married.

—I mean your ex-husband.

—Yes. That's right. He is.

—And he was the one who gave you my number?

—Yes, that's right.

—Is he there with you now?

—There's nobody with me now. I'm alone. I'm not married any more. Philip lives in Birmingham, I live in Malvern. There's nobody else here.

—Forgive me if I sound paranoid. I've had a lot of difficulty with journalists.

—This is nothing to do with Philip. I'm trying to find something out purely for my own personal . . . interest.

—I see.

—Does that make things any easier for you?

—It might do. Possibly. But, as I said, I really don't think I'm going to be of much help to you.

—You remember my sister, I take it? You remember the story of her disappearing?

—Of course.

—It was just that Philip had this memory of something you'd said to him. Something about seeing her—

—Yes, I heard your message. I have no recollection of having said that. None whatsoever.

—No. Of course not. It was a very long time ago.

—But I do remember the . . . incident itself.

—You do? I mean—which incident?

—I remember seeing your sister . . . at the reservoir.

—Can you tell me anything—?

—I must ask you to clarify this, Claire. You have no intention of putting any of this into the public domain?

—None whatsoever.

—I have your sworn undertaking on that point?

—Absolutely. I'm doing this for myself. That's the only reason.

—Well then. It's true—I believe—that I did see your sister early one evening. It was getting dark and I was cycling alone down by Cofton Park. It was after school and I was on my way home.

—Were you at King William's then?

—I believe not. I believe I was still at primary school.

—What sort of . . . state was she in?

—She had no clothes on.

—None at all?

—None—that I remember.

—When was this? What time of year?

—It was winter.

—Was she alone?

—No. There was a man with her.

—A man?

—Yes. It was getting dark, as I said, and I couldn't see very well. The paleness of her body was what caught my attention through the bushes. I got off my bike and came nearer. As I got closer I realized that there was a man with her and he turned and stared at me. I became frightened and I ran back to my bicycle and then I cycled home.

—You didn't tell anybody about this? Why not?

—I was frightened.

—Was my sister . . . Was she alive?

—I don't know. At the time I thought that she was. I thought that she and the man were having sex—that that's what they were doing by the reservoir.

—Was he undressed as well?

—No. I don't think so.

—Why didn't you tell anybody about this, after my sister disappeared?

—I didn't hear about your sister's disappearance for some time. Two or three years, at least, I should think. It wasn't talked about in our household. Round about the same time, we had our own tragedy to contend with.

—Do you remember meeting Miriam and me one morning at the café in Rednal, down by the number 62 terminus? You and your brother had just been to church.

—No, I don't believe that I do.

—I was wondering if that was before or after you saw her at the reservoir.

—I never spoke to her after seeing her at the reservoir.

—Are you sure of that?

—Quite sure.

—So it must have been before.

—Yes. I would think so.

—OK. OK, there's a lot I need to think about . . .

—I've now told you everything that I know.

—Yes. Thank you.

—I can't see any need to continue this conversation. Can you?

—No. No, there's no need. Thank you. You've been very—

—It has all taken place in the strictest confidence. You understand that, don't you?

—Yes, of course.

—Good. I shall remember you said that. Goodbye then.

—Goodbye. Have you—?

—— Original Message ——
From: Doug Anderton
To: Claire
Sent: Monday, August 20, 2001 20:53 p.m.
Subject: Papers

Dear Claire

Well, that one came out of left-field. Hearing from you at all, never mind with such an unexpected request.

I'm sorry it's taken me a few days to reply. Funnily enough I have been up at my mother's. Well, actually there's nothing funny about it. About ten days ago she had a stroke—quite a bad one. We were on holiday in Umbria at the time and I had to fly straight back. The whole of one side of her body went and she couldn't speak or move. She lay on the living room floor in her house for eighteen hours. Luckily her neighbour had arranged to come round the next afternoon. Mum's a tough old thing—a real fighter—but she was shit scared, as you can imagine.

She came out of hospital four days ago (they can't wait to get you out these days) and I've been staying with her at home since then. Just got back to London a few hours ago and have only just read my emails. Mum is not really in a state to see anyone at the moment. Maybe in a couple of weeks she'll be able to have visitors. Meanwhile she's got this care worker coming round in the afternoons and I'll be going up myself every few days.

I'll let you know when she's ready to see people. But I should also warn you that the papers you're talking about haven't been sorted since my dad died—they're all upstairs, in what used to be my bedroom. (Did you ever go there? No, I don't think so. Never did manage to entice you into that particular den of iniquity. Ah, the chances let slip!) And I very much doubt that there's anything about your sister up there. I didn't know that she and my dad had been on a charity committee together. There might be a bit of paperwork relating to that, I suppose. I'm not sure exactly what you're looking for—but then, maybe you're not either. I suppose anything you come across might turn out to be a clue, in the most unexpected of ways.

Anyway, keep your curiosity under control for a little bit longer and I'll get back in touch as soon as it seems OK for you to go round. In the meantime—do you ever come down to London? It'd be great to have a drink. I'm a happily married man these days as you know, so there would be no funny business unless you specifically requested it.

Kiss kiss
Doug.

—— Original Message ——
From: Doug Anderton
To: Claire
Sent: Friday, September 7, 2001, 22:09 p.m.
Subject: Visiting Rednal

Dear Claire

Just got back from a few days with my mum this afternoon. She is still in a sorry old state, but quite a lot stronger than when I wrote to you last. I told her you were interested in coming to visit and she said (insofar as I could tell—it's bloody hard to understand a word she's saying at the moment) that she would like to see you. I told her you wanted to look through Dad's papers and she said that you were going to have your work cut out, which is true. I went up there myself and it's a nightmare. About fifty cardboard boxes full of stuff. Go and have a look if you want but you'll have a terrible job—none of it's in any order. For years I've been meaning to donate it all to the Modern Records Center at Warwick University—they already have a big archive of trade union papers there—and this has given me an incentive to get on with it. I rang them up and there's a bloke going to come and check it all out at the end of next week.