The Cruellest Game (43 page)

During that six-week period I called in a clearance firm and accepted another doubtless derisory sum to clear Highrise of most of its remaining furniture and decorative pieces, all of Robert and
Robbie’s clothes which were still there, and indeed most of my own clothes and personal possessions.

Then I spent a sizeable chunk of the proceeds on a new hairdo. I wanted to change everything about myself, and my full head of curly brown hair was probably my most distinctive feature. It was a
big thing for me to do. My hair had been much the same since my teens, except for the grey roots. I determined to do it in style, so I took the train to London and splashed out on the full works at
Vidal Sassoon’s Mayfair salon. I wanted a totally different look. I had my hair straightened and went for a very short geometric cut, typical Sassoon, and a full white-blonde peroxide dip. I
then took a cab to John Lewis in Oxford Street and bought myself a black leather jacket, black leggings and a couple of those cotton print dresses everyone seemed to be wearing that you put on over
leggings. I had a long way to go before adopting Marti Smith’s unique sharpness of style, but I had to admit to myself that my clothes shopping was somewhat influenced by my solicitor. More
than anything, I wanted to look modern. After all, I was finally about to leave behind what had been, even in the very good days, a kind of time-warp existence, and project myself into the modern
world.

I discarded the dated nearly black trouser suit that I’d worn in order to travel to London and left John Lewis wearing the leather jacket I’d purchased over one of the print dresses
and the leggings. I couldn’t help looking at myself in every mirror I passed, if only to check that the woman in the reflection really was me. I seemed to be well on the way to at least
looking like a different person, and it was only by more or less becoming a different person that I thought I would ever have a chance of moving on from the enormity of all that I had lost.

I thought I was getting there, although the day that would have been Robbie’s sixteenth birthday, the 28th of May, was predictably black. But I coped. Just about.

I even threw a little farewell party for the people who had been so kind to me: Gladys and the Reverend Gerald, the Farleys, the Jamesons and Marti Smith. I’d also invited Pam Cotton, but
she’d been in Truro prosecuting a crooked Cornish county councillor. At least, Pam said he was crooked. Seriously so.

The rest of us drank all that remained of Robert’s wine and got quite squiffy. Well, I did, anyway. And Gladys too. She wobbled on her feet a bit and looked rather weepy as she enveloped
me in a great big hug and said: ‘You will come and visit, won’t you, Marion? We’re going to miss you, you know.’

I promised that I would, but had no intention of doing so.

When I left Highrise Farm a couple of days later I needed only a couple of medium-sized suitcases to carry what was left of my personal possessions. On one of the wettest and windiest days of
the worst June on record I loaded the cases onto the back seat of the Lexus, my only legacy, really, of all those years with Robert. Then I loaded Florrie into the rear compartment behind her
doggie guard, started the engine, and drove dry-eyed and without a backward glance up the lane away from the place I had so loved, from the place that had once been my wonderful dream home, and
from a life I had also thought to be wonderful.

I suppose I surprised myself a little. But I had, of course, already wept so many tears that there were probably none left. Highrise represented only misery now. It reminded me only of great
tragedy and great loss.

Suddenly I found that I couldn’t wait to put it behind me once and for all.

I hoped eventually that I might be able to return to teaching as a career, albeit after some retraining, perhaps in a place where I was not known. Meanwhile I thought I might travel for a bit,
visiting places I had never been to, which held no memories for me of my other lost life.

But first I had arranged to visit my father for a couple of weeks. It was a long time since I’d actually stayed in the old cottage attached to the little garage he still ran part-time on
the outskirts of Hartland. And even longer since I’d been inside the garage where I knew I would find him once I’d realized he wasn’t in the house.

He was down in the inspection pit working on an old MGB roadster. He’d seen me a couple of times since I’d acquired my peroxide-blonde geometric hairdo, so he’d already got
over the shock. Well, got over it enough to no longer mention it, anyway. He came to the edge of the pit and peered up at me.

‘Don’t suppose you can give me a hand, maid?’ he asked. ‘Young Jim Hickson, you know, lives with his mam up by the church, needs to get to Bude tomorrow ’bout a new
job. Bleddy young fool’s never learned how to look after an MG exhaust. Drives everywhere fast as he can whatever the state of the road and he’s really scuppered it this
time.’

I bent down so that I could clearly see the end of the B’s exhaust pipe hanging at a terminal angle.

‘Needs a whole new system, of course, but I’m damned if I can get the parts in time,’ Dad went on. ‘Two or three days, they say, so I’m just going to have to patch
’er up . . .’

He was a lovely man, my dad, kind, trustworthy, always trying to help people. It was just like him to be putting himself out for a neighbour, a young man I knew he had seen grow up. If only I
could have married a man like him, I thought to myself, not for the first time.

I straightened up and smiled down at him.

‘So it’s the old bean-can trick is it?’

‘It sure is,’ he said. ‘Fiddly bleddy job, too, and ’twould be a damn sight easier with two pairs of hands.’

‘I’m not sure I’d be much help,’ I remarked casually.

‘Oh yes, you would.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I persisted.

‘Come on, maid.’ It was Dad’s turn to persist. ‘When you worked with me as a slip of a girl you were a better mechanic than any boy. You should have carried on with it,
you know. You were a natural. You won’t have forgotten, I’m sure of it.’

I studied him carefully for a few seconds. I didn’t know how closely my father had followed Robert’s trial, if at all in view of the distress I knew it had caused him, nor how fully
some of the less dramatic evidence, the technical stuff, had been reported in the press. But Dad’s entire concentration appeared focused on the task confronting him. There certainly seemed to
be no edge to his remarks.

I relaxed. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll do my best. Got any spare overalls?’

Dad climbed up out of the pit.

‘I’ll find you some, and I’ll fetch a can,’ he said, beaming at me. ‘Still my right-hand girl, eh?’

He disappeared into the cottage. The bean-can trick, as it’s known, involves vertically slicing open a tin can, cutting out a strip, and fastening it around a blown or broken exhaust pipe.
It could only ever be a temporary job, but with a bit of luck, would get young Jim Hickson to Bude and back.

While I waited for Dad to return I rummaged around the garage looking for a couple of jubilee clips with which to secure the makeshift repair.

During what I now regarded as my long sham of a marriage to Robert I’d left the whole of the early part of my life behind me and never talked about my perhaps unlikely knowledge in certain
areas. Nor would I have been sure, then, how much I’d retained. In any case, Robert had believed in a pretty clear demarcation in our roles. He’d been the man and the engineer.
He’d looked after our vehicles and everything mechanical and technical. He’d not had the vaguest idea that I might also have been capable of doing so.

But my father knew me well. I had indeed forgotten very little from those long ago days working alongside him in his garage.

I’d realized that as soon as I’d started my deadly work on Brenda Anderton’s car.

BY HILARY BONNER

Fiction

The Cruelty of Morning

A Fancy to Kill For

A Passion So Deadly

For Death Comes Softly

A Deep Deceit

A Kind of Wild Justice

A Moment of Madness

When the Dead Cry Out

No Reason to Die

The Cruellest Game

Non-fiction

Rene and Me
(with Gorden Kaye)

Benny: The True Story
(with Dennis Kirkland)

It’s Not a Rehearsal
(with Amanda Barrie)

Journeyman
(with Clive Gunnell)

Heartbeat: The Real Life Story

acknowledgements

Grateful thanks are due to:

The indomitable Heather Chasen for reminding me I should also be so, Doctor Rudy Capeldeo; Doctor Paul Bevan; Patricia May LIB, Barrister-at-Law; former Detective Sergeant
Frank Waghorn; Devon coroner’s officers Cath Lake, Jean Timms, and Leigh Bass; super-clever mechanic Robert Andrews; Alex Broadbent; my agent Tony Peake for his enduring support; and, of
course, my inspirational editor Wayne Brookes and all the team at Pan Macmillan for the faith they have shown in me.

First published 2013 by Macmillan

This electronic edition published 2013 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-230-77156-7

Copyright © Hilary Bonner 2013

The right of Hilary Bonner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital,
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liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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