Authors: Jane Retzig
Tags: #Gay & Lesbian, #Romantic Suspense, #Mystery & Suspense, #Fiction, #Romance, #Suspense, #Genre Fiction, #Lesbian, #Lesbian Romance, #Literature & Fiction
The Full Legacy (24 page)
DS Jackson looked thoughtful. ‘We can speak to Adam Shaw... and if he won’t play ball... we’re already checking through CCTV footage in the area. We can look out for their cars.... So... okay.... you’ve possibly accounted for Mary. Do you want to tell me how Mrs Waters ended up going out of that window now?’
I took a deep breath. My eyelids were so heavy I felt they might close of their own volition at any moment. The room dipped and swam.
‘Joyce Waters had every intention of killing herself, I’m sure of that. I think her initial plan was to use the First World War pistol she kept in the drawer of her workbench. She changed her mind when she thought about the consequences of getting it wrong. When she blasted the window out I knew she’d decided to jump instead. I tried to intervene but there was no way I could ever have stopped her. She was too determined. She was already full of guilt about Sylvia and now she had Mary on her conscience too. It was just too much for her.’
The room bucked in front of my eyes, then went completely out of focus. I tried to imagine I was a camera, pulling myself back in.
‘Did you see Mrs Shaw push her mother?’
‘No.’
‘Was Mrs Shaw in the room at the point when her mother went out of the window.’
‘I don’t know.’
I fought to retain consciousness, as I had done back there.
I knew that all the facts needed to be weighed and Turner found not guilty.
I struggled on.
‘But I think she was,’ I said. ‘Joyce was trying to help me. And as she turned round, I think she saw Turner run into the room, and in her guilty frame of mind, I think she mistook her for her sister. I think all she did was step back. But she overbalanced, and she was gone.’
There, I’d done it, for better or for worse. And I’d told the story without a single reference to Turner’s ‘dark lady’.
As I plunged into oblivion, I could have sworn I heard my father’s voice whispering ‘Well done!’
Turner
They released Turner without charge.
‘I’ve been such an idiot,’ she said when she came to see me the next day. She looked exhausted, still grief stricken, and so contrite I just wanted to enfold her in my arms and kiss all the pain away.
‘I’m not going to argue with that.’ I said, reaching for her hand.
‘Can you ever forgive me?’
‘Never in a million years!’
I shook my head and she glanced anxiously at me, trying to work out whether I was joking or not.
I laced my fingers with hers. I’d always loved the way we fitted together like that.
‘Do you love me?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I do.’ Her dark eyes met mine, and I believed her.
‘Then I forgive you,’ I said. ‘Because... heaven help me.... I think I love you too.’
A Wedding
I managed to get out of hospital in time to take the photographs of my mum’s Big Day. I was in a wheelchair, and not used to it, so most of the shots were from slightly quirky angles, and the composition became more eccentric as the day progressed and the champagne mingled with my meds. But it was all a huge success. My mother, after a whole morning with Michelle, was absolutely stunning in a simple dark pink figure-hugging silk dress, and her groom was impossibly handsome in a traditional morning suit with matching tie. He looked suitably smitten.
She
looked as if she couldn’t believe her luck. And his parents appeared to be only slightly horrified by his acquisition of a middle-aged wife and ‘back street glamour photographer’ stepdaughter. There were uproarious speeches.... lots of them and a couple of catfights as people got drunk and easily offended. There was also a fair amount of cavorting around the corridors of the Country House Hotel in Essex they’d chosen for the reception and a few theatrical liaisons were made and broken that night. But I missed most of that, having gone to bed early with the most beautiful woman in the place.
Biarritz
Turner and I moved to France the following spring.
We live in her family villa on the Atlantic coast, not far from Biarritz. I have a photography studio in town where I create tasteful portraits of the rich, and often famous people who own or rent holiday homes there. I’m learning the ‘lingo’ as DS Jackson would call it, and thankfully most of the local people seem to find my atrocious accent “charmante”. I think they make allowances for me because they’ve known generations of Turner’s family and remember her parents with such affection.
Michelle and David and Luke and Jon come across regularly for holidays. And Michelle enjoys teasing me about how intimidated I am by my fearsome French hair and make-up artiste, Chantelle, who is as chic as it’s possible to be whilst maintaining an actual human existence outside the pages of Vogue.
Mum and Sinclair sweep in from time to time when they’re ‘resting’. Mum was one of the main winners from my fifteen minutes of infamy. A big-shot TV casting director saw the photograph of her in the paper and auditioned her for a comedy series called ‘Never Too Late’. The plot revolved around the exploits of a middle-aged ex ‘Carry On’ girl who becomes a private detective for celebrity clients. Sinclair co-starred as the guy next door with a secret crush on her. There were five seasons, still repeated regularly on ‘UK Gold’ and Mum and Sinclair have rarely been out of work since. Mum’s a hot tip to be featured in the next series of ‘Life Stories’ and I’m already feeling nervous about whether she’s going to expect me to be interviewed for it. I follow their busy lives on Twitter and thank my lucky stars that Sinclair is still every bit as much in love with my mum as he was on the day he proposed to her.
Things never quite got back to how they’d once been with Kay. I see her sometimes for lunch or coffee when I’m in London, but she’s never warmed to Turner, so she won’t come across to see us in France. She
did
finally get together with Ros, who keeps in touch more - ‘skyping’ regularly to keep me up to date with all the gossip.
I’m pretty lonely a lot of the time if I’m honest. I’m not a natural linguist and I’m never going to speak the language here well enough to have a proper conversation with anyone. I miss London and working with Michelle. I miss the feistiness of the women who used to come for their boudoir sessions too, but I see what Turner means when she says that kind of photography isn’t really classy enough for somewhere like Biarritz.
The Atlantic coastline is so beautiful. I love to hear the waves crashing on the rocks and feel the spray blowing against my face in the winter, splattering my camera lens when I try to capture it. I love the taste of salt in the air - the gulls screaming on the wind currents.
And I’m glad that the Suffolk house is sold at last. The physical pain is much better most of the time. And we’re away from the places that remind us too strongly of the people we’ve lost along the way.
My ‘gift’ doesn’t frighten me anymore. I’ve learnt to understand the things I see as just energy – just light and shade. Like the light and shade I see through my camera, or flickering on a cinema screen. Nothing more threatening than that, after all.
Crimes are committed by the living, not the dead.
And sometimes, we manage a few minor miracles along the way.
Turner is the love of my life. She’s gorgeous, sexy, intelligent, and all over the place. When she’s on form, she can light up a room for me just by walking into it. When she’s high she drives me to distraction, frightens me, infuriates me and ignites a fire in me so fierce I could fight the world for her. And when the darkness comes, it’s as if the lights have gone out throughout my world. I feel the loneliness so much more then, when she shuts herself away from me.
Sometimes I see her at the piano, as the chords die away, staring out to sea. I see the pain that comes into her eyes, and I know that she is looking for her ‘dark lady’.... sad for the people she’s lost.... for the mistakes she’s made.
I understand her then, more than at any other time. There are so many things I would have done differently too if I could. But being with Turner is the best thing that has ever happened to me.
So I put my arms around her shoulders and she leans back to kiss me and I bury my face in her hair and tell her that I love her.
And as she captures my arms with her hands and draws me closer, I feel the inextricable pull that has always been there between us. And I know beyond all doubt that she loves me too.
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