The Unburied Past (30 page)

Vomit rose in Dean's throat, but he couldn't afford the luxury of expelling it. He turned in dread to the open door of the cottage, from which no sound was emerging. Encased in fear, Dean went slowly forward, pushed the door open farther, and came to a halt on the threshold. Barry was standing motionless at the foot of a steep staircase, his back to the door, a rock – the twin of the one he'd tripped over – in one hand and a brown canvas bag in the other. He
must
be dreaming! Dean thought in terror. This
couldn't
be happening again! But as he went slowly forward, he saw what Barry's body had been screening from him – the body of a young woman lying splayed on the floor.

Incapable of speech, Dean touched his brother's arm. Barry turned, but there was something odd about him – something that added to the horror of the scene. One side of his face seemed to have slipped, making it appear uneven, and his eyes had a blank, bewildered look.

‘Barry!' Fear for his brother momentarily eclipsed the horror. ‘Baz, what happened? Are you all right?'

Ridiculous question. Barry continued to stare mindlessly as Dean took his arm and shook it. ‘Barry, don't do this to me! For God's sake, what's wrong with you?'

His brother made an attempt to speak but no sound came, and finally the truth exploded in Dean's head. A stroke! He'd had a stroke! He must get him to hospital immediately!

Averting his eyes from the young woman and the gash in her head, Dean coaxed his brother, still clutching both bag and rock, out of the cottage, pulling the door to behind them and, bypassing the second body – or was it the third? he thought hysterically – managed to help him into the car.

 

He remembered little of the drive, his mind having closed down on everything except the need to drive quickly and safely to Hawkston Hospital. Once his brother had been wheeled off on a trolley, Dean, still on autopilot, phoned Vivien. She arrived within fifteen minutes, but Barry was still undergoing tests and they were unable to see him.

‘What
happened
, Dean?' she demanded, white-faced. ‘You were playing golf, weren't you? I expected him home some time ago.'

He was ready for her questions, having used the time it took her to get there to concoct a story of sorts. ‘That's right; we had lunch in the bar as usual and some of the gang joined us, so we were late getting away.'

‘But where did you go? Why not come straight home?'

‘There are problems at work – you know that, Viv. We thought a walk in the country might help to clear our heads.'

True, as far as it went.

‘And then?'

Now for the improvisation. ‘We'd gone some way when Barry tripped over a rabbit hole and lost his footing. I helped him up, but he seemed – disorientated, somehow. We decided to go straight back to the car, but it was further away than I'd realized and he seemed to be getting worse.'

She laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. ‘It must have been awful for you.'

‘A nightmare,' he said inadequately. ‘I hope to God he's all right, Viv. I know time is vital in these cases and it must have been a good forty minutes before I got him here.'

‘We can only hope and pray,' she said.

It was, in fact, days before they learned the extent of the damage the stroke had caused. In the meantime, to add to Dean's troubles, Tony's unaccountable absence was a topic for much speculation at work, and Marilyn, increasingly frantic, kept phoning to say the police wouldn't take his disappearance seriously. It wasn't until his boat was found floating some way down the lake that they began seriously to search for him and Dean braced himself daily for news of his discovery. None came.

Meanwhile, the papers and news bulletins were full of the double murder in the holiday cottage at Penthwaite. The victims were named as Mark and Emma Franklyn from down south somewhere, and apparently there'd been two children in the house at the time, thankfully unharmed. Police were puzzled by the seeming lack of motive, since money and jewellery had been left untouched and there was no sign of anything else having been taken.
Except the canvas bag
, Dean thought. He'd examined it at the first possible opportunity and found it full of what looked like expensive photographic equipment including a camera – no doubt the reason Barry had taken it. But when Dean fearfully opened it, there was no film inside.
Had
that young man been taking photos of them, or was that all in Barry's fevered imagination? The absence of film seemed to indicate the latter. At any rate, the bag was now buried under a pile of old clothes and blankets in his loft. God knows what he was going to do with it.

He could also, he thought ungratefully, have done without Pauline's clinging sympathy. She'd appointed herself his carer during his anxiety about his brother, and insisted on spending every night with him, ‘so he wouldn't be alone'. But he
wanted
to be alone, dammit! After the non-stop play-acting at work and with Vivien, he needed space to himself.

It was as he was lying awake one night that a sudden thought struck him and he sat up abruptly. In all the horror of the killings and Barry's illness, he'd totally overlooked the cause of it all – Tony's patent application. Suppose Marilyn had come across it? He must try to get hold of it as soon as possible.

Beside him, Pauline murmured sleepily, ‘All right, sweetie-pie?'

Dean drew a measured breath. ‘All right,' he confirmed, and lay down again.

The following evening he called on Marilyn straight from work, and was filled with guilt at her appearance. Gone was all her bubbly good humour, her sense of fun. She looked wan and tearful, and on opening the door to him, burst into tears and half fell into his arms. He held her closely, patting her back and aware of an inappropriate shaft of desire. Truth to tell, he'd always fancied Marilyn, with her blonde hair and big blue eyes.

Dismissing the thought, he led her gently back into the house. ‘I hate to disturb you at a time like this,' he said, ‘but I think Tony brought some papers back from the office, and we really need to have them.'

She wiped her eyes on a scrap of lace handkerchief. ‘I'm sure he did,' she said with a sniff. ‘He spent a lot of time working in the evenings.'

‘You … haven't seen them lying around?'

She shook her head. ‘They're probably in his desk in the dining room.'

As, indeed, they were, and Dean drew a deep breath of thankfulness. The patent application lay ready for posting, along with the specification of the miracle machine and various other papers relating to its invention. Marilyn, who had gone to make coffee, called from the kitchen, ‘Any luck?'

‘Yes – yes, thanks, I've found them.'

‘Good.' She came back with two mugs and handed him one. ‘What do you think has happened to him, Dean?' Her eyes filled again. ‘We were supposed to be going out for dinner. I sat here in my new dress and waited and waited and he never came.'

His heart ached for her. ‘I'm so very sorry, Marilyn.'

She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, how awful of me – I should have asked. How's Barry?'

‘Not rallying as quickly as we'd hoped.'

‘Isn't it dreadful to think he was taken ill at just about the time that Tony—'

She broke off, and Dean repressed a shudder. ‘I know,' he said inadequately. ‘Black Sunday.'

‘It was indeed. I – I don't know what to do.' Her hands were twisting in her lap. ‘Tony always took care of everything, but until he's …' Her breath caught on a sob. ‘Until we have some definite news one way or the other, the bank won't give me any money.'

He cursed himself for not anticipating this. ‘Don't worry, Marilyn, that's easily fixed: I'll arrange for his salary to be paid to you, and if there's anything else I can help with, you only have to ask.'

‘Oh, thank you!' she breathed. ‘That's so kind, especially when you have troubles of your own.'

‘I mean it – anything you need.' Indeed, he felt belatedly responsible for her, ashamed that her plight hadn't occurred to him before. The least he could do now was take care of her until everything was sorted out.

Dean had been dreading his first meeting with Barry. Vivien met him in the doorway of the ward. ‘It's good news,' she said in an undertone. ‘He's got his speech back, and the use of his arm, thank God. The main damage was to his memory. Parts of it have been wiped clean, the doctors say. It might come back, or it might not – they just don't know. I'll leave you with him for a while – I'm in need of a coffee.'

Tentatively Dean approached the still figure in the bed. ‘Barry?'

Barry turned his head and his face lit up. ‘Dean! Good to see you!'

‘How are you?'

‘Getting there, they tell me. But what happened, exactly? Can you fill me in?'

Dean looked at him uncertainly. ‘Well, it was a stroke—'

‘I know
that
, lad! But where was I when it happened?'

A cold hand closed over Dean's heart. ‘You don't remember?'

‘The last thing I remember is drinks in the bar at the club. Weren't we going to drive out somewhere?'

‘Oh, God,' Dean said tonelessly.

‘Well? Were we?'

‘We were going to see Tony,' Dean said fearfully.

‘Oh, yes, Tony! What's all this about him going missing? It was in one of the papers.'

Dean felt behind him for a chair and lowered himself carefully on to it. Was this an act? Could Barry really have forgotten the nightmare into which he'd plunged them both and in which he, Dean, was still embroiled? And if so, would he be left to carry the guilt alone for the rest of his life?

‘You remember about Tony's patent application?' he prompted desperately.

‘God, yes.' Barry grimaced. ‘It sounds callous, but if he doesn't turn up, it'll come to us after all, won't it?'

‘I suppose it will,' said Dean aridly.

T
he phone rang out in the hall. Marilyn half rose, but Dean waved her down and went irritably to answer it. ‘Yes?'

‘Dean – thank God!' It was Vivien's voice. ‘I have to speak to you. Did Marilyn tell you about the visitors she had while you were in Germany?'

‘She did,' he admitted cautiously.
Vivien?
She couldn't possibly know the truth – could she?

‘Can you come straight round – by yourself?'

‘Vivien, I've only just got back from—'

‘I know; I was watching for your car.'

The coldness intensified. God, his whole world was collapsing about him. ‘Well, I suppose I—'

‘Tell her Barry's had a fall or something. Half an hour?'

Useless to protest any further. The inevitable was finally catching up with him. ‘I'll be there,' he said.

Vivien was waiting at her open front door and, as soon as he was within reach, caught hold of his arm and pulled him inside.

‘It's Barry,' she said in a low voice. ‘He's completely gone to pieces.'

Dean stared at her, his mind spinning. ‘I know he's not been at work, but his secretary said he had flu. I meant to phone but I've been so—'

‘It's been coming on for weeks – you must have noticed,' Vivien broke in, ‘but it was when I told him about Marilyn's visitors that he just simply … folded, and he's not said a single word since. I wanted to phone you at once, but he became very distressed, shaking his head violently, and I was afraid if I did it would make things worse. I called the doctor, but after examining him he said there's no sign of another stroke and prescribed a sedative, which he's refused point-blank to take. In the end I couldn't take any more and phoned you anyway.'

Dean closed his eyes on a wave of nausea. ‘And it was when you mentioned those people that he really lost it?'

‘Yes, when I told him they'd asked about Tony.' Vivien's face was white in the dim hallway. ‘God, Dean, I've been imagining all kinds of horrors. Perhaps now you're here he'll speak to you.'

‘Where is he?'

‘In the kitchen. He sits there for hours on end, sometimes staring into space, sometimes with tears streaming down his face, and when I try to comfort him he just shakes me off. I've been out of my mind with worry.'

Dean moved slowly down the hall and stood in the doorway, scarcely able to believe the man at the table was his brother. Barry had aged in the week he'd been away. His flesh hung loosely on him, his eyes were sunken, he was unshaven and his hair was uncombed.

Vivien went past him into the room. ‘Dean's here, darling,' she said. Barry raised his head and stared with dull eyes at the figure in the doorway.

Reluctantly Dean moved forward. ‘Hello, Baz. Not feeling too good?'

Barry reached up suddenly and grabbed his arm, the tightness of his grip making his brother flinch.

‘It didn't happen, did it, Dean?' he demanded urgently, his voice cracking. ‘I'm hallucinating, aren't I? Tell me it's just a nightmare!'

‘Your memory's come back.' It wasn't a question.

Barry dropped his arm and covered his face with both hands. ‘Oh, God, God, God!' he said rapidly through his fingers.

Vivien dropped to her knees beside him, reaching out for him. He'd begun rocking backwards and forwards and she had trouble holding on to him.

‘Tell me,' she said.

He shook his head violently, dry sobs racking his body.

She looked up at Dean. ‘Then for the love of God,
you
tell me! Anything has to be better than this.' She paused. ‘It was Tony, wasn't it? Marilyn says she couldn't believe he'd drowned.'

‘Yes,' Dean confirmed flatly, ‘it was Tony.'

‘But what happened? I know you'd had your differences, but—'