A Question of Identity (10 page)

On impulse, she caught up the phone and rang the mobile number of Tess Chadwick, a reporter for the
Stokely Gazette.

‘Hi, Rona!' came Tess's throaty tones. ‘Stumbled over any dead bodies lately?'

‘Thankfully not,' Rona replied. ‘I have a more mundane question for you: do you have any school photos in your archives?'

‘Probably. What date are you thinking?'

‘1951.'

‘Blimey – the dark ages!'

‘Well, that's what archives are for, isn't it? To shed some light on them?'

‘We've nothing here that goes that far back, but you could try the county archives in Buckford. Or, of course, take the easy way and surf the Net.' She paused. ‘Why the sudden interest in school photos?'

‘Just that someone's trying to identify the people in one.'

‘Well, sorry, that's the best I can offer.'

‘Thanks, Tess. I'll look on line.'

But she wouldn't, Rona decided, ending the call. She'd wasted enough time on that photograph, which wasn't really of interest anyway, and most probably just the work of a disgruntled schoolgirl.

She picked it up, looked at it one last time, then slid it into her desk drawer. She'd give it back to Lindsey next time she saw her. With a sense of relief, she turned instead to her computer screen, meeting the soulful eyes of ‘Samson'. She'd write up this painting, while it was still fresh in her mind.

Clicking on the file in question, she settled down to work.

‘Daniel?'

‘Ma – hello! How are you?'

‘I'm well, thank you. Are you at home, by any chance? I've been trying to reach Jenny, but I keep getting the answerphone.'

‘No, actually I'm in Birmingham.' He hesitated. ‘And Jenny isn't home, either. She's staying with her parents for a week or two.'

Catherine's hands tightened on the phone. ‘A
week
or two?'

An echo of his own reaction, Daniel thought wryly. ‘Yes; things were getting her down a bit, and we thought it would be good for her to have a break.'

Catherine said carefully, ‘She is . . . all right, isn't she?'

‘Yes, just, as I say, a bit run-down.'

‘What about the shop?'

‘She's taken leave. They were quite amenable; Mothers' Day's over and there's a lull until Easter.'

‘So you're on your own for the moment?'

‘When I'm home.' He gave a short laugh. ‘Which, as Jenny pointed out, isn't all that often at the moment.'

There was a brief pause. Had Daniel found out about Paul? Catherine wondered anxiously. Had he and Jenny had a row of some kind? It must be serious, for her to flee to her parents.

She cleared her throat. ‘The reason I was phoning was to invite you all for the weekend. I hope you at least can come?'

‘Oh Ma, I'm sorry. I'll be going up to Cheshire.'

‘Of course.' That, at least, was a relief; communications must still be open. ‘When shall I see you, then?'

‘Well, I'm meeting someone in Marsborough next week, so—'

‘You can stay the night? Better than either a hotel or an empty house!'

‘Indeed it is! Thanks, that'd be great. I'm not sure which day yet, but I can let you know after the weekend, if that's all right?'

‘Quite all right. I'll look forward to seeing you.'

Catherine put down the phone. When she saw him she'd be able to tell much better how things stood, but she must be careful not to give the impression of suspecting something was wrong. And at least he'd be seeing Jenny over the weekend. Perhaps, she thought on a sudden surge of hope, her daughter-in-law had come to her senses and decided to put some distance not between herself and Daniel, but herself and Paul. Which could only be a good thing.

Feeling determinedly more cheerful, Catherine switched on the television and settled down to watch the news.

‘I was speaking to Barnie the other day,' Rona commented to Max on Friday evening. ‘Dinah's getting uptight about Mel's baby, which is due in a couple of months. I said we'd invite them for a meal, to take her mind off it.'

‘Fine,' said Max from behind his newspaper.

‘So, when shall we make it? Have you any preference? A Friday or a weekend?'

Resignedly he put the paper down. ‘Depends if you're thinking of lunch or an evening meal. But I hope the occasion won't be dominated by baby talk!'

‘I'll try to get it over quickly. According to Barnie, Mel insists she's fine, but Dinah's ready to pack her bags and fly out at a moment's notice.'

‘Go for Friday, then, and leave the weekend free. We've nothing on next week, have we?'

‘Not so far. OK, I'll suggest a week today.'

‘Barnie's not trying to wheedle you back to
Chiltern Life
, is he?' Max asked idly. ‘That's not why he phoned you?'

‘No, actually I phoned him. About the school photo.'

‘What school photo?'

‘The one Lindsey gave me, of course. The one she rang up about last week. You were there at the time.'

‘I make a point of not listening when you talk to Lindsey. Anyway, I was cooking dinner. Come to think of it, though, I did hear something about a school where your mother's friends went.'

‘Yes, Springfield Lodge, which is now a hotel. I told you I went there myself on Wednesday.'

‘To see one of Elspeth's paintings, yes. But you never mentioned a photo.'

‘Well, it's no big deal. Someone at Lindsey's book group gave it to her to see if she could identify anyone – or rather, if I could.' She pulled a face. ‘My reputation going before me.'

‘An old photo?'

‘Yes, 1951. Why I should be expected to do any better than anyone else, I can't imagine. Still, I'm not going to bother any more.'

‘So what was so special about it?'

‘One of the staff had been rather viciously inked out, and the woman who owned it, and who has since died, nearly had a heart attack when she saw it again. Her daughter, whose husband is in Lindsey's book group, is curious to know why.'

‘And Barnie couldn't help?'

‘No, and nor could Tess. She suggested I try the Internet.'

‘Surely, in this day and age, the family concerned have already done that?'

‘They looked up the school, yes, but couldn't find any trace of it. I don't know if they looked for photographers; I'll suggest it to Lindsey, but I'm not going to waste any more time on it. I'm trying to concentrate on Elspeth, and at the moment I'm being distracted on all sides, what with Lindsey and the photo, and Magda and her dreams.'

‘Magda's dreams? You're talking in riddles this evening!'

‘We met for coffee, as I told you. She's been dreaming of people she doesn't know, as we all do, but now she's freaked out because she saw someone in the street whom she'd dreamt about and didn't think she knew. I told her to take sleeping pills.'

‘Good advice,' said Max, and retired again behind his paper.

D
ominic Frayne stood at his penthouse window, staring over the sloping green of the park to the roofs and steeples of Marsborough beyond.

In the bed behind him, Carla Deighton, his personal assistant, stretched her arms above her head. ‘What kind of day is it?'

‘Glorious,' he replied without turning. ‘Not a cloud in the sky.'

‘And it's Saturday. Are you seeing Lindsey?'

‘Yes, I'm flying her over to France.'

‘Just as well she can't see us now!'

‘I'm not married to her,' Dominic said shortly.

Carla had worked for him for almost eight years, making herself indispensable in both his business and private life; it was she who bought cards for his ex-wives and reminded him of his offspring's birthdays. Occasionally they spent the night together, usually when he was fraught over a business deal, often while they were abroad. And, crucially, when she left him the following morning, their relationship instantly reverted to employer and employee and the incident was never mentioned. He had come to value what he regarded as these therapeutic sessions; they enjoyed each other's bodies, and there were no emotional complications.

The arrangement suited Carla equally well. She liked and admired her employer, finding him stimulating both mentally and physically, and these infrequent comings together augmented her own sporadic and discreet affairs. In the past, she'd booked many a romantic weekend for Dominic and his current mistress, but she was aware that, although he was not one to commit himself, his relationship with Lindsey Parish was of a different order. Consequently she'd been surprised when, the previous evening, he'd phoned down to her flat on the floor below and invited her upstairs. She'd wondered if things between him and Lindsey weren't working out, but his plans for the weekend seemed to discount that.

Hers not to speculate, she thought philosophically, and, sliding her feet to the floor, reached for her clothes. Her shower would, as always, be taken in her own flat.

At the bedroom door she paused, looking back. Dominic was still at the window, his mood hard to gauge.

‘Have a good weekend,' she said.

‘What's this – an example of modern art?'

Clive Gregory, about to open the fridge, had paused to survey the picture held to its door by magnets. It depicted a square house with a slightly off-centre roof, in front of which stood four stick figures, laboriously and unevenly labelled ‘Mummy, Daddy, Me, Archie'.

Sarah Lacey, coming up behind him, laughed. ‘Pretty traditional, isn't it? It's amazing how kids of all generations produce identical artwork at the age of five or six. In this case, the artist is Ben Coombes. Do you know him? His mother, Lucy, is on the PTA, and they live just round the corner. I know I'm not allowed favourites, but if I were, Ben would definitely be top of the list.'

‘Yes, I know Ben – an engaging kid.' Clive was a sports master at the same school. He opened the fridge door and took out a bottle of milk. ‘So, what's on the cards today?'

Sarah sobered. ‘I promised Dad we'd go over to Stokely and see what furniture and stuff he's earmarked for me. I've been putting it off, because I don't want to see the old place stripped of everything that made it home, but he's anxious now to empty it.'

‘We haven't room for any more furniture,' Clive said doubtfully.

‘Not here, no, but we won't be here for ever, and there are things I definitely want to keep. We can put what we choose in storage, separate from Dad and Avril's.'

‘Will they be there too?' Clive asked, pouring out his cereal.

‘No, they can't do any more till we've been. It's better by ourselves, anyway; it'll give us time to think up a tactful excuse, if we don't want everything he's put aside.'

‘OK' said Clive equably, ‘you're the boss.'

It had been a wonderful weekend, Lindsey thought contentedly, as Dominic's chauffeur-driven Daimler drew up outside Richmond House, where he had his flat. Having left her car there the previous day, she would spend the night with him and go straight on to work the next morning.

‘So,' he said, a little later, handing her a drink and settling beside her on the sofa, ‘what did you enjoy the most?'

‘Hard to say,' she replied, ‘it was all perfect.'

A hired car had met their early flight, and having arranged to meet the pilot at five the next evening, they'd driven to Honfleur to find the Saturday market in full swing – glowing piles of fruit and vegetables, fish, chickens, eggs, and all the dairy produce for which Normandy was famous. To Dominic's amusement, Lindsey had insisted on buying a selection of cheeses and some butter for good measure.

She had been charmed by the picturesque port, the ships with their coloured sails, and the tall, slate-fronted houses, familiar from paintings by Monet and Boudin. They had visited old churches, wandered round the Musée Boudin, dined regally on superlative seafood, and made love in a hotel that looked like a chateau.

‘It was all perfect,' she repeated, adding, ‘That's the second time we've been to Normandy; is it your favourite part of France?'

‘Not necessarily, but being a mere hop across the Channel it's ideal for a day out or a weekend visit.'

‘Romantic or otherwise?' she asked teasingly.

‘As you say.'

‘I bet I'm not the first you've taken there!'

He smiled and sipped his drink, piquing her curiosity.

‘Am I?' she persisted.

‘What do you want me to say?'

‘The truth!'

‘Then no, I have to say you're not.'
And won't be the last
seemed to hang in the air between them.

Lindsey bit her lip. ‘No doubt,' she said tightly, ‘all efficiently arranged by the inestimable Carla?'

Dominic shrugged. It was true this was normal practice, and though on this occasion he'd made the bookings himself, he was damned if he was going to tell her.

Lindsey stared mutinously into her wine glass. She'd always been jealous of Carla – cool, blonde, unflappable, and – even more unforgivably – close to Dominic. From a remark he'd made in the early days, she'd gathered they'd occasionally slept together, and though she'd assumed this intimacy to be in the past, it seemed suddenly imperative to confirm it.

‘Have you ever taken her?' she demanded abruptly.

There was a pause. Then: ‘To France? Many times, on business. And to Italy, Germany—'

‘On a romantic weekend?'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it any of your business?'

Ignoring the warning note in his voice, Lindsey persisted. ‘Yes, I think it is.'

‘Don't do this, Lindsey,' he said quietly.

‘But I'm interested to know. After all, you told me yourself you've slept with her.' She turned to him, incipient jealousy, combined with tiredness and too much wine, sweeping caution aside. ‘So tell me: when was the last time?'