A Question of Identity (12 page)

‘And the subject wasn't referred to?'

‘Not on your life! She acted as though nothing had happened, and I certainly wasn't going to risk bringing it up again. But Rona, she ought to see a doctor. How the hell can I convince her of that?'

‘God, Gavin, I don't know. Have you spoken to anyone else?'

‘No; I didn't want to alarm her parents, and I know the two of you are close. I was hoping she might have said something that could explain it.'

‘Afraid not.'

He made a helpless gesture. ‘I'm sorry to spring this on you, but I lay awake all last night, wondering what the hell I could do. I'm just . . . terrified she's . . . losing her mind or something.'

‘Oh Gavin, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say.'

He brushed a hand across his eyes. ‘Could you arrange to meet her? See if she'll talk to you, when she won't – or can't – to me? I keep wondering what she'll “remember” next, and what it might lead to.'

‘She mustn't know we've discussed her,' Rona warned.

‘Perish the thought!' He smiled bleakly. ‘Could you suddenly decide you need a new outfit? Suggest meeting at one of the boutiques and having lunch after? That way you'd see her in two different environments, which might help you to form a judgement.'

‘I still think you should have a word with her father.'

‘I will, but see how she strikes you first. Please.' He glanced at his watch and came quickly to his feet. ‘I must go.'

‘Of course I'll see her,' Rona said. ‘Try not to worry; there must be some logical explanation.'

‘You're an angel. Thank you.' He gave her a quick, hard hug.

‘Do you know where she's working today?' Rona asked, as she walked with him to the door.

‘Here in Marsborough, I think.'

‘That makes life easier! I'll call in, then.'

‘Bless you, Rona. I really am grateful.'

‘I'll report back as soon as I've seen her.'

He nodded, then hurried down the path and, with a quick wave at the gate, turned in the direction of his car. So now she had Magda as well as Lindsey to worry about, Rona thought resignedly, as she closed the door.

‘How was France?' Carla asked casually, as she laid the morning's post on Dominic's desk.

‘French,' he replied briefly. ‘Could you get me Donaldson on the phone? I want to chase him about the Sanderson business.'

‘Of course.' It would seem, she thought to herself as she left the room, that everything in the
jardin
was no longer
belle.
And she couldn't help wondering if Lindsey had somehow got wind of Friday's frolics. If so, Dominic had only himself to blame; she'd warned him often enough. It would be interesting, though, to see how long it would take him before he mentioned Lindsey Parish again. If, indeed, he ever did.

Stretford Row was Marsborough's answer to Bond Street, a road leading off Guild Street full of designer boutiques, expensive shoe shops and top-of-the-range leather goods, frequented by its more well-heeled residents.

Rona had judged her arrival to fit in with the suggestion of lunch afterwards. The problem was that, as in her other boutiques, Magda had introduced a small café at the back of the premises that offered coffee, light lunches or afternoon tea. She'd be unlikely, Rona felt, to open up when surrounded by her staff and customers.

Having tied Gus's lead to the post outside, she entered the shop with mentally crossed fingers, hoping Gavin was right and this was indeed where Magda was based today. Thankfully, she caught sight of her immediately and for a brief moment was able to study her unobserved. To the casual onlooker she must seem her usual efficient self, but knowing her as she did, Rona could detect underlying tension.

Then Magda looked up, saw her, and came hurrying over.

‘Rona! This is an unexpected pleasure! How can I help?'

‘I've decided to treat myself,' Rona said. ‘I've been looking at my spring and summer clothes and decided I'm tired of the lot of them!'

‘That's very welcome news!'

‘For the moment, though, I'm limiting myself to one new item, and what I need most is a light, summer-weight jacket. Can you help?'

‘I'm quite sure we can,' Magda declared, and led her over to a rail crammed with jackets of every description.

The next half-hour was taken up with trying on a selection and eventually choosing a loose-fitting jacket in pale green linen. The time, Rona noted surreptitiously, was just after twelve thirty.

While it was being wrapped in layers of tissue paper, she said artlessly, ‘Can you spare the time for a spot of lunch?' And as Magda automatically glanced towards the back of the shop, she added quickly, ‘For some reason, I really fancy a pizza!' Which, she knew, was not on
Magdalena
's menu.

Magda hesitated. ‘Can't I tempt you to a quiche instead? We have—'

‘Humour me, Magda! After all, I've just added considerably to your coffers!'

Magda smiled in capitulation. ‘Far be it from me to deny you your pizza! I think I can manage a quick trip to the Gallery.'

The Gallery café was almost directly opposite Stretford Row, a fact Rona had relied on, and having retrieved Gus, they walked together down the road and across Guild Street in the warm spring sunshine. During the past forty minutes or so there'd been little in Magda's manner to give cause for concern, and Rona had begun to hope that Gavin might be overreacting.

But as they settled at their table and Gus curled up beneath it, it was Magda herself who raised the subject.

‘Actually,' she began, knotting her hands together, ‘I'm glad to have the chance of a talk.'

‘Oh?'

‘Remember, last time we were here, I told you about my dreams?'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, they've been getting worse.'

‘The sleeping pills didn't help?'

Magda shook her head. ‘And it's odd, Rona, I seem to have a very short fuse these days. I'm always letting fly for no real reason, and usually with Gavin, bless him. I don't seem able to help myself.'

‘Is anything else worrying you?'

She didn't answer, and in the pause, the waitress came to take their order and went away again.

‘Magda?' Rona prompted.

She said in a low voice, ‘I don't seem able to distinguish any more between dreams and reality. Sometimes I'm
sure
something's happened, or we've been somewhere, and Gavin says not.' She bit her lip.

Rona said gently, ‘Might it help if you went to see someone?'

Magda's head reared up. ‘A psychiatrist, you mean? You think I'm going mad?'

‘Mags, seeing a psychiatrist doesn't mean you're mad! Americans do it all the time!'

‘Well, I'm not American.'

‘But you realize you need help, don't you? That's why you're telling me about it.'

‘I'm telling you,' Magda said bitterly, ‘because I was hoping you'd say it was nothing to worry about, like you did last time.'

‘Well, I'm sorry. That's what I thought last week, but if things are . . . escalating, then it's only sensible to do something about it. Go to your GP and see what he suggests. He could put you in touch with someone.'

‘Oh
God
!' Magda said. ‘I can't spare the time to be ill – there's too much to do!'

‘But if you go on worrying about it, it will only get worse. Much better to get it sorted out now.'

‘You think it
can
be sorted out?'

‘Of course it can!' Rona said staunchly. ‘It'll probably turn out to be a well-known condition.'

Their pizzas arrived, and she drew a cautious breath of relief. She had done what was required of her, and hopefully Magda would follow her advice. Now she was free to change the subject and enjoy her meal.

In Belmont, Avril and Guy were sitting over a leisurely supper. Sarah and Clive had been to Stokely at the weekend and earmarked the items she would like to keep from her old home. Everything that needed to be sorted out had now been attended to, and tomorrow the removal men would complete the process.

‘Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?' Avril asked.

‘No, love, there's nothing you can do. It's just a question of supervising the removal, making sure everything goes where it's supposed to go, then locking up and depositing the key with the estate agents. But I don't mind telling you I'll be glad when it's over.'

‘I know I'll feel sad when the time comes to leave here,' she said quietly. ‘There are so many memories.'

Before Guy could comment, his mobile started ringing.

‘Who on earth can it be at this hour?' he asked rhetorically, rising from the table and retrieving it from his jacket pocket. He glanced at the display panel. ‘It's Sarah,' he said in surprise. ‘Hello, sweetie, what—'

‘Dad!' Her voice was shaking, and he instinctively stiffened. ‘Can you come round to the flat? Now?'

‘Sweetheart, what is it? Are you all right? What's happened?'

There was an agonizing pause. Then her voice, almost unrecognizable, reached him. ‘Someone I know has just been murdered!'

S
arah and Clive lived the other side of Belmont, a seven-minute drive from Avril's home. During the journey, Guy's imagination had covered and discounted every possible murder candidate, and his alarm escalated as, just short of their flat, he passed a couple of parked police cars.

Screeching to a halt in front of their building, he saw Sarah waiting for him, silhouetted against the open door of the flat. She started down the path and they met halfway, Guy catching her as she half-fell against him.

‘You're all right, darling? And Clive?'

She nodded against his chest. ‘Yes – oh, Daddy it was
awful
!'

‘Suppose we go inside, and you can tell me?'

He led her gently up the path, to where Clive was waiting.

‘Sorry to drag you out at this time,' he said.

‘The police cars up the road . . .?'

Clive nodded.

‘Who . . .?'

‘It's Lucy Coombes,' Sarah said, and burst into tears.

‘Lucy?' Guy repeated, bewildered, as they all moved into the living room. ‘Should I know her?'

Clive shook his head. ‘She's one of the parents from school,' he explained. ‘Her little boy's in Sarah's class.'

‘Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning.'

Sarah sat down and dried her eyes. ‘Ben didn't come to school today,' she began. ‘I was surprised, because Lucy always phones if he's ill, and he was fine yesterday.' She choked to a halt, steadied herself, and continued.

‘As I said, I was surprised, but certainly not worried. He'd come top in a test we did on Monday and won a star, and as I pass their house on the way home, I decided to take it round for him, and see how he was.'

She drew a deep breath. ‘There was a staff meeting after school so I was later than usual, but it was only about five o'clock, and when I reached their house the first thing I noticed was that the curtains were all drawn, upstairs as well as down. Then I saw bottles of milk on the step. They were from the same dairy as ours, so I knew they'd have been delivered at about six this morning. That was when I really started to worry. I phoned Clive at home, and he came round to join me. We rang the bell and knocked, but there was no answer, and since the curtains were drawn, we couldn't see inside.

‘We were wondering what to do when a car pulled into the drive next door. The neighbour, who we later learned was Frances Drew, looked surprised to see us there, so I explained we were from the school and that Ben hadn't been in today, and asked if she knew if anything was wrong.

‘When she saw the milk and the curtains, she was worried too. It turned out she had their key, so she collected it from her own house and we waited while she opened the Coombeses' front door and called Lucy. When there was no reply, she asked us if we'd go in with her – for moral support, I suppose.'

Sarah's fingers tightened on the handkerchief she was holding, and it was Clive who continued.

‘The sitting room looked as though they'd just left it to go up to bed. The cushions on the sofa were still dented, and a copy of yesterday's paper lay on the floor. There were mugs on the table, with coffee dregs in them.

‘In the kitchen, pans were piled in the sink, presumably from last night, waiting to be washed. It was . . . like the
Mary Celeste.
'

He sat down next to Sarah, taking her hand. ‘So . . . we went upstairs, still calling her name.' He cleared his throat. ‘She was lying on the bedroom floor, and it was . . . obvious that she was dead. There was no sign of anyone else, but the boys' beds had been slept in. The covers were thrown back, and there was . . . a teddy bear on the floor.'

‘God!' Guy said under his breath.

Sarah had started to tremble. ‘I don't understand it!' she said on a high note. ‘They were a devoted family – everyone said so. It
couldn't
have been Kevin, but then where
is
he, and where are the boys? God, Dad, they're only five and three! You don't think whoever killed Lucy would kill them too?'

‘I'm sure they'll turn up safe and well,' Guy said firmly, though he was sure of no such thing. ‘Go on; what did you do next?'

‘Frances just . . . went to pieces,' Sarah said shakily. ‘She was screaming and crying and trying to get to Lucy, but Clive insisted she didn't touch anything. We took her back next door, and he phoned the police while she rang her husband.

‘Then the police arrived, and because we'd been first on the scene, we had to wait till we could be interviewed separately, in case one of us remembered something different. A policewoman sat with us, so we weren't able to discuss it. Frances's husband arrived home, but they wouldn't let him see her. We could hear him shouting in the hall, and Frances started crying again. It was . . . like a nightmare, when you try to wake up, and can't.'