A Question of Identity (22 page)

‘Well, it was a shock for both of us, even though we knew it'd come eventually. But I meant what I said; I actually think it will be easier all round. I can go there thinking of it as Mum and Guy's house, with no ghostly Pops lurking in the background.'

‘And in due course there'll be a Tom and Catherine's house, too. The old order changeth, my love, and we have to change with it.'

Catherine phoned an hour after they got back.

‘I've found it!' she said. ‘Just as I was giving up hope, I came across it at the back of a drawer.'

‘Oh, Catherine, that's wonderful! Does she live locally?'

‘In Buckford, actually. Have you a pen handy?'

‘Yes?'

Catherine read out the address and phone number. ‘A word of warning,' she added. ‘If there were nefarious goings-on at the school she mightn't be best pleased to be asked about them.'

‘I'd thought of that. Can I mention your name as a softener?'

‘By all means, for all the good it might do you.'

‘It would at least show I wasn't calling completely “cold”.'

‘Well, go easy. She's a successful woman with a formidable reputation; she's unlikely to want to rake up scandals from the past.'

‘I'll be discretion itself,' Rona promised. ‘And thanks so much, Catherine. I'll let you know how I get on.'

The voice that immediately answered Rona's call was crisp and firm, simply stating the phone number.

‘Miss Lytton?'

A slight hesitation, then, ‘Who's calling?'

‘My name is Rona Parish, and—'

‘Can you tell me how you obtained this number? It's unlisted.'

‘I know; I'm sorry. I was speaking to Catherine Bishop, and she—'

‘Mrs Bishop gave it to you? Might I ask why?'

It was obvious she'd no time to be circumspect. In for a penny, Rona thought. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you about Springfield Lodge.'

Total silence.

‘I believe your father was headmaster there?'

‘Are you the press?' The tone was coldly accusing.

‘No; that is, I do occasionally—'

‘I'm sorry; I don't give interviews to the media.' And the connection was cut.

‘Well,' Max observed, ‘that went well.'

‘Damn and blast!' Rona exclaimed. ‘She didn't even let me get a word in.'

‘Obviously a past master – or mistress – at dealing with unwelcome callers.'

‘But if she'd just let me explain—'

‘It would have made things even worse.'

Rona sank her head in her hands. ‘Oh Max, what am I going to do? Having got this close to her, I can't give up now!'

‘I doubt if you've any choice,' he said.

Catherine phoned the next morning.

‘I've just had a very irate Esther on the line.'

‘Oh Catherine, I'm so sorry! She didn't give me a chance to be tactful! What did she say?'

‘Slated me for handing out her private number and demanded to know who you were and why I'd given it to you. I explained you were a much-respected biographer who occasionally wrote articles for the prestigious magazine
Chiltern Life
, and that you would shortly be my stepdaughter.'

Rona gave a choked laugh. ‘That should have given her food for thought!'

‘It certainly calmed her down a little. I might add that I professed total ignorance about what you wanted to discuss, though I imagine, if it was as traumatic as you say, she'd have a pretty good idea.'

‘Frankly, I'm beginning to wonder if it was all a storm in a teacup,' Rona said flatly. ‘OK, so a member of staff left suddenly in the middle of term. So what? It must happen all the time – family emergency, illness, a hundred reasons. If it hadn't been for Trish Cowley's reaction on seeing the photo, I'd never have taken this on.'

‘Well, I suppose you win some, lose some. Sorry it didn't work out.'

Feeling somewhat deflated, Rona returned to Elspeth Wilding and her diaries, but their content did little to lighten her mood. Despite Elspeth's renown there'd been a lot of sadness in her life and even more in her death. It was possible to trace in their pages the progress of her long friendship with fellow artist Chloë Pyne and its tragic end, and the malign influence of Nathan Tate, whom she'd met herself with such disastrous consequences. Hindsight, she thought, could be a curse as well as a blessing to a biographer, particularly one who had known her subject personally.

She was roused from her melancholy by a phone call from Magda.

‘Rona, Gavin and I have been looking for a date when we can have you and Max over. I know Max prefers weekends because of his evening classes, but we're tied up for the next few. Could he make an exception, do you think, and come to us on Wednesday, following his afternoon class? Otherwise we're into next month, which is ridiculous.'

‘I'm sure he could,' Rona told her, vowing to twist his arm if necessary. ‘We might have to make it a little later, though, if that's all right? His last class doesn't finish till six thirty; then he has to tidy up, come home, shower and change, and drive to you.'

‘No problem at all. Shall we say this Wednesday, then, between eight and eight thirty?'

‘Thanks, Magda. We'll look forward to it.'

Rona replaced the phone thoughtfully. Magda had sounded brisk and businesslike, but then she must have been phoning from one of the boutiques and wouldn't have time to chat. And if they were seeing each other in a couple of days, they could catch up then. She hoped desperately that her friend would prove to be her old self again.

Lindsey had dressed with care, choosing an outfit that wasn't too dressy for a day in the office, but would carry her successfully into dinner at the Clarendon. Jewellery, she would add at the end of the working day.

‘Very delectable!' Jonathan murmured as she passed him in the outer office, and she felt herself flush. She really must school herself not to react to everything he said – it would only encourage him.

Jacob Steinbeck arrived promptly for his appointment at five thirty – a concession, as appointments were normally scheduled no later than five. He was short and plump and habitually wore pinstriped trousers and a bow tie. His sparse black hair was combed carefully over a shining pate, and he addressed Lindsey as ‘dearie', a habit that set her teeth on edge but, as Jonathan had pointed out more than once, she'd no choice but to accept it. Another concession that had been neither requested nor granted was that he smoked a fat cheroot throughout the meeting, blandly ignoring the office no-smoking rule and filling the room with a pungent haze that unfailingly brought on a headache.

‘Well, now, dearie,' he greeted her, advancing with outstretched hand, ‘I'm delighted to see you; you were indisposed in the autumn, I believe?'

Lindsey, who'd told Jonathan to explain her absence by saying she had yellow fever, could only hope he'd not taken her literally. She took the proffered hand, which was as small and smooth as a woman's. ‘I was so sorry to miss the appointment, Mr Steinbeck,' she lied.

‘The disappointment was mutual; I always say a pretty woman helps to oil the wheels.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘Right; if you're ready let's get down to work.'

For all his idiosyncrasies, Jacob Steinbeck was a hard-wired businessman. Having started as a London barrow boy at the age of fifteen, he had worked his way up to become one of the foremost entrepreneurs in the country, renowned for knowing the names of all the staff throughout his empire and most of their salaries. For the next hour or so his will was gone through yet again in painstaking detail, and as well as reinstating his son he took the opportunity to alter several other bequests, enlarging some and reducing others. It was almost seven by the time the business was concluded to his satisfaction.

‘I'll have it drawn up for you tomorrow, Mr Steinbeck,' Jonathan said. ‘Will you be able to call in to sign it, or would you like it sent to your home address?'

Steinbeck waved a cheroot-holding hand, sending clouds of smoke towards Lindsey, who had difficulty holding down a cough. ‘Put it in the post, dear boy; I'm leaving for Spain first thing. Now –' he consulted the Rolex on his wrist – ‘time, I think, to stroll across the road. The table's booked for seven fifteen, which allows for a visit to the bar beforehand.'

On the first of these occasions – dinner always followed an appointment with Jacob Steinbeck – Lindsey had expected it to be a tedious affair, with the onerous task of finding enough topics to keep the conversation going throughout the meal. However, not for the first time, their host had surprised her, proving himself to be a witty conversationalist with a wealth of amusing anecdotes of his experiences around the world, and contrary to expectations she had thoroughly enjoyed herself.

This evening they had had their customary – and obligatory – champagne cocktails in the bar, but Lindsey was now limiting herself to mineral water, aware of the fifteen-minute drive home.

It was while their host was discussing with the wine waiter which vintage to choose that Jonathan leant over and murmured in Lindsey's ear, ‘A certain gentleman across the room seems disconcerted to see you here.'

Glancing in the direction indicated, she was startled to find herself meeting Dominic's steady gaze. As their eyes made contact he gave a slight nod before turning back to his companions, two men whom she guessed to be business colleagues.

Fortunately Mr Steinbeck's attention was still engaged. ‘You might have warned me!' she whispered furiously, aware of Jonathan's perverse delight in the situation. He and Dominic Frayne had crossed swords before and the last time Dominic had emerged as the victor.

The wine waiter moved away with a bow, putting an end to their private conversation. Lindsey's heart was pounding; she'd not seen Dominic since storming out of his flat, nor had he tried to contact her. If he now assumed she was back with Jonathan, so be it. In the meantime, she could only hope Steinbeck wouldn't notice her heightened colour.

For the rest of the meal she studiously avoided glancing in that direction, but as they were having coffee Jonathan's murmured ‘Uh-oh!' gave her a second's warning before, to her horror, she found Dominic standing beside her. His gaze, however, was directed at Steinbeck.

‘Good evening, sir,' he said.

Steinbeck looked up, his face creasing into a beam. ‘Frayne! My dear chap! I'd no idea you were here! May I introduce my guests?'

‘We've already met,' Dominic said evenly. ‘Lindsey. Jonathan.' He nodded at each in turn.

‘Splendid, splendid. On your way out, are you? Will you join us for a liqueur?'

Lindsey held her breath but Dominic gestured towards the two men awaiting him in the doorway. ‘Regretfully, no. I must rejoin my colleagues.'

‘Another time, then. We must eat together.'

‘I look forward to it.' And with another nod at each of them, Dominic rejoined his companions and left the room. Lindsey let out her held breath in a long sigh.

‘So we have a mutual friend?' Jacob Steinbeck remarked. ‘Excellent chap. Handles a lot of work for me.'

Fortunately he did not seem to expect a reply and the conversation veered back to its previous topic – a visit to Calgary at the time of the stampede. But Lindsey took in hardly a word of it, her mind racing with possibilities as to whether or not Dominic would use this chance meeting to make contact again. And what if he did? She didn't know the answer.

Half an hour later they were on the pavement outside the Clarendon, watching their host climb into his chauffeur-driven Rolls.

‘Now what?' Jonathan asked, as the car drove off.

‘Home,' Lindsey said shortly.

‘If you say so.' He took her arm as they crossed the road and made their way to the car park behind their office. Theirs were the only cars remaining.

Jonathan took her keys and unlocked the door for her. Then, as she held out her hand for their return, he pulled her towards him and kissed her thoroughly. He tasted of wine and coffee, she noted incoherently, unable to prevent herself responding. For a long moment they clung together, then, summoning her willpower, she pushed him away.

‘Oh Lindsey, Lindsey!' he said unevenly. ‘I didn't realize things really had turned sour between you and Frayne. But he doesn't deserve you, you know.'

‘And you do?'

‘Possibly not, but at least I still want you.'

Lindsey shook her head blindly and climbed into the car. ‘Goodnight, Jonathan,' she said.

Alice was still teething and hadn't settled all evening. In despair, Jenny lifted her out of her cot and carried her downstairs to the living room, where Daniel was watching
Crimewatch
.

‘I know, I know,' she forestalled him. ‘We said we wouldn't bring her down, but it's cold up there. Be a love and get me the Calpol, will you? It's on the kitchen dresser.' She lifted the baby to her shoulder, patting her back and murmuring comfort as she idly watched the television. Suddenly she straightened, her attention focusing, and as Daniel returned with bottle and spoon, she said sharply, ‘Who's that?'

He glanced at the screen. ‘The man we were talking about at Ma's. He's number one suspect again, which doesn't surprise me.' Noting her tenseness, he added curiously, ‘Why?'

‘I've seen him somewhere,' she said.

‘Yes, in the
Gazette
.'

She shook her head, supporting the baby while he spooned medicine into her mouth. ‘No, I mean in the flesh.' The programme was showing a home video of the man, referred to as Kevin Coombes, at a friend's party with his wife.

Jenny shook her head, unable to pin the memory, and, holding the baby against her, resumed her rhythmic patting. Alice's head lolled into her shoulder and her breathing steadied. Another couple of minutes and she could go back in her cot. Meanwhile the story on screen had switched to a getaway car, and the presenter was calling for witnesses. And a switch clicked in Jenny's memory.