A Question of Identity (7 page)

Catherine's son, a computer programmer, lived with his wife and baby daughter in Cricklehurst.

‘Oh? Isn't he well?'

Tom hesitated. ‘I'm not sure I should be telling you this.'

‘Well, you've started, so you might as well finish!'

He took a sip of tea. ‘Between you and me, he and Jenny are going through a difficult patch.'

‘Really? I thought they were blissfully happy. They certainly give that impression.'

‘I think they have been, up to now. The trouble is, Daniel's incredibly busy and having to travel more than he did, which involves being away overnight. Added to which, Alice is still not sleeping through, Jenny's missing out on her own sleep, and it's been getting on top of her.'

‘So how serious is it?'

Tom sighed. ‘It looks as though she's seeing someone else.'

‘God!' Rona stared at him. ‘And Daniel went running to his mother?'

‘Lord, no: he was away this week, and Catherine went over on Tuesday to babysit, to give Jenny a break. And while she was at the cinema with a girlfriend, this chap phoned.'

‘Oh dear!'

‘Without giving her a chance to speak, he launched into plans for their next meeting, before realizing he was speaking to Jenny's mother-in-law.'

‘Big mistake! Did Catherine tackle her about it?'

‘I'm not sure what happened. She was very upset, as you might imagine, and blurted out the gist of it when she got home; but she didn't go into details, and I suspect she now regrets having mentioned it.'

‘So presumably Daniel knows nothing about it?'

‘Presumably not.'

Rona finished her cake in contemplative silence. ‘Poor Catherine,' she said then. ‘She must be wondering whether or not she should tell him.'

‘Yep. Don't pass this on, will you?' Tom said anxiously. ‘I probably shouldn't have told you.'

‘I won't say a word,' Rona promised, ‘but I do hope they sort it out; I like them both.'

‘What were you dreaming about last night?' Gavin asked curiously, at breakfast the next day. ‘You were tossing and turning and muttering most of the night.'

Magda looked up quickly. ‘Sorry if I disturbed you.'

‘But what was it about, can you remember?'

‘And this is the man who says nothing's more boring than other people's dreams!' She reached for the cafetière. ‘But since you ask, I
can
remember, because, unusually enough, the dreams I've had this week have stayed with me all day, and frankly I wish they hadn't!'

‘Why? What are they about?'

‘It wasn't so much the content. They were the usual mishmash – snatches of scenes and people, not making any sense when you analyse them. But it was the way I felt when I woke. Disorientated and –
angry
, somehow.'

‘Better not eat any more cheese at supper, then!' Gavin advised, and returned to his newspaper.

Driving to work that Friday morning, Lindsey wondered, with mild irritation, when her sister would refer to the photograph she'd slipped into her bag. Admittedly, there was no hurry – the book group wouldn't meet for another three weeks – but she'd like to have at least some news to pass on to William in the interim.

The group met once a month at the home of Debra Stacey, who had initiated it some six months ago, and who lived in one of the turnings off Alban Road North, a five-minute drive from Lindsey's flat. There were ten of them in all, none of whom had known each other before replying to Debra's advertisement in the local paper. Most were older than Lindsey, several considerably so, but they were a friendly bunch, who all contributed to their literary discussions.

William Stirling, the provider of the photograph, Lindsey judged to be in his mid-fifties, a tall, well-built man with an easy manner and pleasant smile. At their first meeting he'd explained his wife's absence by saying she had no interest in books, preferring to spend her time playing golf or bridge, neither of which appealed to him. From this, Lindsey inferred, rightly or wrongly, that they went their separate ways. In any event, following that early comment he'd not mentioned his wife again until the previous week, when he'd produced the photograph.

For some reason she couldn't fathom, Lindsey found him quite attractive – Rona always maintained she preferred older men – and she suspected her interest was reciprocated, a source of secret satisfaction when Dominic was at his most obtuse. Though she'd not analysed it too closely, part of her reason for volunteering Rona's help had been to establish a contact with William outside the group – which made it all the more frustrating that her twin was studiously ignoring the photograph.

She parked the car and, her mind still on William, was considerably startled when, rounding the corner into Guild Street, she cannoned into him.

‘Lindsey, hello!' he exclaimed, putting out a hand to steady her. ‘Sorry – I always dash along at a rate of knots! Are you OK?'

‘Fine, thanks.'

‘On your way to work?'

‘Yes, I'm at Chase Mortimer.'

‘Better mind my p's and q's, then! I'm just round the corner – Frinton Insurance.' He paused. ‘We've been wondering if your sister was able to help with the photo?'

‘Not as yet,' Lindsey answered evasively. ‘I left it with her; I hope that's OK?'

‘Of course. She's agreed to look into it, then?'

‘Not exactly, but I'm working on it.'

‘Look, I wouldn't want to impose. If she hasn't time, or she's not interested, please don't—'

‘Oh, don't worry, she'll get round to it.'

‘Well, as long as we're not making a nuisance of ourselves . . .' He paused again. ‘Glenda was wondering if she's by any chance the Rona Parish who writes for
Chiltern Life
?'

‘She is indeed.'

He smiled. ‘No wonder you mentioned her detective skills! We always enjoy her articles. Look, I mustn't hold you up now, but here's my card. I know she must be busy, and I certainly wouldn't want to press her, but if anything should come up before the next book group, could you give me a call? It's just that this photo has really got to Glenda, and I know she won't be happy till she knows who was blotted out and why.'

‘We'll see what we can do,' Lindsey promised, and, with a brief smile, hurried on her way, obscurely disappointed with the outcome of the meeting.

Had she but known it, Rona was at that moment staring with a mixture of resentment and curiosity at the offending photo, which she'd taken up to her study and propped against her pen holder. She'd stopped work the previous day at a sticky patch – never a wise move – and a night's sleep had done little to solve the problem. Open to distraction, she succumbed and, leaning forward, picked it up and studied it closely for the first time.

The print was black-and-white with a gloss finish, and despite being badly creased, the faces of those depicted were still clearly defined, frozen in a long-ago summer's day.

Passing quickly over the pupils – bright, expectant faces, ready for whatever life might throw at them – Rona focused on the eight members of staff: four women, three men, and one, gender unknown, completely obliterated by the ink splodge.

On impulse, she reached for the phone and pressed the button for
Chiltern Life
.

‘It's Rona, Polly,' she said. ‘Is Barnie free, by any chance?'

‘Hi, Rona. Yes, no one's with him as far as I know.'

‘Then could you put me through, please?'

‘Rona!' The features editor's voice boomed over the phone. ‘Great to hear from you! How are things?'

‘A bit slow, to be honest, but I'm ploughing on.'

‘Not ready to rejoin our ranks?'

‘Not at the moment. Actually, I'm hoping to test your memory. Does the name Springfield Lodge ring any bells?'

‘The hotel, you mean?'

‘I was thinking more of its previous incarnation.'

‘It's had several, one of them being a private girls' school.'

‘That's the one. Do you know anything about it?'

‘Not really; it closed down years ago.'

‘Any idea why?'

‘Hey, Rona, what is this? Twenty questions?'

‘Sorry! I've come across an old school photo dated 1951, and a member of staff has been rather spectacularly obliterated. I was wondering why.'

‘If it belonged to one of the girls, it could be any reason, ranging from a sudden fit of pique to long-standing resentment or revenge for favouritism. Why, is it important?'

‘It isn't really, but some friends of Lindsey's are curious.'

‘So they turned to the Number One Ladies' Detective Agency?'

Rona laughed. ‘You know me – I can't resist a challenge. What I was wondering, though, is if it's possible to trace the photo­grapher on the off-chance that he still has the negative.
Chiltern Life
's full of photos – I thought perhaps you could tell me which firms specialized in school photos.'

‘That long ago? Have a heart! And as you'll appreciate, everything's changed since it went digital. Your best bet would be to try the
Gazette
; it could be the original's in their archives, though it's rather a long shot.'

‘That's an idea. Thanks, Barnie; if I decide to take it further – which, frankly, I doubt – I'll do that.'

‘In the meantime, when are we going to see you? Dinah could do with being cheered up; Mel's baby's not due for a couple of months, but she's already starting to panic.'

The Trents' daughter Melissa lived in the States, and her last pregnancy had been difficult enough to warrant her mother flying out to be with her.

‘Heavens, yes – I was forgetting. How is Mel?'

‘She says she's fine, but Dinah's convinced that's only to stop her worrying.'

‘Surely Mitch would let you know of any problems?'

‘Of course he would, but try telling Dinah!'

‘Well, you must come over for a meal and we'll take her mind off it. It's some time since we saw you.'

‘Now you're embarrassing me! I wasn't fishing for an invite, honest!'

‘It's well overdue, what with everything that's been going on. I'll have a word with Max and come back to you.'

Only as she rang off did Rona realize that she, too, had come up against a brick wall in her enquiries about Springfield Lodge.

Jenny Bishop stood at the kitchen sink, staring blindly out of the window. Daniel would be home within the hour, and God knows what she could say to him. Catherine must have told him of Paul's phone call, and when he'd rung midweek she'd been ready with counter-accusations. But he'd failed to mention it, leaving her limp with relief.

Though maybe, she thought now, he preferred to wait till they were face-to-face? The coldness inside her intensified.
How
had this happened? She loved Daniel – of course she did – but these days it seemed she hardly saw him. Even when not away, he was seldom home before seven, and by the time she'd settled Alice and they'd eaten it was time for bed. Where, she thought, her throat tightening, he immediately fell asleep, while she lay tensely awake, listening for Alice's inevitable cry.

Jenny could hear her now through the open door, chuntering away to herself in her playpen. The fierceness of the love she felt for her baby had taken her by surprise, and, looking back, she admitted that since her birth Daniel had been assigned a back seat. Alice needed her, and it seemed Daniel did not, though which had come first she could now not be sure.

Then, when she was at her lowest, Paul had come on the scene – successful, debonair Paul, seemingly without a care in the world and with at least one divorce behind him. He had pressed all the right buttons, showering her with compliments, buying her chocolates, taking her out for lunch, and suddenly there was excitement in her life again. It was wrong – she knew that – and she kept promising herself she'd end it. Just not yet.

But procrastination was dangerous. Though they'd met a month ago, when he'd come into the florist's where she worked, they'd not yet slept together. Their affair – if it could be called that – had consisted of phone calls, lunches out, and increasingly passionate kisses in the car, reviving memories of her teenage years. Then, last week, Paul had suggested coming to the house after work.

‘Look,' he'd argued, ‘we might as well face facts. I want you, you want me, and your husband considerately goes away. What could be better? We have a warm, comfortable house at our disposal – a distinct improvement on a car seat! – with only a baby as chaperone. And she's not going to tell, is she?'

The idea had excited her, and, like a fool, she'd agreed. Paul had arrived with a bottle of champagne, but throughout the meal the atmosphere between them grew increasingly electric and she began to panic. Then, just as they finished eating, Alice had awoken and refused to be comforted, and, with a mixture of relief and disappointment, she'd insisted that Paul leave. He'd been very tight-lipped about it, and the phone call Catherine intercepted had been to suggest a return visit. And Jenny knew only too well how that visit would end.

The phone interrupted her musings, and as she lifted it she heard traffic noise before her husband's voice.

‘Hi, sweetie. I'm on my way, but I have to call at the office to collect some papers, so—'

‘But that's miles out of your way! It'll add a good hour to your journey!'

‘I know, it's a pain, but I'll need them first thing on Monday.'

She tried to keep her voice level. ‘I was expecting you any minute. When
will
you be home?'

‘I was late leaving, so not before eight, I'm afraid.'

‘Then you'll miss Alice,' Jenny said tautly, ‘and you haven't seen her for four days.'