A Wayward Game (18 page)

“It paid off,
obviously,” I say, hoping that if I discuss matters close to
Stevenson’s heart I might win his trust and get him to open up to
me.

Stevenson
smiles, a little complacently. “A little luck, and a great deal of
hard work. The Vine Tree has been my life for the past seven
years.”

“You must have
bought it the year after Diane Meath-Jones’s disappearance,
then.”

“Oh. I wondered
when you’d get down to the nitty-gritty.” Stevenson’s voice, which
had softened when he talked about his restaurant, hardens a touch.
“Yes, I bought the place in the spring of the following year, I
believe. It was a little rundown when I first acquired it, but the
potential
of the place – oh, it was unmistakeable. I spent
most of the summer renovating it, and then opened in October. It
gave me something to focus on
other
than Diane Meath-Jones,
which was most welcome.”

“I suppose
being involved in such a case must have been a rather trying
experience.”

“Very much so.”
Stevenson’s grim tone of voice, and grimmer expression, suggest
that in this, at least, he is telling the truth. “Of course, having
been the last person to have seen Miss Meath-Jones put me in an
unenviable position, legally. I always felt, in the early days,
that I myself fell under a certain cloud of suspicion. And that, of
course, is
before
you consider the press and public interest
that the case engendered. Yes, it was a miserable experience.”

“I’m very sorry
for reminding you of it.”

“I remember it
all the time anyway. Let’s not beat around the bush here, Miss
Lowry; ask what you came to ask.”

“Well, I
wondered if you could tell me about the day you saw Diane.”

“Oh, yes. Well,
I took the dog out to Bucklock that morning – we lived out on the
eastern fringes of London at the time, and I often went out there
for a few hours, just to get away from the city. It must have been
shortly before ten when I arrived there, though I’m not entirely
sure. I was working at another restaurant back then, in Central
London – I mostly worked evenings, you know – and my shift didn’t
start until later that day. I had occasionally seen Miss
Meath-Jones walking her dog there, and I knew her by sight. She
seemed to be a creature of habit, as I was; she tended to go there
at certain times, and our paths often crossed. I didn’t know her
name at this stage, but I often glimpsed her out there.”

“Did you ever
talk to her?”

“No. I
occasionally nodded at her or smiled at her, but we never spoke.
Anyway, I noticed her that day, just for a second or two. She was
turning onto the path that leads to Waken Mere, and her dog was
running in front of her. I thought nothing of it at the time, of
course; it wasn’t until later that I realised that my sighting of
her might be significant.”

“I have to ask
this, Mr Stevenson: are you really sure it was Diane you saw? You
said your sighting lasted only a few seconds.”

“It was her,
all right. I’m quite certain on that point.”

“Are you sure
it was the 16th June when you saw her? Might you have mistaken the
date?”

“I really don’t
think that is possible,” Stevenson says, a little coldly. “I heard
about her disappearance the very next day; I remember that
distinctly.”

“But – forgive
me, Mr Stevenson – you didn’t go to the police until June 21st,
four days later. Why the delay, if you heard about her
disappearance on the 17th?”

For a moment –
the barest, briefest moment – a faint look of panic flits across
Stevenson’s face. Perhaps he simply gets flustered when he is
challenged, as people sometimes do. Or perhaps – just
perhaps
– he has something to hide.

“Well,” he
says, “for one thing, I couldn’t know that I had actually seen
Diane Meath-Jones. I mean, I didn’t know her name. It wasn’t until
I saw her photograph on the evening news that I realised, and even
then I wasn’t entirely sure . . . I mean, I did wonder whether I’d
be wasting police time if I came forward.”

“But, Mr
Stevenson, you said earlier that you were quite certain that the
woman you saw was Diane.”

“Yes. On
reflection I was, and am, certain. But at the outset I had some
doubts . . .”

Stevenson’s
voice trails off, and a slight blush creeps over his pale face. A
witness whose testimony becomes more, rather than less, certain and
detailed as time progresses might just be a suspect witness. Did
Neil tell me that, or did I read it somewhere? Or is it something
that I imagined myself? Be aware of your own tendency to be biased,
an inner voice whispers, and try to counter it. The more the
evidence seems to support your favoured theory, the more rigorous
you should be in testing it. All the old lessons that I learned in
my former career as a serious journalist, and which I have never
quite forgotten.

For a moment we
sit in silence, listening to the sullen tick of the grandfather
clock. Silence, I have found, can be a powerful tool. A deliberate
silence, with its myriad possible interpretations, can disturb
people, betray them, or lead them to betray themselves.
Unfortunately, Stevenson is made of sturdier stuff; he recovers
quickly, and adds:—

“I will admit,
you know, that I had little wish to become involved in the matter.
I imagined that I would be treated with a degree of suspicion
myself, as indeed I was. And miscarriages of justice are, sadly,
not unheard-of. With all these thoughts running through my mind, it
took me several days to pluck up the courage to come forward.
Besides, the mind can be wonderfully persuasive sometimes; I’d
almost managed to convince myself that I was mistaken.”

“I see.” I make
a show of scribbling something into my notepad, and again allow the
silence to extend for a moment or two – just long enough, I think,
to discomfit Stevenson, but not enough to offend him. “Tell me,
when you saw Diane, did she seem well? Unharmed, unthreatened?”

“So far as I
could see, certainly, but I was some distance from her. Not close
enough to be certain of it.”

“And she was
alone? Nobody was following her, or walking with her?”

“Again, as far
as I could see, no. Of course, this was in the woods; someone could
have been lurking around in the trees nearby, for all I knew. I
didn’t see anyone, though.”

“Were there
many people in the woods that day?”

“Hardly anyone.
This was relatively early on a weekday morning.” Stevenson looks
mildly troubled. “It is quite a lonely place at the best of times.
People are fooled by its proximity to London; they see it almost as
an extension of the suburbs. They forget just how remote and quiet
it can be. Not the place for a young woman, or any woman, to go
walking on her own. Of course I feel sorry for Miss Meath-Jones,
terribly sorry. But it was foolhardy behaviour on her part.”

“A lot of
people have said so,” I murmur, suppressing an urge to slap
Stevenson’s complacent face.

“People have
said many things about this affair. Naturally, I understand
people’s interest, but frankly I can’t see why one young woman
should receive so much attention in a world where tragedies of far
greater proportions happen all the time. It all seems a little
unbalanced, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Many people
are of that opinion, Mr Stevenson.”

“Not the
readers of your paper, evidently. I suppose it’s a sound economic
decision on your part, to run stories that will lead to increased
circulation.”

“Sound economic
decisions dominate my profession,” I agree, a little sadly.

“As they do
every profession. Speaking of which,” – Stevenson stands up – “if
you’ve quite finished, I have to attend to my own livelihood.”

My questions
have unnerved him, I sense, and he wants to terminate this
interview as swiftly as possible. I stand up, and the dog looks up
with surprised, slightly reproachful eyes. Stevenson rummages in
his jacket pocket, and pulls out a small business card. Of course:
like many an opportunistic businessman, he must carry some with him
at all times.

“Here,” he
says, “take this, and tell your restaurant critic to come over one
evening. And while I’m sure it’s not standard practice, if you’d
like to mention the help I’ve given you—”

“I’ll be sure
to do that, Mr Stevenson,” I say, putting the card in my pocket.
“Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

“And I’d
appreciate a little help in return,” Stevenson says, as he leads me
to the front door. “The Vine Tree does well, of course, but it
could always do better.”

As I step out
into the garden, a large and evidently expensive car pulls up
outside. The driver is a middle-aged woman, who glances across at
me as she gets out. Her clothes are obviously expensive, her hair
aggressively bleached and straightened, and her make-up perfect;
but beneath all of this she has a sad, hollow-eyed look that speaks
of weariness and suffering. As she advances through the front gate,
she pulls the corners of her mouth up into a pained smile.

“A journalist,
Laura,” Mr Stevenson calls. “Just leaving now.”

“Oh,” Laura
says, and hurries past me, head down. She bolts into the shadowy
refuge of the house, and the last I see of her is her rather slim
figure disappearing through the living room door. Such timidity is
a common reaction when in the presence of journalists; but Mrs
Stevenson, I think, was not just shy, but genuinely disturbed by my
being here.

Stevenson,
hovering by the door, shrugs.

“Our
perceptions of your profession have, I’m afraid, been somewhat
skewed,” he explains. “We’re private people, and resent
intrusion.”

“I’m sorry to
have bothered you, Mr Stevenson.”

“Well, you know
how best to make it up to me. I’ll keep an eye out for your article
–
and
for your restaurant critic, of course.”

“Of course.
Goodbye.”

I walk away
from the house, and something – a question, a doubt – gnaws away at
some dark corner of my mind. I can’t say what it is, precisely,
only that it is
there
. I need to think about all that
Stevenson has said, and perhaps seek another opinion. I reach into
my jacket pocket, where a small tape recorder is still turning, and
press the stop button. Then I look down at the business card
Stevenson gave me. The Vine Tree Restaurant, Richmond. I read the
words again and again, trying to work out why they sound so
familiar. I know that name. I just can’t remember where I’ve heard
it before.

“God,” Neil
says that evening, after I’ve played the recording to him. “He’s a
cool customer, isn’t he?”

“Almost
robotic. And – well,
rehearsed
. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe he comes
across that way.” Neil frowns, seems to turn the question over in
his mind. “You have to bear in mind that he’s told this story
dozens of times. Constant repetition can have that effect: the
story becomes not just fixed, but almost ossified. Doubts are
cleared up, untruths become the truth. That’s how the mind works.
It isn’t necessarily sinister.”

I gaze out of
the living room window without really seeing the view beyond. Not
that there is much to see at this time of night, anyway: just a row
of crumbling Victorian buildings, the street down below, and the
city lights in the distance. I invited Neil over to my flat to
listen to this interview and give me his impressions of it. I was
surprised, and pleased, when he agreed. Simple socialising has
never been one of our priorities until now, but tonight I wanted
him with me. Not for the games; I’m too tired, too preoccupied, for
those tonight. I just want to sit here with him, talking, drinking
wine, and behaving as any normal couple might.

The problem,
for both of us, is that we’re not really sure what being a normal
couple entails. Everything about our lives has been highly abnormal
for a long time, or so it seems. I’m not talking about the games,
either: they are little more than a rarefied version of the
innocent foreplay involving silk scarves and blindfolds that
couples all over the world enjoy. Our problem, frankly, is that we
have never thought of ourselves as being a couple in the normal
sense of the word, and we cannot get used to the idea now. We are
uncertain how to behave; Neil is polite, almost formal, and I am
trying almost too hard to make him feel at home.

Neil is
watching me, waiting for me to say something. He has become used to
playing his cards close to his chest – one of the legacies of his
job, I suppose – and is often unwilling to be the one to break a
silence or move a conversation forward.

“The one time
he seemed to slip up a bit,” I say, “is when I asked him why it
took him so long to contact the police.”

Neil shrugs.
“People are often unwilling to come forward. They’re afraid that
they’ll come under suspicion, or end up being investigated for some
other reason. Let’s imagine, for example, that Stevenson was caught
up in something illegal but fairly trivial: minor fraud, something
like that. He wouldn’t have wanted the police casting their eyes
over his affairs if that were so. It wouldn’t necessarily be
because he was wilfully withholding information about the Diane
Meath-Jones case, specifically.”

“All right,” I
say, grudgingly – I don’t want to believe his words, even though
they make sense to me. “One thing I don’t understand is how
Stevenson got enough money to buy his own restaurant. He’s from a
pretty normal background, as far as I can tell, and never had any
particularly highly-paid jobs or wealthy relatives. You should see
his house, too. It’s filled with antiques; all of that stuff must
have cost a bomb.”

“Perhaps he
inherited some money, or won some on the lottery. Perhaps his wife
has money. Perhaps he just worked hard and saved up. Perhaps he’s
actually up to his ears in debt and spending money he doesn’t have.
You don’t know.”