Nemesis (10 page)

14

The Camilla Hoffman Show had cut to an ad break. The programme had another twenty minutes to run but Natalie was no longer required. As she exited the TV studios, Siân Williams, her publicist, was waiting for her.

“You were terrific,” Siân said predictably. She was a tiny brunette, with long glossy hair and a habitual frown. As though determined not be overlooked in favour of her famous clients, she wore bright colours and ostentatious shoes which, although adding several inches to her height, still did not bring her much above five foot.

Natalie slipped on her coat and did not reply.

Siân’s fragile, elfin appearance belied her frightening efficiency. “The car is waiting outside,” she said. “We have two bookstore signings lined up, and then I thought we could break for lunch. Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to eat? I didn’t book anything in case you had a preference.
Thai?
Italian?”

Natalie shrugged. Food was food as far as she was concerned.
Required, obviously, but not something worth making a fuss about.

“Whatever,” she said.

Siân consulted her BlackBerry. “We have a couple more bookstore signings, followed by a radio interview, followed by dinner with Julia and the MD. Tomorrow morning we’re hoping for a spot on breakfast TV but we’re waiting for confirmation.” She paused, tapping out a rhythm on the keypad. “We’ve other interviews lined up but they can be done over the phone. Some of the bigger publications may want to send a journalist to your home with a photographer.
Or to a hotel if you prefer?
We’re also waiting to hear back from them.”

More questions about Sarah’s death, thought Natalie, depressed. No one ever wanted to talk about what Sarah had been like as a person, only the horrible way in which she had died.

I need a drink
…

The grey autumnal day didn’t help. It was beginning to rain, big fat drops splashing onto a dusty pavement. Siân took something from her bag, flicked her wrist and, like magic, a scarlet umbrella opened above Natalie’s head, just as their car pulled up.

Siân took her arm and hustled her into the car.

The early start was catching up with her. In front, Siân was arguing with the driver over the quickest route to the first bookstore. Natalie closed her eyes and let them get on with it.

Let the performance begin.

* * *

The rest of the morning went well. Even Siân began to relax. The staff at the bookstores they visited seemed genuinely pleased to see her. She was given a good position at the front of each store and they were well stocked with copies of
Obsession
, as well as her backlist, all waiting to be bought and signed.

They stopped for lunch at a pub. It was down a side street, away from the chaos of the shoppers, which she assumed was Siân’s criteria for choosing it. There certainly didn’t seem to be anything else to recommend it. After a morning of rushing from one packed bookshop to another, Natalie didn’t really care. All she wanted to do was kick the high-heeled shoes from her sore feet and relax.

The pub was dark and dingy; the seating was divided into a series of scruffy wooden booths and the juke box played old Madonna tracks. A solitary barman was reading a newspaper, which he hid beneath the counter as they approached.

“What can I get for you ladies?”

Siân blithely shook out her dripping umbrella, creating a puddle of water on the floor, and ordered a glass of wine.

Natalie settled for an orange juice, deciding it wouldn’t do to get drunk before appearing on national radio, and pointed Siân in the direction of a booth by the window. It didn’t seem so gloomy there.

Despite the wine Siân’s frown had reappeared, creating a distinct crease between her eyes. She picked up a menu. “What would you like to eat?”

Her hand was trembling. Natalie was about to ask if everything was all right, when Siân carefully replaced the menu on the table, smoothing the creases from the flimsy cover.

“There’s someone here who would like to meet you. Is that OK?”

As Siân was usually the complete professional, Natalie did not feel she could refuse.

Taking her silence as acquiescence, Siân slid out from behind the table. “I’ll see if they’re here.”

Natalie slipped her phone out of her bag. If Siân was about to turn
Misery
on her, she intended to have back up.

To the rear of the pub came the low murmur of voices, then footsteps heading in her direction. Instinctively she glanced up.

The phone slipped through her fingers and hit the floor.

It couldn’t be
…

He scooped it up and held it out to her. “I hope it’s not broken?”

As she failed to take it from him, he placed the phone carefully on the table.

“Hello, Natalie,” he said.

He wore the same faded jeans and leather jacket he’d worn last night. In daylight his hair was dark-brown with no sign of grey, although he must now be in his mid-thirties. There were distinctive lines and shadows beneath the familiar pale green eyes however.

It was disconcerting to realise he was checking her over too.

“
Geraint
?” she whispered in disbelief.

“No,” he said. “Not Geraint. I’m Bryn
Llewellyn
- his cousin.”

Cousin
?
Did he think she was stupid? The skinny youth from the fairground had grown taller and broader but she’d know him anywhere. Yet she remained silent and waited to see what would develop. Let him be the one to make the first move.

“Bryn’s my brother,” Siân said.

They shared the same dark hair and intense stare - but apart from that, they did not look remotely alike.

Siân’s loyalty was admirable but -

“Your surname is Williams,” Natalie felt obliged to point out.

“That’s my married name.”

“Don’t blame Siân,” said Bryn. “It was my idea. I thought we needed to meet on neutral ground.”

“Why do we need to meet at all?”

He scowled and now the resemblance to Siân was clear. “Did I not give you a fright, the last time we met?”

“Not half as big as the one I gave you!” she retorted.

“It was dark,” he said. “I thought you were Sarah.”

“Evidently.”

“Why did you run away?”

“Self-preservation!
Someone chases me, I run away.”

She was trying so hard not to sound frightened, she was coming across as flippant instead. What would happen if she reached out for her phone and tried to call the police? Would he snatch it from her? Logic told her she’d already missed that opportunity. She forced herself to relax back into her seat. Whatever image she was projecting, it must be working. Across the table he hardly seemed to notice anything was amiss.

“I wanted to meet you but I never expected to see you in the castle grounds,” he said. “I wanted to see where it had happened - and then there you were in front of me, like a ghost.”

He sat back in his seat and took the time to look her over. It was as though he couldn’t believe she was real. She knew how he felt. To see him again, after all this time -

Except, it wasn’t ‘him’.

It was too much for her to take in. All these years, imaging what she’d say when she saw him again. She thought she’d want to kill him - yet here they were. It was surreal.

His scrutiny made her feel uncomfortable, so she glared right back. Her phone was on the table. She could call the police, her publisher - anyone she chose. She could even shout out for the barman.

Why had she not already done so?

“The resemblance to your sister is incredible,” he murmured.
“The colour of your hair, everything.
I’d forgotten how alike you were. No wonder I thought I’d seen a ghost.”

“What do you want?” she asked him. “Why meet up now? You’ve had plenty of time to get in touch.”

He took something from the seat beside him and laid it on the table. It was a copy of her book; well-read, if the battered jacket was anything to go by. Protruding at irregular intervals was a sheaf of coloured index markers.

Perhaps he thought she’d take it. Instead, she used her finger to turn the book ninety degrees, until the cover was the correct way up. It was definitely her book, although she hardly required confirmation. Along the bottom
edge were
the words: ‘uncorrected proof’.

“Did Siân give you this?”

“It was an interesting read, this story of yours, about a man’s obsession with his wife’s murder. Parts of it seemed very familiar.”

Not the direct answer she’d wanted. She ignored the nausea tightening her stomach and tried again. “Is it a coincidence? That Siân’s my publicist?”

He glanced towards his sister, as though seeking approval. “Siân’s a bright girl,” he said. His accent was becoming more pronounced. “She wanted to work in the media, right from university. She found she had a flair for publicity and was hired by one of the biggest PR firms in the city. It was a coincidence that company was then hired by you.”

His sincerity was spoilt by Siân not lifting her gaze from her feet. Guilt, personified.

“Where’s
Geraint
?”

His gaze remained steady. “Geraint disappeared the night your sister was killed.”

“How convenient.”

“We want to know what happened to him.”

“So do the police,” she said. “They think he killed my sister.”

There, she’d said it.

“The evidence was circumstantial.”

“Why did he run away?”

“Geraint didn’t run away, he vanished. The police never found a trace of him.”

“I expect there are ways to hide from the police if you really want to,” she said.

“For fifteen years?”

“For fifteen years.”

“This is getting us nowhere. I thought you would want to help.”

“How?”
The word was out before they could stop it. She’d meant her tone to be derisory but it had come out wrong and now it was too late.

Eagerly he leaned forward. “I saw you on TV this morning. You said you wanted to find out the truth about what happened the night Sarah died. Did you mean that?”

“Of course I meant it! I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t meant it.”

“Why don’t we work together, pool our knowledge and sort this out once and for all?”

He made it sound so reasonable.

“Why have you waited so long to come forward?” she asked.

“Like you, we thought Geraint had gone into hiding. We knew he was innocent and we wanted to protect him. But the years have passed and we’ve heard nothing. I think his disappearance is connected to your sister’s death. You want to know what happened; so do we. You solve Sarah’s murder, you’ll find out what happened to Geraint. His name should be cleared.”

And that, when it came down to it, was all they were interested in.

She pushed the book towards him. “I wish you luck with that.”

He made a fist on the table, preventing the book from moving. “Geraint didn’t kill your sister. He wasn’t that kind of guy.”

It was the exact same phrase Geraint had used. She could even remember him saying it. Had he really killed Sarah? The police seemed to think so.

For the first time she felt sorry for Bryn - for both of them. She knew what it was like to live with that kind of obsession, to have it eating away inside you.

“They never are,” she said gently. “But maybe it’s time to face the fact
- ”

“No!” He uncurled his fist and slammed it on the table. “Geraint is dead and the person who killed him killed your sister. Why is this so hard for you to believe?”

“Because it’s not true!
Sarah was found naked. The motive must have been sexual. What motive would there be to kill Geraint?”

“Perhaps he saw something
- ”
Siân began but her brother spoke over her.

“Is that what it says in the police report? What about the witness statements? You mentioned a diary this morning. Can we see it?”

“No, it’s private. And there were no witnesses, just me. I was the one who found my sister with her throat cut. Have you any idea what that felt like? Imagine it had been you, finding Siân dead. Imagine yourself as a fifteen-year-old, finding your sister with her head almost severed from her body. You’d go crazy, right? Because that’s what happened to me!”

Behind the counter, the barman was watching. He had already lifted the counter and was heading in their direction. She shook her head. After all she’d had to deal with over the years, these two were lightweight.

Bryn observed the exchange. “Calm down, we’re on the same side.”

He sounded tense; she drew strength from it.

“I doubt it,” she told him. “You don’t care about Sarah. You are only interested in proving your cousin innocent. I can tell you what happened to Geraint. He caught the first ferry across the Channel and has been bumming round Europe ever since. Give it up. You’re wasting your time.”