Pretty Maids All In A Row (15 page)

'There you are. All fixed.' And he and Dolly left the room.

Jessica said quickly, 'Where were we? Oh yes, touring with
Twelfth Night.
There was one theatre—'

But her mind wasn't on her words.
When
had Mrs Southern seen 'Santa' coming out of Hinckley's with a sack? Mrs Winter must be told. She'd know how much importance to attach to it. For her part, Jessica'd an uneasy suspicion that Mrs Southern wasn't rambling at all.

Webb saw her as soon as he turned out of the gate, her dress a splash of colour in the evening sunshine. He drew up beside her and as she climbed in, he was aware again of her scent.

'Where shall we go?' He didn't look at her. 'The Nutmeg?'

Damn! He shouldn't have asked. Seems she was bent on a nostalgia trip. The Nutmeg, a couple of miles' drive out of town, was the pub where they'd done their courting and which they'd patronized in the early days of their marriage.

Susan glanced at him, acccurately interpreting his silence. 'It's only a suggestion. If you'd rather not, it's all right by me.'

But if he chose otherwise, she'd read all sorts of reasons into it. Angrily he realized he was already back on the treadmill. If I say or do this, will she think I mean that? It had been one of the more wearing aspects of their life together.

Grimly and in silence he drove to The Nutmeg. Though he'd passed it countless times in the last five years, he'd never been inside. When they'd known it, it had had a shabby, rustic charm. Now, under new management, it had been extended and refurbished, and any lingering ghosts of their former selves well and truly despatched.

In the amber-tinted mirror behind the bar, he watched Susan seat herself at a table. If he were seeing her for the first time, would he fancy her? Or was it the remembrance of happier times that made his body jerk like an exposed nerve?

Two men came into the bar, throwing her an admiring glance as they passed. Webb sighed, paid for the drinks, and carried them across to join her. She had already lit a cigarette and the familiar irritation pricked at him as she flicked it in the vague direction of the ashtray and ash fell on the table. A non-smoker himself, her chain-smoking was a longstanding cause of friction and he was grateful, in the ambivalent present, to be reminded of it. On her little finger the amethyst ring glowed softly. It was the only one she wore. Sourly, he wondered what she'd done with her wedding rings.

'Do you know where I went today?' she asked, breaking the silence between them. 'Twenty-three, Priory Gardens.' He made no comment.

'It was the oddest feeling. The number of times I've walked up that path! They've built on a carport, did you know? And the woodwork's green now. I preferred it blue.'

'Houses change, as people do.'

'I suppose so. I should have known it never pays to go back.'

'Yet you came back to Shillingham.'

'Yes.' She looked at him under lowered lids. 'You've not forgiven me for that, have you? Why? Do you feel threatened by my being here?'

'No, merely curious.' It wasn't true. He felt a positive turmoil of emotions, but he wasn't going to tell her. Anyway, he hadn't identified them all himself.

'I've had a nomadic life, remember. I lived in Shillingham longer than anywhere else, and I needed familiar surroundings.'

'Do you propose to stay?' 'It depends.' 'On what?'

Her eyes held his over the rim of her glass. 'On whether your attitude drives me away.'

'My dear Susan, my "attitude", as you call it, needn't concern you at all. If you hadn't sought me out, I wouldn't even have known you were back.' He paused. 'But you wanted me to know, didn't you?'

'I suppose I must have.'

'If the rape hadn't happened, you'd have found some other reason to come and see me.' 'Probably.' 'Why?'

'Curiosity,' she answered in her turn, and if, like him, she was less than truthful, he couldn't accuse her of it. 'And is it now satisfied?'

'Partly. I wanted to see if you'd changed. You haven't— not really. And I wondered if, now things have died down a bit, we could be friends. Lots of divorced couples are.'

He didn't speak.

'Now, I'm not so sure. Either that we could be friends, or that things have died down.' She gave a small laugh into his continuing silence. 'I must say, you're not very communicative.'

'What do you want me to say?'

'Whether you'd like me to stay.'

'In Shillingham? It's entirely up to you. As you pointed out, I don't own the bloody town.'

'But you'd like me to keep out of your way.'

'I think it would be best. We seem unable to help hurting each other.'

She sighed and finished her drink. 'You're probably right.' 'Another?'

'No. You said you couldn't spare long, and there doesn't

seem much else to say.'

A bone-weary sadness seeped over him. 'Susie—'

Her hand clenched on the table, then relaxed. 'It's a long

time since anyone called me that.' She stood up abruptly.

'Let's go.'

Dusk was deepening as they drove back along the country road to the lights of Shillingham. 'Where are you staying?'

'Drop me in Gloucester Circus—that's near enough.' 'No, I'll take you to your door. Where is it?' 'Park Road. Number nineteen.'

There were houses on only one side of Park Road, small semi-detacheds for the most part. Opposite them, darkness was already among the trees of the park.

'It's the white house, past the next lamp-post.'

He drew up and she waited impassively while he got out and opened the door for her. In silence he escorted her up the short path, as, he remembered unwillingly, he had done up her parents' path during their engagement. At the door she turned with a bright smile.

'Well, it was nice knowing you, as they say.'

He stood looking at her, trying to think of a suitable reply. The misery was as intense as he remembered. He hadn't expected to feel it again.

'Good night, Susie.'

He wasn't sure which of them moved, but suddenly they were straining together, her mouth avidly seeking his as her hands dug into his hair, forcing him even closer. He held on to her, the remembered intimacy of her igniting bones and blood with insatiable urgency. Her mouth, her full, sensual mouth, with its lingering taste of tobacco.

With a strength he didn't know he possessed, he wrenched himself free, gasping in draughts of cool air. She said, 'Dave!' Then, rapidly, 'Dave, Dave, Dave!'

He turned and stumbled back down the path. She made no attempt to stop him. He started the car, drove it for some yards down the road, then stopped again, gripping the steering-wheel.

He was a bloody fool to meet her. He should have guessed what would happen. Nothing had changed. They were still poles apart mentally and obsessed with each other's bodies. It would be no different from before.

During their last months together, they'd made love in anger, in bitterness, resenting their physical need of each other which took no account of the emotional scratchiness which was driving them apart. Then, when she'd gone, he'd endured nearly three years of celibacy. He didn't care for casual sex, nor was it open to one of his calling. Police Regulations saw to that.

He drew a deep breath. Her scent, newly remembered, still lingered in the car, bringing back not the stressful end of their marriage, but the times when last it had come fresh to his nostrils—their first few meetings, all those years ago. And he knew, despairingly, that if the chance offered, he would make love to her.

And Hannah? He felt a stab of guilt. Hannah was sanity, tenderness, comfort: Susie irritation and unhealthy obsession. He'd thought that after all this time he could handle it, and he'd been wrong. God knew where it would end.

He straightened, staring down the darkening road ahead of him. In the trees of the park an owl hooted. He turned the ignition key and the car moved slowly on down the road.

CHAPTER 9

Kathy said gently, 'You really should go home, you know. You don't look at all well.'

Carrie shook her head, wiping her hand across her mouth. 'I'll be all right, mum.'

'Is it your tooth again?'

'No. I—I ate something that upset me.'

'Then you should be in bed, not rushing about here with the Hoover. You need time to get over it.'

Carrie gripped the edge of the sink, her head bent over it. 'Please, Mrs Markham, let me stay. I'll—' She broke off, catching her lip between her teeth. Then, as Kathy watched in consternation, she crumpled, bowed over the sink as an avalanche of tears overcame her.

'Carrie! Oh, Carrie, love. Come and sit down.' Kathy prised her fingers off the sink and led her to a chair. Carrie slumped forward on to the table, her head in her arms.

'There's something else, too, isn't there? Can't you tell me? Perhaps I can help.'

'No one can,' Carrie said with finality. She sat up, reached in her apron for a handkerchief, and blew her nose. 'I'm sorry, mum. I'll be all right now.'

'But there might be something I can do.'

'No, really.' Carrie hesitated, then raised her swollen face to Kathy's. 'I'm going to have a baby.'

Kathy stared at her blankly. She'd never heard Carrie's name linked with an admirer. In her busy life, there didn't seem time for one.

'Are you sure? Have you seen the doctor?'

'I'm sure. I don't need the doctor to tell me that. It's morning sickness, you see.'

'Does your boyfriend know?'

Carrie bit her lip.

'Surely he'd help you? Or is he already married?'

'Oh mum, you don't understand!' The tears came again. Carrie covered her face with her handkerchief, rocking backwards and forwards in inconsolable grief.

Oh
God!
.
Why hadn't she realized? Kathy knelt beside her and took her hand. 'Carrie, you were raped, weren't you?' The sobs continued unabated. 'When was it? How long ago? Have you told Matron?'

But Carrie, apparently regretting her confidence, resisted all attempts to make her elaborate. She was pregnant, and that's all she'd admit to. Patently, she regretted having gone that far. Regaining a precarious control, she gave Kathy a firm if watery smile and left the room.

The police should be told, Kathy thought uneasily. This extra evidence might be vital. Lois would know what to do. Yet even telling Lois seemed a betrayal of confidence.

After weighing the matter for some minutes, Kathy reached her usual conclusion. She would wait till Guy came home, and see what he thought. And with her course of action decided, she collected her shopping basket and thankfully left the house.

Jessica was reading to Mrs Southern when the police arrived.

'It's all right, Mrs Selby,' the Chief Inspector said. 'No need for you to go.' He felt the old lady would be more relaxed with someone familiar in the room. Matron, too, had followed him to the door. 'Chief Inspector Webb, ma'am, Shillingham CID. Now—' he drew up a chair—'I believe you saw someone from your window here, someone acting suspiciously. Is that right?'

Mrs Southern said clearly, 'Are you trying to have me certified, Matron?'

Webb looked startled and Lois came quickly into the room, but it was Jessica who answered. 'Quite the opposite, Mrs Southern. It's because we're sure you
did
see someone that Matron asked the Inspector to come.'

The old lady looked from one to the other. 'Father Christmas?' she inquired drily.

Webb said, 'Could you tell me when this was, ma'am?'

She studied him for a moment, then, deciding he was genuinely interested, paused to consider. 'It was the day Mrs Parbold was taken ill.'

Webb looked at Lois and raised his eyebrows.

'About a fortnight ago. I can check.'

'A Wednesday,' Mrs Southern put in.
‘I
remember, because Carrie was here. She gave me my supper.'

'Wednesday, a fortnight ago.' Almost certainly the day of the murder. 'And what time would it be, ma'am?'

'Quite late. It was starting to get dark.'

'That's right,' Lois confirmed. 'Normally we put Mrs Southern to bed before the day staff go off duty, and she has supper in bed. But that day everything was delayed because of the emergency.'