Telling Tales (9 page)

“Make a lee, Captain,” James said calmly. His work was almost over.

The ship swung slowly, so the long side of the hull faced into the wind. The launch was on its way. The crackling voice of the coxswain reported its progress. James went onto deck to watch its approach at first it was a flicker of light which disappeared with each wave. The Russian captain stood beside him and slapped his back as if they were best friends.

“Good work, sir,” he said in English. “It is always a pleasure to work with you, Pilot.”

He slipped a bottle of vodka into James’s bag and waved the latest Argos catalogue in salute. James smiled his thanks, as if vodka was his favourite drink in the world. The launch was circling the Russian boat, so it came alongside sheltered from the wind. James climbed down the pilot ladder with his bag over one shoulder, checked that the launch was in position and jumped aboard.

The coxswain was a woman called Wendy, slight and dark and determined to do well. Michael Long hadn’t liked that, James remembered. Being replaced by a woman had been the final straw. She turned to see that he was safely in his seat, opened the throttle and they started back to the Point.

“Good passage down, Mr. Bennett?” she shouted above the engine noise.

“A bit murky over the Whittons,” he said. “All right once the ebb got away.”

It was eight o’clock and light now. Faint sunshine penetrated the cloud. On the south bank of the river refineries and chimneys glowed silver through the mist, looking in outline like a great city. Venice perhaps, or St. Petersburg. James had the cold, empty feeling which comes from having too little sleep. After the swaying of the ship, his first couple of steps along the jetty seemed unnatural, as if the boards had lifted and hit the soles of his feet a beat too soon. He saw there was no pool car waiting for him to drive back to Hull,

thought that if he had to get a taxi, at least there’d be a chance of sleep.

Wendy seemed to guess what was going through his mind.

“Bert will be here soon. There’s a tanker due for Immingham. He says if you hang on you can take his car back. Go on in. You look as if you could use a coffee.”

“I could use a couple of hours’ sleep.” But it wasn’t a real complaint.

The steward in the pilot office made him a hot drink and a bacon sandwich. There was a Calor gas stove which hissed and smelled and immediately after eating James must have dozed, because when Bert did arrive it was light outside.

James emerged into a day-time world of children’s voices and a woman in one of the lifeboat houses hanging washing on the line. It was an odd community here on the Point. Half a dozen families, cut off from the mainland, only attached by a thin strip of sand, mud and concrete which could be breached by the next high tide. And most of their life was spent waiting. The coxswains of the pilot launches waited for the tide and the crew of the sole permanently manned lifeboat station in the country waited for a collision, for someone stranded on a sandbank. Their only activity would come out of someone else’s tragedy.

Still dazed from the Calor fumes and fuzzy with sleep, James stood for a moment to clear his head. His muscles felt stiff and clumsy. He walked past the VTS tower to the rise in the land where he’d get a view of the open sea. On this side of the Point there was a thicket of bramble and sea buckthorn, overrun by rabbits. A long beach ran north towards the mainland coast. The mist had cleared suddenly while he’d been sleeping and the light had the clear, sharp quality which comes before rain. The tanker waiting offshore seemed ridiculously close and the launch which was already circling towards it had the bright detail of a plastic toy.

Two people were walking along the beach, close to the tide line A man and a woman. Not birdwatchers. Birdwatchers were regular visitors to the Point, but they all dressed the same and they carried binoculars and telescopes. Besides, they didn’t wander much onto the beach. They stood where he was standing now to get a panoramic view of the passing seabirds, or they pushed their way through the paths cut in the undergrowth. James wasn’t sure what had first attracted his attention to the walkers. Perhaps it was the man, something about the way he was walking was familiar. He was wearing a long gabardine coat, too smart for a stroll on the beach and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets. And then there were his shoes. Most people would put on Wellingtons or boots, but he wore polished leather shoes. The salt would stain them. James crouched so he couldn’t be seen and continued watching. The man stopped suddenly, but he was still talking. The abrupt halt had only added emphasis to the words, demanding that the woman stop too and give him her full attention.

It was Keith Mantel. Since he and Emma had moved back to Elvet, James had managed to avoid him, and he looked older than when James had last seen him. His hair was grey, cut very short. Perhaps he’d put on a bit of weight. James wasn’t sure but he thought the face was fatter. Then the man turned and the couple continued on their walk and immediately James thought he must have been mistaken. He’d been thinking too much of Mantel recently and in his tiredness had dreamed him up. This was a respectable couple, taking the air before going into the city to resume their stressful lives. Or a not-so-respectable businessman snatching a few illicit moments with his mistress. Though there seemed to be nothing romantic about this encounter. Rather, it was confrontational. The woman deliberately allowed a space to grow between them, stooped and picked up a pebble and threw it into the water with a violence which suggested anger.

James turned away and walked back to the road where the company car was parked. Emma had enough stories and fancies for both of them. In the car, the heater was full on, blasting hot, stale air. James switched it off and backed away from the river. He drove slowly up the narrow track past the small group of houses and the cafe which provided mugs of tea and piles of chips to visitors in the summer. He was about to speed up a little, when he braked and pulled into the public car park. He was too curious, after all, to let it go. There were only two vehicles there, standing side by side, facing out into the estuary. One was a smart, black saloon, the other a boxy four by four. On the side of the latter was painted the logo which James had seen on the notice at the pilot office in Hull. And the words Mantel Development. Not his imagination then. Not a dream. On this occasion at least he wasn’t hallucinating.

Who was the woman? She was more mature than the usual lovers. When James had known him Mantel always went for young women. Inexperienced. Had he hoped some of their innocence would rub off on him? And more recently James had heard rumours in the village. The women in church loved to be shocked. Another young lover, he’d understood, had moved into the smart house where Mantel still lived. The woman on the beach had been well preserved, well groomed in an efficient, businesswoman sort of way, but she had been middle aged. In her forties at least. James switched off the engine and got out of his car. He walked slowly round the black saloon, not touching it, but peering in through the windows. It was a top of the range model with leather seats, all the latest gadgets on the dashboard. There was none of the mess which Emma gathered in her car baby clothes, sweet wrappers, Coke cans. Not even a brief case. But on the passenger seat was a pile of letters. The woman had picked up her mail before setting off, though she hadn’t had time to open it. The top envelope was face up and was an advertising circular from a credit card company. James recognized the printing. At least now he had a name for the woman. The letter was addressed to Caroline Fletcher.

When he finally reached home it had gone ten o’clock. The house was quiet. Matthew would be in his cot, just settled for his morning nap. Emma was in the living room. She’d lit a fire; he could smell the pine logs as soon as he came into the house. She was sitting in a big armchair, her legs tucked under her, and there was a book lying in her lap. Flaubert’s Emma Bovary in French. Her eyes were shut and her breathing was regular. When he approached her she stirred.

“Oh God,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I had a dreadful night with the baby. I must have dozed off. And you must be exhausted.”

“Not too bad,” he said. “Second wind.” He nodded at the book. “What’s this?”

The question seemed to make her uncomfortable. “You know what they say about languages use them or lose them. I might want to go back to teaching. I don’t want to get rusty.”

“Good idea. Coffee?”

“I’d love some. But let me get it.”

“No really,” he said. “I meant what I said. Second wind.”

When he came back, carrying mugs and the biscuit tin, she was fast asleep.

Chapter Eleven

In her sleep, Emma was fifteen and it was summer.

The house where Abigail lived with her father was bigger even than the house in York which Emma’s father had designed. Once, it had been a chapel belonging to a grand house with a formal garden and a park. There was still a long leaded window in the entrance hall though all the stained glass had been removed to allow in more light. The big house had burned to the ground a hundred years ago leaving the chapel stranded and useless, until it was developed by Abigail’s father.

Now, only that long window and the steep roof gave an indication of its original purpose. The ground had been landscaped and the house extended. There was a new garage and a flat above it for a housekeeper. Stone from the ruin had been used to build the living room where Jeanie Long was playing the piano. Glass sliding doors led from there into a conservatory. The living room was furnished in a style which Emma knew her father would despise reproduction sideboards in dark wood, over-stuffed sofas, mirrors with gilt frames. He would approve, she felt, of the conservatory. There, the table and chairs were plain and functional. Big plants stood in terra cotta pots, which reminded Emma immediately of the garden in York. A striped hammock swung from the roof.

Jeanie Long was practising. Since she moved to the house to be Keith Mantel’s lover, it seemed she hadn’t stopped playing. Often the same piece was repeated over and over. This seemed to drive Abigail to fury. It provoked a continuous battle, or rather maintained the hostilities which had begun with Jeanie’s arrival. Abigail refused to speak to the woman. She banged doors, had stopped eating, burst into tears whenever her father was around to see. Jeanie fought back with the only weapon she had her music. She would begin as soon as he left in the morning and continue until his return. There were other rooms of course. Abigail could avoid the sound if she wanted. There were rooms in the old part of the chapel which had televisions, a sound system, a computer, and because the piano was in an extension separated from the rest of the house by thick walls, the sound of the playing was barely audible from those. But that didn’t matter to Abigail. She threatened to take an axe to the piano late at night and Emma believed that she might do it. She imagined the splintered wood and the twanging strings.

Emma and Abigail were in the conservatory. Abigail was swinging on the hammock, one leg hanging over the edge. It was the last day of the school summer holidays and Emma wanted to enjoy it. The sun was shining. She could have been on the beach, topping up her suntan so she wouldn’t seem so different from the girls who’d been to a Greek island or Tenerife. Keith had flown Abigail to Florida before Jeanie had taken up residence but she didn’t have the sort of complexion which tanned. Her skin was as white and smooth as wax. Abigail had refused the beach and to take the bus to Hull to look at the shops. Instead she’d insisted on staying in to stoke up her fury. She pushed against the one stone wall of the conservatory with her foot, making the hammock swing violently. The ropes creaked where they were mounted on the ceiling. The noise was loud and regular like the braying of a donkey, but still Jeanie bent over the piano keys. Either she was so absorbed that she didn’t hear or she was determined not to react.

Then the door opened and Keith Mantel was standing there. He was nearly twice Jeanie’s age but even Emma could understand the attraction. His hair was a sandy blond and his face did show the effect of the Florida sun. He was dressed in a grey suit and white shirt and he carried a briefcase, but somehow managed to look neither stuffy nor respectable. For a moment Jeanie didn’t realize he was there, then perhaps he moved or there was a breeze through the open door, because she stopped playing in the middle of a phrase and looked round. The girls’ whispered giggles hadn’t disturbed her, but his entrance had penetrated her concentration immediately.

She swivelled on the embroidered top of the stool so her back was to the piano. She was caught in the full sunlight which flooded through the glass doors. Her face was lit up not just by the sunshine but at her pleasure at seeing him.

“Wonderful,” she said. “You’re home early.”

He set down his briefcase and walked up to her. He put his hands on her shoulders which were bare, because she was wearing a thin, strappy top, and he kissed the top of her head. Beside Emma, Abigail was making noises like someone being violently sick. Emma felt a violent stab of envy. She didn’t believe anyone would kiss her in that way.

Emma had been trying to remember more of her encounter with Jeanie Long since that one flash of recollection in the church. When she woke it was almost lunchtime and her book had slid to the floor so the place was lost. Upstairs Matthew was lying awake in his cot, reaching out occasionally towards a bare branch moving just outside his window. James had gone to bed. His uniform cap lay on the dressing table. His breathing was soft and regular. He claimed never to dream and looking at him there so calm and still, she could believe that was true. Emma changed Matthew then took him into the living room to feed him. She zapped on the television for the local news, and caught a piece on the reopening of the Mantel case.

“A witness has come forward who can place Jeanie Long in London on the day attractive teenager Abigail Mantel was killed. Miss Long always claimed she was in the capital on the day the crime was committed, but until now there has been no evidence to support her. Officers from a neighbouring force have been brought in to reassess the case. The Chief Constable of Yorkshire and Humberside Police denies that this shows a lack of confidence in the original investigation. “Often,” he says, “it’s useful to look at a case with fresh eyes”.”