Thicker Than Water (12 page)

‘And I’ll miss you, all of you. I’ll phone you tomorrow before the dinner, and I’ll see you Friday evening.’

She clung to him for a moment as the children came running down the path to say goodbye.

‘Take care,’ she said.

The house seemed strangely silent without the hustle and bustle of the family. In happier times, Callum would have phoned Bob and suggested they had a drink together, but it would hardly be appropriate now. Briefly, he considered and rejected his other friends; they’d be tied up with their families on Easter Monday.

Since there was nothing to hold his interest on television, he decided to employ his time in looking over the speech he’d prepared for the following evening’s dinner. It was to be a prestigious affair, hosted by his company at a five-star hotel, in the hope of attracting wealthy local businessmen.

He was halfway through it, editing and timing it as he went, when the phone rang, and he reached for it absentmindedly.

‘Callum Firbank.’

There was a brief silence at the other end, followed by a click as the connection was broken.

Callum frowned and looked up at the clock. Nearly half past nine. He dialled 1471, but the number of the caller was withheld. Probably a wrong number. He shrugged, and, his mind still work-orientated, returned to his speech.

It was only some hours later, as he climbed into the empty bed, that his mind returned to the aborted call, reminding him of the unknown caller a few weeks ago. Better not start thinking along those lines, he told himself firmly; they’d do nothing for his insomnia. He’d read for a while, and then, when his eyes grew heavy, hopefully sleep would come.

The evening had been a great success. Callum’s speech was enthusiastically received, and there were a gratifying number of enquiries to follow up. The managing director made a point of congratulating him, colleagues lined up to buy him drinks, and for the first time since Josh went missing, he felt at peace with himself. This was the milieu in which he was most comfortable, most sure of himself, with none of the doubts and anxieties that, despite Judy’s reassurances, bedevilled his private life.

When the formal part of the evening was over, a group of them adjourned to the bar. Several of those who lived at a distance had booked into the hotel overnight, and consequently were unworried about their consumption of alcohol. By the time Callum looked at his watch it was past midnight, and he belatedly realized he shouldn’t have kept pace with his fellow drinkers.

He took his leave of them, and, aware of a slight unsteadiness, went to the cloakroom and sluiced his face in cold water. Briefly, he toyed with the idea of ordering a taxi, but it was only a short drive home, and he’d need his car in the morning. Once he was out in the fresh air, he told himself, his head would clear.

When he reached the car park behind the hotel, most of the cars had gone and his stood in isolation at the far end. His euphoria had evaporated, and he wished Judy was at home waiting for him. As promised, he’d given her a call earlier, and all was well. Flora had had her first pony ride, and Judy laughingly warned him that they might be in for an expensive few years if her present infatuation lasted.

He was smiling to himself as he reached the car and bent to put his key in the lock. He’d some difficulty finding the slot – the nearby lamp wasn’t lit, and his hand was none too steady. When the key did slide in, he found to his surprise that the door was unlocked, and paused, frowning. Admittedly he’d been in a hurry when he left it – the phone call to Judy had delayed him, and he’d had no wish to arrive late for the pre-dinner reception. But it was careless in the extreme not to have locked it, and he was lucky, he thought feelingly, that it hadn’t been pinched.

He slipped inside, registering with annoyance that the courtesy light hadn’t come on, thus causing further difficulty as he fumbled for the ignition slot. It would have been helpful had the nearby lamp been lit, but the open door admitted only a cold wind, and he pulled it shut, swearing softly to himself. This hassle he could do without.

It was as he reached to turn the key that something cold and sharp touched the back of his neck, and a voice – oddly flat and toneless – said softly, ‘Good evening, Cal. I’ve been wanting to have a little chat with you, about something that happened twenty-four years ago.’

They didn’t find him until the next morning. His throat had been slit and his body strung up on one of the car park’s lamp-posts, the bulb of which had been smashed. Curiously, stuck in the pocket of his overcoat, was a blank picture postcard of a town in the Lake District.

PART III – JILL

Nine

She saw him first in the post office – or, at least, in its doorway, since she was leaving as he entered, and they almost collided. In the brief moment they were face to face, she registered the quick flare of interest in his eyes, and smiled to herself as she hurried down the street. It was undeniably gratifying, this effect she had on men, even though Douglas bitterly resented it.

‘You should be grateful,’ she teased him. ‘I’m good for business!’

Which was true. They were the owners of the Bay View Hotel in the Dorset town of Sandbourne, and Jill’s easy way with guests, both male and female, was a definite asset. Since her arrival a year ago, bookings had gone up fifty per cent, a large number of them return visits.

It wasn’t only her personality that had paid dividends; she’d invested a considerable amount of money in the hotel, redecorating and refurbishing throughout, and persuading Douglas to engage a first-class chef. What was more, she’d infected the existing staff with her enthusiasm, inspiring them to become more motivated, and Douglas, impressed by the results, was happy to give her free rein. It had paid off handsomely.

Sometimes, Jill wondered if it was because of her money that he’d insisted on marriage. With two divorces behind her, she’d not been anxious to embark on what she regarded as another farce, and would have contentedly lived with him without the blessings of the law. But he had pointed out – no doubt rightly – that as the owner of a hotel, his private life must be beyond reproach if he were to attract the clientele he wanted.

She’d warned him frankly that she was easily bored. ‘I was the guilty party in both divorces,’ she’d said, ‘so don’t count on my being faithful. I’ll marry you, if that’s what you want, but on my own terms – though I promise to be discreet.’

That he’d made only a token protest was indication, she’d thought, of the strength of his desire for her. Or possibly her money.

At forty-eight, Douglas was ten years older than herself, and when they met, had been a widower for two years. Jill, recently divorced from her second husband, had come down to the Dorset coast to ‘regroup’, as she phrased it to herself, and booked into the Bay View principally because of its position. And from their first encounter, an electrical charge had existed between them.

Douglas Irving was a man for whom there were no half measures, as might have been inferred from his appearance. His arms, permanently tanned, were hirsute and muscular, his shoulders powerful under the thin cloth of his shirt. He ate well, drank well – though never to excess – and had a strong sexual appetite, necessarily held in check for the past two years. It had taken no more than a couple of days before they were in bed together, and after the tender, unhurried lovemaking of her ex, Jill was first startled, then aroused, by the ferocity of Douglas’s. In the twelve months of their marriage she’d had no wish to look elsewhere, though she continued to flirt shamelessly. It was as natural to her as breathing, and Douglas, though he didn’t like it, held his tongue.

She had forgotten about the man in the post office, and when she saw him in the bar that evening, it took her a moment to place him. She assumed he was staying at one of the boarding houses along the front, which were unlicensed, and whose guests frequently came to the hotel for a pre-dinner drink.

It was her practice to hand out menus in the bar, giving guests time to choose and order their meal before going into the restaurant, and she paused when she reached him.

‘Will you be dining with us this evening, sir?’ she asked, holding up a menu.

He shook his head. ‘Not this evening, no.’

She nodded smilingly, and would have moved on, but he continued, ‘I hope I didn’t startle you this morning.’

She paused, looking back at him. He had the sandy hair and colourless lashes that had never appealed to her, but there was nevertheless something about him that caught her interest, something contained, held in check, and the expression in his eyes made her uncomfortable.

‘I’m not easily startled,’ she answered lightly, and, ignoring his raised eyebrow, continued distributing her menus. When she next turned round, he had gone.

Jill had never fooled herself that she loved Douglas, nor he her, but their physical relationship was eminently satisfying to them both, and their shared interest in the hotel provided the necessary ballast. It was, she felt, a sounder basis than the emotional roller-coaster she’d experienced in both previous marriages, which she’d entered into blinded with love, and which in each case had ended in bitter recriminations. Though she was aware Douglas could be jealous, she also knew it was his pride rather than his heart that was affected.

She was aware, too, that though most of his friends had made her welcome, some secretly compared her – to her disadvantage, she didn’t doubt – with his first wife, Aileen, who had died of cancer. There was a photograph of her in their private apartment, and Jill was happy for it to remain. She had been the love of Douglas’s life, and this was all he had left of her.

Sometimes, Jill picked up the photograph and studied the perpetually smiling face, the dark, curling hair and slight figure, which must have been dwarfed by her husband. It puzzled her that this woman was almost an exact opposite of herself, and on one occasion she’d even taken it to a mirror, looking from it to her own reflection, with its spiky blonde hair and brown eyes, its tall leanness. How was it, she wondered, that two such different women could attract the same man?

Among Douglas’s friends, the couple with whom Jill felt most comfortable were Bruce and Helen Fanshawe, who were dining with them that evening. Jill, whose keen interest in food had never stretched to cooking it, was more than happy to have her meals prepared and served by the hotel staff, and she and Douglas at their corner table habitually chose from the same menu as their guests.

When they entertained, however, they dined privately upstairs, and she liked to plan the meal herself, a feat accomplished by inveigling the chef, who, like most men, was putty in her hands, to include specific dishes on that evening’s menu. On this occasion, the dressed crab, coriander chicken and lemon posset she’d selected would also be on offer in the restaurant.

Their guests were not due till eight thirty, and at seven, Jill did her first menu round in the bar. To her slight consternation, she saw that the man from the post office was there again. Determined not to let him rile her, she treated him to a smile as she passed. But he called her back.

‘May I have a menu, please?’

She flushed, feeling wrong-footed. ‘I’m sorry, I thought . . .’

He took it with a curt nod, and, gritting her teeth, she continued with her round, harbouring the unworthy suspicion that had she offered him a menu in the first place, he would have declined it. It would be interesting to know if he did in fact stay for dinner.

Before returning upstairs, she went to the restaurant in search of the maitre d’.

‘François, there’s man in the bar who’s not one of our usual run of guests. He asked for a menu, and I’d be interested to know whether or not he does dine with us.’

‘If you could describe him to me, madame, I will look out for him.’

‘Medium height with sandy-coloured hair, and he’s wearing a denim jacket and jeans.’

The mention of jeans raised an eyebrow. ‘Has he a tie?’ François enquired discreetly. Ties were a requisite in the restaurant.

‘Yes, I believe he was wearing one.’

The maitre d’ nodded. ‘Leave it with me, madame.’

At least her curiosity would be settled on that score, Jill thought. She took the lift to their apartment, and, walking quickly through the sitting room, went out on the balcony and leaned over the rail, letting the evening breeze cool her flushed cheeks. Below her, she could see couples strolling along the prom, some families only just returning from a day on the beach, with tired, wailing children in tow. Beyond them, the sand lay golden in the late sunshine, and beyond that again was the incoming tide, moving slowly and rhythmically like the sleeping giant that it was.

Jill drew a deep, steadying breath and went back into the room, checking the table that had been laid earlier. Their suite did not boast a dining room, consisting simply of a bedroom with en suite, a large sitting room, and a tiny kitchenette with a sink, hob and microwave. When they entertained, a heated trolley containing the food was brought up in the lift, and the first and last courses, invariably cold, were set out on the counter ready for serving. Jill’s sole contribution to the meal would be the coffee she’d make in the state-of-the-art machine she’d bought Douglas at Christmas. It all worked very well.

Satisfied that everything was in order, she went to have a shower.

They were finishing their dessert when the subject of murder came up. Douglas flashed an anxious look at his wife, and saw her stiffen; he’d noticed before that she erected an instant mental barrier when any kind of violence was mentioned, refusing point-blank to follow any of the cases reported so avidly in the press or on television.

‘He battered that old woman to death,’ Helen was saying indignantly, referring to a case that was making the headlines, ‘and his defence counsel’s trying to excuse him by saying he had a traumatic childhood! I ask you!’

‘All the same,’ Bruce put in, ‘it’s increasingly accepted that children
can
be permanently damaged by trauma or abuse suffered when young. Then, later, if something triggers a suppressed memory, it can flare up and transference takes place. If you remember, it emerged that the killer’s grandmother used to beat him and shut him in the cellar for hours on end. It’s possible something snapped inside him, spurring him to take revenge.’

‘On the poor old soul who’d befriended him, and found him odd jobs to do.’

‘Mind you,’ Bruce continued judiciously, ‘children obviously react in different ways; the stronger ones escape relatively unscathed, others might become withdrawn, or psychotic, or simply inadequate, unable to cope with life.’

Jill pushed back her chair. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll make the coffee,’ she said, and left the room.

Helen, unaware of any tension, went on: ‘Then there are these postcard murders. Now, they’re
weird
. A woman in an orchard in Gloucestershire and a man in a Cambridge car park, killed several months apart but in exactly the same way – stabbed, and then strung up, with an identical postcard stuck in their pockets.’

Bruce leaned back in his chair. ‘Remind me where it was of?’

‘The police wouldn’t say at first, but it turned out to be somewhere in the Lake District. I ask you, what possible connection can there be?’

‘Search me,’ Douglas admitted, with an anxious glance towards the door.

‘No doubt a
damaged child
at work again,’ Helen said scornfully. ‘God, if I thought something I did could have a lasting effect on ours—’

‘—you wouldn’t beat them so regularly!’ Bruce ended for her, and Helen had the grace to smile.

‘Talking of your kids,’ Douglas said quickly, seeing Jill emerge from the kitchen with the coffee, ‘how are they? I haven’t seen my godson for a while.’

And by the time she reached the table, the subject of murder had mercifully been shelved.

The Fanshawes left an hour or so later, and their hosts went down to see them off. As they came back into the foyer some guests approached Douglas, and the maitre d’, appearing in the restaurant doorway, signalled to Jill.

‘The person you referred to did indeed dine with us, madame,’ he told her, and she noted with amusement his avoidance of the word ‘gentleman’. ‘He had booked a table in the name of Mr Gary Payne, and by an odd coincidence, chose the three dishes you’d selected for your guests.’

Jill gave a superstitious little shiver, as if this man had read her mind, and wanted her to know it.

‘He settled his bill by cash,’ François continued, when she made no comment, ‘and I have to say, left a generous tip.’

‘Thank you, François. It seems I misjudged him.’

‘You can’t be too careful, madame,’ he said.

So now she had a name, Jill reflected, as she joined Douglas in the lift. If she ever thought of him again – which she didn’t intend to – at least she needn’t refer to him in her mind as ‘the post office man’.

But it seemed he’d gone out of her life as abruptly as he’d entered it. For the next three evenings she’d looked quickly round on entering the bar, but there’d been no sign of him. It was the beginning of a new week; perhaps, his holiday over, he’d returned home. She was surprised by the depth of relief that explanation afforded her.