Pale as the Dead

by Fiona Mountain

  Not a regular burglar then, not a petty, opportunistic thief. But someone who was after something in particular.

  Whoever it had been was gone now, she was sure of it. She sat down on the bed and lifted the phone onto her lap, dialled the police. They said they’d send someone round from Broadway station within the hour. As she stood in the kitchen, pouring a glass of whisky, she saw that her hands were shaking.

  She went through to the living room to wait. Couldn’t bring herself to sit at her desk. It gave her the creeps, thinking how someone had been here uninvited, touching her things. A violation. She started putting the papers back into some sort of order. It would take a couple of hours at least. In a flash of temper, she scooped them all up and dumped them into a pile. She was itching to fetch the polish, but with the police coming that wasn’t perhaps such a bright idea. Evidence, fingerprints. Where would you be without TV cop shows? She probably shouldn’t have moved the papers either. Tough.

  Then she thought of something else. She nudged the mouse to reactivate the computer screen, looked at the record of the most recent files that had been opened. Bethany. The Marshalls. She’d been using them yesterday and the last changes were dated then. But someone could still have been looking.

  Like all the other incidents, the break-in was to do with Bethany, of that Natasha was certain. It followed that the closer she got to finding Bethany, the more desperate whoever it was became. A positive thing then? The break-in proved she was getting warmer.

  Then why was she standing in her own living room shivering, feeling lost and frightened and alone, feelings she despised more than any others?

  She had been able to rationalise away the Celica, and the rest. But there was no escaping the fact that someone had definitely been here, in her home.

  * * *

  It was PC Walker who came with a young woman police constable. Walker was a middle-aged chap; with a paunch, thick spectacles, a double chin and rapidly receding hair line. Natasha knew him quite well. He visited the village to advise the old ladies on their neighbourhood watch schemes and to teach the school children about road safety and not talking to strangers. He had occasionally been seen having a drink in the Snowshill Arms, never after hours of course.

  Natasha made cups of tea and handed round digestive biscuits.

  ‘I’ll just have a scout around if I may.’ Walker munched on the biscuit, scattering crumbs as he went, trailed by Boris vacuuming them all up. ‘You’re sure nothing’s been taken?’

  ‘Pretty much, yes.’

  ‘Just your papers you say. Was there anything you think anyone might especially want to get their hands on. Sure you’d not left any wills lying about?’ Walker grinned ‘Some great-granny coming back from the dead to see you’re not tampering with her last wishes?’

  Natasha managed a smile.

  They sat in the living room while he took a statement. ‘Perhaps you disturbed whoever it was, or they spotted you on your way back and escaped before they’d had a chance to grab anything.’

  The phone rang.

  ‘Want to get that?’ Walker asked.

  ‘It can wait.’ The answering machine picked up.

  ‘Well, I think we’re about finished.’ Walker stuffed his notebook back into his pocket. ‘Just kids most likely. Ran amok and scarpered.’

  She told him about finding the window open when she came downstairs a few nights ago.

  He took a look. ‘You’d have to be pretty skinny to squeeze through these mullions.’ He glanced down at his own stomach with a grin. ‘No harm in taking fingerprints, checking out the usual suspects, but since nothing’s been taken and your door was unlocked…’

  ‘My own fault. You’ve got better things to do with your time I’m sure.’

  ‘Best lock up in future though. You can’t be too careful. Rural crime’s on the increase. City ruffians know the countryside’s full of trusting folk who save them the bother of breaking in. Rich pickings. Worth the extra journey.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  She hit play on the answering machine, keeping one eye on the window through which she could see PC Walker, climbing leisurely into his car, checking his radio.

  ‘You probably won’t remember me, it’s Dr Moore. Nigel Moore. We met at Highgate.’ He’d left a number and asked if she could give him a call. ‘Whenever it’s convenient.’

  She wondered for a moment how he’d known how to reach her. She’d mentioned she was a genealogist. He must have taken the trouble to find her details on the internet. Was it a professional call? She hoped so. Life was complicated enough as it was.

  Thirty-Five

  IT WAS ALMOST two. Katherine should be here soon.

  Natasha changed out of her jeans into chocolate velvet leggings, black jersey vest top and a baggy black lace shirt, picked up the book of Lizzie Siddal’s portraits. It was like those little books children used to have, of a man running or a bird flapping its wings in flight. Each picture slightly different, producing, as you quickly flipped through the pages, the effect of animation. It seemed as if Lizzie was looking down, then for a moment raised her eyes to meet Natasha’s.

  ‘What is it you want to tell us?’ Natasha whispered.

  She heard a car engine, then heard it stop. A girl walked past the window on the other side of the lane. There was a knock at the door.

  She was slight and pretty, mid-twenties perhaps, olive skin, violet eyes and dark hair that was braided and pinned around her head with little iridescent clips in the shape of butterflies. She set bells ringing in Natasha’s head for some reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. One of the girls in the photographs?

  ‘Katherine?’

  For a second Natasha had the impression the girl was weighing her up against expectations. Then she smiled. ‘That’s right.’

  Living alone, it seemed to Natasha as if every time she invited someone else to her home she was somehow baring her soul. The decoration, ornaments, furniture, books all said something about her. As did the dust on the picture frames, the grate in the fireplace that needed a good sweep. The mess around her desk didn’t, but she couldn’t get into that now.

  She went through to the kitchen to make two fresh cups of coffee.

  When she returned, the girl was standing in the window, studying the spines of the books on the shelves, her head bent a little to one side. She caught Natasha’s eye and straightened. ‘Sorry. I can’t resist looking at other people’s collections.’

  ‘That’s OK. Neither can I.’

  ‘Natasha handed over a mug and they sat down, Natasha in the wooden rocker by the inglenook and Katherine on the sofa. She sipped her coffee, held Natasha’s eyes for a moment, then glanced away. ‘Look. I might as well come straight out with it. I’m sure you’re wondering what on earth I’m doing here.’ She looked up. ‘It was me who gave Bethany your name and address. I got it from Marcus.’

  The shock of hearing his name in so unexpected a context made Natasha freeze. She wanted this girl out of her house. It felt more of an intrusion than the burglar. Why had she come?

  ‘I’m his sister,’ Katherine said, quietly.

  Natasha cursed herself for jumping to conclusions. Steven was right. She’d never do that professionally. Of course the girl was Marcus’s sister. He didn’t often speak of his family but Natasha knew he had a sister called Katie. That was why Natasha felt she recognised her. Though on the surface she didn’t resemble him that much. His eyes were intense and deep set, dark, hers almost violet, open and bright. But their lips were the same, full and wide. And something about her expressions and mannerisms, a smile that made her look somehow sadder.

  Natasha sat down again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I must have shocked you,’ Katherine said. ‘But you see now, why I wanted to meet you.’ She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her left ear. The lobe was pierced twice, a little diamond star and a small hoop. ‘It’s terrible that we’ve never
met before,’ Katherine smiled. ‘Marcus told us all about you though.’

  ‘Did he?’ He’d hardly ever mentioned his family, had never invited Natasha to meet them. With perseverance, she’d wrinkled out of him the basic details. They lived on the Cornish coast, his father an electronic engineer, his mother a housewife. Three brothers and a sister. He’d talked of school holidays shrimping and surfing.

  ‘Mum was always telling him to bring you down to see us,’ Katherine was saying. ‘So was I.’

  He’d always given the impression he wasn’t close to his family, and had hardly any contact with them except the usual, birthdays and Christmas. He’d always led her to believe he felt more akin to Steven. When he’d been staying at the cottage or she’d been at his place, she’d never once heard him talking on the phone to his mother or his sister.

  Why was she feeling cheated?

  ‘He used to come home all the time, and I used to go up and stay with him in Manchester,’ Katherine said. ‘Then he started seeing you and he went all strange.’ She said it with no animosity. ‘I could never reach him at his house and he wouldn’t give me your number for ages. And he never seemed to have time to come home any more, was always busy when I wanted to come up and see him. I thought you must be some possessive and manipulative witch who didn’t want him to have a family. But after you split up, and Marcus seemed so upset, I spoke to Freddie and Jack and some of the other guys who work with him and your dad and they all say how great you are, how you made Marcus laugh. So I didn’t know what to think.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Natasha said, to herself. Was there just a tiny grain of truth in Katherine’s first assumption? Was she manipulative, possessive?

  She knew the answer was yes, sometimes.

  But still. Why had he done it? Cut her out. Kept her and his family apart. Because he was ashamed of her? Because she’d never meant that much to him?

  ‘We’re a bit daunting I suppose, en masse,’ Katherine said. ‘But you look like you’d cope.’

  Natasha lifted her cup, swallowed a mouthful of coffee. There was a pain across her forehead. Understanding pierced her. He’d worried she wouldn’t cope.

  He’d thought it would be difficult for her. To see him as part of such a tightly knit family, surrounded by his relations who all looked like him, a gaggle of brothers and sisters. He thought she’d feel left out, different. Did he really think she was so fragile?

  Boris thrust his muzzle into Katherine’s hand, gave an inquisitive sniff. She stroked him. ‘It’s a shame you and Marcus aren’t together any more.’

  Natasha was remembering. Marcus talking quietly on the telephone, joking and laughing, when he thought she was upstairs in the bath. The phone bill she’d checked the minute it arrived. A twenty-minute call to a London number she didn’t recognise. Too late anyway. But she’d still not be able to resist calling it. Had hung up when a young woman answered. Had it been Katherine?

  ‘I’m going to move back to Cornwall in the summer,’ Katherine said. ‘I’ve been living with my aunt and uncle in London and it’s been fun but I’ve had enough of it now. I want to get my own place back home. Perhaps you could come and stay sometime.’ She was deliberately sowing a seed. Trying to play Cupid. Natasha was touched, let herself believe that what she’d suggested might just be possible. She felt the other girl’s eyes resting on her. ‘He didn’t tell me what happened between you.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he had a clue.’ She felt as if something inside her was broken, confronted with Katherine’s pretty, open face, which suddenly did look so like Marcus’s that she could barely stand to meet her eyes.

  ‘I’ve meant to come and see you before,’ Katherine said. ‘It seemed like an omen. When I found a message from Rosie with your name and contact details on it.

  Natasha had almost forgotten the reason she’d initially wanted to get in touch with Katherine.

  Bethany.

  ‘It’s one of those situations that seems like an amazing coincidence, isn’t it?’ Katherine said. ‘There you are, looking for someone, who, it turns out, worked with the sister of your boyfriend.’ Natasha smiled at the term. Teenagers had boyfriends. ‘But you only got involved in looking for Bethany because I’d given her your name.’

  ‘Why did you?’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘We have lots of people coming into the shop who are researching their family history, visiting the grave of an ancestor. We got to talking about it and I mentioned that Marcus had told me you were a professional genealogist. It stuck in my mind because I thought what an unusual, interesting job. Anyway, Bethany asked if I knew how to contact you. I told her you lived near Oxford and she was really keen that I get your address and phone number. I explained it all to Marcus when I asked him for your details, but I guess he never got a chance to tell you. Bethany got in touch though?’

  ‘Yes. Although it’s … her boyfriend … I’m working for now. You don’t by any chance know where Bethany is?’

  ‘We didn’t keep in touch after she left the shop.’

  ‘This may sound like an odd question. But did she ever mention Lizzie Siddal?

  ‘Not to me. But there was a young guy came into the shop a few months ago, and they got talking about art. Bethany was always sketching. They were quite disturbing some of her pictures. Fairies, not like the Flower Fairies, but with serpents in their hair, fallen angels and ghosts in forests. Anyway, I heard her telling this guy about Lizzie Siddal, how people should respect her as an artist. He asked Bethany if she’d like to come with him to the grave but she said no. He was quite sexy, long black ponytail and dark skin like a Cherokee. Well, you’d know, you’ve met him.’

  Natasha frowned. ‘Have I?’

  ‘You said her boyfriend…’

  ‘Adam. He’s fair, pale skin.’

  Katherine gave a little shake of her head. ‘Oh well, that’s not who she was seeing when I knew her. Unless of course she was going for a mixed dish.’

  ‘Can you remember his name?’

  Katherine thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure she ever told me.’

  Someone with a long dark ponytail, like a Cherokee. Jake Romilly. ‘I’m sorry, you were saying. When this guy came into the shop…’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Well, they seemed to be getting along so well, I told her I was sure Rosie wouldn’t mind if she took an early lunch and went off with him, but she was quite adamant that she didn’t want to go, left the poor guy standing there and disappeared into the back room to leave me to take his money. He didn’t buy anything in the end. He came back the next day and she went for a drink with him, started seeing him on and off. I think they argued quite a lot, though. She seemed edgy sometimes. One time he came in and she told him to go away, she didn’t want to see him any more.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Um. Few weeks before Christmas I think.’

  Natasha felt drained, as if she’d given blood. ‘Did you get on with her?’

  ‘Yeah. I felt a bit sorry for her, though. I sometimes thought our place was the worst kind of florist for her to be in. She was too sensitive. When people came in for wreaths for the graves she’d be almost in tears sometimes. But she had a nice manner with them. Sometimes they are quite upset, widows and grandchildren, young wives and husbands and mothers occasionally. Even people who were coming to see ancestors who died long before they were born. Bethany was really understanding and kind.’ Katherine smiled. ‘She always looked like she was dressed for a funeral. I never saw her in anything but black, long flowing skirts and baggy jumpers.’ She put her cup down. ‘I should be going.’

  ‘Stay for something to eat.’

  They chatted whilst Natasha made supper. Pasta with mushrooms, salad and French bread rolls. As luck would have it, the cupboards were fairly well stocked after a trip to Tesco. Katherine asked if she could help, stood beside Natasha chopping the mushrooms, tomatoes for the salad. ‘Open some wine if you like,’ Natasha said. ‘Corkscrew’s in the dresser, top drawer
on the left.’

  Katherine sat at the table with the wine.

  ‘Did you always want to be a florist?’

  ‘I think so. I’ve always liked gardening as well as art so it seemed like a perfect way to combine the two things. My grandmother was an artist. She made silhouettes. I’m named after her. Dad remembers her as being very elegant and beautiful. A lot to live up to.’

  ‘You seem to be doing fine.’ Natasha laid the plates on the table, served up. She was glad to have company now that darkness was falling.

  They talked about London and shopping, castles and old houses in Cornwall. Katherine said she’d love to know more about her own family history and Natasha said she’d gladly help her if ever she wanted to have a go. Then she remembered that it would be Marcus’s family history too, the history of the children they might have had. Ghosts from a future that would never be.

  ‘I just thought of something,’ Katherine said when she put on her coat to go. ‘The day before she left, Bethany asked if I knew of a local doctor and I gave her the number for mine. Dr Wilkinson. He’s known my uncle for years, a friend of the family. He told me Bethany made an appointment and then never showed up. Do you think that’s anything important?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Natasha opened the door, thought of something herself. On Christmas Day, Steven had said he’d met a girl called Bethany with Marcus. Petite little thing, very pretty.

  ‘Have you ever met my father?’

  ‘Once. With Marcus and a group of the other guys they work with. I ran into them all in a pub near Oxford Circus and we went out for a meal in Chinatown. Actually…’

  ‘Bethany was there too. I know.’

  ‘It was lovely to meet you.’

  ‘You too.’

  ‘You should call him you know. Marcus.’

  Thirty-Six

  NATASHA STARTED CLEANING the desk and her iMac. Then she did the washing up, polished the dresser and rubbed beeswax into the table, donned rubber gloves and bleached the sink. She fetched a bin liner and stuffed it full of old newspaper and magazines she’d never get round to reading, junk mail. She did a sweep of the kitchen cupboards and threw in old bottles of dried herbs, a sticky jar of honey. After that she set about with the vacuum cleaner, prodded the nozzle into all the corners and crevices by the stairs and behind the doors. She didn’t go round the furniture as she usually did, but pulled out the desk and the filing cabinet and TV. After a while she felt sorry for Mr and Mrs Wilson trying to sleep next door and turned it off. She took the bleach upstairs and scoured the bath and washbasin. It was therapeutic. Straightening, cleaning, putting things in order. When she stopped she’d have to think. She went through all the drawers in the bedroom and folded clothes, sorted her jewellery.