In the Spider's House

by Sarah Diamond

  ‘Did she get on with the others in her year, before she met Rebecca?’

  ‘It looked more like tagging along than being in the middle of things. Still, I’d say she was accepted. She was very much less of an outsider there than Rebecca was. Anyway, soon you only ever saw the two of them together. I got the impression that Rebecca was quite possessive of her.’

  ‘Did that strike you as being at all sinister? At the time?’

  ‘Well, during that final summer term—when I was teaching Eleanor’s class—I must say, it began to. When the bell rang at the end of lessons, Rebecca was always waiting outside the classroom, almost snatching Eleanor away from her classmates. It seemed…almost obsessive. It worried me a little.’ A brief and humourless laugh. ‘Of course, at the time, I had no idea what there was to worry about. None of us did.’

  ‘Did Eleanor seem scared by it herself?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell, really. She certainly seemed to be hiding something—she behaved more secretively that term, somehow. But that could well be hindsight.’ Annette looked earnest, meditative, slightly sad. ‘There was never an awful lot of interest in Eleanor, even after she was killed. The media seemed to see her as…as just a crime committed by Rebecca.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photo of her, come to think of it.’

  ‘There were next to none in the papers, even when the case was headline news. All you ever saw was that famous one of Rebecca, the head-and-shoulders shot where she’s wearing school uniform.’ Something seemed to occur to her. ‘Hold on. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Annette hurried out of the room. When she came back in, she was carrying a foot-long photograph, mounted on thick, age-darkened cream card.

  ‘I always got a copy of the annual school photo. I’ve thrown most of them away, over the years.’ Her smile was slightly embarrassed. ‘You’ll probably think I’m morbid, but I could never quite throw this one away. It was taken on the last day of the summer term, in 1969, about a month before they found poor little Eleanor in that house.’

  Annette handed it to me, stood beside me as I looked. Sharp, well-defined black-and-white showed neat rows of schoolchildren, crisp white shirts and fixed smiles at the camera, open, cloudless sky behind them. ‘That’s me, there,’ she said, pointing to a pretty, young, dark-haired woman sitting on the left-hand side of the front row, ‘and…let’s see, now…where’s Eleanor…?’ Her finger navigated the sea of faces, then stopped dead. ‘That’s her.’

  The photograph showed a tiny, sweet-faced girl with freckles and curly hair in pigtails. I looked closely for several seconds. ‘What about Rebecca?’

  Annette’s finger strayed to the right, up two rows. ‘There she is.’

  It was indescribably strange, seeing that face in such a mundane setting, far removed from stark newsprint dots on the front pages of ancient newspapers, one of maybe a hundred children smiling for a harassed photographer on a sunny afternoon. Fascination unfolded deep inside me as I looked; I was very aware of Annette watching me, well-meaning but off-putting just the same.

  ‘I don’t suppose I could borrow that for a few days, could I?’ I asked quickly. ‘I’d send it back to you in no time. I’d just like to get it copied.’

  I was expecting her to say no—I wanted it so badly, I was superstitiously convinced that she would—but she didn’t even seem doubtful. ‘Well, certainly, Anna. I hope it inspires you.’

  I felt almost dizzy with the weight of fresh knowledge, and struggled to think of some remark to make. ‘I think that’s all I wanted to know,’ I said at last. ‘Thank you very much. You’ve been fantastically helpful.’

  ‘I’ve certainly told you all I know,’ she said, smiling. ‘If there’s more you need to find out, there are an awful lot of people who knew Rebecca still living in Teasford. I’m sure a lot of them knew her better than I did.’

  ‘I’d be glad of any information I could get. I don’t suppose you know anyone I could talk to?’

  ‘Come to think of it, my eldest niece was in the class above Rebecca’s. We’re very close, and I know she’d be happy to talk to you. Of course, I wouldn’t give her number to just anyone, but I can tell you’re trustworthy. Her name’s Melanie. Melanie Cook. She and her husband both work during the day, so it’s probably best to call after seven or so.’

  ‘That’s great.’ She went over to the notepad by the phone and wrote down a number for me. ‘Honestly,’ I said, folding it into my wallet, ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Anna. Come to think of it, you could also try looking for Eleanor’s sisters—I don’t know any of them well, but I’m sure they all stayed in the area. The eldest, Agnes, got married the year before I retired, to a Mr Og.’ I jotted it down. ‘Easier to find in the phone book than Corbett, I should think.’

  She paused for a moment, and her expression clouded over, as though she was regretting the past rather than simply recalling it. ‘I hope it does help you. It’s probably silly, but I hope someone can understand what Rebecca was really like, even if it’s just for the sake of writing a novel. The media changed her into a different person. There was something frightening about that, I always thought. As if they were making sure she’d always be a stranger to everyone.’

  Her shoulders rose and fell, and she started walking out of the living room. I followed her.

  ‘I suppose she always will be, now,’ I said. ‘With the secret identity and everything.’

  ‘That always felt wrong to me. Not because it was too good for her, quite the opposite—because it meant she’d always have to be someone else. She’d be in disguise for the rest of her life. It’s sad, in a way, I think she was always hiding her real feelings at school as well. Looking back, I don’t think any of us understood her, not properly.’

  We were by the door at the end of the narrow, crowded, slightly too hot hallway now, and her hand reached for the doorknob.

  ‘Eleanor did,’ I said quietly. ‘At least at the end.’

  ‘Yes, of course—poor Eleanor.’ She looked suddenly guilty, and older. ‘But it’s so easy to forget about her, isn’t it? Rebecca was always so much more newsworthy.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE DRIVE BACK from Bournemouth passed on autopilot; while something kept me obeying the rules of the road, I was almost oblivious to my scenery. Miss Watson’s Rebecca was as different from the Daily Mail’s sinister prodigy as she was from Judith Davies’ blandly identikit primary-school girl. Nothing could relate the emerging picture to a recognisable stereotype: sweet-natured, lonely, vicious, possessive, well-behaved, manipulative and pure evil. Fresh details and truths seemed to make her more enigmatic than ever.

  I couldn’t help wondering what I’d have thought if I’d been at St Anthony’s in 1969, observing the events of that summer term first-hand—whether I’d have liked Rebecca, whether I’d have liked Eleanor. The photograph Annette Watson had given me rested faceup on the passenger seat, a constant presence on the outskirts of my vision. I kept trying to imagine that frozen split-second of history continuing in real time—the photographer’s brisk cry of that’s enough, thank you, everyone, the neat rows disintegrating as friends rejoined friends and giggling groups returned in the direction of classrooms. I wondered whether Eleanor had walked back with Rebecca, and how it had been between them on that bright afternoon; whether Eleanor was beginning to have certain misgivings about Rebecca’s devotion, whether Rebecca had any idea she was going to kill the girl beside her in a month’s time.

  And, thinking of the murdered girl, I felt an obscure species of guilt. How little I’d cared about her reality at first. How accurate Miss Watson’s parting words to me had been.

  Passing through Wareham, I parked near the little town centre and walked the rest of the way there. In the Saturday lunchtime sun, the narrow streets crawled with human traffic, and I joined a short queue at the Supasnaps till. I was told that my version of Miss Watson’s photo would be ready first thi
ng on Monday.

  I was heading back towards the car when I saw the library come into view across the narrow, empty road. I hardly ever came through this part of Wareham, and it was the first time I’d ever really noticed Liz’s workplace, a squat and vaguely church-like stone building, its heavy, institutional double doors standing wide open. Suddenly, it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to look up Agnes Og’s phone number as soon as possible, and I crossed towards the library, wondering if I’d see Liz.

  Inside, a dark-haired woman in her early thirties sat behind the returns desk, reading intently. There was no sign of anyone else, and golden sunlight filtered in through high windows, slanting over tall, old-fashioned wooden shelves, giving everything a dusty, sleepy look. I quickly found the phone book for Lancashire and sat down with it at a side table, getting my notepad and pen out of my bag before flicking through it.

  Three Ogs, only one listed for Teasford. I was copying down the number when a shadow fell over the table. At the same time, the voice came unexpectedly from behind my shoulder. ‘Hello, Anna. What are you doing here?’

  Apprehension hit me a split second before conscious recognition—that flat and oddly unmusical voice, quiet, accentless. I turned in my seat. Helen was as neatly and plainly dressed as ever, her face entirely expressionless. It occurred to me that there was something almost guilty in my movements. I’d never like this woman, I realised; her very presence put me on edge.

  ‘Just trying to track down an old friend’s number.’ I found myself shielding the open directory pages with my forearm, trying to make it look like a casual movement. I had no wish to announce that I was finding out about Rebecca, and, for all I knew, she might be familiar enough with the case for a glimpse of the word Teasford to trigger instant recognition. ‘I thought Liz might be here today. Is she?’

  Helen shook her head; she didn’t say anything, but showed no sign of leaving. An oppressive silence seemed to surround her. I couldn’t tell if she was aware of its existence, whether she was consciously intimidating, or simply oblivious to other people’s feelings and thoughts. She had pale blue eyes with a deep frown line between them, and it gave her a permanently intent, suspicious look. She might have been studying a bank note she suspected of being forged.

  ‘Lancashire?’ With a rise of panic, I saw that she was reading the directory over my shoulder, looking at the heading above the names and addresses and numbers. ‘That’s a long way away, isn’t it?’

  I couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and nodded. Around us, the sleepy, dusty-looking little library was far too quiet.

  Finally, she spoke again. ‘I’ll be getting on,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Anna. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.’

  It sounded more like a threat than an amiable parting remark. As she walked away, I felt an intense rush of relief. I had no idea how anyone could like that woman, or feel remotely comfortable in her presence; we’d met each other three times, and she seemed inexplicably more disturbing than anyone I’d ever known. Although I’d already copied down Agnes Og’s number, I waited till she’d vanished through the open double doors before rising from the table, replacing the pad and paper in my bag, the phone book on the shelf. Then I was walking past the main desk, stepping out into heat and dazzling sunlight towards the parked Mazda, and home.

  Carl’s car wasn’t outside as I crested the hill that led down to our house. As I let myself in, the door between the hallway and kitchen was open, and the conspicuously folded note on the table drew my attention at once. Picking it up, I saw a few quickly jotted lines in Carl’s angular but clearly legible writing. Annie—thought I’d go into Wareham to pick up new strimmer. Back about 3—Cx. Checking my watch, I saw it was coming up to two o’clock now. I had a feeling he’d written the note no more than ten minutes ago, that we’d only missed passing each other because he’d taken a different route into town.

  I couldn’t think of anything to do till he came back and feared the return of nonspecific worry. I held an image of Socks’ wounded eye at bay while focusing hard on Miss Watson. I took out the number she’d given me. Carl won’t be back for at least an hour, I thought as I dialled, I’ve got plenty of time. And something in the tone of that thought brought alarm—it seemed that research itself was becoming an all-important secret I had to keep from him, like my meeting with Mr Wheeler, and the cry I’d heard in the night.

  Melanie Cook answered the phone herself. Annette had called her as soon as I’d left her flat, and I was relieved that she’d made nine-tenths of my lead-in speech unnecessary. Melanie’s personality came across clearly and favourably, a pleasant, brisk homemaker in early middle age. She would, she said, be happy to spare an hour or so of her time; she’d been aware of both Rebecca Fisher and Eleanor Corbett at school, although she hadn’t known either well. She invited me to visit her at home the following Saturday, preferably in the afternoon.

  While she seemed to think I lived far closer to Teasford than was actually the case, a second’s thought was enough to stop me demurring and offering to conduct the whole interview over the phone. Partly, I sensed I could find out much more from her in person, but I also longed to see the streets where it had all begun, the backdrop to national headlines. I acquiesced gratefully, jotted down the address and told her I’d come round at about two o’clock.

  Off the phone, I lugged the Hoover upstairs and started vacuuming the upstairs rooms, more for the sake of something to do than because anything really needed doing. I kept thinking about calling Agnes Og. The prospect was intimidating. The murdered girl hadn’t been a casual acquaintance to her, but an adored youngest sister; I imagined her greeting my request for an interview with fury, slamming the phone down in my ear. Seeing me as an opportunistic hack keen to cash in on real-life tragedy, indifferent to the fact that Eleanor Corbett had been loved.

  I was edging round the dressing table by the main bedroom window, when something beyond it caught my eye. I turned the Hoover off and looked out, frowning. Where the road met the turnoff of our driveway, a car had been parked, an elderly off-white Ford that I’d never seen before. And there was someone standing beside it, looking up at this house. A man. Mr Wheeler.

  Involuntarily, I took a step back—I wasn’t sure why I didn’t want him to see me framed in the net-curtainless window, but I didn’t. Still, I could see him quite clearly. He wasn’t moving, or doing anything at all. Just standing and looking, an odd expression on his long bloodhound’s face. Sad. Reflective. Bitter.

  Then, abruptly, he turned away. I saw him getting back into his car, starting the engine. In a matter of seconds, he was gone.

  I stood where I was for some time, staring out into the empty front garden and the deserted road beyond it. Wondering over and over again what on earth he could have wanted. For the first time in over a week, I found myself recalling specific details of our interview, the way his face had changed and how furious he’d been. And I remembered how familiar this house must be to him, how he might know it almost as well as I did; the slight creak on the top stair, the chilly edge to the air in the bathroom, the myriad elements of its personality that recalled Rebecca Fisher.

  His friend Rebecca Fisher, I thought, and turned the Hoover back on, trying and failing to move my mind away from what I’d just seen.

  Carl got home shortly afterwards, lugging the boxed-up new strimmer we needed. As I came downstairs, he was setting it down by the kitchen counter. ‘So how’d it go with the teacher?’ he asked. ‘Find out anything useful?’

  Of course, I couldn’t tell him about that inexplicable sighting of Mr Wheeler. I struggled to speak cheerfully and calmly, as if trying to convince myself there was nothing to worry about. ‘It went well,’ I said, ‘really well. I think I found out quite a lot.’

  ‘That’s great. I’m pleased for you.’

  A couple of seconds passed without further comment. There’d be a better time to tell him about Melanie and Agnes Og and Teasford, I decided. A eulogy to unfolding intr
igue would only drive a wedge between us.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, ‘I was thinking, we’d better start giving some thought to the dinner with Jim and his wife tomorrow night. Have you had any ideas about the menu?’

  The last two words came out in a parody of a maître d’s supercilious Franglais, and I smiled. In the kitchen’s afternoon sunlight, we discussed tuna steaks and lemon sorbet, what we had in the freezer, what we could get from Asda tomorrow morning. The cheery, companionable normality of it all overcame me, reminding me of all the things he didn’t know about.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CARL’S COLLEAGUE JIM and his wife Tina were in their late twenties. He was dark and heavy set with a lot of aftershave and a big white PR smile; she was petite, with short fair hair and the manner of an experienced customer services rep. They were pleasant enough, but something about them said I could know them for fifteen years and still see them as strangers—it was as if we emitted opposing currents, keeping each other at a constant distance.

  ‘I meant to ask earlier, Anna,’ said Tina. ‘What do you do for a living?’

  It was coming up to nine o’clock, and her voice rose behind me as I took the dinner out of the oven. I’d left the back door half-open to get rid of the cooking smells. Passing it en route to the kitchen table, I felt a brief waft of cool night air, glimpsed rosy, enigmatic shadows giving way to solid black beyond the furthest reach of the house lights. ‘I used to work for Reading Council before we moved,’ I said. ‘These days… I suppose I’m a housewife.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Annie, you don’t have to be so modest.’ It was Carl who spoke. I darted him a warning look, but he was speaking to the others at the table. ‘Anna’s a writer. She had her first novel published last year.’

  ‘Well, yes, but it hasn’t done very well. You probably won’t be able to find it anywhere.’ Most maddening of all was the way I always had to say that, voluntarily surrender the truth rather than be mugged for it. ‘I haven’t made much money out of it, I’m afraid.’