And look what came of that, she thought.
They’d be arriving back at the house now, ready to greet the ‘mourners’ – and that was a joke. Cassie doubted if any of them had even met Felix and she knew what their immediate reaction had been to the news of his death: damage limitation. She’d actually overheard a publicist saying, ‘Last thing we need just before the launch of Jacob’s Angel.’
By now they’d be accepting carefully judged canapés along with some suitably unfestive, but of course expensive, choice of wine. Marta would be sure to have found the appropriate ones to accompany the hostess’s son’s body being burned.
God, she wished she hadn’t thought of that. She couldn’t get it out of her mind now – Felix, the flames, the smell … She gagged, afraid she would vomit, right there on the street.
She’d turned off the high street into a side street that led uphill and out of the town towards her cottage. A sullen sleety rain had set in now and the rounded hills circling the valley where the little town lay felt oppressive today, as if they were coming in closer, closer.
She was passing the Foundation building on the other side of the road now, closed today of course. It was very stark, very modern compared to its traditional neighbours; there had been a lot of opposition at first but of course Anna had got what she wanted. She always did.
Cassie’s hair was soaking but she barely noticed. Walking with her head down she’d been aware of one or two passers-by glancing at her, but only briefly; the ghouls wouldn’t have had time to get back from the crematorium and now she’d reached the thirty-mile sign she should be safe enough.
After the turn-off it was another steep and very wet half-mile along a narrower road before she reached her cottage, standing on its own in a little walled garden. Today it looked grim but on a sunny day the position was idyllic, looking out over the valley to the gentle hills on the other side. Cassie had been charmed when first she saw it. It was built of old grey stone with a rustic porch and a slate roof and had arched dormer windows like eyebrows that gave it, she thought, a rather fetching quizzical look.
‘Small, but perfectly formed,’ she had said to Felix.
‘Oh bijou, darling, positively bijou,’ he had drawled, and then said, ‘Gilded cage?’
She had flushed. She knew exactly what he meant; Anna was luring her back to take charge of running the Foundation and this was the bribe: her very own home, no strings attached. The thing was, it was an alluring job – liaising with publishers and film-makers, answering enquiries, overseeing the charity side – and the alternative was job-hunting on her own merits with an unexciting arts degree.
She’d let herself be bought and she hadn’t regretted it. She loved the work and if she was honest it had satisfied, too, the craving for her mother’s attention that she still hadn’t managed to kick even as an adult. But if she’d turned it down, she thought now as she unlocked the front door – tastefully painted in Farrow and Ball Dix Blue – she’d have been in Edinburgh with Felix, perhaps might have been able to curb his self-destruction.
It was undeniably charming inside too. Marta had found the interior decorator for her with some skill; somehow the woman had known just what Cassie wanted but wouldn’t have been able to organise for herself and she’d always felt a little buzz of pleasure as she came into the sitting room that now ran right across the front of the house – a calm, welcoming room with big glass lamps on low tables and a couple of squashy sofas with white loose covers and scatter cushions that provided clever accents of colour.
She didn’t feel that now. The whole house was tainted with the memory of Felix’s death.
A couple of men had brought him there from the bus shelter in the village where he’d been found collapsed, comatose, drooling, snoring; the ambulance, they said, was on its way but it didn’t arrive in the half-hour it took him to die while Cassie screamed at him, weeping, as she tried to get some response. Her screams seemed somehow to have permeated the very fabric of the place, even though Marta had seen to it immediately that all visible signs be removed.
Cassie walked straight through to the kitchen at the back, sleek and modern with its polished granite worktops, and extended into a glass conservatory looking out at the hillside rising just behind. The sleet was heavier now and despite the heating the room felt cold and she shuddered. She didn’t know what she wanted – a cup of tea, a glass of wine? Brandy, probably, only she didn’t have any. She hardly had the energy to fill the kettle or open the fridge.
She sank down on to a chair beside the dining table. She could just sit here and cry some more, though she felt dry, shrivelled, as if she’d no tears left. Her mobile was lying on the table in front of her and she picked it up listlessly, by way of distraction.
There had been a number of calls and texts from friends, three from Gil Paton, but she swiped through them all. The last one was from Kate Graham. She hesitated, then clicked on the name and read the text message, which was brief. ‘Here if you want me. Free until eleven.’
Cassie looked at it for a long moment, then texted, ‘Thanks. Yes please.’ She sat staring out at the sleet while she waited for Kate to arrive.
The media packed up and departed and the crowd around the crematorium dispersed. A Ford Fiesta was trundling out in the stream of cars leaving the car park.
‘Lady Muck didn’t seem too upset, did she?’ the driver said acidly.
There were two other women in the car. Her front-seat passenger sniffed. ‘That’s right, Moira. Just looked straight through us when she came out – not even a smile to thank us for bothering to come.’
‘Cassie looked really upset, though, Denise,’ the woman in the back seat said. ‘I thought she was going to burst into tears.’
‘I didn’t say anything against Cassie, Sally. She’s all right – and Felix too, poor laddie. Terrible thing. All that money, and this is where he ends up. Just shows you.’
‘You get what’s coming to you,’ Moira said wisely.
Denise nodded. ‘Right enough. It’s all about money, with Anna. Shoves it in our faces, to show what she’s got compared to us peasants. It sticks in my throat the way we have to grovel just to get a bit of it for the community.’
‘Well don’t take it, then,’ Sally said tartly. ‘She’s a right to do what she wants with her money – she’s earned it.’
A chill descended on the car. After a pointed silence Moira said, ‘Well, I suppose, if you call it earning just to sit down and scribble a load of rubbish. Sally, I’ll drop you off first.’
‘That’s great. Thanks, Moira.’ It would mean driving past Denise’s door but Sally was unsurprised. She’d gone along out of genuine sympathy with the bereaved family and her unhelpful remarks were spoiling their fun. Once they got rid of her they could go back to slagging Anna off as much as they liked.
She was a relative newcomer to the area and had been naively shocked that a nice, friendly wee town like Halliburgh could harbour so much animosity towards someone who was so much their benefactor. The trouble, she supposed, was that Anna gave the impression that she’d bought a fiefdom where she could behave as she chose. Objections had poured in to the plans for her house and the Harper Foundation building which were totally out of keeping with the local architecture but the council seemed to be putty in her hands. There were rumours, too, that a housing development application by a local builder – Moira’s husband, in fact – had been turned down because Anna had felt it encroached on her privacy.
No one expected a world-famous author to base her social life here, but if she’d actually turned up to even some of the events that kept the heart of the community beating strongly, instead of sending a cheque or authorising a grant when asked, it might have been different. But she didn’t; she wasn’t interested in Halliburgh except on her own terms as a country retreat where her money could ensure that her privacy was ruthlessly protected.
Death didn’t respect the power of money, though, and now Sally thought about it, t
oo much probably did every bit as much harm as too little – and being rich and famous was no consolation if it led to losing your only son.
For once she didn’t sigh over the state of the paintwork and the sagging gutter that dripped water on her head as she let herself into her modest semi.
CHAPTER TWO
The cars following the funeral limousine swept through the town in a decorous procession. The stop, apparently to let Anna’s daughter get out, was unexpected. At the wheel of the third car Anna’s editor Janine White grimaced sympathetically as she drew up.
‘Can’t cope with the wake, poor girl? I’m not surprised. She looked as if she was on the verge of breaking down in the chapel.’
As the leading car moved on again her passenger Richard Sansom said, ‘Her mother wasn’t. Not even a decent quiet tear – looked as if she was carved out of granite. Probably he was a liability, given the drug problem. Hard as nails, our Ms Harper.’
Janine gave him a sharp look. ‘Heading up publicity for her you can’t even afford to think that thought. Anna’s just a very private person who doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve.’
‘Oh sure,’ Richard said, but there was a satirical edge to his voice. ‘I don’t have to believe it to say it.’
Janine frowned as they turned up the hill towards Anna’s house a little way out of the town. She wasn’t entirely happy about Richard, who had recently joined the PR department in Harrington Publishing. He was a self-confident thirty-something, fair-haired, blue-eyed though not as good-looking as he thought he was and hard as nails himself, in Janine’s estimation, but he was extremely efficient and so far Anna had made no complaints – they’d lost two or three people before on that count – and perhaps he’d settle in to it.
‘Why does she live out here, anyway?’ Richard asked. ‘Back of beyond – wouldn’t think it would appeal.’
‘I think the global success of Stolen Fire came as a shock. She actually said in an interview at the time that she was completely thrown by the stress of it all and she’d come here once early on to do an event and just felt that it was somewhere wonderfully peaceful. She’s got that nice little pied-à-terre in Holland Park when she wants a bit of civilisation.’
‘Odd that she’s not launching Jacob’s Angel from there, then. She’s only been to London twice for about ten minutes since I joined the company. The last time it seemed as if she couldn’t wait to get away.’
‘Yes, she’s certainly been more reclusive lately. Working on another book, maybe? We can always hope. You’re staying on here, aren’t you? With the Foundation Writers Retreat on just now she’ll want to be sure you’re on hand and I suppose you can do quite a bit in the run-up to the launch too. Where are you staying?’
Richard grimaced. ‘There’s a pub in the village that isn’t too dire, I suppose. I’m braced for fire-fighting in case someone does a snarky, “How come the woman who embodies the dreams of hope for all the world has a dysfunctional family?” piece.’
Janine shuddered. ‘Don’t even think that.’
Highfield House was just coming into view, its white bulk looming up out of the sleety drizzle. With its sharply art deco lines and expanses of plate glass, it was jarring against the backdrop of a comfortable rural landscape and the soft grey and pink stone of the buildings in the town below. Janine, who had been there before, still found it startling. Richard, who hadn’t, whistled.
‘Wow, that’s giving them the finger isn’t it? Malibu Beach comes to Halliburgh!’
Janine said, uncomfortably, ‘I think there was a little bit of opposition. Here’s the gateway now.’
There had been a police presence at the crematorium and there was a police car parked outside the house, a deterrent to ambitious journalists, but there was no one around as Anna’s car came up to the front door. Janine drove on round the side of the house to a tarmac car park area to stop beside a caterer’s van and a couple of other cars.
As they drew up, Richard said, ‘So – what do we say to her as we go in?’
There was a sort of suppressed excitement about him that Janine found distasteful. ‘You don’t need to say anything much. “Sorry for your loss,” that sort of thing. Just remember you’re talking to a bereaved mother.’
‘If you say so,’ Richard said as he got out.
There were curved steps leading up to the imposing flattened arch of the front entrance. A waiter was acting as doorman, and James Harrington, head of the firm, was already on his way in, followed by the CEO.
There was no sign of Anna or even Marta in the wide hall, minimally furnished with an art deco wooden table in the centre with a Lalique glass sculpture sitting on it and a pair of wooden settles against the end walls. A gallery ran high above along the back, and another waiter came forward to show them up wide, shallow stairs to the sitting room at first-floor level, looking out over the town in the valley below. It was well heated but a fire was blazing in the pale stone fireplace and Anna, a glass already in her hand, was standing beside it as if she welcomed its warmth. Marta was hovering at her side as James went up to greet her.
‘James!’ Anna said, leaning forward to kiss him on either cheek. ‘So good of you to come. Sorry Cassie isn’t here to say hello. I know she was looking forward to having a chat, but she was so upset, poor child, I insisted that she just went home. She and Felix were very close. Do forgive her.’
‘Of course, of course,’ James boomed heartily. ‘Entirely understandable. And how are you, my dear?’
‘Oh—’ Her hand waved away a question. ‘Keeping busy. Now, I did just want a quiet word with you …’ She linked arms with him and drew him to the far end of the big room.
The other guests appeared, pausing uncertainly on the threshold, then forming an awkward grouping beside the window, lamenting the weather that was spoiling the view across the valley. Marta, who had disappeared, came back escorting two waitresses with trays of tiny sandwiches and croustades and glasses of wine.
It was obvious there would be no question of formal greetings. The conversations, stilted at first, gradually fell into the usual pattern of chat and gossip and the volume level rose. After a little while Janine withdrew herself and went across to where Anna and James were still deep in conversation. She hesitated, wondering if James was in need of rescue, though not wishing to butt in, but as she came up Anna turned to include her.
On the outskirts of the group, Richard looked on, his eyes cold and cynical. He had seen Felix Harper consigned to the flames; now he was watching him, with his inconvenient weakness, being buried.
PC Kate Graham checked her phone once she’d finished hoovering and clicked on Cassie Harper’s text. She’d been planning to go to the crematorium where perhaps she could have caught Cassie’s eye encouragingly as she went in, but someone else had been assigned to do the police presence bit – not that any problem was expected, but given Anna Harper’s profile it was always possible.
She hadn’t been at all sure what it was likely to say and she was pleased to be wanted, even if it did mean a dash to finish up here before she went on duty.
Kate was worried about Cassie’s state of mind. When the 999 call came in she’d arrived at Burnside, Cassie’s cottage, before the ambulance did; helplessly watching Felix Trentham die had been one of the most hideous experiences in her professional life. She’d joined in Cassie’s frantic efforts to rouse him, knowing they were pointless, and the scream Cassie had given when she realised they had lost him still echoed in her own dreams. She didn’t dare to let herself imagine what it had done to Cassie.
She had asked to be assigned as family liaison officer. Her approach to Anna Harper had been met with chilly courtesy and the promise that she would contact DC Graham if she felt it would be useful, her manner suggesting that hell would freeze over first.
It was different with Cassie. By then she was back in Burnside and when she opened the door she collapsed into Kate’s arms, sobbing. ‘You tried,’ she said. ‘Thank you. You tried
.’ Then they had talked for many, many hours as she ranted about her mother and obsessively went over Felix’s history.
‘I’d almost given up hope. I didn’t even know where he was – he hadn’t been in touch for months. And then, thank God, he was arrested and he was scared enough to get in touch. He’d been sleeping rough, permanently stoned, and got into some kind of trouble and was picked up. It wasn’t anything major – just a fine and a slap on the wrist – but he agreed to come back here. He knew he couldn’t go on like that – he didn’t want to, I know he didn’t. And I thought he would be so safe here. How could there be drugs in a place like this?’
Kate had given a wry smile. ‘These days it’s everywhere,’ she said.
‘But I don’t believe he’d have gone out looking for it! He’d started to enjoy life again – putting on weight, planning to go back to uni. Someone must have done it deliberately, discovered his problem and offered it to him.’
It wouldn’t have been difficult. Everyone in the town knew Felix Trentham was a druggie; there was no such thing as anonymity when you were Anna Harper’s son. ‘I expect that’s right,’ Kate said diplomatically.
Cassie leant forward to grasp her hand. ‘So will you find out who? It was murder. They killed him.’
Kate had made some anodyne reply about investigations being under way but she knew it would come to nothing. Whatever his sister might like to think, the person who had killed Felix Trentham was Felix Trentham.
Cassie had been in shock at the time. Now, Kate thought, it was more as if she was suffering post-traumatic stress – having flashbacks, not sleeping, not eating. The funeral would have been hard indeed.
She hoped Cassie wasn’t going to ask her about progress with the enquiry. The death certificate had been issued, the case had been closed and she couldn’t herself see any reason why it shouldn’t be. It would be hard for Cassie to accept that someone was just going to, as she saw it, get away with murder.
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