‘Tell me about Vanessa,’ I said quietly. ‘Did she ever come here?’
‘Come here! She lived here. This was the family home. She left when she was eighteen to go to London to do her nurse training.’ ‘And she never came back?’
‘A few times. And for the funeral of course.’
‘Funeral?’
‘Mother died.’
‘When was that?’
‘More than ten years ago now.’
‘And you haven't seen Vanessa since?’
Sheila Wootten, sitting opposite me, stared into her cup of tea for a few moments. ‘No, thank God. And I don't want to see her ever again.’ Now her eyes rested on mine, challenging me. Go on, argue with that, they seemed to say.
‘Would you object to telling me why?’ I asked.
‘I'd prefer not to. Some wounds are too deep.’
I decided to try the guilt angle.
‘I really don't want to intrude but my boss has entrusted me with the job of trying to sort out some of Vanessa's problems, and I should explain that the police are involved now.’
It was just as well that Sheila hadn't been holding a cup at the time. Her plump hands shook and she had to rest them on her thighs and then simultaneously her lower lip began to tremble and with it, her chins.
‘Oh no,’ she whispered, ‘not after all this time. She couldn't have – she couldn't have.’
‘Well, she has,’ I said firmly. Wondering while I did so what the hell all this was about.
‘I didn't think she would be so vindictive, so cruel. She promised. She promised …’ Sheila's voice quavered and her eyes looked at me pleadingly as though I could change events both past and present.
‘You tell me your version, Miss Wootten,’ I said. ‘And perhaps between us we can sort something out.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I wouldn't want her story to be dragged up again. I wouldn't want people to know. It killed my mother, she had a heart attack. Not straight after, but she was never the same again. She lost her spirit, if you know what I mean.’
I nodded. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Reluctantly and with one hand pressed to her cheek and her head held on one side Sheila began.
‘We'd invited Vanessa to the engagement party – my engagement party, just a few close friends and a handful of relatives. She turned up the day of the party. I remember she wore a black dress but then I was so happy I didn't take much notice. We'd been going out together for five years and then Colin said it was time I had a proper ring and we planned to marry in a few months. We'd saved enough for a deposit on a house. I can't tell you how excited I was. After all, I'd met Colin late in life, I was nearing forty and we still hoped to start a family. Anyway, she turned up. Looking back she didn't say much. I thought she was jealous and that was why she seemed quiet. I just didn't realise how jealous …’ She paused for a while as if trying to recall the day in even more detail.
‘Go on,’ I encouraged.
‘The party was due to start at four. All the food was ready. Mother and I had worked really hard. We had an iced cake, champagne, a huge gammon and even a bit of smoked salmon. It was going to be a real celebration. I suggested the three of us had a drink before the guests came. Mother poured out the sherry and we stood here in this kitchen for a toast to the future …’ Sheila's eyes now stared blankly into the distance of remembrance. She had forgotten I existed.
‘And then?’ I said quietly, trying to be politely intrigued without rushing her.
‘And then,’ she said dully, ‘my dear sister opened her mouth. “You can't do it,” she said. “You can't marry him.” And at first I just thought she didn't want to lose me. Or that she was frightened Mother would expect her to return home. Then I realised there was more to it than that. She began to get hysterical, saying terrible things, telling lies. Mother had to sit down. I slapped Vanessa's face. I screamed at her to shut up but she wouldn't. On and on she went. Saying she felt guilty. She should have spoken up before. She was wrong to have been so frightened. Every word she said wrecked my dreams. Can you imagine how I felt? The guests were due to arrive, tears were streaming down my face, Mother was in a state of shock – and there she stood mouthing those awful lies. I wanted to kill her or die myself. I wanted a deep pit to swallow me up.’
Sheila's face had grown pale, her eyes seemed to have sunk and her bosom heaved with emotion. I sat tense and expectant and then in the silence I heard something fall above me. My eyes shot to the ceiling.
‘It's the cat,’ said Sheila but she said it too quickly, too glibly, with no surprise at all.
And then another noise came from above. This time, something seemed to roll across the floor.
‘Who's up there?’ I asked, in a far from normal voice.
Sheila's head slumped forward and she put her hands over her ears as the noise continued from above.
Chapter Seventeen
Silence above then. But somehow that seemed more sinister than the noises.
How do the blind cope in a dark world where every sound is magnified, every noise a potential threat? Each creak of a floorboard or whine or whisper or moan could be some unimaginable horror, making you want to run and hide. But where, how?
Sheila Wootten looked up after a few moments and the calm expression on her face suggested she had made a decision.
‘You stay here. I'll be back,’ she said. And then she walked heavily and slowly up the stairs.
I listened carefully to her footsteps and heard the lock on a door opening; then came murmurings and a dragging noise and then more footsteps and this time an even slower and more cumbersome movement down the stairs.
The rain had begun to beat more heavily against the mean window-panes and the dark clouds had brought premature darkness. I simply waited, listening, and let my imagination work overtime as the lumbering sounds approached.
As the door opened Sheila appeared first, followed by a small man who seemed to be tucked under her arm. She began to half drag him to the kitchen chair. One of his legs was definitely not working. I stood up to help but she waved me away.
‘I'm used to this,’ she said, puffing with exertion. With a final effort she swung the man round and into the chair, and then dragged the chair nearer to the kitchen table. Then she too sank on to a chair.
‘He doesn't come down often,’ she said breathily.
The man sat with his head forward, thick black hair belying his poor condition. He had skin of a greyish-yellow pallor and a thin frame emphasised by the sweater he wore, pale blue and chunky and made for a much larger man. His short legs sported striped pyjama trousers worn with socks and brown shoes.
‘This is Colin Tiffield,’ Sheila announced suddenly and I felt ashamed to be so surprised at the love and pride in her voice. ‘I didn't think that you …’
‘We're not married,’ said Sheila. ‘He's been like this for two years. Brain-damaged in a car accident. That's how he lost his leg. He doesn't like the artificial one. That's what you heard. He throws it round the room when he's had enough of it. But he manages quite well really and he improves a little every day.’ She looked towards Colin as if for confirmation. ‘Don't you dear?’
Colin lifted his head slightly in response and I could see that although his eyes were grey and watery they were not totally blank. I smiled at him weakly and his head dropped again.
‘More tea?’ asked Sheila. ‘Something to eat?’ ‘You're very kind,’ I said. ‘But I do have to get back to my office.’ Inside I was beginning to panic just a little. I had this feeling I might not be able to get away. Although of course they were a perfectly harmless couple, weren't they?
Sheila settled back in her chair. ‘It's lovely having him here,’ she said. ‘He went abroad for a while and I was alone for a long time but then the accident happened and there was no one else to care for him and I was delighted to have him. I'm sure in a year or two he'll be back to normal.’
I nodded and smiled and then said,
‘About Vanessa. You were telling me about the things she said at your engagement party.’ Nervously her eyes flicked to Colin but he seemed to have gone to sleep, his head, like a great heavy sphere, slumped on his chest.
‘He does occasionally get violent,’ she whispered. ‘If he doesn't get his own way. He's small but strong.’
‘Yes,’ I said pointedly. ‘And after the party?’
‘Oh … the party … yes. Well, I was in shock as you can imagine. Mother managed to rally a bit and when the guests came she told them I'd been taken ill. That was true really. I had to lie on the bed for an hour to recover. Vanessa packed a bag and left straight away. She came back for the funeral. We didn't speak. I haven't spoken to her since. When someone says such terrible things you can't ever forgive them, can you?’
Very softly I asked, ‘What exactly did she say, Miss Wootten?’ Sheila's blue eyes gazed for a few seconds somewhere beyond my shoulder. ‘She said … she said Colin had … well, he'd interfered with her.’
‘How do you mean – interfered?’ I asked like a barrister feigning ignorance.
‘She said' – the word ‘she' Sheila spat out like an insult – ‘she said he'd raped her. And he'd been … using her ever since. For four years! Since she was fourteen. That, she said, was why she'd had to leave home at eighteen. She also said Colin had made death threats against her. She ranted on and on. She said if I married him she would go to the police and tell them everything. I was forced to promise I wouldn't marry him. Can you believe it? Of course none of the things she said were true. And even if they were, she would have been leading him on, wouldn't she? I mean he's such a kind man. He used to pick her up from school and help with her homework. And drive her to friends' houses. He was a second father to her. Then she turned like a viper to tell all those lies just before the party. Little whore! I'm not surprised she needs social workers. She's mad, isn't she? I should pity her but I don't. I hope she's suffering as I've suffered. She always was the favourite, you know; the pretty one, leading on the boys. A lying devil, that's what she is. You shouldn't waste any of your time worrying about her. Anything she gets she deserves.’
Sheila's voice had grown louder and Colin's head lifted slowly as if in response. His eyes focused on me, a slow leering smile crossing his face and exposing yellow front teeth. Then he began to rock slightly, and, brain-damaged or not, I shuddered.
‘I have to go now,’ I said abruptly. ‘I must get back.’
Sheila stood up in front of me, her large bosom like a shelf in my way.
‘So soon?’
‘Yes. The weather's bad and I'm not a very good night driver. I really will have to go.’
‘She wants to go home, dear,’ said Sheila, patting Colin on the shoulder.
There was no reaction.
‘You could stay the night. I've got a spare room, it's all ready. Just needs some heating on.’
‘Thank you. You've been very kind and helpful but I must go,’ I repeated.
This time she moved back and gave me a weak smile. ‘If you must you must. We get so few visitors stuck out here.’
That didn't surprise me.
But I was surprised at how good the cold and rain felt outside.
It was nearly dark and puddles had collected in shiny pools and the air smelt of damp grass and manure – and freedom. Even the prospect of the drive home didn't daunt me. It seemed to me I had been away from Longborough for much longer than a few hours and it was only when the novelty of being out of the claustrophobic Maple Cottage began to wane that I fully realised what this meeting had meant.
Colin was not the main man. Vanessa's admirer had to be local. Someone unconnected with her family. Poor Vanessa seemed to me to be like a magnet for the odd and the deranged. Did he sense in her a victim mentality? Someone whose emotional hurt connected with hers as surely as if they had been wired together with the same traumatic impulses.
It was nearly seven thirty by the time I neared Longborough. On the journey I'd made a deliberate effort not to think about my day. I'd wait until I got to Humberstones and then I could talk to Hubert. I wondered idly what Hubert would produce for his birthday meal and what a coincidence it was that I had thought of asking him for a meal just before he asked me. I'd already put a bottle of wine and a box of left-over Christmas chocolates on the back seat of the car. The only reason I hadn't eaten them was that they were soft centres. Hubert was a soft centre man, I was sure of that.
Humberstones was of course in darkness apart from the shaft of light that played on to the road from Hubert's flat. His part of the building sat adjacent to my office, separated by the walls of the adjoining house. The side entrance door was open and as I flicked on the light the fringe of the purple lamp shade trembled in the draught.
I walked quickly through to Hubert's staircase and was reassured when he appeared at the top silhouetted in the pinkish glow that came from the room beyond. He wore a grey polo neck sweater and slickly creased grey trousers.
‘This is the lounge,’ he said when I reached him, and he stretched out his arm proudly to encompass the room.
It was indeed a room to be proud of. The walls were in silver regency stripe and the lighting from black-stemmed lamps with cerise shades gave the room a soft and friendly glow. Two sofas sat facing each other, opulent in cream with cushions edged in gold braid. It was a pity that on the coffee table, a magazine, Funeral Director, peeked out from under Shoes Through The Ages. A log fire burned steadily in a splendid mantled grate and at first I thought the flames were real, not gas.
‘It's lovely, Hubert,’ I said as I kissed him on the cheek and wished him happy birthday.
‘You haven't seen it all yet,’ he said as he led me to the room next door.
This was obviously the dining-room with kitchen attached, and judging by the savoury smell something delicious lurked in his ultra-modern cooker, so bright with lights and infra-red plates it looked primed and ready for take-off.
An arch separated the kitchen area from the dining part and a round table in the middle had been laid with a white lace cloth and what looked like real silver cutlery. Half a dozen pink and white carnations stood in a narrow stemmed vase and by its side a bottle of Sancerre stood chilling in an ice-bucket.
Just for a moment I felt a tinge of sadness for us both. For Hubert because he had tried so hard and for me because rarely had anyone gone to this amount of trouble before. Dave's idea of a treat had been to come home before closing time, with a bottle of cheap red plonk and two vindaloos …
‘Sherry?’ Hubert was saying.
‘I'd love one.’
We drank the sherry quickly then sat down to eat garlic mushrooms with giant prawns, eased down with two glasses each of Sancerre. The main course was pheasant in red wine which we washed down with more red wine. By this time Maple Cottage seemed very far away and I told Hubert about my visit as if it had been no more unusual than a visit to Tesco.
‘Where does that leave you, then?’ he asked.
‘Back to square one, Hubert,’ I said. ‘I'll have to review my paltry list of suspects.’
‘Maybe it's someone you haven't met yet. Perhaps you should make more door-to-door enquiries; perhaps you should—’
‘Perhaps I should do a lot of things but I'm full of wine and food and as a consequence my investigative powers have been blunted.’
‘You're not drunk,’ said Hubert, ‘you managed to say investigative.’
Dessert was a pavlova with raspberries which I recognised as an M and S special but it tasted good, better than good with the Sauternes Hubert produced to round off the meal.
Hubert insisted we left the washing-up for the dishwasher and that we should collapse in the lounge.
‘Are you going to tell me how old you are, Hubert?’ I asked as I sank into one of his sofas.
He smiled, happy with food and drink. ‘I'm fifty.’
Drink can make me maudlin. The big 5–0 and only a lodger for a guest. ‘Oh, Hubert, I'm
sorry,’ I said before I could stop myself. Fifty seemed so old. Thirty was bad enough but fifty!
‘In this world,’ said Hubert, peering at me through alcoholmisted eyes, ‘we should be grateful for another day. Lots of people I know have popped off early …’
‘Well, you would know a lot, wouldn't you … in your line of work.’
And then I began to laugh at Hubert's serious face until he too began to laugh. He suggested brandy and we drank that slowly and giggled about nothing in particular and slumped into contented semi-dozes in front of the TV until the phone rang.
I went to the bathroom as Hubert answered the phone. And what a bathroom! A circular bath, nearly as big as my office bedroom, sat like a giant shell, surrounded by walls of expensive tiling and with gold-plated taps that sparkled like a jeweller's window. And I had to wash in the sink!
Hubert had finished on the phone when I returned and he looked like a man who had just dropped his keys down a drain.
‘What's the matter?’ I asked. ‘What's happened?’
‘It's bad news,’ he said dramatically. ‘Well, it's a complication anyway.’
‘Tell me.’
‘That was a woman I know, a neighbour of Vanessa's. She was giving me a tip-off.’
‘Yes, Hubert,’ I said impatiently.
‘Well it seems … it seems … Vanessa has just been arrested.’ And then he added, ‘For the murder of Paul Oakby.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Arrested?’ I echoed, and then realised that wasn't the real issue. Paul Oakby was dead! I felt slightly sick as the alochol I'd drunk started defying the laws of gravity. ‘How was he killed?’ I managed to ask.
Hubert shook his head, ‘I've no idea. The tip-off was a bit vague.’
‘I'll have to go to the police station now – this minute,’ I said, mild panic making me imagine that I could feel my adrenalin levels rising like a tide to join up with waves of red and white wine.
I must have looked wild and keen because Hubert said, ‘Now you just calm down, Kate. You can't drive. I'll ring for a minicab. You just sit down for a minute and suck a mint.’
Deadly Admirer Page 13
