by A J Waines
‘Perhaps he wanted to go back to clear his name?’ I suggest.
‘Max always was an honourable boy. And so talented. He was over the moon when he was granted long-term loan of the Guarneri.’
Loan.
So, he didn’t own the violin at all; it was only on loan. He didn’t mention that!
Perhaps his high-flying concert tours weren’t as lucrative as he liked to make out. With Mr Hinds offering such an inflated fee, no wonder he accepted the gig.
I catch Sam’s eye and bring the call to an end after that. ‘I thought it would save time,’ I tell Sam. ‘I’d have had to explain it all to you in our next session anyway.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s your time,’ she says, her eyes betraying reproach.
Yes it is. And choosing how to use it is about the only way I get to gain any kind of control. I sit back and glare at her. Some of these rules are really starting to piss me off.
My mobile rings again just as we are finishing. I recognise the number; it is the Cumbrian police this time. I take the call, intending to be brief.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’
‘They’ve found a body,’ I say, closing the phone. ‘In the lake.’
Sam can’t stop her eyebrows from shooting up.
‘They need to check the dental records, but it looks like it’s Stephanie.’
Chapter 22
Sam
I was on my way back from a spin class when I heard my landline ringing from the landing. My heart rate shot up, as though someone had sprung out at me from the shadows. Following two more silent calls on my mobile in the last couple of days, I was starting to get jittery. Unfortunately, I’d been on public transport both times and hadn’t been able to use my whistle; blasting the phone with a loud screech wouldn’t have exactly endeared me to my fellow commuters.
As soon as I let myself in, I darted over to the handset to check the caller ID. It was an outer London number I didn’t recognise. I got my whistle ready and slowly lifted the receiver.
‘Is Miranda there?’ came the voice. I let my shoulders drop. It was Stella, a friend of my sister’s from the care home she’d stayed at.
‘No, she hasn’t lived here for a while. I’m Sam, her sister.’
‘Oh, sorry Sam. I must have got mixed up and rung an old number.’
‘She’s in Camden now.’
‘Of course. I’ll try her mobile. I know it’s early days but you must all be so excited.’
‘Excited?’
Stella fought to backpedal without success. ‘Sorry. No. I shouldn’t have said anything…I’m sorry I disturbed—’
‘Excited about what?’ Miranda selling more paintings? Miranda’s new boyfriend?
‘Oh Lord, my stupid mouth.’ A strained silence. ‘I thought she would have said something by now. It’s gone twelve weeks and…’
I didn’t notice the handset slide to the carpet.
A cruel December freeze was already clawing its way over every watery surface as I hurried to the nearest bus stop. It filled the cracks between the paving stones, sent stiff veins into the puddles in the gutter. On the bus, I took the warmest seat at the back and pulled my hood over my woolly hat, hoping to shrink into a cosy oblivion. Stella’s words had hit me like an almighty punch in my stomach. She must have made a mistake. I’d speak to Miranda and find out it was all a misunderstanding. We’d laugh about it. I’d be on the bus back home in forty-five minutes.
The streets were a blur as I backtracked to my last session with Rosie. She’d remembered hearing part of a conversation in the Hinds’ residence while they were rehearsing and was all fired up about it. She’d latched onto the idea of something hidden under a bridge that was ‘worth a fortune’. I felt she was clutching at straws. Surely, just a random snippet of chitchat, but Rosie was desperate to make things fit, like a child forcing jigsaw pieces into the wrong place.
The bus took forever, the ice making the driver cautious. Without warning, my mind drifted back to last Christmas. It would be Joanne’s anniversary in three weeks’ time. I didn’t want to go there. No – leave it alone.
I pressed the bell for the next stop. Once on the pavement, the wind caught me unawares. It snatched off my hood and whipped my hat away down the street before I had time to react. I caught up with it lying by a grate, soaking wet. I squeezed it out and squashed it into my pocket.
I fought another savage gust of wind and hurried round to Miranda’s front door. I kept telling myself not to barge in all guns blazing – she might slam the door in my face, but I hadn’t concocted an alternative reason for turning up unannounced. I spent my final steps scrabbling around for one. It would be the first thing Miranda would ask.
Her face was aghast when she saw me.
‘It’s Dad’s birthday next week,’ I said with enforced calm. ‘We need to think of something to get him.’
‘You’ve come all this way…you could have emailed.’ She looked up at the sleet spattering down on my hood and reluctantly opened the door.
‘You never reply,’ I said as I wiped my feet. ‘It would have taken ages. I want to get it sorted, what with Christmas around the corner.’
‘I’m busy.’ Miranda was wearing a long T-shirt with smudges of oil paint down the front. I couldn’t help checking to see if there was any hint of a bump underneath it, but it was too baggy to tell. A canvas stood on an easel in the centre of the room and jars and tubes lay around it on the floor. Miranda was barefoot and she’d brought a trail of yellow toe-prints to the front door with her.
‘Bugger!’ she said, following my eyes and spotting them. She hopped back on one leg, grabbed a rag and tipped white spirit onto it.
‘You can’t paint in this light,’ I said. A bare bulb, an old sixty-watt at best, hung down from the ceiling. ‘It’s not good for your eyes.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ she said, clicking her tongue as she rubbed first her toes, then the wooden floorboards.
Bad start. Would I ever learn? I peeled off my wet coat and perched on the edge of the sofa.
‘I was thinking perhaps cufflinks or a new tie…’ I said helpfully.
‘Whatever. You get yours on your own. I’ll think of something later.’
‘Okay.’ I slapped my hands together, hiding my disappointment that she wanted to go it alone.
‘You want a hot drink?’ she said grudgingly. I accepted with exaggerated enthusiasm – at least she was making an effort. I asked her about the art gallery, the sale of her paintings, about Kora, Sponge and Dezzie in an attempt to generate conversation.
‘Dezzie is thinking of buying one of my latest ones,’ she said. ‘He wants it for the café. A bright one to liven the place up a bit.’
‘Show me.’
‘It’s at the gallery.’ She handed me the hot mug, but didn’t offer to clear any of the papers and rags that had made their home on every seat.
I picked up a flyer from the arm of the sofa.
‘I’m going to a gig later in the week,’ she said. ‘An Indie band at The Dublin Castle – you’d hate it.’
Her last words effectively cut off any chance of an invitation.
I perched on the arm and she walked up and down in front of the easel, sipping her drink without looking at me. I wondered how I was going to find a way to tell her the real reason I’d bolted over there.
‘Nice and warm in here,’ I said. ‘I’ve found a damp patch in my bedroom. I think—’
‘Get it fixed.’ She swung the empty mug loosely by her side. ‘Is that it? About Dad’s present? I’ve got stuff to do.’
Miranda’s words hit me like tiny cigarette burns on my skin. Would we ever get to a stage where I could chat to her without bracing myself for the backlash? I would have loved to have a sister I could confide in, have fun with, but I had to accept that our relationship would never be like that.
I didn’t have much more to lose. ‘When will I get to meet this man of yours?’ I said, dipping my toe in the wat
er.
‘Not yet.’ She made a move towards the hall, ready to show me out.
‘What’s his name? Surely I’m allowed to know that.’
She stopped and looked around as if she was trying to remember his name. I was starting to lose my cool.
‘When? When will be the right time?’
‘Not yet, okay? It’s too soon. It’s not serious. I told you.’
‘Not serious?’ I glared at her. ‘So, you’ll tell me his name when the baby’s born, will you?’
Her eyes widened. ‘What are you talking about?’
I exhaled with a huff, casting caution to the wind.
‘I had a call from Stella. She said you’re having a baby. Tell me she’s got it wrong.’
I took a step towards her, but she backed away, putting her mug down as if I might be about to smash it.
I couldn’t hold it in any longer. ‘You’ve told people at Linden Manor before you’ve TOLD ME?’ I screeched.
‘Told you what?’
‘That you’re pregnant for Christ’s sake!’
‘I’m not!’
I stood pressing my fingers into my forehead. ‘You’re not?’
‘There is no baby.’
I bit my lip, confused. ‘Listen…Stella…’
‘I lost the baby.’
I gasped.
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ she said, walking away from me into the kitchen. I darted after her, grabbed her arm.
‘Miranda! I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you…? I could have…’ I pulled her limp body towards mine and squashed her against me. She hung there like a rag doll, floppy and unresponsive. I let go of her and took a step back. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Like I say – it doesn’t matter now.’
‘Yes it does! It’s a massive thing to have gone through.’
She nipped her lips together and looked past me towards my coat.
‘I’m not going yet. I’m really upset!’ I cried, tears coursing down my cheeks. ‘I’m upset that you didn’t tell me anything. Nothing at all. You have a boyfriend, you got pregnant and you lost the baby. And I didn’t know one single bloody scrap of it!’
‘It’s over now,’ she said, leaning against the door frame, her arms folded. ‘In any case, I don’t have to tell you everything. I’ve had boyfriends before…plenty you don’t know about it. Why is it so important?’
‘I’m your sister!’ I wailed pathetically.
‘Yeah. I’m still getting used to that.’
I’m not sure what happened next. One minute I was bawling at her, the next I was getting on the bus, going home. I stumbled up the stairs to my flat, a terrible emptiness swallowing up my insides. Only a year ago, Miranda and I had discovered a new understanding, a profound closeness I never thought we’d achieve. Rock-solid at last. But in recently months, I felt like she’d broken away from the mainland and my precious relationship with her was shifting further and further out to sea.
It was after 11pm, but I was wide awake. I wanted nothing more than to switch everything off and go to sleep, but I knew as soon as my head hit the pillow my brain would start tormenting me. I couldn’t seem to relax any more.
I kicked my boots off in the hall, then dropped my bag on the sofa. On top of it, I flung my travel card, scarf, gloves and coat, feeling too rattled to bother about tidying up after myself. Again. I flopped into a heap alongside the bundle, then straightened up sharply. Everything about my sitting room looked spic-and-span. Every book in place, cushions plumped up, magazines out of sight. I crossed the hall. All spotless in the kitchen, too. No crumbs on the work surface, no papers left on the table. I was sure I hadn’t left it looking like this. I needed to get a grip. I was spending too much of my life on automatic pilot these days.
As I approached the bedroom, scenes from another flat flashed into my mind. Trust those harrowing snapshots to hit me when I was already down. As I reached for the door handle, I was instantly transported back to that other bedroom door – her bedroom door. To the stain on the rug behind it and the curly pink letters on her dressing gown: Joanne.
She’d cried out to me and I’d ignored her. I couldn’t forgive myself for that and I’d been trying for nearly twelve months. Stick to the boundaries – that’s what my supervisor had said. You don’t go running to them every time they say they can’t cope. You must teach them to look after themselves. He was trying to make out I wasn’t to blame, but I knew the truth. I’d practically left her to die all on her own. She’d reached out to the one person she trusted and I’d failed her. How could I ever be forgiven for that?
I could never, ever let that happen again.
I plumped up my pillows and set my phone to play a soothing Chopin nocturne next to my bed. I closed my eyes and tried to let the tinkling piano melodies sweep away my perpetual guilt over Joanne, my blistering row with Miranda, my singular ability to mess everything up.
Before the music could work its magic, my landline rang. Grudgingly, I dragged myself out of bed in search of the handset. I could see from the little screen that it was a London number, but sure enough when I answered there was nothing but silence. I reached for the whistle I’d left on the coffee table and couldn’t find it. Bloody hell! I slammed the receiver down, kicked the door of my bedroom shut and flung myself onto the bed. I gave my pillow a thorough beating, and between clenched teeth, yelled to my four walls, ‘Leave me alone!’
Chapter 23
Sam
After my last patient of the afternoon at St Luke’s, I felt that surge of triumph and relief that always comes with a job well done, forgetting that my day wasn’t over. Rosie was due at my flat in two hours’ time. I groaned inwardly at the thought.
I finished my second cup of tea and headed over to the bike shed. I’d been waiting for the rain to stop, but it looked like it was getting worse; one of the perils of being a cyclist in winter. It was generally too dark, too cold, too wet, but at least the bike got me from A to B without traffic jams or signal failures.
I remembered Rosie telling me she’d never had a bike as a child.
‘It was on every Christmas list I ever made,’ she’d said, ‘but Santa never came good.’
I’d never met anyone like Rosie before. I found my feelings for her hard to describe, mainly because I didn’t feel I knew her at all. She seemed to switch from one emotion to another in the blink of an eye; disconsolate one second, on cloud nine, the next. She was like a tiny fruit fly that, just as you think you’ve caught it, dodges out of your grasp and floats away.
Now that I was seeing Rosie in my personal space, I was constantly having to keep her focused. She was forever trying to turn our sessions into chats about the books I liked, the TV programmes I watched, the food I cooked. Or she’d get up and wander around, pick up my belongings, always asking questions. It was flattering, in a way, but she wasn’t paying me to be her friend.
Rosie turned up on time clutching a DVD. Visions of her pulling a bag of crisps from her pocket and suggesting we catch up on an episode of Scott & Bailey flashed into my mind. As it turned out, she’d brought something far more relevant to her therapy. She’d been in touch with the Hinds’ family and managed to get hold of footage of the original party, from fifteen years ago. Smart thinking.
‘We can do this, can’t we? It’s in the rules?’
I nodded, hiding a smile.
‘The party was originally on video, but Mr Hinds transferred it to a disc when I told him I was seeing you – so we can see if it jogs anything.’
‘That was thoughtful of him,’ I said.
It seemed somewhat unorthodox to spend our session watching TV, but she was right, something on the DVD could trigger memory recall. I set it up and we sat side by side on the sofa, with Rosie taking charge of the remote.
The footage was wobbly and jumped around; from a grand hall to stairs, corridors, various parlours and drawing rooms. There was no editing to link up the sections and no sound.
‘This i
s the ballroom where we played,’ she said as the camera settled in one spot. It was steadier now, perhaps fixed on a tripod.
‘Is this before the guy who’d messed up your viola fell to his death?’
‘Yeah…Mick Blain,’ she said pensively.
The camera panned out to reveal sweeping stairs and a balcony. It was certainly a majestic setting, with bone-white columns reminiscent of a fancy wedding cake. Guests in morning suits and ball gowns were mingling, while others attempted to waltz across the polished floor to music we couldn’t hear.
‘Posh, isn’t it?’ she said, her voice brightening up. Rosie’s quartet was positioned in a corner surrounded by sprawling parlour palms. I spotted Max straight away from his posture. Dressed in black tie, he was brandishing his violin bow like a sword. While the others had their heads buried in the music, Max was looking around him, casting his trills and arpeggios into the audience with the panache of a bullfighter.
The camera settled on the quartet for a while and I watched each player in turn. Richard, playing second violin, his blonde fringe so long and heavy I didn’t know how he could see the music. Stephanie was on the cello; her long, slim legs curling around the instrument while her fingers leapt about the fingerboard as if it was red hot. She was the only one we knew for sure was dead.
Rosie looked completely different then. The flesh under her arm wobbled as she slid the bow across the strings and she didn’t look comfortable in the sequined dress, which was too low at the neck and too short at the hem. She was far plumper and her bright red hair was completely untamed. It made me realise how much she’d changed, not only since her old college days, but since she’d first starting seeing me. She was slimmer, darker haired and much more attractive now; like a different person.
As we watched, Rosie pointed out Cameron Hinds, pristine and regal, greeting guests with his second wife, Ambrosia. She wore a shimmering evening dress that exposed her bony shoulder blades, with matching tiara.
‘Look, she’s the one Richard had a thing with,’ Rosie said, with a chuckle. Ambrosia looked at least twenty years younger than Cameron; step-mother to his children, but closer to their ages.
