Harry nodded appreciatively, feeling soothed by the room's calm atmosphere.
'I didn't mean to drag you away from her. It's just I think they've got a lot of talking to do that they can't do in front of us.'
'Of course.' Harry nodded, running his hand through his hair. He looked as if he'd dressed in a hurry, a Fred Perry shirt buttoned up wrong, a scratch on his cheek from shaving. 'Thank God Amy had you! I fully expected to find her like a zombie again.'
'She's bearing up well so far,' Greg said softly. 'How has Tara been?'
'Very quiet.' Harry sighed. 1 don't think she dropped off last night for a minute. But it's as if she's holding it all in. Maybe now she's with Amy she can let go.'
'Whisky all right?' Greg took a bottle and two glasses down from a shelf.
Harry nodded and sat down by the fire.
As a doctor Greg tended to view everyone from a health point of view, and he was surprised to see Harry looking so drawn. Although this was obviously due in part to the shock of Mabel's death and a couple of sleepless nights, instinct told him this really was the result of months of overwork. His eyes seemed dull, his black hair less glossy, and the vitality which was so much part of his nature seemed lacking.
'Have there been any further developments?' asked Harry.
'Not really. Mabel's fingerprints were on the candlestick, which makes it look as though she picked that up as a weapon against him. They found a woollen mask up the road, seems he threw it out of a car window. It's been suggested he only killed her because she recognised him.'
'What makes them think that?'
Greg shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, he tied her to a chair first, they found rope fibres on it. That would be enough for most burglars, but he went on to kill her.'
'What was he after?'
'Money, I suppose.' Greg poured them both another drink. 'There were always rumours about Mabel having a fortune stashed away. People assumed she inherited it from her mother.'
'Did she?'
Greg liked Harry's direct questions. He would've made a good policeman, straight to the point.
'Well, some, but I doubt it was anything like as much as people like to think.' Greg pursed his lips. 'She always pleaded poverty, but she always managed to find a few quid when necessary. Recently they've been making more money, what with extra pigs and chickens. She bought a new tractor, and the farm shop was doing all right.'
In his brown cardigan and tweed trousers Greg looked the part of the calm country doctor, but Harry could see he wasn't as composed as he tried to pretend. His hands were shaking, his rosy face was pale and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.
'Any suspects?' Harry asked, getting out his cigarettes with trembling hands and offering them to Greg.
'I hope you've got a good alibi, Harry.' Greg took one and raised a sandy eyebrow. 'Don't take that as an accusation, but the police asked me about you immediately.'
'Mabel would've seen the irony in that.' Harry's eyes twinkled, relieved that Greg could be open with him. 'I was in the club from nine in the evening until three. We had dozens of well-known people in who can verify it. Don't worry, Greg, I've got nothing to hide. They can interview me any time they like.'
Greg nodded but he still looked anxious. "They asked me for a list of anyone who'd ever worked for her, visitors, people who called at the farm. Anyone who might have had a grudge against her.'
'Was there anyone?' Harry leaned forward in his chair.
'Mabel didn't endear herself to many people.' Greg's mouth moved into a smirk. 'She was sharp with almost everyone. But I can't think of anyone who felt so strongly about her that they'd kill her.'
Harry felt sick. The moment Amy phoned yesterday, Wainwright had sprung into his mind. Harry felt like kicking himself for underestimating the man. He had seen him as a maggot, someone who once crushed would be too scared to even consider retaliation. Yet Wainwright could have murdered Mabel. He knew her, the farm and possibly the rumours about her wealth. He was certainly cold-blooded enough.
Perhaps he'd hoped Harry would be blamed, that during an enquiry other things might come to light. Maybe he'd even expected Tara and Harry to be asleep in the farmhouse and he actually came looking to kill them!
But whatever happened, Harry felt partially responsible for failing to hand over that box of files to the police. Why hadn't he? An ingrained reluctance to grass anyone up? The feeling that it was better for all concerned to just let it drop?
One thing was crystal clear. He couldn't let all that out now, not without making things a hundred times worse for Tara.
The oddest thing was that he felt as if Mabel's death was connected to all the other unexplained and strange things that had happened in the last few months. That sewage coming up in the basement! Even the plumber reckoned it was sabotage. The delivery of sand right in front of the club door late on a Friday afternoon. The visit from the health inspector, supposedly due to a complaint from one of his members. There had been so many incidents, ranging from the bust by the drug squad, rushing in like madmen and not finding so much as a cardboard roach, to the spirits room being broken into and stripped.
Yet was Wainwright powerful enough to mastermind all these incidents? Or did he have another enemy?
'Look, we ought to talk about practical things,' said Harry. 'I mean the farm, obviously Amy can't go back there, well, not to live. Could we get another man in to work there? I could pay his wages.'
'That's very generous.' Greg gave a wry smile. 'I wish it was that simple. Unfortunately Amy did far more than anyone realised, she was also very good at keeping Stan working properly. Once she's not in there, he'll start slacking.'
'I wish I could come down for a while.' Harry sat back in his chair, thoughtfully watching the smoke rise from his cigarette. 'But things aren't too good for me right at this moment.'
Greg raised a sandy eyebrow. 'I thought you were on your way to making the first million?'
'So I am.' Harry smirked. 'The club's making money hand over fist, but there's things going on that need watching. Sometimes I feel like a man making his way through a jungle. Behind every tree and plant there's an unseen enemy – success makes a lot of those. Just between you and me, Greg, I'm thinking of selling it.'
'But from the papers it sounds like you're flavour of the month?'
'I am at the moment. The press love the "Cockney lad makes good" routine, but they'd like it better if I went in for a bit of excess. You know, bought a flash penthouse, a jet or a Roller. They watch all the time, Greg! Waiting for me to slip up, anything would do – drug bust, knocking off a fourteen-year-old,' Harry paused. Greg was looking a little worried, as if he didn't really believe this.
'This murder should show you what I mean,' Harry insisted. 'Right now the press only know an old lady's been murdered. But then they'll find out that Tara Manning, designér for Josh Bergman, is the old girl's granddaughter! That connection should keep the story hot a day more. Throw in Harry Collins, ex-con, nightclub owner as boyfriend and we can keep it going still longer. Suppose, though, that they discover the very beautiful Mrs Manning is in fact Mrs MacDonald, the widow of a priest murderer? How do you think that will go down around here?'
'Oh, shit, I hadn't thought of that.' Greg's colour faded. 'Will they dig that out?'
'I hope not.' Harry shook his head. 'Amy's been through too much already, and the local police are bound to feel for her. But it is a possibility. My advice would be to refuse to talk to any press, it's usually a chance remark that leads them on to another angle.'
'Do you know what my biggest problem was on Christmas Eve?' Greg's face was a study of dejection.
'What to buy Amy for Christmas?'
'No, where Amy and I were going to live.' Greg shook his head. 'Amy wanted to be here, but I couldn't see how we could leave Mabel to fend alone.'
'Even after her death the problem is still there,' Harry said ruefully. He liked Greg, felt he and Amy were perfect for one another, and it
made him angry to think anything could get in the way of their happiness.
'Mabel's will might settle that for us.' Greg got up, rubbing his back. 'To be perfectly frank, I hope she's left the place to a sodding dogs' home or the church.'
'Come on.' Harry sensed Greg was close to the end of his tether. He stood up too and put his hand on the older man's shoulder. 'Things will work out, you'll see. Once the funeral is over, you and Amy must get married. If the farm's left to her she could sell it. You two don't need to be burdened with all this.'
'Thanks for coming Harry.' Greg looked up at him. 'You brought a breath of fresh air with you.'
'I can't leave you, Mum,' Tara insisted. 'Don't ask me to go back to London and leave you here.'
'Oh, Tara.' Amy put her arms round her daughter and hugged her tightly. 'You haven't changed a bit since Whitechapel. Still trying to protect me. I'll be fine, I'm stopping here with Greg.'
They were in Greg's sitting room, waiting for him to drive Tara to the station. It was the end of January now, Mabel had been put to rest alongside Paul in the churchyard and slowly the village was getting back to normal.
Harry had stayed until after the funeral but he'd had to get back to the club. He had been invaluable while he was here, going to the farm daily, sorting out Stan and finding a lad to help him permanently.
But the reorganisation of their lives was nothing compared with the terrible strain of having a spotlight trained upon them. Journalists telephoning, banging on the door and waylaying them as they walked down the street, and so many questions from police and neighbours.
Tara was surprised by the strength her mother showed, almost as if she'd taken some of Mabel's spirit on board. She refused to be swamped by the deluge of nosy neighbours, she slammed doors in journalists' faces and kept her head high even when she knew everyone was gossiping about her and Greg living together.
The police were no closer to finding the murderer. Amy, at Harry's suggestion, had put forward Wainwright's name as someone who had called at the farm, and through his friend who owned the cottage in Stanton Drew they had found him and interviewed him. But he had an alibi, as did all the people they questioned.
It was a mystery. A house-to-house enquiry had revealed nothing. No-one had seen a car late that night, spotted anything unusual either before or after. Although the police continued to search for clues, as the days slipped past it was apparent they'd run out of steam.
Amy and Tara both cried as Edward Grimes, the solicitor in the village, read them Mabel's will. In her words, 'My estate goes to my granddaughter Tara, because she has the good sense to use it wisely and hold it in trust for her children. Because of her youth and the possibility she could be swayed by others, I ask that my daughter Amy holds the farm until Tara's thirtieth birthday, without any structural changes or alterations to use, and that Tara gives her mother a home there as long as she needs it.'
Alone with Greg Amy had cried bitter tears. Like Greg she cared little about the farm, she would have been happy to see it auctioned off. But she saw her mother's devious mind behind this will, updated just a couple of months before her death. Even after all Amy had done for her and the farm, Mabel couldn't bear to think Greg might profit from it. She didn't want him to move in, to build a surgery, or even to make life more comfortable for Amy. She saw her mother's will serving a dual purpose. The hard work and responsibility might put a strain on Amy and Greg's life together and, if Tara came to the rescue, Mabel hoped that would finish off for good her relationship with Harry.
'We've talked it over,' Amy reassured her daughter. 'Greg and I will work out a plan for the farm to just tick over, keeping its value with the minimum of effort and work. You must get back to your life, darling, don't worry about all this.'
Amy was wearing black, her face still had a drawn, haunted look. Whatever brave words she came out with, Tara knew it would be some time before she recovered.
'Did I ever tell you how precious you are to me?' Tara flung her arms round her mother and buried her face in her neck.
'And you to me, darling,' Amy whispered back, kissing Tara's hair. 'Now off back to London, pick up the threads again. We'll always hold Mother in our hearts, but that doesn't mean we have to spend the rest of our lives being afraid to be happy.'
'Is there anything I can do to help?' Josh asked on her first day back at work.
Everything had been put on hold while she was down in Somerset. Old designs were just trotted out in new fabrics, and sales held in all four shops. Her assistant Margot must have had a very easy time of it; the workroom had never looked so clean and tidy.
It was good to smell the bales of cloth again, to hear the traffic rumbling by and Marc Bolan's 'Ride a White Swan' blasting out from the shop below. She would go over to Kensington Market at lunch-time and buy herself something extravagant from the antique clothes stall.
'That's sweet of you, Josh,' Tara was touched by his concern. He had come down for the funeral and asked Greg if he could help with the funeral expenses> but perhaps his real contribution had been giving her so much time off without hassling her.
As much as she'd hated to leave her mother, she was actually relieved to be back at work. All that emotion had drained her, and drawing had always been the perfect way to recharge her batteries.
Josh was straight today, his eyes soft and gentle again, his big lips curved in a genuine smile of welcome. There had been a bouquet of flowers for her and cards of sympathy from all the girls in his shops.
'You know how much I liked your grandmother,' he said, perching on a desk by her drawing board. 'She was like the Jewish matriarchs, formidable but a great character. Amy must be finding it tough without her.'
'She found it tough with her,' Tara blurted out and within minutes she found herself telling Josh far more than she meant to.
'You'll feel better now,' Josh predicted as he gave her a brotherly hug and dried her eyes with his handkerchief. 'Maybe she had her reasons for giving you the farm. Maybe she had a reason to distrust Greg.'
'Don't be ridiculous,' Tara snapped. 'Greg's a wonderful man!'
'Well, I suppose your gran's instincts could be off-beam sometimes. She liked me, didn't she!'
Tara laughed and suddenly she felt better. 'You are a ray of sunshine,' she said. 'It's time I put it all behind me.'
Gran's death and the end of a decade made Tara more aware that she could no longer just drift on as she had before.
Somehow 1970 seemed different. Flower Power was dying, revolution no longer seemed imminent. The innocence was dead, a new generation of teenagers was springing up who were more materialistic and showy. Platform shoes and maxi skirts were coming in and, instead of living by the maxim 'Turn on and drop out', people were cutting their long hair and working their way back in.
Ideas were running around in her head, clamouring to be put down on paper. Not just for actual garments, but fabric designs with bold, swirling colours. She began to be irritated by the limitations of Josh's empire, casting a jaundiced eye not only on the designs she did for him, but on his policies.
Everything had to be cheap. Fabric, trimmings, even the cut of the garment was influenced by the need for economy. She longed to produce sumptuous evening dresses in chiffon and silk, use lavish embroidery, applique, sequins and beads. She would look at Ossie Clark's designs with all their rich crepe, covered buttons and swirling skirts, and feel green with envy.
One afternoon, when Josh had wandered into the workroom to show her his new platform boots, she decided it was time she showed him her ideas. He stood in the doorway, wearing green trousers so tight he had an indecent bulge in the front. They flared out at the knee to twenty-six-inch bottoms, and then the boots!
'What do you think of them?' He grinned like a schoolboy. 'I always wanted to be six foot!'
They looked ridiculous, but then so did mini skirts at first, and at least these were plain black, not the multicoloured ones she'd seen on some people.
'Ask
me in a couple of weeks when I've got used to you towering over me!' she laughed. 'How long did it take to practise walking in them?'
'I nearly broke my ankle when I came out the shop in them,' he admitted. 'But you do like them, don't you?'
She saw no good reason for being brutally honest and she nodded. 'They're groovy,' she said, turning her head away so he wouldn't see her laughing. 'Now come and look at these!'
He rolled a joint, as he always did these days, and just sat and smoked while she turned the sketches over for him to see.
'They're all breathtaking,' he agreed. 'But not for us.'
He had noticed a new maturity in Tara even before the old girl's death. But since she'd come back to London it was stronger. She invariably wore long skirts now, with her lovely gold hair pinned up. He liked this new Tara. She had poise and elegance, without losing any of her warmth. He sensed, too, that she was disenchanted with Harry's club and her lack of social life and this was making her ambitious again. Maybe it was time he made a bit more fuss of her?
'Can't we produce a range of special clothes?' she begged him. 'Just a few trial ones to put in the windows and make people stop in their tracks?'
Josh had his own worries right now, although he was concealing them well. Bailiffs had called at the Oxford Street shop only a few days earlier for unpaid rent; he owed the Inland Revenue several thousand, too. Although he knew Tara's ideas were good, he hadn't got any spare money to waste on frivolous schemes right now.
'It wouldn't work.' He shook his head and laughed. He had no intention of telling her the truth. 'We have to stick at what we do best. I know my market and if I move away from it I'll lose it.'
'But, Josh, the shops are looking grotty,' she said. 'You've flooded them with all that Indian stuff.'
'That's what's selling.' He drew on his joint and switched the radio on. 'Listen to that,' he said as David Bowie's 'Space Oddity' came on.
Tara watched him patiently.
'Ground control to Major Tom,' he sang, playing an air guitar like a teenager, tossing his black curls. 'Take your protein pills and put your helmet on.'
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