One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  He feels the kid’s head shaking from side to side and draws back so he can make eye contact.

  ‘No, because we both know that would be a very bad idea. Apart from getting you and your dad sent to prison, you would ruin everything for your mummy and daddy. All of this. No glamping. No weddings. No business. No house. No cars. No nothing. Got that?’

  Charlie nods and a single tear runs down his face. Gus feels tempted to wipe it away. He feels like shit, making this kid so miserable, but any show of kindness could mean disaster for both of them. He raises his hand to give him a slap, just to remind him what it feels like, but can’t do it. Instead he says, ‘Wipe your face. You’re far too big to be crying like a baby.’

  Gus lifts the scythe and puts it over his shoulder. The weight reminds him of the gun. ‘What’s with the blanket, by the way? Something to do with the gun?’

  Charlie nods.

  ‘Thought so. You’d better take it home then. Get it washed. Where do you think the gun is?’

  Charlie points in a vague downhill direction.

  ‘Do you think we should look for it?’

  Charlie shakes his head.

  ‘Won’t that bracken stuff wither away in the winter?’

  Another shake. The look on the kid’s face is reassuring. He seems sure, as if he knows the gun will remain hidden.

  ‘Okay, let’s leave it there then. We’d better hope, for your sake, it never gets found.’

  46

  France

  Friday 20 July

  Catherine drops, exhausted, onto a chair. ‘Eric,’ she shouts.

  When he appears in the doorway, she says, ‘Remind me why I volunteered for this.’

  Eric laughs. ‘I did warn you.’

  Catherine thought coming here to sort out Mamie’s house would be good for her. Get her away from Paris for a few days and force her to think about someone other than Sebastien.

  The funeral was awful. Right up till the very last minute before the service began she was convinced he’d come. She imagined him dashing into the little church, out of breath, embarrassed, whispering apologies. She could see him turning around to smile at his relatives, confident they’d forgive him anything, as usual, then becoming suddenly solemn and sad as he caught sight of Mamie’s coffin. She’d looked forward to taking his hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze, comforting her child as he grieved for his grandmother. She was sure their shared grief would be enough to mend the rift between them and all would be well.

  But, of course, Sebastien didn’t appear and all day she had to endure questions and make excuses, coping with her disappointment whilst trying to hide her hurt from Eric’s family. At least Mamie didn’t know her beloved grandson was missing from the ranks of mourners as they made their way from the church to the graveyard, moving at the pace of her oldest friend.

  ‘Shall I make us a cold drink?’ says Eric. ‘Take it out to the garden? You look like you could use a break.’

  ‘That sounds lovely. I thought this would be ideal therapy for me, working my way through Mamie’s house. I expected it to be monotonous but just a question of sorting and organising things, making decisions about what to keep or discard. But, oh dear.’ She spread her hands and looked around the room, once so tidy and now filled with packing cases, cardboard boxes and plastic bin bags.

  ‘I know what you mean. Dealing with someone else’s worldly goods is quite different from organising one’s own belongings.’

  ‘A lifetime of personal possessions. More than one lifetime. Your father’s, your brother’s.’

  ‘I dare say some of this stuff goes even further back than that. Remember this was my grandparents’ house.’

  ‘There’s just so much. It’s overwhelming. I can see why people talk about downsizing. Remind me to throw out all of our old junk so Sebastien is never faced with a job like this.’

  ‘You have to switch off the sentimental part of your brain. My brother’s taken everything he wants.’

  ‘That wasn’t much help. A clock and a necklace of your mother’s.’

  ‘The kids took some stuff, to be fair. Now it’s a question of how we dispose of what’s left, I suppose. Should we save something for Sebastien, do you think?’

  ‘No, I think Sebastien would be here himself if Mamie meant anything to him.’

  ‘Come on, time for a break. Let’s go get a cool drink.’ Eric hauls her to her feet and gives her a hug.

  Already this morning she’s had two false starts. First the kitchen proved to be too big a job for her to tackle on her own and then she was forced to give up on a bureau full of papers because she kept coming across photographs of Sebastien. She found photos of her son as a tiny baby, indistinguishable from his cousins when they were newborns, recognisable only by his clothes or the arms cradling him. She came across snapshots of Sebastien as an adorable toddler, his strawberry-blond hair sparkling in the sun. There are even photographs she’s never seen before – a teenage Sebastien smiling amidst a tumble of adoring little cousins, snapped during a stay at Mamie’s on a summer’s day. His hair darker but still glinting copper and gold. When she unearthed a picture taken earlier in the year, at the family Easter party, she had to sit down. Memories of the day flooded back to her, making her feel quite faint as she gazed at Sebastien, sitting between her and his father, an arm flung casually round each of their shoulders. All three of them beaming at the camera, untroubled and carefree. She found herself kissing the photo and then clutching it to her chest, hands folded over it like a peasant woman treasuring a family bible.

  She shed a few tears, not sure whether they were for her missing son, for poor dead Mamie, or for herself. Then she dried her eyes and told herself to get on with the task she was here to do.

  She doesn’t tell Eric any of this, of course. She’s trying very hard to convince him that she’s coping.

  ‘Sitting in this garden is like walking through the perfume department of Galeries Lafayette.’

  ‘If you could bottle this fragrance you’d put Guerlain out of business. It’s divine, isn’t it? I could sit here all day, eyes closed, just breathing in the scent of roses, gardenia and honeysuckle.’

  ‘Tempting though that sounds…’ Eric drains his glass and gets to his feet.

  ‘Can’t we sit a little longer? Take a look at this.’

  She hands him the old photo she found in the bureau, its corners brown and curling. ‘I think it must have been taken here, in the garden. Look, there’s the big plum tree.’

  There are three little boys in the photo, dressed in identical outfits, probably the work of Mamie’s clever hands.

  Eric says, ‘I’ve never seen this.’

  ‘Do you remember it being taken?’

  Eric shakes his head, staring at the photo. He points to the smallest boy and says, ‘That’s me. What age? Two, maybe.’ He turns the photo over. Pencilled on the back, in Mamie’s writing, it says: Auguste’s eighth birthday. ‘Auguste,’ says Eric, in a whisper.

  Mamie’s ‘lost boy’, the one nobody ever talked about.

  ‘What happened to him, Eric?’

  ‘I’m not really sure. He went away when I was still quite young. Got sick or something.’ Eric frowns, as if he’s trying to dredge up a memory. ‘I vaguely remember him dressed as an altar boy. I think I remember something about him going to be a priest, but I might be making that up. All I know is, Paul and I were told not to talk about him as it made our father sad.’

  ‘Poor Mamie, that’s awful. She told me recently she had lost a boy. That’s how she put it.’ Catherine wipes her eyes, wishing she’d never shown Eric the photo. ‘I wonder what happened to him, why he got lost.’

  Eric sighs. ‘Well, we’ll never find out now.’ He reaches for her hand and she stands to hug him. As they hold each other close, she knows he’s thinking of Sebastien too.

  ‘I’m going to make a start on Mamie’s linen collection.’ She thinks it might be a safer option, less emotional.

 
; Eric whistles in admiration. ‘Good luck with that.’

  Catherine hauls opens the middle drawer of the immense linen chest at the top of the stairs and the smell of the immaculately white bedlinen reminds her of Sebastien. When he was little he always used to ask, ‘Why doesn’t my bed at home smell of flowers?’ She used to tell him it was Mamie’s magic that made all the beds in her house smell of summertime. She raises a pillow cover to her face and rests her cheek on the cool cotton, worn smooth and soft by years of Mamie’s laundering.

  As Catherine lifts a pile of sheets from the drawer, a tiny bag of lavender drops to her feet. She lifts the little sachet and turns it over in her hands, admiring the intricately embroidered initials – a P for Paulette interlaced with a lavish L. She imagines Mamie as a young bride-to-be, preparing her trousseau and excitedly entwining the initials of her married name. Or perhaps she sat, heavily pregnant, amongst her lavender and stitched away the hours as she waited for the birth of her first son. This year’s lavender will go unharvested; the little bags will never be refilled with a fresh batch of scented flowers. Another family tradition gone forever with Mamie’s passing. Catherine sniffs the lavender, its scent now faded and stale, and pops the tiny sachet into her pocket.

  She removes sheets and pillowcases, table covers and napkins and piles them into boxes, ready to go. There’s a big demand for ‘vintage’ linen these days. A friend in Paris paid a small fortune recently for a bundle of old-stained table covers, which she then had professionally laundered to grace the tables at her daughter’s château wedding. Perhaps Catherine should be selling these on the Internet rather than giving them to a charity for stray dogs.

  Only one drawer to go. When she opens it, she doesn’t find more sheets and table linen as she expected, but finds items wrapped in once-white tissue paper that has darkened and crisped with age. Feeling like a tomb raider, Catherine gently unwraps the first parcel and finds a bridal veil. In another, a coronet of orange blossom so dried that the petals drop as she lifts it. Another carefully wrapped bundle contains a christening gown and three tiny pairs of satin bootees, all hand-stitched. It’s like a history lesson of the Lamar family, Mamie’s family.

  Catherine gently lifts out one last paper-wrapped item and is about to open it when she notices, right at the back of the drawer, a yellowed envelope, with Mamie’s name and address. It carries an American stamp and is post-marked San Francisco, dated 1989. Inside is an order of service from a funeral mass, with a photo on the front that makes a shiver crawl up Catherine’s spine. It could be a younger version of Eric, or an older version of Sebastien. Below the photo, it says ‘Auguste Didieri Lamar 1955–1989’. A white card, edged in black, carries a handwritten message: ‘Dear Mrs Lamar, I lost my beloved Auguste three weeks ago and do not know how I can go on without him. He made me promise long ago that I would let you know when this day came. He loved both you and me, right to the end.’ It is signed, simply, Jonathon. Catherine knows what killed a lot of young men in California in the late eighties. Poor Auguste, he must have suffered terribly. She thinks of her own son, so precious, and wonders how Mamie kept going, with a secret like this hidden in her memory drawer.

  The old lady’s words come back to her, as if she’s right here in the house.

  ‘I can tell you this, if I had my time again, I would do things differently. I’d be quick to forgive and try hard to forget. Trouble was, Henri could never forgive and then it was too late. I waited too long. Please don’t make the same mistake, Catherine.’

  ‘Eric!’ Her feet clatter on the wooden stairs as she hurtles down towards him.

  ‘What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  She pushes past him. ‘Get the car keys. We’re going to Scotland. Right now.’

  47

  Scotland

  Natalie is laying out drawing paper in all the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘Can you please get me the felt tips, Charlie?’

  He nods and she waits, expecting more. He stretches his lips way back, exactly like she’s told him and says, ‘ee-ess.’

  Nat squeals and high fives him. ‘Did you hear that, Joyce? Say it again, Charlie.’

  Joyce comes over, her mop dripping a trail across the playbarn floor and says, ‘What?’

  ‘Charlie just said a word. Didn’t you?’

  He nods. He’s not saying it again. That was for Natalie only, to please her. He’s not going to perform like a seal. Anyway, even if he could talk normally, he’s not going to. In case he gets arrested. Better to say nothing.

  Joyce looks right into his eyes. ‘Did ye, son? That’s pure brilliant, so it is.’

  ‘Can you say it again for Joyce?’ He can tell from Natalie’s eyes how much she wants to help him. He thinks for a moment, stands with the two of them staring at him then shakes his head.

  ‘No?’ She looks disappointed but her voice is bright, as if she’s trying not to show it. ‘Okay, not to worry.’

  The two of them walk away and Joyce whispers, ‘Did he talk? Seriously?’

  I want to shout, ‘Hello! I’m still right here you know.’

  Nat’s hair swings from side to side. ‘Change the subject,’ she says.

  ‘Oor Alex was talking about Seb again yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘When he came to pick me up. He was waiting for me in the courtyard and Seb walks across. “Who’s the big guy wi the tats?” he says. I’m like, “That’s Seb. The French guy you met in the pub that night.” He’s like, “Well, he’s bulked up since I saw him.”’

  ‘He does have a fine set of muscles, I must agree,’ says Nat, turning to smile at me. ‘What do you think, Charlie?’

  Nod. I know all about his muscles.

  ‘Oor Alex swears the guy he met in the pub didnae have tattoos.’

  ‘Well, that’s weird. Seb is covered in them.’

  ‘You like tattoos?’

  I hope she says no.

  ‘In moderation.’

  What does that mean?

  ‘Know what you mean.’

  Thanks, Joyce, not much help.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not so keen on the one up the back of the head,’ says Nat, ‘but the kids seem to think it’s cool. Do you, Charlie?’

  I hate his tattoos.

  ‘Funny that.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Oor Alex was adamant the guy in the pub didnae have any tats.’

  ‘Must have been a different guy then. Did Alex have a few wee nips that night?’

  Joyce laughs as if Nat just told a joke. ‘Aye, same as every other night.’

  ‘Unreliable witness, then. Isn’t that what they say on the telly?’

  ‘What colour would you say Seb’s hair is?’

  ‘Ooh, that’s a hard one. Shaved head and all that.’

  ‘Do you think he’s bald?’

  ‘No, that’s just his style. Goes with the muscles and the tattoos, doesn’t it? His stubble is pretty dark, so I’d say his hair is brown. Maybe even black. Who knows?’

  ‘Not red then?’

  Nat giggles. ‘No, he’s definitely not a redhead.’

  Joyce raises her eyebrows and Nat giggles in a way that makes me feel weird, like when I hear a joke I don’t understand.

  ‘You can tell by his eyebrows,’ says Nat, with a kind of ‘so there’ look. ‘Anyway, why?’

  ‘Alex was adamant the guy in the pub was called Seb and he had red hair. He called him a ginger.’

  ‘Guess there was more than one Seb out on the piss in Ayr that night then.’

  48

  I know he’s away on a ‘hike’ with two kids from the Dutch family. Also know he’s not happy about it. Heard him moaning to Natalie. ‘Didn’t sign up for this shit. What if one of them falls and breaks an ankle or has a heart attack or something. What am I supposed to do?’

  Anyway, that’s his problem. All I need to know is that he’s going to be away this afternoon. Pim is on reception. Dad is out at Phase Five
. Don’t know where Mum is, but it certainly won’t be in the ‘boys’ dorm’ as Dad calls it. I’ve heard her talking about it with Joyce when she was complaining about the mess Seb and Pim were leaving.

  ‘It’s a pigsty. You should see it.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Mum. ‘Wild horses couldn’t drag me in there. Can only imagine what it smells like.’

  I make sure no one sees me going into the old building at the back of the yard. Sneak past Natalie’s room even though I know she’s in the playbarn.

  Careful as a bomb diffuser, I turn the handle and gently push the door. I hear someone groan as if he’s in pain. Wait for a voice to say, ‘Who’s there?’ Stand like a statue, waiting and waiting. Move the door a tiny bit more. It groans. A little laugh gets out, like at the cinema after a scary bit, when everybody laughs. Tiptoe through the doorway and push the big door closed, feeling daft when it groans a third time.

  A deep breath in and then blow it out again, fast. It’s stinking in here. I screw up my nose and cover my mouth while I try to work out what to do next. Need to let my eyes adjust. The curtains are closed, making everything dark red like blood. Wee slices of light have broken into the room.

  When my eyesight gets back to normal, I spot two beds. How will I know whose is whose?

  One looks tidy with the bed all sorted. Mum would like it.

  The other one’s got a rucksack dumped on top of it but most of the stuff that should be in it seems to be lying on the floor or draped over a chair. I go a bit closer and see boxers and socks, sandals and shorts and a wet towel hanging over the end of the bed. The smell’s even worse over here, probably the socks. Recognise some T-shirts that Seb wears all the time.

  No idea what I’m looking for. Or even why it seemed a good idea to come in here.

  I lift the rucksack and take it nearer the window so I can see what’s in it. Not much is the answer. Couple more T-shirts. I lift one out and then drop it, as if it burned my hand. I’ve seen it before. Seb was wearing it that day the hiker got shot. I shiver, as if someone blew cold air on me.