When Angus arrived home that evening and cautiously opened the kitchen door, Sophie came to meet him and, to his delighted surprise, reached up to kiss him. His arms closed round her.
‘Does this mean I’m forgiven?’ he asked.
‘It means I’m sorry for not giving you the chance to explain.’
‘Honestly, darling, it was—’
She laid a finger on his lips. ‘Later. For the moment, it’s enough that we’re friends again.’
He kissed her again, and behind them, Tamsin’s laughing voice said, ‘Sorry to interrupt, but Mel’s on the phone. She’s invited me and Florence to a party tomorrow – the skating rink first, then back for a meal. We can go, can’t we?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Sophie replied, and, with a considerably lighter heart, she returned to her cooking.
‘Hello, Ma.’
‘Jonathan! How lovely to hear from you!’
‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks. And you? Enjoying being back in the bosom of the family?’
‘It’s great. Can’t think why I didn’t do it months ago.’ He hesitated. ‘Ma, this might sound an odd question, but did you ever learn the cause of Imogen’s aunt’s death?’
She sounded surprised, as though it wasn’t the question she was expecting. ‘A congenital heart defect, apparently – a ticking bomb that could have gone off at any time. Why are you asking?’
‘It’s to do with a series of articles,’ he said, purposely vague.
‘I hope you’re not going to upset her husband?’
‘No, I promise to be tactful.’
A congenital heart defect. For the first time, Jonathan wondered how all these doctors and pathologists who’d given causes of death would react to the suggestion that they’d been mistaken. Not well, he was willing to bet.
Anna waited a moment, then, when he still didn’t speak, forced herself to ask, ‘Have you spoken to Sophie in the last few days?’
He bit his lip. Here we go! ‘I have, yes.’
‘And what was your reaction?’
‘God, Ma, I honestly don’t know.’
‘Shock? Anger? Disgust?’
‘Some of that, I suppose.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jon. I’d give anything for it not to have happened.’
He said with difficulty, ‘I want you to be happy, of course . . .’
‘But not yet?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Sophie met Lewis,’ Anna said reflectively. ‘What did she say about him?’
‘Nothing, really, except that he shot off when she arrived.’
‘Beatrice suggested it might help if you all met, but—’
‘Beatrice knows?’
‘Only as of today. I went to her straight from Sophie’s. I had to speak to someone, Jon, and she’s the closest friend I have.’
‘And she suggested we play Happy Families? God! How she could imagine—’
‘She was only trying to help. She blames herself for missing out on South Africa and feels responsible for what’s happened. Whereas I still feel guilty about going without her. Anyway, I’ve thought of the perfect Christmas present to make up for it: a weekend voucher to Mandelyns!’
Jonathan, whose attention had wandered, came to with a start. ‘What did you say?’
‘That she feels responsible—’
‘No, about a Christmas present?’
‘I’m going to give her a voucher to Mandelyns. Why?’
‘Ma, you can’t! Really, you mustn’t!’
‘What do you mean, I can’t? Whatever’s the matter with you, Jon?’
‘Please! I can’t explain, but whatever you do, don’t let her go to Mandelyns!’
‘What possible reason—?’
‘Emily Broadbent went there.’
Anna sounded bewildered. ‘Did she? How is that relevant? Look, perhaps I should explain—’
‘Sorry, Ma, I must go. Just take my word for it. Any other health farm, just not Mandelyns.’
‘Jonathan, you’re being—’
‘Bye, Ma.’ Jonathan cut the connection and sat back, breathing quickly. He hadn’t handled that well, but it had taken him completely by surprise. He prayed she wouldn’t phone straight back, demanding an explanation, but as the minutes stretched out he breathed more easily. If the worst came to the worst, he’d have to tell her their suspicions, but it was a risky business. As Steve had commented, if word got out that they’d been spreading rumours, they could be taken to court. God, as if life wasn’t complicated enough!
Pushing back his chair, he went to help with his sons’ baths.
‘She didn’t know what she was doing,’ Angus finished. ‘She was stressed out, the disaster with the mousse was the last straw, and she just snapped.’
They were lying in bed, his arm round her shoulders.
‘You weren’t exactly pushing her away,’ Sophie reminded him.
‘To be honest, I was in shock; it had come so completely out of the blue. But really, sweetheart, it had no more meaning for either of us than a New Year kiss. Don’t hold it against her; she was in need of instant comfort, and I happened to be there. That was all.’
In fact, Sophie’s next meeting with Imogen was sooner than she’d either expected or wanted.
As they pulled into the ice rink car park the next afternoon, a familiar Focus slid into place behind them.
‘Oh God!’ Tamsin said theatrically. ‘I’d forgotten Mel knew Dire Daisy!’
‘How does she?’ Sophie asked, feeling her heart sink. ‘They don’t live near each other.’
‘She’s at Mel’s school,’ Tamsin said, picking up her duffle bag. ‘Still, we should be able to avoid her.’
‘Who’s Dire Daisy?’ asked Florence with interest.
‘The daughter of friends of ours,’ Sophie said quickly, forestalling a less acceptable description. ‘And don’t call her that, Tamsin; it’s not very nice. You needn’t spend much time with her, but you owe it to Mel to be polite.’
A snort was her only reply.
‘I’ll pick you up from the house at eight o’clock,’ Sophie called after her as the two girls set off across the car park, and a hand was raised in acknowledgement.
She risked another look in the mirror, only to meet Imogen’s eyes staring straight at her. With a sigh, Sophie got out of the car, walked to the one behind, and opened the passenger door. ‘May I?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes, please!’
Sophie slid inside and shut the door. They both started to speak at once:
‘I’ve been wanting to ring you, but—’
‘Angus explained what happened—’
They broke off with awkward smiles. Then Imogen said quickly, ‘Sophie, I’m so desperately sorry! Is he absolutely furious with me? I couldn’t blame him.’
‘Of course he’s not. He was just . . . taken by surprise, that’s all.’
‘I made such an utter fool of myself – I don’t know how I’ll be able to face him! But it must have given you completely the wrong impression, when you—’
‘It’s all right, Imo. I told you he explained.’
‘And when you left immediately after,’ Imogen continued, as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘I was frantic! I was sure everyone would ask why, but they seemed to accept the migraine.’
‘Quick thinking on my husband’s part,’ Sophie commented wryly.
‘He . . . won’t say anything to Roger, will he?’
‘Of course he won’t! Whatever do you take him for? Look, Imo, it caused a bit of awkwardness, nothing more than that, so let’s put the whole thing behind us.’ She leant over and kissed her friend’s cheek, and Imogen gave her a hard, relieved hug.
‘Thanks so much, Sophie. I couldn’t bear it if anything came between us.’ She gave a little smile. ‘It’s bad enough with our daughters! I’m afraid Daisy wasn’t best pleased to see Tamsin just now.’
‘The feeling was mutual. Don’t worry, they’ll grow out of it. In
the meantime, with the girls taken care of, we’ve a free afternoon ahead of us, so let’s enjoy it. How about a spot of retail therapy, since you’re up in town, followed by a thoroughly wicked cream tea?’
‘I can’t think of anything better!’ said Imogen.
Anna was perplexed by Jonathan’s reaction to the voucher, until she remembered the press had identified the Manchester hotel victim as an employee of Mandelyns. But surely any bad publicity resulting from it would be over long before Christmas? For Lewis’s sake, she certainly hoped so.
On the Wednesday morning, Wendy Salter phoned. ‘You’ve probably forgotten all about us by now!’ she began.
‘Of course I haven’t! Apart from anything else, you feature in quite a lot of my photos.’
‘Sounds ominous! Well, if you remember, I threatened to invite you to lunch, once we were back in the old routine, so I’m now carrying out that threat. We’d love to see you again.’
‘That would be great, Wendy, thanks.’
‘I gather you’re still seeing Lewis?’
Anna said carefully, ‘From time to time, yes.’
‘I’m so glad. Poor love, he’s in need of a bit of TLC at the moment, what with all this murder hoo-ha.’
‘Yes, it’s been . . . terrible.’
‘I’m hoping lunch will provide a welcome break. Now, you’re in Westbridge, aren’t you, and, as you know, we’re in Richmond. It shouldn’t take you more than half an hour or so, should it? Have you got satnav?’
‘No, but I have your address. I’ll download directions from the net.’
‘Fine. I checked with Lewis first, because he always has so much on, but he could make either Tuesday or Wednesday next week, if that’s OK with you?’
‘Wednesday would be fine, thank you.’
‘A week today, then – super! We’ll really look forward to seeing you. About twelve thirty?’
On one of his regular visits to Foxfield, Lewis had spent the morning in its boardroom, discussing marketing. When the meeting broke up, he’d strolled through the grounds to Cameron’s bungalow, where they were now awaiting their lunch.
Normally, Cameron ate in the main building, but at present the atmosphere over there was heavy with unease and suspicion, and he was glad to escape it.
Not that it was much better here; he and his father had exchanged barely a word for the last ten minutes. He cast around for some way to lighten the atmosphere. ‘I hear you were spotted in London recently, with a lady on your arm.’
Lewis looked up with a frown. ‘Spotted by whom?’
‘Oliver, actually. Lyddie told me.’
‘I’m surprised he thought it worth reporting.’
‘Oh, come on, Father! I’m trying to make conversation here! Who was she?’
They were interrupted by a knock at the door, and Cameron opened it to take receipt of two covered trays, each bearing a steak and kidney pie, baked potato, carrots and broccoli, and a plate of cheese and biscuits. The next few minutes were taken up with transferring them to the ready-laid table, where an opened bottle of wine raised Lewis’s eyebrow.
‘I know the lunchtime rule,’ Cameron said quickly, ‘but I felt we could both do with it.’ They seated themselves, and he poured the wine. ‘So come on, then, spill the beans: who is she?’
‘If you must know, someone I met on holiday.’
‘And you’ve kept in touch? That’s not like you!’
Lewis, making a start on his lunch, didn’t reply, and Cameron pressed, ‘Name?’
‘Anna. Anna Farrell.’
About to pick up his cutlery, Cameron paused. ‘Farrell?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘The name seems to ring a bell.’
‘You could be thinking of her son; he’s a journalist. Sometimes writes for the nationals, I believe.’
‘That must be it,’ Cameron said.
The interviews for the hypothetical articles were not going well. Comparing notes, it was clear that although the respective families were more than willing to detail their loved ones’ life histories and achievements, they had never for a moment questioned the causes of their deaths.
‘I’ve come up with congenital heart defect and purulent meningitis,’ Jonathan said gloomily. ‘What about you?’
‘Pre-existing cerebral aneurysm, and anaphylactic shock, allegedly after eating peanuts.’
‘Not, one assumes, at Mandelyns?’
Steve shook his head. ‘Which only leaves the actress. It’s a damn sight harder to approach her family, but the papers hinted at a virus.’
‘Don’t forget Elise said these symptoms could be reactions to the treatment.’
‘But how, exactly, do we prove it? Anyway, the police have a lot more resources than we do. Since we did our duty and sent them the memory stick, we might as well retire gracefully and leave them to it.’
‘But it was our story!’ Jonathan demurred.
Steve shrugged. ‘Win some, lose some. We’d do better to move on and concentrate on old Perceval and his factory. Might be less newsworthy, but at least it will provide our bread and butter.’
Pringle pushed the plastic-covered letter across the desk. ‘What do you make of this, Trevor?’
DS Smith reached for it, reading the large-font, bold print:
Ask journalist Jonathan Farrell why he met murder victim Elise du Pré in his hotel room the night before she was killed.
He looked up quickly, his eyes brightening. ‘There is a God! First bloody lead we’ve had! Fits in with what the parents said, and all.’
‘About a lover? Seems to, first confirmation we’ve had – if you can call an anonymous letter confirmation.’ He sighed. ‘Time was when we could at least get some handle on these poison pen affairs: the newspaper the words had been cut from, handwriting analysis, typewriter with a faulty key. But with these bloody computers, it’s a different ball game.’
‘So what’s the first move?’ Smith asked eagerly.
‘We check the local hotels, see if anyone of that name was in town that night. It should at least give us something to go on.’
‘About time, and all,’ Smith said feelingly.
Friday evening, thank God, Jonathan thought. It hadn’t been an auspicious week. He was closing down his computer, when there was a tentative tap on the study door. ‘Yes?’ he called. ‘Come in.’
Tom’s head, wide-eyed, appeared round the door frame. ‘Mummy says please could you come downstairs. There’s two policemen waiting to speak to you.’
Jonathan stared at him, his heart setting up an uncomfortably accelerated beat. ‘Policemen? Are you sure?’
‘Mummy said they are, but they’re not wearing helmets.’
‘Thanks, Tom. Tell them I’ll be right down.’
Tom nodded and withdrew, and Jonathan rose slowly to his feet, his mind racing. Could they have traced the memory stick to him? No, no possible way. Nor, even more importantly, could they tie him to Elise. So what the hell did they want? A parking ticket? Speeding fine? Neither of those necessitated home visits.
Bracing himself, he went downstairs. Vicky was waiting for him in the hall, her face frightened. She didn’t speak, just nodded towards the sitting room. Jonathan nodded back, briefly touched her hand, and went in and closed the door.
Two men turned to face him. Plain clothes; he’d feared as much.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. DS Newton and DC Pennington, Westbridge CID.’ They held up warrant cards, and Jonathan nodded.
‘How can I help you?’ He waved a hand towards the sofa, and both men sat down. Jonathan seated himself on an upright chair facing them, vainly hoping the height might give him an advantage.
‘Just a few questions, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.’ The older man’s Kentish accent was misleadingly reassuring. ‘I take it you have no objection to our conversation being taped?’
‘Of course not,’ Jonathan said from a dry mouth, watching as a small recorder was set up on the coffee table.
The DC
gave the time, place and names of those present, and sat back.
Newton began the interview. ‘Could you confirm, sir, that you spent the night of Wednesday the thirteenth of October at the Commodore Hotel in Manchester?’
Jonathan felt the colour draining from his face. Useless to deny it – somehow, they must have proof. He moistened his lips. ‘That’s right; my colleague and I were up there on business.’
‘And could you also confirm that, during that evening, you entertained a young lady by the name of Elise du Pré in your room?’
The room tilted. This couldn’t be happening. Blindly, instinctively, he went on the offensive. ‘If you’re insinuating what I think you are,’ he blustered, ‘I most emphatically deny it!’
The detective was unperturbed. ‘Then I’ll put it another way, sir. Did the young lady in question visit you in your room?’
There was a long pause, while Jonathan wondered frantically what to say. The two men sat patiently at their ease, making no attempt to hurry him. Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘She did pop in, yes, but my colleague will confirm he was there the whole time. I assure you—’
‘This colleague’s name and address?’
Jonathan supplied them. He must warn Steve he’d be contacted.
‘What was the purpose of her visit?’
Jonathan took a deep breath. If he was to dispel suspicion of an affair with Elise, it seemed he’d no option but to admit to the memory stick – and God knew where that would lead.
Newton spoke into the continuing silence. ‘I’m sure you’re aware, sir, that the young lady was unfortunately murdered the following day.’ He paused. ‘By person or persons unknown.’
Sickly, Jonathan nodded.
‘Well, sir?’
He straightened in his chair. ‘We’re journalists, Sergeant, and she’d asked for our help. She was . . . worried about a matter at work and wanted us to look into it.’
‘The matter being?’
In for a penny, Jonathan thought. ‘It concerned a treatment that was given at the resorts where she worked. She discovered several women had died after receiving it.’
Newton pursed his lips. ‘The resorts are in the southern counties, I believe?’
Jonathan nodded.
Shifting Sands Page 17
