Shifting Sands

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘I never realized it was so complicated,’ Jonathan admitted, watching her pour boiling water into the mugs. ‘What a clever girl you are!’

  ‘Enough of the compliments; I want to know why you’re interrupting my muse.’

  ‘First, though, that pale blue cashmere in the window . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What size is it?’

  ‘Brother dear, you should know by now it’s available in any size. That’s the whole point of designer knitwear: you choose the colour and style, and it’s made to your measurements. Why?’

  ‘I was thinking of getting it – or one like it – for Vicky, for Christmas.’

  Sophie fished out the tea bags, added milk, and set the mugs on a tray. ‘Fine, but we can discuss all that later; we’ve not had Bonfire Night yet. So, for the third time – what’s on your mind?’

  He followed her into the studio, seating himself opposite her. He’d been rehearsing his opening sentences off and on all day and was still not entirely happy with them. But time had run out, and he had to take the plunge.

  He took the mug she handed him with a nod of thanks. ‘I presume you’ve heard of the murder of that girl up in Manchester?’

  Sophie set down her own mug with an angry little thump. ‘For God’s sake, Jonathan, stop changing the subject! I’ve got work to do, even if you haven’t.’

  ‘Listen, Sophie – just listen. You know the case I mean? It’s been in all the papers.’

  ‘When have I time to read the papers?’

  ‘And on TV. The girl in the hotel room.’

  ‘I did hear something,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘So what?’

  ‘She worked for the Mandelyns Group.’ He watched her, but there was no flicker of recognition. ‘Which is owned,’ he continued deliberately, ‘by one Lewis Masters. Does that name ring a bell?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You don’t mean—?’

  ‘Oh, but I do. Lewis Masters, currently “courting” our mother, if that’s the word, is co-owner of Mandelyns, and he and the girl were up in Manchester on business, with a few others. Sophie, they were all staying at the same hotel!’

  Her eyes hadn’t left his face, but a hand went to her throat. ‘You’re surely not telling me—’

  ‘I’m telling you that he’s been interviewed several times by the police. He could have done it, Soph. So, for that matter, could any of them.’

  ‘But . . . for God’s sake, why would he? I mean . . .’

  ‘He might have had a motive.’ Jonathan took a deep breath. ‘I happen to know the dead girl suspected a treatment they’d been using had resulted in deaths.’

  There was a brief silence, then she said, ‘How do you “happen to know”?’ He watched her making connections. ‘Just a minute . . . She was French, wasn’t she, the victim? Jon, she wasn’t the mysterious girl you told us about, at dinner that night? The one who kept arranging to meet you, then not turning up?’

  Jonathan bit his lip. He’d forgotten that conversation. ‘Actually, yes, she was.’

  ‘So you did meet eventually?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And you think that’s why she was killed? Because she told you about it? Then you’re in danger, too! You must go to the police!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he lied quickly, ‘no one knows she told me.’ He’d no intention of admitting he’d already been interviewed by the police.

  ‘How long have you known about this?’

  ‘Well, I knew, of course, what Elise suspected, but it was only today I realized who Masters was, just before I phoned you.’

  She picked up her mug, holding it in both hands, and sipped slowly at her tea.

  ‘Do you think Ma knows?’ she asked after a minute.

  ‘I think she must do.’

  ‘Well, she obviously doesn’t suspect him, or she wouldn’t—’

  ‘Sophie, she’s in love with him!’ Jonathan said savagely.

  She looked at him for a moment, then laid one hand, hot from the mug, over his. ‘I know, Jon,’ she said softly.

  He brushed his free hand across his eyes. ‘Sorry. It’s just with Dad’s anniversary coming up next week . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she said again. Then, tentatively, ‘What are we going to do? Have you thought?’

  ‘No; is some special ritual involved?’

  ‘I don’t think so. We could go to church, I suppose, or visit his grave . . .’ Her voice tailed off uncertainly.

  ‘I’m not at all sure, in the circumstances, that I want to spend it with Ma.’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Anyway, we can think about it over the weekend. In the meantime, I’m sorry to have sprung this other business on you, but I thought you should know.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘On reflection, though, perhaps you’d rather I’d kept it to myself.’

  ‘Of course not.’ She paused. ‘Have you told Vicky?’

  ‘About Ma? No.’

  ‘I’ve not told Angus, either. He’s always been so fond of her, I didn’t want to – shatter his illusions.’

  ‘Are yours shattered?’ Jonathan asked quietly.

  ‘Let’s just say shaken. Of course she should have another chance of happiness, but . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Jonathan drank his tea. He added wryly, ‘Sorry; all this will have scuppered your muse completely.’

  She nodded. ‘And by the time I’ve managed to retrieve it, it will probably be going-home time. In which case, I shall cut my losses, leave early, and cook an extra-special supper for my husband.’

  They stood up.

  ‘Thanks for telling me, Jon. You’ll keep me in the loop, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They walked in silence back through the workroom into the shop.

  ‘And come back to me about the cashmere,’ Sophie added. ‘I’m sure Vicky would love it, though I say so myself!’

  She unlocked the door, and they gave each other a longer than usual hug.

  ‘Take care,’ she said.

  ‘You too.’

  And, turning up his collar against the cool breeze, he set off towards the tube station.

  At first, Lydia Masters wasn’t paying attention. The swaying of the tube was making her sleepy; it had been a long day, and she was finding it hard to concentrate on her paperback. Then, penetrating her tiredness, she caught the word Mandelyns and looked up sharply.

  It was a woman opposite who’d spoken, raising her voice against the rattle of the train, but Lydia’s view of her was obstructed by the straphangers swaying between them.

  ‘Three weeks, and they’ve still not arrested anyone,’ she went on.

  ‘Can’t think what’s stopping them,’ sniffed her friend. ‘It was the old bloke, wasn’t it? Stands to reason.’

  Lydia stiffened, her heartbeat accelerating.

  ‘How do you make that out?’ the first woman enquired.

  ‘Well, it’s the old story, isn’t it? Too much to drink, more than likely, and reckoned he was in with a chance. She wasn’t having any, he lost his temper, and bingo!’

  Lydia gripped her book convulsively as rage swept over her. How many in the crowded carriage could hear this vitriol?

  The first woman was speaking again. ‘Same could apply to the other men – more likely, I’d have thought. That one’s old enough to be her father.’

  Her friend snorted. ‘Since when has that stopped them? No, my money’s on him. He was the boss, wasn’t he? Didn’t think she’d dare refuse him.’

  They were approaching Lydia’s stop. Before she lost her nerve, she stood up and, unceremoniously pushing aside the man blocking her view, glared down at the women.

  ‘I hope you realize that what you’ve been saying is gross slander,’ she said clearly, her voice ringing as the train slowed down. ‘You’ve not a shred of evidence to back it up. It’s as well for you that my partner’s not with me; he’s a barrister, and he’d know how to deal with you!’

  And, leaving them staring after her open-mouthed, she pushed her w
ay through the throng and out on to the crowded platform, only realizing she was crying when someone touched her arm and asked if she was all right.

  Half an hour later, Oliver’s arms around her, she was still shaking.

  ‘I know you couldn’t really have done anything,’ she admitted. ‘But I was so furious, I wanted to put the fear of God into them.’

  ‘And I’m sure you did, my love. You can be very fierce when roused!’

  ‘I suppose I overreacted, but it seemed so unfair that they could slander Dad like that and get away with it.’

  ‘They probably didn’t mean any harm,’ he said reasonably. ‘It was just gossip, whiling away the journey.’

  ‘There speaks the defence barrister!’ Lydia scoffed, moving away from him.

  ‘Well, it’s a thin line between freedom of speech and defamation of character, but if it’s any comfort, no one there would have known him, so it wouldn’t have meant anything. What’s more, they’d have forgotten it within five minutes – except, perhaps, the women whose throats you went for!’

  ‘But is that really what people think, Oliver? That’s what frightened me; I hadn’t realized they might be saying that all over the country. And about Cameron, too. It’s just so . . . horrible!’

  ‘I know it is, my love, but all we can do is sit tight, let the police get on with it, and hope it won’t go on much longer.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ she said.

  THIRTEEN

  When he got home that evening, Jonathan lost no time in Googling Lewis Masters. Within minutes, he learned that he’d been born in Saffron Walden, Essex, and educated at Shrewsbury School and Brasenose College, Oxford. He married the model Myrtle Page in 1972, and they had a son, Cameron Lewis, born June 1973, and a daughter, Lydia Mary, born April 1980. The marriage was dissolved in 1990.

  In 1977 he opened his first health club in Dovercourt, Essex. Several others followed in neighbouring counties, and in 1980 he purchased Mandelyns Court in Surrey and developed it as a residential health farm. In the years that followed, he went on to purchase Woodcot Grange in Hampshire (1989) and Foxfield Hall in Berkshire (1991), re-branding both with the Mandelyns name.

  There was more, but Jonathan felt he had the essentials. What interested him most was Lewis’s marriage to Myrtle Page. She’d been a big name in the past and was still hitting the headlines in UK Today, though usually for the wrong reasons. What was clear was that she still liked the limelight – and no doubt would respond favourably to any request for an interview. Which could be interesting.

  He was still pondering this when a new message flashed up on his screen, and he saw, with mixed feelings, that it was from his mother. He clicked on it, to find it addressed jointly to himself and Sophie.

  Darlings, it began. I hope you will understand if I say that I’d like to spend Dad’s anniversary quietly by myself this year. Bless you both for all the love and support you’ve given me over the past months, and please believe me when I say I love and grieve for him as much as I ever did. Nothing will ever change that. All love, Ma.

  Her ears must have been burning, Jonathan thought. He read it through again before deleting it, then wondered if he should have sent a reply. Well, he’d think about that tomorrow. In the meantime, it was one less problem to worry about.

  Sophie phoned him later that evening. ‘You got the email?’

  ‘Yes. I must say it was a relief.’

  ‘Me too. But Jon, I think we should be together, don’t you? Angus can’t take time off, unfortunately, but if Vicky would like to join us, she’d be very welcome.’

  ‘I’ll ask. The kids will be at school, so there wouldn’t be a problem there. What have you in mind?’

  ‘Just taking flowers to the grave, and perhaps a quiet lunch after.’

  ‘Fine by me. Let me know what train you’re on, and I can meet you, either with or without Vic.’

  He was about to disconnect when her voice stopped him. ‘Jon – I’ve just thought: suppose Ma’s there, too?’

  ‘I don’t think she will be. She’d have guessed we might go, and she did say she wants to be alone. But if she is there, it’s no big deal.’

  They left it at that.

  Imogen pulled her scarf more tightly round her neck. It was a cold, misty evening, and while the bonfire warmed their faces, their backs felt the chill. She was holding firmly on to Jack’s hand, much to his indignation, but the damp wood was spitting, and hot ash and sparks were flying in all directions.

  Stalls selling hot dogs, sausages and baked potatoes were doing a roaring trade, there were polystyrene cups of soup to keep the cold out and Yorkshire parkin and toffee apples for the asking. Imogen was glad they’d opted for a public display rather than hold their own; it was much less trouble, and there was a happy, social atmosphere. Meanwhile, on top of his pyre, poor Guy Fawkes gradually disintegrated, each further slide into the flames greeted with shrieks of triumph. Once he was gone, the fireworks would begin.

  She glanced at her parents, their faces lit by the firelight. Her mother’s still had a sad expression in repose, and Imogen reached instinctively for her hand.

  Pat Selby returned the pressure. ‘I meant to ask you,’ she said. ‘Did you know Jonathan called on Uncle Ted?’

  Imogen turned sharply. ‘No? Why was that? He hardly knew either of them.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. What’s even stranger is that, according to Ted, he seemed interested in Em’s visit to Mandelyns.’

  Imogen frowned. ‘What possible interest could it be of his?’

  Pat lifted her shoulders. ‘Journalists, like God, move in mysterious ways.’

  ‘But he must have given some reason for calling?’

  ‘Not really, just mentioned vaguely that he was doing a series of articles. He was trying to be tactful, Ted said, but it didn’t stop him asking a lot of questions about the cause of her death.’

  ‘What bloody cheek!’ Imogen exploded.

  ‘Language, Timothy!’ Roger rejoined them, armed with a savoury-smelling carrier bag. ‘Now, who ordered what?’ He began handing out the food. ‘The hot dog’s for Jack, I think. Pasties for . . . Les and Pat, hamburgers for us, and a bag of chips to share. Use the paper napkins to hold them – they’re pretty hot.’

  As they started to eat, he turned back to Imogen. ‘What were you being so indignant about?’

  ‘Jonathan Farrell going to interview Uncle Ted.’

  Roger raised an eyebrow. ‘He must be following up some line or other.’

  ‘About Aunt Em?’

  ‘All will be revealed, no doubt.’

  There was a shout as the first of the fireworks soared into the sky, scattering stars of red and blue and silver and gold. Imogen said no more, but she still felt mutinous. Next week, she knew, was the anniversary of Miles Farrell’s death; how would Jonathan like it, if she went prying into its causes?

  Jack tugged suddenly at her coat. ‘Mummy, look!’ he yelled, and, abandoning her introspection, she turned to see a succession of rockets filling the night sky with magic. As Roger had said, all would doubtless be revealed, but nonetheless, given the chance, she’d find out if Sophie knew anything about it.

  There were cards from Sophie and Angus, and Jonathan and Vicky, and a home-made one from the boys, in which Tom had written laboriously, ‘Dear Granny, we’re thinking of you and Grandpa.’

  Anna’s eyes filled again with tears. She’d already received a text from Tamsin, presumably at Sophie’s instigation. Did she really deserve her family’s sympathy? At least she’d spared Jon and Sophie embarrassment by opting to be alone, but now the prospect of the long day ahead filled her with dread. How should she spend it? She couldn’t simply wallow in guilt and grief or she’d be a nervous wreck; nor could she bear to go near the church. She’d visit the grave later in the week, when the day itself wasn’t so poignant.

  She could drive into the country and go for a walk. But the day was misty and uninviting, with the threat of rain �
� not guaranteed to alleviate grief.

  One thing, however, she’d determined in advance: she would not, positively not, think about Lewis. The visit to Wendy and George had brought home to her how worried he was about the ongoing investigation and the threat it might pose to the planned celebrations. Consequently, when, as promised, he’d phoned the next day, she’d accepted the invitation, at least on her own behalf.

  ‘I’ll just be one of the guests, though, won’t I?’ she’d asked anxiously. ‘I mean, there won’t be anything to suggest we’re—?’

  ‘Don’t worry, my darling, this is principally a business do; there’s no question of your being hauled up to the top table or anything. I’ll arrange for you to sit with Wendy and George, and I promise not to single you out in any way.’

  The embossed card had arrived on Saturday, and she’d put it in a desk drawer until today was safely over.

  Now, she stood in the sitting room, looking at the sympathy cards arrayed alongside Miles’s photograph. She could get out the albums, relive happier days, but they would only make her cry again. How did people cope with anniversaries? Most, she reminded herself, would at least be spared the added guilt.

  A ring at the doorbell startled her. The post had already been; who else could be calling? Glancing in the mirror to check her eyes, she went to the door and opened it to find Beatrice on the step with a sheaf of flowers.

  ‘Oh, Bea!’ she said, the tears starting again.

  Beatrice took her arm and led her gently back inside, laid the flowers on the hall table, and put her arms round her. ‘I don’t usually have such an unfortunate effect on people!’ she observed, patting Anna’s shoulder, and she gave a choked little laugh. ‘If you’d rather I didn’t stay, fine, but I reckoned perhaps a non-family face might be welcome.’

  ‘You’re so right!’ Anna admitted, drying her eyes. ‘I was feeling very sorry for myself, and I’m not sure I have the right to.’

  ‘Of course you have,’ Beatrice said briskly. ‘You’ve lost your husband, whom you loved dearly, and, one way or another, you’ve had a pretty traumatic year. But I’m not here to ladle out sympathy. By the look of you, you’ve done enough grieving for the present, so I suggest we drive out somewhere, have a pub lunch, and, weather permitting, a short walk. And if you want to talk about Miles, or Lewis for that matter, or would rather not, either would be fine with me. How does that sound?’