Person or Persons Unknown

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘So I believe,’ Rona replied, drinking her wine as instructed.

  Selina glanced at her wedding ring. ‘Hubbie expecting you home?’

  Unwilling to embark on their domestic arrangements, Rona merely said, ‘Yes; I’ll give him a ring in a few minutes.’

  ‘Wait till we get to the flat, where you can hear yourself think.’

  ‘You really are driving up tomorrow?’

  ‘I really am. It’s my mother’s birthday at the weekend. My parents still live in Chilswood. They complain I use their house as a depository, which is true: I hoard my excess baggage there, and it saves cluttering up my place.’

  Selina’s flat was located in the maze of similarly named streets behind Sloane Square. It comprised only one bedroom, one living room, kitchen and bathroom, but all the rooms were large and airy, and Rona was entranced with it.

  ‘I bought it after my first divorce,’ Selina informed her. ‘It took all the settlement and then some, and I was on starvation rations for weeks. Now, it’s worth a king’s ransom.’

  While she busied herself cooking spaghetti, Rona phoned Max.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ he greeted her. ‘Now I suppose you’re stuck there?’

  ‘Selina’s very kindly putting me up for the night, and as luck would have it, she’s driving to Chilswood tomorrow and will give me a lift.’

  ‘Trust you to land on your feet. So Gus and I are on our own tonight?’

  ‘’Fraid so. And would you be an angel and collect my car from the station? The parking ticket will have run out by morning, and I’d rather not leave it there overnight.’

  ‘OK; we’ll make that our evening stroll.’ He paused. ‘Did what’s-her-name come up with the gen?’

  ‘We had a very interesting talk,’ Rona said, aware of Selina’s proximity, though she had tactfully switched on the kitchen radio. ‘I’d better go. Thanks, love, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She had cast an anxious glance at the sofa when she first came in, relieved to see it was both wide and long and that the cushions looked soft. The furniture throughout was in pale wood, the dining table being protected by a sheet of glass. On this, the royal-blue crockery lent an exotic air, enhanced by the stubby blue candles in their squat glass holders. All this, she marvelled, within a ten-minute walk of the square and tube station. She’d never wanted to live in London, but she admitted she could just about come to terms with this.

  ‘Are you still in touch with the tennis-club crowd?’ she asked over coffee.

  ‘Not really, we’ve all dispersed now. Occasionally I run into one or other of them, or see their names in the paper. No doubt you’ve heard of Penelope Jacobs, the actress? She was one of us, and I actually interviewed her for an arts programme. It was a novel experience, I can tell you.’

  ‘It would have been interesting to have met them,’ Rona said reflectively. ‘How many of you were there?’

  Selina topped up her coffee. ‘A hardcore of eight, but others came and went. We were all in our early twenties, and some were at university. They joined us in the vacations.’

  ‘Did you go out with any of them yourself? On a one-to-one basis, I mean?’

  Selina smiled reminiscently. ‘I ran through most of them, yes. Philip Yarborough lasted the longest.’

  Rona stiffened. ‘Philip Yarborough? The sales director at Netherby’s?’

  ‘Quite possibly. When I knew him, he was something lowly in the Stokely store.’

  Rona’s mouth was dry. Philip Yarborough, whom Max suspected of maltreating his wife, had been a friend of the murdered Gemma Grant.

  ‘I gather you know him?’ Selina prompted, surprised by her continuing silence.

  ‘I’ve met him. He and his wife live near my sister.’ She hesitated. ‘It never occurred to me, but I might know some of the others, too.’

  ‘Quite possibly. You live in Marsborough, don’t you? Stokely’s not a million miles away, and as I said, we’ve all dispersed. Let me think, now: there was Judith Perry and her brother Gordon; Penny Jacobs, as I’ve said, and Philip, and Susanna Martin, and – oh, what was his name? Steve Deacon.’

  She raised a questioning eyebrow, but Rona shook her head. ‘What about those at university?’

  ‘That’s more difficult. There was one chap whose name I can’t remember – he only came a couple of times – and Frances – Kendrick, I think, and Russ Blakison. Oh, and Jonathan Hurst.’ She looked up at Rona’s convulsive movement. ‘Ring another bell?’

  ‘I’ve met Jonathan Hurst,’ Rona said aridly.

  ‘Well, it’s a small world! What’s he up to these days?’

  That would be telling! Rona thought. Aloud, she said, ‘He’s a solicitor. In my sister’s firm.’

  ‘The same sister who lives near Philip?’

  ‘I’ve only the one.’

  ‘Odd, that she should be linked to both of them. Jon was always very laid-back. Is he still?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very.’

  ‘Well, give him and Philip my regards, next time you see them.’

  Rona nodded, though she’d no intention of doing so. Their friendship with Gemma had no doubt been innocuous, but at this stage she’d prefer them not to know she was aware of it. Had the two of them kept in touch? she wondered. They worked within a few hundred yards of each other.

  ‘One last question: did the police ever come up with a motive?’

  ‘No, that was the stumbling block all along. The drawers in Gemma’s room had been gone through, and so had her handbag, which was on the kitchen table, but nothing seemed to have been taken. All her money, credit cards and jewellery were there.’

  ‘So whoever it was, was looking for something?’

  ‘That was the inference. But for what, no one knows.’ Selina glanced at her thoughtful face. ‘Well, was our meeting worth the journey, hazardous though it’s proved to be?’

  Rona smiled. ‘Most certainly. You’ve been very frank with me, and I’m grateful. I’ve a much clearer understanding of the background now.’

  ‘Happy to oblige,’ said Selina O’Toole.

  Joyce Cowley sat immobile at her dressing-table, staring at her reflection in the mirror and the looking-glass world behind her. The room looked entirely different that way round, she thought inconsequently; but then at the moment everything was different, whichever way she looked at it.

  Despite herself, her eyes dropped to the paper on the floor beside her, and the black headlines that had screamed in her head all day.

  MURDERED GEMMA’S DAUGHTER SEEKS DAD. CAN YOU HELP?

  She gave a little moan and covered her face with her hands. Gemma’s daughter – the baby she’d called Amanda – her own granddaughter. God, she’d hoped this nightmare was behind her. Would it never go away?

  The lavatory flushed in the en suite, and a minute later Nigel come into the room. She felt him approach, put his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Come to bed, love,’ he said gently. ‘We can talk about it again tomorrow.’

  She let her hands fall and regarded him in the mirror. ‘It’s not just Amanda, it’s the whole, horrible business of Gemma,’ she said miserably.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I keep wondering if I’d stayed here, not gone to Cape Town, would she still be alive.’

  He bent and kissed the top of her head. ‘There’s no point in torturing yourself like this. It’s not as though she was living at home and you went off and left her. She’d already left you. Anyway,’ he added, trying to lighten her mood, ‘if you hadn’t gone to Cape Town, you’d never have met me!’

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’d have been there to help her; she could have confided in me, and perhaps avoided what happened. She must have felt so alone, all by herself with a new baby, and no one to turn to but that girl she shared with.’

  She turned on the dressing stool, looking up into her husband’s face. ‘What do you think I should do, Nigel?’

  ‘Sweetheart, we’ve been discussing th
is all day. It’s not a question of what I think, it’s what feels right for you.’

  ‘I’ll have to see her, and she’ll ask all sorts of questions, and then God knows what she’ll think of me.’

  ‘What could she possibly think, except that she’s found her grandmother?’

  ‘That I should have taken her in myself?’

  Nigel Cowley pursed his lips. ‘That’s what’s really worrying you, isn’t it?’

  Joyce nodded. ‘I’ve been asking myself ever since if I did the right thing. But God, after Harry’s illness and death, and the rows with Gemma culminating in her leaving home, and everything being generally foul, I was just getting my life back – in a different country, meeting new people, and at long last starting to enjoy myself again.’

  ‘Darling, you don’t have to convince me.’

  ‘The last thing I wanted was to be saddled with a baby.’ She glanced at her husband’s concerned face. ‘Did I tell you I learned of her birth in a Christmas card? Gemma hadn’t even told me she was pregnant. That’s how close we were. She was always a daddy’s girl.’

  Nigel took her hand and drew her gently to her feet. ‘Have you any sleeping pills?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then come to bed and I’ll massage your neck and shoulders – the muscles are all knotted and tight. That’ll make you drowsy and help you to sleep. And tomorrow we’ll come to a decision. Together.’

  She reached up and kissed him. ‘What would I do without you?’ she said.

  Nine

  Rona had an excellent night on the sofa, and awoke to sounds of Selina preparing breakfast. After a quick shower, she joined her in the kitchen for fresh orange juice, croissants and filter coffee.

  ‘Any news on the strike?’ she asked, nodding towards the now silent radio.

  ‘It’s for twenty-four hours, so no trains till this evening. Just as well it’s the weekend.’

  ‘I really am grateful for your help.’

  ‘No problem. It’s good to have company for a change.’

  With cars and buses the only means of transport, the London roads were even more congested, but once out of the centre they had a clear run, reaching the outskirts of Marsborough just before midday. Selina insisted on taking Rona to her door, but declined the invitation to go in.

  ‘The parents are expecting me for lunch,’ she said. ‘Good to meet you, Rona. If there’s anything else I can help with, give me a bell.’

  Gus came hurtling up the basement stairs as she went in, followed more slowly by Max.

  ‘Welcome home, intrepid wanderer,’ he said as he kissed her. ‘Judging by reports on the radio, you got off very lightly.’

  They went down to the kitchen, where the syndicated local paper lay spread on the table, open at an inside page.

  MURDERED GEMMA’S DAUGHTER SEEKS DAD,

  Rona read.

  ‘Not in line for the Pulitzer Prize,’ Max commented, ‘but I thought you’d want to see it.’

  She picked up the paper and scanned the paragraph. As suggested, it mentioned families emigrating in ’78 and incorporated a plea for anyone who’d known Gemma to get in touch, to help Amanda (not her present name) build up a picture of her mother. Fleetingly, Rona wondered if Gemma’s killer would read it.

  ‘It’s eye-catching, you have to admit,’ she said. ‘Tess has done me proud. Now all I can do is wait to see if it bears fruit.’

  Max poured a creamy mixture into a pastry case and scraped the bowl. ‘So, tell me about the acerbic interviewer. What was she like in person?’

  ‘A pussy cat,’ Rona replied. ‘Very helpful, in fact. And here’s an item of information for your ears only: both Philip Yarborough and Jonathan Hurst knew the murdered girl.’

  ‘Jonathan Hurst?’

  ‘Lindsey’s new man.’

  ‘Hm.’ Max slid the quiche into the oven. ‘Interesting about Yarborough, though.’

  ‘It’s interesting about both of them,’ Rona said.

  He turned to look at her. ‘You’re not planning to beard them in their respective dens?’

  ‘Not for the moment.’

  He shook his head despairingly. ‘Promise me your next job will be a biography of someone who died in his sleep at least a hundred years ago.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she smiled.

  Avril stood at the sink in what seemed to be her permanent position, peeling potatoes. Out in the garden she could see Tom sweeping up leaves. This time last week, she’d been lunching in Netherby’s with Lindsey – and a waste of time and money that had proved to be.

  She tried to remember what she’d been thinking when, encouraged by her daughter, she had bought the new clothes and make-up. What exactly had she hoped to achieve? A lessening of depression? A feeling of well-being? More attention from her husband? All three had been of short duration. Certainly Tom had professed approval of her changed appearance, but he’d not spent any more time with her.

  He’s an attractive man, Lindsey had said of her father, and it had sounded like a warning. Did she know something Avril did not? Could he – impossible thought – be seeing someone?

  Avril’s mind skittered rapidly through their friends, remembering a warm greeting from one woman, a compliment to another. But no, Tom wasn’t like that; he’d never given her cause for jealousy. Nonetheless, despite her prompting, he’d made no move on the proposed round-the-world trip, and his retirement was only a couple of months away.

  Mechanically, slouched over the sink, she moved from the potatoes to the carrots, looking up at a sudden noise outside. But her eyes rested not on her husband, starting up the mower, but on a pale reflection of herself against the dark bole of a tree: hair bedraggled once more, shapeless jumper and skirt – for, as hope had faded, she’d already begun to revert to her old ways.

  And suddenly, remembering the uplift her changed image had given her, she was filled with a scalding self-disgust. She would not let herself go again, when Lindsey had shown her an alternative. On the contrary, she’d have her hair restyled, something she’d baulked at last week; not for any impression it might make on Tom, but for her own satisfaction, and so that Lindsey would never again have to look at her as she had last week.

  We used to be so proud of you, she’d said. And they would again, her smart, sophisticated daughters. She’d make sure of that, and her husband could take it or leave it as he chose.

  That afternoon, Max, Rona and Gus went up to the park. It was a mellow autumn day, with the trees just beginning to change colour, and below them the distant roofs and steeples of the town winked and glinted in the thick sunshine. They had brought Gus’s frisbee, and as they walked, Max constantly threw it ahead, only to be immediately re-presented with it. In the distance, other dog walkers performed similar exercises, and Rona’s eye was caught by a family group with their bassett hound.

  Her eyes narrowed suddenly, and she looked more closely. ‘Max,’ she said, touching his arm, ‘see that man over there? That’s Jonathan Hurst.’

  Max turned to study the fair-haired man and his dark wife, the two children running with the dog. ‘Happy family scene,’ he commented drily. ‘I hope to God Lindsey knows what she’s doing.’

  But it was not of her sister Rona was thinking. ‘I wonder how well he knew Gemma,’ she mused.

  They were relaxing with tea and crumpets when Rona’s mobile rang. ‘Good afternoon,’ said a hesitant female voice. ‘Am I speaking to Amanda Grant?’

  Rona straightened. ‘No, but I’m – acting on her behalf.’ Only partially true. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘My name is Joyce Cowley,’ the caller informed her, ‘and I believe I’m Amanda’s grandmother.’

  Rona’s heart jerked. ‘Cowley?’ she repeated.

  ‘Formerly Grant. Gemma was my daughter.’ A pause. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘My name is Rona Parish, Mrs Cowley.’

  ‘And what’s your connection with my granddaughter?’

  ‘She asked
me to find out what I could about her parents.’

  ‘You work for a tracing agency?’

  ‘No, I—’ Rona broke off, realizing the impression she was about to give, and tempered her reply. ‘Chiltern Life is considering a series about people searching for their birth parents.’

  Her strategy was in vain. ‘You’re a journalist?’

  ‘Not for a newspaper.’

  ‘But you inserted the paragraph in the Gazette?’

  ‘I requested it, yes.’

  ‘Then I’d like you to put me in touch with her, please.’

  ‘Of course; if you let me have your number, I’ll pass it on. I’m sure—’

  ‘I’d prefer to have hers.’

  ‘Unfortunately the approach has to come from her, but I’m sure she’ll contact you. In the meantime, I’d be very grateful for a word with you myself.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joyce Cowley said coldly. ‘I don’t talk to the press.’

  ‘But your granddaughter specifically—’

  ‘She can question me herself.’

  ‘It was because she felt that might be difficult that she asked me to handle initial inquiries,’ Rona persisted, ignoring Max’s raised eyebrows. ‘As I said, I’m sure—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Parish. If you insist the only way I can reach Amanda is by giving you my number, I have no option but to comply, but I’ve no intention of granting you an interview.’

  Rona bit her lip. ‘That of course is your privilege. If I could have your number, then?’

  Max passed across pad and pencil and she noted it down.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said into the phone. ‘I’ll see she gets it.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Max commented as she rang off. ‘First hurdle?’

  ‘She sounded a right old battleaxe. No wonder Gemma left home.’

  Max smiled. ‘Eat your crumpet – it’s getting cold.’

  Rona took a bite. ‘Damn her!’ she said indistinctly. ‘I need to see her, Max. She might know more about the missing father than she thinks, and Zara’s too emotionally involved to ask the trigger questions.’

  Max shrugged. ‘You can’t force her, love. What now?’ As Rona lifted the phone again.