Person or Persons Unknown

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘I must tell Zara,’ she said.

  It was Tony Crane who answered, and Rona requested a word with his wife.

  ‘Yes – yes, of course. She’s right here.’

  There was a murmured exchange, then Zara’s eager voice. ‘Rona? You’ve found something?’

  ‘I’ve just had your grandmother on the line.’

  Zara caught her breath. ‘However – oh, because of that bit in the paper?’

  ‘Yes; she wants to see you. I didn’t give her your name or number, but I have hers, if you’ve a pencil to hand. She’s married again, by the way; her name is now Joyce Cowley.’

  Zara took down the number. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘I didn’t ask, but it’s a local code.’

  ‘What did she sound like?’

  Rona hesitated. ‘At first, when she thought I might be you, she was nervous. After that – well, she doesn’t approve of the press.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She refused to see me.’

  ‘But that’s nonsense!’ Zara’s voice rose. ‘You’ll have to come with me! I’m certainly not going alone – not the first time, anyway.’

  ‘But surely your husband—?’

  ‘Tony’s away on a course all next week. Please, Rona!’

  Rona took a deep breath. ‘Look, give her a ring. Talk to her. You might change your mind.’

  ‘No way. She’ll have her husband there to back her up, and it’s not even as if he’s my grandfather.’

  ‘Back her up?’

  ‘When she makes excuses for not taking me in herself.’

  That angle hadn’t occurred to Rona, but Mrs Cowley might be anticipating it.

  ‘You do want to see her, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do. But not alone.’

  ‘Then speak to her, and see what she says.’

  Twenty minutes later, when they were up in the sitting room, the phone rang again and Rona went to answer it.

  ‘I should have checked with you first,’ Zara said without preamble, ‘but is four thirty on Monday OK?’

  Yes! Rona thought exultantly. ‘She agreed to my coming?’

  Zara giggled. ‘It took a bit of doing. She asked if you’d “put me up to it”!’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘The address is Oakleigh Farm. It’s out in the sticks somewhere. She says the nearest village is Shellswick.’

  ‘I’ll check on my road map.’

  ‘It’s OK then? You’ll come?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll come. I’ll be very interested to meet your grandmother.’

  As arranged, Rona picked Zara up outside the school on Monday afternoon. ‘How was she on the phone?’ she asked, as they drove out of town. ‘Did she have a lot of questions?’

  ‘Masses, mainly about my early life. If I was happy with my adoptive family, where I went to school – that kind of thing.’ Zara smiled. ‘When I told her my change of name, she said, “So you’ve gone from A to Z”.’

  ‘And what did you ask her?’

  ‘Nothing, really; I decided to wait till we saw her. Oh, and she wanted to know how I met you, and why I decided to ask for your help.’

  It would be politic, Rona decided, not to enquire as to Zara’s reply.

  Shellswick proved to be some ten miles south-west of Marsborough, a small, undistinguished village composed of a few smallholdings, a general store and a green with a duck pond at its centre. The farm itself lay a couple of miles farther on, and, as was immediately apparent, was considerably more affluent. The house was built of stone with a slate roof, deep mullioned windows bearing witness to the thickness of its walls. The yard by which it was approached was immaculate and the outhouses – stables, byres and an old barn – looked neat and well furbished. As Rona switched off the engine, the monotonous hum of a tractor reached them from an adjacent field.

  ‘A gentleman farmer,’ Zara opined. ‘Bet all he does is sit back and go through the accounts.’

  Rona threw her a glance. ‘Better not to form an opinion till you’ve met him,’ she advised.

  It seemed, though, that at least the first part of Zara’s assumption was correct. As they got out of the car, a man emerged from the house and came towards them, neatly dressed in slacks and sweater. Of medium height, he was stockily built with iron-grey curly hair, and the blue of his sweater exactly matched his eyes. He was, Rona noted, deeply tanned.

  After giving her a quick nod, his eyes fastened on Zara, though he addressed them both.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies. I’m Nigel Cowley. My wife’s expecting you; do please come in.’

  They went in silence through the low doorway into a passage smelling of beeswax and, at their host’s direction, turned left into the sitting room. The sun was streaming through the windows, and for a moment Rona was almost blinded. Then, as she moved further into the room, her vision cleared and she registered the low, beamed ceiling, the handsome fireplace with an inglenook on either side – and the woman standing motionless by a laden tea trolley.

  Marginally taller than her husband, Mrs Cowley was equally tanned, with the muscular arms and legs that resulted from a lifetime of sport. Her hair, like her husband’s, short and tightly curled, was pepper-and-salt, but could once have been red. She must, Rona reckoned, be in her seventies; her face was lined but she stood tall and straight and her eyes, as vividly green as her granddaughter’s, were shrewd and assessing.

  She held out a hand to Zara, who went to her and awkwardly accepted her kiss.

  Rona, hoping to break the ice, smiled brightly. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Cowley. I’m Rona Parish. We – spoke on the phone.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Joyce Cowley acknowledged, her eyes still on Zara. ‘You appear to have had your way, don’t you?’

  Behind them, Nigel Cowley cleared his throat. ‘Do sit down, everyone. We thought a spot of afternoon tea might help to ease things.’

  When Zara remained silent, Rona said, ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  As he went out of the room, his wife said, ‘This isn’t at all the meeting I’d envisaged. I – don’t know what to say to you.’

  Zara flung an anguished look at Rona, who reluctantly came to her aid. ‘We were hoping you could give us some information about Zara’s father,’ she said.

  Joyce Cowley threw her an impatient glance, but after a moment replied, ‘I’ve none to give. They met after I’d gone to South Africa.’

  Rona’s heart sank. ‘But Gemma must have mentioned him, surely? I mean, you kept in touch.’

  ‘Barely.’ There was bitterness in her voice. ‘Oh, I wrote to her often enough, but I had only one reply – a Christmas card, telling me she’d had a baby. I phoned at once, naturally, frantic to hear all the details. She told me she wasn’t married and had no prospect of being, and when I asked about the father, said he’d emigrated and didn’t know about the baby. She never mentioned his name, and I was too upset at the time to think of asking.’

  She stared down at her knotted hands. ‘However, we did establish some kind of rapport, for which I was grateful later, and I sent Amanda – you,’ she amended, with a glance at Zara, ‘a silver bracelet.’

  ‘I still have it,’ Zara said softly. ‘It was the only thing that came with me into my new life.’

  Joyce Cowley’s eyes filled with tears, and Rona was relieved to see her husband return with the teapot. The pouring of tea and handing round of sandwiches was a welcome diversion, and while they ate and drank, the conversation remained on a determinedly light level. As they were finishing, however, Nigel Cowley prompted gently, ‘Didn’t you look out some photograph albums, darling?’

  ‘Oh!’ Zara exclaimed. ‘I’d love to see them!’

  Cups and plates were collected and stacked on the trolley as Joyce produced two or three small albums and seated herself on the sofa.

  ‘Come and sit next to me,’ she instructed Zara, patting the cushion beside her, and, tho
ugh uninvited, Rona also moved across and stood looking over her shoulder. The earliest pictures were of Gemma as a baby, though occasionally a young Joyce, or the dark man who was then her husband, also featured in them. They became more interesting as Gemma grew, and Rona found herself looking for family likenesses, as Zara must also be doing.

  ‘She was always wilful, even as a baby,’ Joyce said reflectively, staring down at the faded past. ‘Not an easy child, by any means.’

  Too like her mother, perhaps, Rona thought; two strong personalities, destined always to clash and strike sparks off each other.

  The last photograph, entitled Gemma’s sixteenth birthday, showed an attractive, long-legged girl standing in a garden with her arm round a frail-looking man. With a shock, Rona realized this almost unrecognizable figure was her father, who must have died soon afterwards. The rest of the pages in the album were poignantly blank.

  ‘She adored Harry,’ Joyce said sadly. ‘He was the only one who could do anything with her, and when he died she went completely off the rails. She left school at the end of that year and took some petty little job in an office. I hadn’t the strength to argue with her; having nursed my husband through eight months of deteriorating health, I was at my lowest ebb. I couldn’t even stop her moving out to share a flat with some girl she didn’t even know.’

  ‘When did you go to South Africa?’ Zara asked.

  Joyce threw her a sharp look. ‘I didn’t abandon her, you know; she’d already abandoned me.’ Had they known it, she was quoting her husband.

  Zara said nothing, awaiting her reply. After a minute, Joyce went on, ‘At the time, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. My doctor advised me to take a long break, and I remembered a school friend who’d married a South African, and who’d kept inviting us to go and stay with them. Eventually I summoned up the strength to contact her, and it was all arranged.’

  ‘How long was that after Gemma left home?’ Rona asked.

  Joyce started and half-glanced over her shoulder. It was clear she’d forgotten Rona’s presence. ‘About eighteen months,’ she said.

  And she had still been there when her daughter was murdered, two and a half years later. An accommodating school friend indeed.

  As though to correct her assumption, Joyce went on, ‘I liked it out there, and as there seemed no reason to hurry home, I rented a small apartment and started to make friends of my own.’ She smiled across at her husband. ‘Nigel among them.’

  Zara asked the question Rona dared not. ‘And how long did you stay after Gemma died?’

  Joyce bit her lip. ‘Five more years. I flew home, of course, as soon as I heard the news, but with all the police and media attention, it was bizarre and utterly horrible. The Stokely house was rented out, so I’d no real base, and an English January was poor exchange for high summer in Cape Town. When I learned they were delaying the funeral in case – in case a second post-mortem was required, I fled thankfully back to South Africa, only returning when it finally took place three months later.’

  ‘If you liked it so much, why did you come back here?’ Rona asked, before she could stop herself.

  It was Nigel Cowley who answered. ‘By then she’d met and married me, and I’m also English. I have a son and daughter from my first marriage, and I decided I’d been away from them long enough. By a strange coincidence, my daughter lives in Buckfordshire, so we decided to settle here – oh, twenty-odd years ago.’

  ‘And you never—’ Zara began, then broke off, colouring.

  Joyce completed the question. ‘Made any attempt to find you? No, I’m afraid I didn’t. It would have evoked too many painful memories. I had a new life by then, and I was sure you had, too. I didn’t see that stirring things up would be to anyone’s advantage.’ She paused, then asked more gently, ‘Why did you decide to dig up the past, Zara?’

  ‘Because of my own baby. I realized I’d no idea who my parents were or what they were like – where I’d come from, in fact. I still don’t know much.’ Her eyes dropped to the album. ‘For instance, was Gemma allergic to peanuts, like I am? Was she afraid of thunder? Which subjects was she best at? What kind of books did she read?’

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ Joyce said helplessly, and spread her hands. It occurred to Rona there had been even less closeness between mother and daughter than she’d supposed.

  Zara seemed to have reached the same conclusion, because she suddenly passed back the album she’d been holding and got clumsily to her feet. ‘We really should be going,’ she said shakily. ‘Tony will be home soon.’

  Rona looked at her in surprise, aware that he was in fact away for the week, but she moved with her to the door, adding her thanks to Zara’s. The Cowleys came out to see them off, and as the farmhouse dwindled into the distance in the rear-view mirror, Rona breathed an unconscious sigh of relief.

  She glanced at Zara, about to make a flippant comment, and saw to her consternation that she was crying.

  ‘I had to get out,’ she gasped. ‘I couldn’t hold back any longer.’

  ‘Was it seeing the photographs?’ Rona asked gently.

  ‘Partly. I don’t even look like Gemma, do I?’

  ‘You have her colouring, and so does Mrs Cowley.’

  Zara’s sobs intensified and, feeling she needed the release they brought, Rona didn’t try to stop them. Eventually she hiccupped to a halt, blew her nose, and said brokenly, ‘I didn’t feel anything for her, Rona – nothing at all! You’d think I’d have felt something, wouldn’t you, but I’m not even sure I liked her! When she talked about coming back after the murder, it was all about how horrible it was for her, not a word about shock and sadness for Gemma – or me, for that matter.’

  ‘There’s one thing you can be thankful for,’ Rona commented.

  Zara turned her tear-stained face towards her. ‘What?’

  ‘That she didn’t want to bring you up!’ Rona answered, and was rewarded by a strangled little laugh.

  Back at Grosvenor Terrace, Rona insisted on going inside with Zara, making some more tea, and waiting until she’d recovered her composure. To help the process along, she told of her meeting with Selina.

  Zara listened avidly, asking a string of questions. ‘I’d love to meet her,’ she said, when Rona came to an end. ‘Do you think she’d agree?’

  ‘She might. She asked a lot about you, too.’ Rona glanced at her watch and rose to her feet. ‘I must be going. Are you sure you’ll be all right now?’ It was too bad Tony Crane wouldn’t be back that night.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Zara assured her. ‘Thanks for staying a while, and for all you’re doing.’

  ‘You’re not sorry you embarked on this? There might be worse to come.’

  Zara wrinkled her nose. ‘Impossible!’ she declared, and they both laughed. ‘Yes, of course I want you to continue.’ She paused. ‘Will you write all that up?’

  Rona shook her head. ‘It’s the father search that’s my main priority,’ she said. ‘It’s not as though you found Gemma herself.’

  ‘Only her ghost,’ Zara said sadly.

  For a reason she couldn’t explain, Lindsey always drew the bedroom curtains, shading the room from the full light of midday and affording a nebulous sense of privacy. Not that anyone could have seen inside, the flat being on the first floor, but it seemed more appropriate, somehow.

  The first time, Jonathan had laughed at her. ‘Such prudery!’ he’d teased.

  ‘It’s just that love in the afternoon seems a bit … decadent.’

  ‘So much the better!’ he’d retorted.

  The arrangement had started a month ago, largely unpremeditated. On hearing that Lindsey would be working from home the next day, he’d suggested going over during his lunch hour, and they had enjoyed their most relaxed and pleasurable love-making to date.

  ‘Why didn’t we think of this before?’ he’d demanded, as he lay beside her in the aftermath of passion. ‘A bed, forsooth! Such luxury!’ Until then, their hurried comings togethe
r had taken place either in his car or in some distant field, always on the alert for intruders.

  Lindsey had taken to making smoked salmon sandwiches, which they shared, accompanied by a bottle of wine, before Jonathan showered, dressed, and returned to the office. The snack meal, in place of the lunch he’d forfeited, took on the ambience of a picnic and had become an enjoyable part of the routine.

  That Tuesday was the first time they’d exchanged more than a quick comment since Jonathan’s meeting with Rona, and as they sat in bed partaking of their sandwiches, he remarked, ‘You’re very alike, aren’t you, you and your sister? What was it you said she did?’

  ‘Basically, she’s a writer. She’s published several biographies and she also does articles for magazines. Do you read Chiltern Life?’

  ‘Only at the dentist.’

  ‘Well, they’re running her series on Buckford at the moment – part of the build-up to the octocentenary.’

  ‘So that’s what she’s working on at present?’

  ‘No, she’s just finished, I think. She’s now involved with some girl who was adopted and wants to trace her birth parents. And as you might know when Rona’s involved, her mother was murdered.’

  Jonathan gave a short laugh. ‘You mean she’s come across murder before?’

  Lindsey sipped her wine. ‘Twice.’

  ‘Ye gods! So who was this girl’s mother?’

  ‘Gemma someone. She was murdered in Stokely when the girl was a baby.’ She was reaching for a sandwich, and didn’t notice Jonathan’s sudden stillness.

  After a moment he asked levelly, ‘And is she making any progress? Your sister, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t know; we haven’t discussed it recently.’

  ‘I hope—’

  But what he hoped, Lindsey was never to know, for at that moment, to her incredulous horror, the doorbell sounded. They both froze, turning to each other with widening eyes.

  ‘Ignore it,’ Jonathan advised after a minute.

  ‘I’ll have to! There’s no way I can answer the door in my present state!’

  They waited, unmoving, for the bell to sound again, yet still jumped when it did. Lindsey slid out of bed and padded to the window, cautiously peering outside.