Person or Persons Unknown

by Anthea Fraser

  The past three days had been difficult; how could they be otherwise? Avril was still refusing to discuss the future, immediately heading off any attempt he made. She addressed him only when necessary, but with punctilious politeness. Every evening they ate in the dining room in almost total silence, and every evening he thought how much easier it would be if they could revert to trays in front of the television. At least that would mask their awkwardness.

  On Tuesday evening, when he’d returned from meeting the girls, it was to find the guest-room bed made up and his night things laid neatly on the quilt. The switch wasn’t referred to by either of them, but was a relief to them both.

  Catherine came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Second thoughts?’ she enquired.

  He turned immediately, slipping his arm round her. ‘What do you think?’

  She smiled. ‘Actually, I meant about moving in here. You’d be very welcome, you know.’

  ‘I know, my love, but tongues would wag, and I want to forestall that as much as possible.’ He glanced at her, but she was gazing out of the window.

  ‘In the beginning,’ she said quietly, ‘we didn’t want to deceive Avril, go behind her back. It would somehow have – spoiled things.’

  He was watching her closely, aware of her tension. ‘Yes?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Well, she knows now. Deception wouldn’t come into it.’

  ‘Catherine …’ His voice was choked. He could feel her trembling. God …

  She turned towards him and with one finger gently traced round his eyebrows, nose and mouth. ‘One of us has to say this,’ she murmured softly, ‘so it might as well be me: Tom Parish, will you please make love to me? I don’t think I can wait any longer.’

  The rain continued to fall on the drenched garden, but there was nobody there to watch it.

  When Max had left on Monday morning, Rona went up to her study, determined to play through Gemma’s tapes. There were four in all, and as she lifted them out, unsure where to start, her eyes fell on the cards lying, still undisturbed, at the bottom of the box. Idly she picked them up. The top one was a garish postcard from Majorca, and its message was brief: Great weather, great food, great men! See you next week, worse luck! Love to all, Mandy.

  One of the tennis crowd, perhaps, or, more likely, a colleague from County Radio. The front of the next card was more subdued, an aerial view of the Corniche at Monte Carlo. Rona flipped it over and her heart leapt into her throat.

  Missing you more than somewhat, she read. Seems more like two years than two weeks! Don’t you dare forget me! I’ll phone the minute I get back. All love, M M.

  M M? Rona frowned. One surely stood for Morrison, but the other? She quickly scanned the last two cards, but both were innocuous, one from Selina herself on holiday, the other from someone called Sue.

  Rona propped up Morrison’s card and studied it carefully, searching for clues as to identity. Someone who had spent a holiday in Monaco in – she peered at the faded postmark – September 1977. That should narrow it down, she thought ironically. The handwriting was well formed, though the ubiquitous ballpoint had been used, and there was a neat row of kisses under the signature, if it could be called that. He’d been in love with her then, all right. According to Selina, the affair had lasted about six months, ending in February ’78, so this would have been written in the first flush of passion. If he’d only taken Gemma to Australia with him, Rona thought sadly, she wouldn’t have died. But ‘if onlys’ were a wasted exercise.

  She picked up a tape at random and slotted it into her recorder, catching her breath as a voice instantly filled the room, young, light and carefree. ‘It’s Friday the twelfth of January, and it’s snowing!’ it began. Rona’s mouth was dry; after concentrating almost exclusively on Gemma for the last three weeks, she was actually hearing her speak. ‘This is to remind myself to ask Mrs J to babysit tomorrow evening. Oh, and to tell Selina when she gets back that her library book’s come in.’

  There was a click as the tape was switched off and Rona’s throat suddenly tightened. January, she’d said, and the baby had obviously arrived. Which would make it January 1979, the month Gemma was murdered! Was it remotely possible there might …? But no; Selina had played these through and found nothing. All the same, this catalogue, if that’s what it was, of Gemma’s last weeks would be unbelievably poignant.

  Almost fearfully, she switched on again. ‘Monday the fifteenth.’ In the background, the baby gave a grizzling cry. ‘All right, darling, Mummy won’t be a minute. Remember tomorrow to collect the—’

  She broke off as the baby started to cry more lustily. There was a thud as the recorder was put down, then her voice came from further away. ‘It’s all right, sweet pea, Mummy’s here. You’re supposed to be sleepy, you know!’

  Softly, barely audibly, came the sound of a lullaby, and Rona felt her eyes prick. Gemma had come suddenly, uncannily, to life; no longer someone who’d died a quarter of a century ago, but a young girl singing her baby to sleep. For the first time, Rona felt an overwhelming sadness for her, as though she were a personal friend for whom she still grieved.

  ‘Oops!’ said the voice on the tape, sotto voce but near at hand again. ‘I thought I’d switched it off.’ There was a click, then silence, and Rona, switching off her own machine, sat staring unseeingly at the postcard from Monte Carlo.

  She was still holding it five minutes later, when the phone roused her.

  ‘Would that be Miss Rona Parish?’ asked a hesitant voice, and Rona’s preoccupation fled.

  ‘Mrs O’Toole?’

  ‘Oh, it’s yourself, dear. Thank the Lord I’ve reached you.’

  ‘How’s Selina?’ Rona broke in.

  ‘Well now, not too good, truth to tell, but isn’t she insisting on seeing you?’

  ‘Seeing me?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be family visitors only, but she’s that agitated, it seems she won’t settle till she’s spoken to you.’

  ‘But why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘None of us do, dear, and that’s the truth. But now they’re saying what they call this “anxiety complex” is slowing her recovery, and they’ve given permission for a short visit. Provided you don’t mind, that is.’

  ‘Of course I’ll come, if you think it would help. Where exactly is she?’

  ‘St Benedict’s – do you know it? I’m not sure of the road, but I could—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find it. Which ward?’

  ‘Nightingale; she has a private room on the third floor. Could you – how soon could we be expecting you?’

  ‘As soon as I can get a train,’ Rona promised, her mind spinning.

  ‘God bless you, dear,’ said Kathleen O’Toole, and rang off.

  ‘Selina’s asking to see me,’ Rona hurriedly told Max over the phone. ‘I’m dashing straight down there. Could you come and collect Gus at lunch time and take him for a walk?’

  ‘I thought she was still in ICU?’

  ‘Apparently not, but it seems she’s so set on seeing me it’s hindering her recovery. Frankly, I can’t make head or tail of it.’

  ‘But you’ll be back tonight?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good luck, then.’

  Rona had seen more of Marsborough station this last week than she had in months. She’d brought a paperback, but her mind was too volatile to read and she sat staring out of the window, wondering what could be so urgent that Selina was demanding to see her.

  Fortunately, the taxi driver merely nodded when she gave the name of the hospital, and she sat back against the soft black cushions, anxious, now, about the state in which she’d find Selina. She’d no idea what injuries she’d suffered, but at least she must be conscious and able to make her wishes known. But then, Rona thought, smiling faintly, Selina would have to be very ill indeed to lose that facility.

  ‘St Ben’s,’ said the cab driver laconically, and she climbed out and, mentally crossing her finge
rs, went through the large main door of the hospital.

  By the time she’d given her name at the nursing station, both the O’Tooles had appeared and come to greet her, pressing her hand and effusively thanking her for coming. A nurse who had also materialized escorted her briskly to a door off the main ward, and peered through the glass pane before turning back to her.

  ‘If Miss O’Toole becomes too agitated, we’ll have to ask you to leave,’ she informed Rona, clearly disapproving of her dispensation. ‘And the doctors say ten minutes at most – preferably five. She’s still very weak, you know.’

  Before Rona could protest that it was not she who’d insisted on the meeting, the nurse had opened the door and stepped aside for her to enter, and her whole attention narrowed to the figure on the bed. She walked slowly towards it.

  Selina was lying motionless with closed eyes. It was the first time Rona’d seen her without the theatrical make-up that was her hallmark, and her unaccustomed pallor emphasized her fragility. Her head was swathed in bandages, tubes from both arms led to machines on either side of the bed, and another contraption supported one leg. Rona wondered in panic if she were asleep, and whether, if so, she should wake her.

  ‘Selina?’ she said softly, and to her infinite relief the eyes flew open, and, after an instant’s blankness, recognition came.

  The white lips parted. ‘Thank God,’ said Selina O’Toole.

  Rona seated herself on a chair near the bedhead. ‘How are you feeling? I was told you wanted to see me.’

  Cautiously Selina turned her head, until she was facing Rona. She seemed to be summoning up the strength to speak, and when she did so, her words were startlingly unexpected.

  ‘I needed to warn you,’ she said, her voice even huskier than usual, from the effort involved.

  ‘Warn me?’ Rona repeated, and a flash of the old impatience crossed Selina’s face.

  ‘I’ve not much stamina at the moment,’ she whispered, ‘and I can’t waste it repeating everything. Just listen.’ She paused, drew a painful breath. ‘Rona, I didn’t fall under that bus. I was pushed.’

  Rona stared at her, coldness creeping up her spine.

  ‘You have to believe me,’ Selina went on urgently. ‘There’s no possible doubt: as the bus approached, I felt a distinct shove in the small of my back, and the next thing I knew, I was under the wheels.’

  The blue eyes surveyed Rona with remembered cynicism. ‘No,’ she said in a hoarse whisper, ‘I’m not delirious, nor am I suffering from delusions or persecution complex or anything else you’re considering.’ She moved slightly, wincing as she did so. ‘And before you ask, no, I didn’t see who was behind me. The traffic island was jam-packed.’

  Rona’s fingernails were digging into her palms. ‘Then it could have been an accident, surely?’

  ‘No,’ Selina said succinctly, ‘it could not.’

  After a minute, Rona asked, ‘Have you reported it?’

  Selina gave a brief laugh and immediately grimaced. ‘To whom? My parents? The doctors? Can you imagine the reception I’d get? And how could I prove it?’ A pause, filled by laboured breathing. ‘But I had to let you know, because you’re also in danger.’

  Rona gazed at her, her heart starting to pound. ‘You – don’t think it was because of Gemma?’

  ‘Damn right it was because of Gemma!’ Selina snapped, with a reassuring return to her old manner.

  ‘But – even supposing you’re right and someone did push you, you’ve interviewed all sorts of strange characters for your programmes. It could have been any one of them.’

  Selina was shaking her head in frustration. ‘For God’s sake! It’s taken every ounce of will power I possess to get you here. You have to believe me.’

  Rona glanced towards the glass pane, saw the nurse’s face peering sternly through.

  ‘Look,’ she began, trying to speak reasonably, ‘if anyone thought you knew anything, he’d have seen to you years ago, when Gemma died. Why now?’

  ‘In case your digging triggers a buried memory? Then there was that letter in the paper, linking me with her. That could have jogged his memory.’

  Rona said decisively, ‘All right, if you’re absolutely sure about this, I’ll go straight to the police.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You mustn’t tell anyone! Promise me!’

  ‘Selina!’

  Selina’s breathing rattled ominously. ‘Promise me!’ she gasped, and Rona, alarmed, did so.

  ‘And don’t – let anyone – know you’ve seen me – anyone at all.’

  ‘I told Max,’ Rona said.

  ‘Then impress on him – to keep quiet. If whoever it is – finds out – you’ll be in even greater danger.’

  The door handle rattled, and Rona turned to see the nurse holding one finger up to the glass.

  ‘It looks as though I have to go,’ she said.

  Selina gave a brief nod. The effort required to impart her warning had obviously exhausted her.

  ‘One good thing,’ she murmured, as Rona rose to her feet. ‘Between us – we’ve rattled someone’s cage. Only trouble is – it seems to be – the killer, rather than – Amanda’s father.’

  When Rona turned at the door, Selina’s eyes were already closed.

  On her journey home, Rona kept well away from the edges of pavements and railway platforms. Could Jonathan or Philip have been responsible? she wondered with a frisson. Dark glasses and a hat pulled down would have prevented Selina from recognizing them.

  She had left her car at the station, and as she was getting into it, her mobile sounded in her handbag and she paused to dig it out.

  ‘Ro – it’s Pops. He’s been rushed back to hospital!’

  Rona put a hand on the car to steady herself. ‘When? Is he all right?’

  ‘I don’t know any details; the bank contacted Mum, who phoned me. Where are you? I tried you at home first.’

  ‘At the station; I’ve just—’ She broke off, remembering Selina’s warning, but Lindsey wasn’t listening.

  ‘I’ll see you there,’ she said, and broke the connection.

  Did Max know? Rona wondered, as she switched on the ignition. She’d ring him from the hospital. It seemed as if her whole life was disintegrating; threats on all sides, Selina attacked, her parents’ marriage breaking down, and now, to crown it all, Pops back in hospital.

  Ten minutes later, for the second time that day, she found herself in a hospital corridor, and moments later joined her mother and sister at her father’s bedside. To her profound relief he was propped up on pillows, looking much as normal. He reached out a hand and she hurried to him, bending to kiss his hot cheek.

  ‘No need to panic, sweetie,’ he said. ‘All this fuss!’

  ‘What happened?’ Rona glanced from one member of her family to another, and it was Avril who answered.

  ‘He was in severe pain, and with his previous history, the bank wasn’t taking any chances.’

  Rona thought back to his heart attack earlier in the year, and how frantic her mother had been then. Now – though admittedly it didn’t seem nearly as serious – she was calm and composed, even if pale. Didn’t she care what happened to him? Rona asked herself savagely.

  As though bearing out the thought, Avril retrieved her handbag from the floor and stood up. ‘Well, since the panic seems to be over and you’re both here, I might as well go.’ She glanced impassively at her husband. ‘I’ll phone this evening to check when they’re sending you home.’

  And, ignoring her daughters’ stunned gaze, she nodded at them all and walked out of the room.

  Tom said quickly, ‘Don’t blame her; she was worried enough when she first came in.’ He paused, then added, ‘She started a new job today – at Belmont Library.’

  ‘Mum’s gone back to work?’ Lindsey asked incredulously. ‘After all these years?’

  ‘Best thing for her, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Are you really all right,
Pops?’ Rona asked him.

  ‘Really. They think it was a false alarm; talked about stress, and so on.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘They could be right; life hasn’t exactly been plain sailing of late.’

  The sisters left twenty minutes later, when Tom’s check-up was due, and were standing talking by Rona’s car when a blue Peugeot skidded to a halt beside them and Catherine Bishop half fell out of it.

  ‘Rona – how’s your father? I had an appointment at the bank, and he wasn’t there. At first, they wouldn’t say what had happened, but I insisted …’

  Lindsey had turned abruptly away, but Rona answered steadily, ‘He seems all right. They think it was a false alarm.’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ Her voice shook. She glanced towards the hospital, then, tentatively, back at Rona. ‘Is – your mother with him?’

  Lindsey said harshly, ‘No, you’re quite safe.’

  ‘She’s just left,’ Rona replied. ‘He’s being checked at the moment, but it shouldn’t take long.’

  Catherine hesitated, glanced at Lindsey’s averted face, then said quietly, ‘Thank you. I’ll go in and wait.’

  ‘What a nerve!’ Lindsey broke out, when she was barely out of earshot. ‘How dare she come waltzing along as though she’s every right to be here?’

  ‘She loves him, Linz. That’s pretty obvious. And it’s also pretty obvious that Mum doesn’t any more. Try to accept it.’

  There were angry tears in Lindsey’s eyes and Rona felt the wrench she always experienced when her twin was unhappy. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve been – out all morning and missed lunch. How about trying out that new teashop in Market Street?’

  Lindsey hesitated. ‘I’m supposed to be at work.’

  ‘Compassionate leave,’ Rona said, and Lindsey grudgingly smiled.

  ‘All right, but I mustn’t be long. Is your car OK here?’

  Rona nodded. ‘Not knowing the score, I clocked in for two hours. I presume you walked?’

  Lindsey’s office was barely five minutes away.

  ‘Ran, more like.’

  They walked together along Alban Road and turned into Market Street. The new café was, in fact, almost opposite the bank, and they both glanced across at it.