Person or Persons Unknown

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘So to save your skin with your girlfriend, you withheld evidence in a murder enquiry?’

  Jonathan gave her a twisted smile. ‘I’m well aware of your opinion of me, Rona. However, I hope I’ve enough decency to have come forward if it could have done any good.’

  ‘It would at least have narrowed the time of death to between six thirty and eight. According to newspaper reports, she’d not been seen since leaving the clinic at four fifteen.’

  He shrugged. ‘The post-mortem cleared that up. Basically, I knew no more than anyone else; no one had phoned or called while I was there, and I’d heard enough about miscarriages of justice to be terrified of being wrongly accused. They could have made out a case for jealousy or rejection that sounded plausible enough, and how could I have disproved it?’

  He met her eyes challengingly. ‘Well? Do you believe me?’

  Reluctantly, she found that she did. Once again, a promising lead had drawn a blank, and despite the disclosures on the tape, she was no further forward.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I think I do.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing; but if you’re expecting an apology, I have to disappoint you. You’ve not emerged exactly smelling of roses.’

  ‘And Lindsey? Will you tell her?’

  ‘I think I’ll have to.’ She eyed him steadily. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t pre-empt me. I’m going to see her later, and I’d rather explain myself, face to face. She’ll probably be furious with me.’

  ‘And me.’

  Rona shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t think it will make much difference.’

  Surprisingly, the two plates in front of them were empty. Jonathan poured the last of the wine into their glasses, and drained his in one draught.

  ‘I doubt if we’ve anything further to say to each other, so I’ll leave you in peace.’ He felt for his wallet, but Rona shook her head.

  ‘The least I can do is stand you lunch.’

  He hesitated, enough of the man-about-town to be uncomfortable with a woman paying for his meal, even in these circumstances. Then he nodded acknowledgment. Rona watched him as he strode across the room and disappeared through the door without a backward glance. Dave was looking enquiringly at her, and she beckoned him to join her. He stood up and came over, carrying a half-eaten plate of scampi and chips and a glass of white wine.

  ‘Well, that was a damp squib!’ he commented. ‘I was expecting some shouting, at the very least. Did you unmask him?’

  ‘Unfortunately, he’s not the killer,’ Rona said, sipping at her wine.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘So the real one is still on the loose? Will you need protecting from him?’

  She smiled. ‘I might, if I’d the faintest idea who he was.’ Briefly, she thought of Philip Yarborough. He was still a possibility, but she was now so disheartened she felt like abandoning the whole enterprise.

  Dave finished his meal and wiped his mouth on his napkin. ‘That was good. I must try this place again.’

  ‘Thanks for stepping into the breach, Dave. Now, let me settle up with you.’

  ‘You already have. You’re paying for the lunch, and all I’ve actually done is eat it.’

  ‘Much to your disappointment, apparently!’

  ‘I suppose there’s a touch of the knight errant in me. You never said what you’re working on this time?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s a long story, but don’t worry, I’ll let you know if danger looms.’

  ‘Still want me to walk you home?’

  ‘No, it’s not necessary. I have Gus, anyway.’

  ‘Supplanted by a dog!’ Dave complained humorously.

  They parted on the pavement outside, and Rona dejectedly walked home.

  Lindsey was up but not dressed when she called at the flat, later that afternoon. Her face was pale, her hair bedraggled, and she sat huddled in her dressing gown.

  ‘Will you be fit for work tomorrow?’ Rona asked.

  ‘Probably. If I get a good night’s sleep, I should be OK.’

  ‘Did Mum come over?’

  ‘Yes, straight from the library.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘Seemed OK. She told me all about her job, but nothing personal; says she’s not decided what to do, and doesn’t want to discuss it till she has.’ Lindsey smiled. ‘She insisted on steaming some fish for my lunch. Remember how she always gave us that when we were ill?’

  Rona said carefully, ‘Talking of lunch, I have a confession to make.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I played a dirty trick on your boyfriend. Come to think of it, it was quite Shakespearean, twins being mistaken for each other, and all that.’

  Lindsey was staring at her. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Promise not to hit the roof till I’ve finished?’

  ‘I’m not promising anything.’

  ‘Right, then I might as well jump in: I phoned Jonathan pretending to be you, and arranged to meet him for lunch.’

  ‘You what? Why? Whatever for?’

  Briefly, ignoring her sister’s indignant interruptions, Rona told her about the tape, Jonathan’s reaction to it, and his subsequent confession.

  ‘You really have a nerve,’ Lindsey said, when she’d finished. Then: ‘Actually, it was quite brave of you.’

  ‘Well, I did have Gus at my feet and Dave Lampeter across the room.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him you suspected Jonathan of murder?’

  ‘Actually, I told him very little.’

  Lindsey thought for a minute. ‘You say there are more of these tapes?’

  ‘Yes. I considered skipping the rest of them, especially since Selina’d said there’s nothing of interest. But if she missed the bit about Jonathan, there might be something else even more important.’

  The phone interrupted them, and Lindsey answered it. ‘Oh, hello.’ She glanced at Rona. ‘Yes, she’s here now … So I hear … Of course I want to see you, you dope!’ Another glance at Rona, accompanied by a smile. ‘I think she’s just leaving. Yes, fifteen minutes would be fine. See you.’

  ‘Was that my marching orders?’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you? Poor lamb, he sounded quite worried.’

  ‘So he should. All right, I know when I’m not wanted.’

  Lindsey stood with her and gave her a hug. ‘Next time you decide to impersonate me, make sure you have my prior permission in writing. You’re dealing with a solicitor, don’t forget.’

  As Rona drove home, she reflected that the day’s happenings hadn’t improved her opinion of Jonathan Hurst. It seemed he’d always been a two-timer, ready to ditch his new girlfriend for the chance to get back with Gemma. Serve him right that it rebounded on him. But who had gone to the flat after he left, and found her relaxing in the bath? Perhaps they’d never know.

  The phone was ringing as she opened the front door.

  ‘Rona?’ said Dinah’s voice, bright and reassuringly normal. ‘I know it’s short notice, but are you free for supper this evening?’

  Rona’s spirits suddenly soared. ‘Oh, Dinah, yes I am! I’d love to come. I’ve been meaning to invite you all here, but haven’t got round to it.’

  ‘You seem a bit fraught, lovey. How goes the perilous quest?’

  ‘You make me sound like Hercules! As it happens, it’s thoroughly bogged down. I’m scarcely a jot further on than when I last saw you.’

  ‘Well, you can tell us all with a glass in your hand. Seven thirty?’

  ‘I’ll be there. Thank you.’

  The evening with the Trents was exactly what Rona needed after the emotional roller-coaster of the day. The informal atmosphere, the delicious meal that Dinah produced so effortlessly and stories of the children’s latest achievements, all helped her to unwind, to pause and take stock.

  She heard about Mitch’s recent visit and snippets of his life in the Middle East; of Barn
ie’s latest problems with the printers; of a new recipe Dinah was anxious to try out. Looking fondly from Barnie’s familiar figure to Dinah, with her wiry dark hair and bright eyes, and Melissa, every inch the proud mother, she reflected, as she often did, that she was more comfortable with this family than with her own. Especially now, she thought with a sigh.

  Throughout the meal, no mention had been made of Rona’s project, for which she was grateful. Now, though, relaxed in comfortable chairs by the fire, with Gus and the cats amicably sharing the rug, Dinah finally broached the subject that had obviously been worrying her.

  ‘You say you’re not making progress on the father hunt?’

  ‘Virtually none.’

  ‘How long are you going to give it?’

  ‘Six weeks in all – three more to go.’

  ‘And the mother’s killer?’ Dinah asked quietly, handing round chocolate mints.

  ‘Likewise. Not an inkling.’

  ‘Then all I can say is, thank God.’

  Barnie stirred. ‘Hey, you’re writing off a possible series!’

  ‘But you wouldn’t commission it,’ Rona reminded him.

  He regarded her from under beetle brows. ‘No; I admit I had qualms. Still have. Not received any threats this time, I hope?’

  Rona hesitated. ‘None you need worry about.’

  ‘Which means yes,’ Dinah said, regarding her anxiously.

  ‘Just a crank making nuisance calls.’ And the email, which unaccountably worried her more. Thank God they didn’t know of her connection with Selina, whose attack had been widely broadcast.

  Sensing her unwillingness to elaborate, they reluctantly let the subject drop, and more general topics occupied the next half hour. Eventually Rona put down her coffee cup. ‘If I don’t make a move, I’ll fall asleep here!’ she said.

  It was disconcerting, though, when Barnie opened the front door, to find a thick mist had descended, rimming the outside lights with misty haloes and completely obscuring the gate. Dinah immediately suggested she stay the night, but Rona, anxious to get home, declined.

  ‘It’s probably only out here, where there are open fields,’ Barnie said reassuringly. ‘As you get nearer town, it’s sure to lift. Drive carefully, though, and give us a quick call to confirm you’re safely home.’

  Rona set off cautiously, following the limited beam of her headlights down the lane and along the main road. Once or twice other lights loomed up on the far side of the road, but thankfully there was little traffic and she reached home without incident. As Barnie had anticipated, visibility was a little better here, but she still didn’t fancy garaging the car and having to walk home, and was relieved to find a parking space opposite the house next door.

  She made two brief calls, one, as promised, to the Trents, the other to Max, who had rung earlier. Then, having given Gus his ration of biscuits, she went wearily to bed.

  Sixteen

  By morning, the mist had thickened into almost impenetrable fog. Rona stood at her bedroom window, staring out at the suffocating whiteness that effectively shut her off from the world. Fortunately she’d nothing planned for today, and she decided to put her incarceration to good use by ploughing her way through the three remaining tapes; and Max would be home this evening.

  After breakfast she took a cup of coffee upstairs with her, put it and the tapes on the little table by the chintz chair, and settled down to listen to them in comfort. The first one she selected began on July the 19th 1977, and was a hotchpotch of interviews and commentaries on local events such as school prize-givings and golden-wedding celebrations. Even then, Gemma was making use of the tapes as a personal aide-memoire, inserting reminders to collect the dry-cleaning or to buy stamps. It did not make for riveting listening, and Rona found her attention wandering.

  The next, dated December ’78 – almost eighteen months later – was one of the recycled tapes, and must have immediately preceded the one she’d originally played. No mention this time of Jonathan, but again her luck held; following a note of the baby’s weight, Gemma, seemingly thinking aloud, said suddenly, ‘Selina’s nagging me to phone Morrison Morrison; but how can I, after all this time?’

  Instantly Rona stopped the tape and rewound the last couple of minutes. No, she hadn’t missed a lead-up to this statement, nor did anything relevant follow. The next entry was dated a week later, a note to book Mrs Jones as babysitter for a Christmas lunch, and the tape continued with similar unimportant notations until it clicked to an end.

  Rona sat back in her chair, frowning. Morrison Morrison? she repeated to herself. Why the repetition? Gemma had spoken clearly – no question of its being simply hesitation. And the postcard, she remembered with rising excitement, had been signed with two Ms. She’d guessed one stood for ‘Morrison’; did the other, as well? And if so, why?

  Her interest reawakened, she slotted in the last tape, which proved to be another of the early ones.

  ‘It’s Saturday, 29th July,’ announced the young voice, five minutes into the tape, ‘and I’m at Gramercy Park for the flower show, which is to be opened this year by Mr James Latymer, MP, who is here with me now. Good afternoon, Mr Latymer.’

  So Gemma had met James. Not surprising, considering her job, but a coincidence from Rona’s perspective. His voice, recognizable though noticeably younger, responded, expressing delight at being invited, an interest in horticulture and a fondness for the town, which he had lived in as a boy. The interview lasted barely three minutes, but Gemma had gone on to record James’s speech as he opened the show, which was greeted with enthusiastic applause. She then interviewed several of the exhibitors and attempted to describe their displays, frequently having to ask the names of the plants, and the entry ended with James presenting the prizes and briefly congratulating the winners.

  And that, it seemed, was that. Rona stood up and stretched, glancing out of the window. Fog still shrouded garden and boundaries, hiding the familiar view and giving a sense of dissociation. Lunch time was approaching, and she wondered if the Pizza Pronto man would be able to find his way to her; she fancied something hot and spicy to lift her mood, and breathed a sigh of a relief when her phoned order elicited no reservations regarding the weather. Twenty minutes later she opened the door to the delivery man.

  As she slipped the pizza into the oven, Gus looked up reproachfully from his basket. He’d had a lonely morning, Rona thought guiltily, and there’d be no walk today.

  ‘Just for two minutes,’ she promised, as she guided him to the French windows and gently pushed him outside.

  She laid the table with a glass of bottled water, the fruit bowl, and a knife and fork for the pizza. Morrison Morrison, she thought again – and somewhere in the far reaches of her memory an echo stirred.

  There was a scratching at the glass door and she readmitted Gus, who promptly shook himself all over her. Tit-for-tat, she thought ruefully, rubbing down her skirt. She switched on the lunchtime news, only half-listening as she ate her pizza. No mention of Selina; if she phoned the hospital, would they let her speak to Mrs O’Toole?

  Why, she thought with exasperation, had she allowed herself to become embroiled in this? A series of snapshots flicked through her mind: Zara and her plump, solicitous husband; the Fairchilds, troubled about the parent search; Joyce Cowley, the Morris brothers. And there were those to whom she could not put a face but who were also connected to the case – the mysterious caller and the sender of the email. Were they one and the same? She doubted it; they had different styles.

  She put her glass and plate in the dishwasher, replaced the fruit bowl. Morrison Morrison. Why was the repetition somehow familiar?

  She glanced at the clock: one fifteen. Max would be preparing for his afternoon classes. Would Adele turn up this week, she wondered? On impulse, she lifted the phone and pressed the Farthings button.

  ‘Max Allerdyce,’ said her husband’s voice.

  ‘Max, it’s me.’

  ‘Hello, Me. Filthy day, isn’t i
t?’

  ‘Yes; I haven’t set foot outside.’

  ‘Very wise. I had a plethora of apologies for the first class, so I’ve cancelled the second.’

  ‘Good; you’ll be home early, then?’

  ‘Yes, but at the moment I’m in the middle of assembling the still life; did you want something in particular?’

  ‘Sorry, yes. I know this sounds mad, but does the name Morrison Morrison ring any bells?’

  He sounded amused. ‘As in “Weatherby George Dupree”?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Christopher Robin, isn’t it? “James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree, took great care of his mother, though he was only three.” There’s the doorbell – I must go, love. See you later.’ The phone went dead.

  Rona continued to hold it, staring unseeingly ahead of her. James James Morrison Morrison. And like an echo came Hester Latymer’s voice: ‘A penchant for quoting A. A. Milne.’

  Was it possible James Latymer was Zara’s father and Gemma’s secret lover? But – Australia?

  Rona drew a deep breath, trying to adjust to this staggering supposition. Say they’d first met at the flower show that July. Had an affair started soon afterwards? He must have been thirty-two or three at the time, Gemma only nineteen. The Morrison Morrison soubriquet – shortened, for convenience, to a single word – would be, as she’d told Selina, a private joke, effectively disguising his identity. And if, as was accepted, the affair ended before Gemma knew she was pregnant, it was possible James had remained unaware that he had a daughter. Until, perhaps, he learned of the current search.

  Rona checked herself. All this, she reminded herself, was pure speculation. Dare she put it to the test, as she had with Jonathan?

  First, though, she needed to list all known facts and see if the hypothesis would hold water. She ran up the basement stairs en route for the study, but as she reached the hall the doorbell rang. Gus, who always assumed she was deaf on such occasions, came bounding up behind her, barking loudly, and, holding his collar to restrain his enthusiasm, she opened the front door.