by Ann Cleeves
She smiled and he thought she was like a little girl playing house, with the tea towel tied round her waist as an apron and the smudge of flour on her cheek. That was just what he liked.
“It’s true,” she said. “Chris has disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’d already gone when I got up. Did you see him this morning?”
James shook his head. He was concentrating on making tea. He liked leaf tea, the ritual of the strainer and the warmed pot. “I expect he’s at Springhead.”
“He hasn’t even spoken to Mum and Dad. They didn’t know he was coming.”
“I suppose that’s it, then. He ran away before he had to face them.”
“There are times,” Emma said, ‘when I know just how he feels.” She pulled off the tea towel and wiped her face with it. He thought at first she was just cleaning away the flour, then saw there were tears too. Not grief, he thought. Anger. Frustration. “Dad called in today. He brought some tickets for the fireworks at the Old Chapel tonight. He thinks I should go. It would do me good. Help me come to terms with Abigail’s death, Jeanie’s suicide. He’s fixed everything up, even arranged for an old biddy from the church to babysit, so you can come too. I said you were on duty, but he realized if you were working this morning you were unlikely to get called out again. I mean, the nerve of it. He didn’t even ask. Just assumed that he knew best, that all I need is a jolly family party and I’ll forget all about it.”
She had run out of breath, inhaled in a sort of sob.
James’s first reaction was one of panic. He had spent his time in Elvet avoiding Keith Mantel, not making a big show of it, just keeping away from the places Mantel liked to be seen. More a superstition than a real feeling of danger. After all this time and all this planning, he had thought Mantel couldn’t touch him.
“What exactly is going on at Mantel’s?”
“A fundraiser for the RNLI. They want to get a new inflatable for the river.”
A good cause.” James poured out the tea. The cups were porcelain, so delicate you could see the line of liquid rise through the china, as if it was opaque glass. He’d bought the tea service from an antiques fair before he’d married. Another of the possessions which defined him.
“You don’t want to go!”
He thought about that. Perhaps Robert’s assessment of Emma’s situation applied equally to him. He had blown Mantel up in his mind as a monster, an agent of destruction with the power to wreck everything he had created here. It was probably time to face the nightmare, banish the ghosts.
“I’d like to spend an evening with you without worrying about the baby.”
“But I would worry about him. What if he woke, needed feeding.”
“He won’t. You know him. Regular as the tide.”
“But an event like this… All the village there… Everyone talking about Abigail… Just snooping around so they can see the house where she lived…”
“If it’s dreadful we can always come home. Or go into the pub for a drink. At least it’ll be quiet in there.”
He wondered why he was making so much effort to persuade her and realized that he was desperate now to see Mantel again. He was overcome with curiosity, and he wanted to see if the tragedy of his daughter’s death had changed the developer at all. Now, on the anniversary of her death, how could he throw open his house for a celebration, however good the cause?
“You think Dad’s right then? You see this evening as therapy?” Her voice was bitter. “In that case it’s a pity Chris didn’t stick around to benefit from it too.”
James pulled her to him. He sensed he would get his way. “I don’t want you to do anything you wouldn’t be comfortable with. I’m not trying to manipulate you.”
“It happened,” she said. “It was horrible, but it happened. Reality. Perhaps my father’s right and it’s time to come to terms with it.”
Robert picked them up and drove them to the Old Chapel, though James said that as he was on call he wouldn’t be able to have much to drink anyway. It seemed to him that Robert was treating Emma as an invalid. He asked her if she had a warm enough coat, opened the car door for her, waited until she’d slid into the back besides Mary before shutting it. The tickets he’d given them said Open House but when they arrived they found very little of the Old Chapel open. They parked behind a line of cars in the lane, then a boy James recognized as the son of one of the lifeboat crew directed them to the back of the property. He had loomed out of the mist grinning at them, dressed in yellow oilskins and waving a torch, like something out of a teenage horror movie. It was colder, the low cloud pierced in places so stars showed through. The trees were still dripping but the rain had stopped. James thought later it might freeze. He’d listened to the shipping forecast which had mentioned high pressure, a cold front coming in from the east.
“I thought the press might be here,” Robert said. “Wherever I went yesterday there was a gang of them. Very intimidating. Perhaps it’s not the weather for door-stepping. Or by now the Mantel case is already old news. It’s a relief anyway.”
James thought it more likely that Mantel had warned the reporters off. He had that sort of power.
A bonfire had been built in a paddock which was separated from the garden by a low fence. It had not yet been lit but a group of shadowy figures stood looking at it, as if debating whether the moment was right.
Emma followed his gaze. “Abigail kept a pony there,” she said. She was standing close beside him. Mary and
Robert had already been accosted by people from the church. “But that was before we moved to Elvet. By the time I knew her she thought she’d grown out of ponies. She still talked about the horse though. It was called Magic. That was the stable.”
And the stable, open on one side now, with the stalls removed, had been turned into a cook house A couple of barbecues had been built from stacked breeze blocks and long metal grills. The charcoals smouldered and spat as sausage fat dripped onto them. The sparks lit up the faces of the big, beer-drinking men who flipped burgers.
“Are you OK?” James asked.
She took his hand and in the darkness he smiled.
The bar was in the large conservatory which ran along the back of the house and they could see beyond that into a room with tables arranged around the walls. A few elderly people had escaped there from the cold. The rest of the Old Chapel was in darkness.
“The piano’s gone,” Emma said.
“Sorry?” James had just glimpsed Mantel. His thoughts were elsewhere.
“In that room there was a grand piano. Jeanie used to play it. Abigail’s father must have got rid of it…”
James thought she had said something more but her words were drowned by a surge of rock music from ai sound system outside, then the cheers of the crowd as the bonfire went up in flames. The music was switched to a less painful level but by then she had stopped talking.
Mantel was standing just inside the conservatory welcoming people as they came in. He had a politician’s knack of greeting them as if they were old friends, though he spent so little time in the village that it was impossible that he could know them all. A tall blonde who was dressed in jeans and a white linen shirt stood at his side. Her boots had heels and made her taller than him. Very nice, Keith. Much classier than the women you used to knock around with. But then you always had taste… James thought for a moment that he must have spoken the words out loud because Emma clutched suddenly at his arm. There was a shot of anxiety when he thought Mantel might have heard, then he saw that the scene was playing out quite normally around him, and then all that remained was a mixture of exhilaration and fear. It had always been like that with Keith. The couple ahead of them in the short queue moved on and he was face to face with Mantel. He took a quick breath, but it was Emma whom Mantel recognized and turned to. He pulled her towards him in a hug. James sensed her awkwardness but there was little he could do.
“Emma, my dear. How brave of you
to come here at a time like this! I’ve been thinking of you. All this dreadful publicity.” His voice was quiet.
“It’s a good cause.” James thought he heard the irony in his repeated words but Mantel accepted them straight.
“Oh, I do agree. I’ve always been a supporter. Even when I lived in the town.”
“This is James,” she said. “My husband.”
Mantel, with his eyes still on Emma, still clasping her hand in his, hardly looked up.
“You’re back in Elvet, I hear. In the Captain’s House.”
“James is one of the Humber pilots. It’s very convenient.”
Then Mantel did turn to James with a small frown. James didn’t think it was a frown of recognition but a gesture he had seen before: Mantel was fixing the bit of information in his mind because one day it might become useful. It disappeared almost immediately.
“Now what would you like to drink? Debs will get you something. This is Debs, the new woman in my life.” Another frown to show he wasn’t oblivious to the sensitivities of the situation. It had only been a matter of days since a former young lover had hanged herself after all. A certain tact was called for. Are your parents still at Springhead, Emma? And didn’t you have a brother? A clever lad who went away to university. He was sweet on Abigail at one time I remember.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned his daughter. He paused and James thought he was like an actor waiting for applause. He expected some acknowledgement of his courage. And Debs, well trained, squeezed his shoulders sympathetically. Emma had been more moved by the words, but Mantel did not wait to see their effect on her. He turned away quickly and had already passed on to greet the next person in the queue.
Chapter Nineteen
Emma wasn’t taken in by Keith Mantel. He was putting on a good show but she thought he was still desolate about Abigail’s murder. That was why he had turned away from her so quickly after talking about his daughter. He hadn’t wanted Emma to see how upset he still felt. And how had he known about Christopher? Abigail must have realized that Christopher was infatuated and mentioned it to her father. Emma hoped they hadn’t laughed at him. She had a horrible picture of Abigail sniggering, of father and daughter mocking Chris for being so soppy, sitting together on the fat, pink sofa where now an old lady was clutching a sweet sherry.
Throughout the evening, she found herself looking out for Dan Greenwood. It was what she had always done at these gatherings when most of the village were present. Even while she talked to James or exchanged horror stories with a young mum she’d met at antenatal classes, she was alert for his presence. Secretly watching and listening. Hoping he’d turn up. Then she’d be rewarded by the sound of his voice across the room, his bulky shape in the distance. And she’d try to catch his eye.
And still, tonight, she looked out for him. Because after all this time it was hard to stop. It had become a habit, like staring out of her bedroom window on windy nights when James was working. When she heard him exchange a few words with Mantel, she forced herself not to turn, but there was the same excitement. She tried immediately to damp it down. I’m not a teenager, she said to herself. I’m not fifteen any more. I was flattered by his response to me and even that was a mistake. But she couldn’t stop. The excitement was addictive.
Standing by the bar, though, she strained to listen. Mantel must have asked Dan about the case. Is there any news? Can you tell me what’s going on? He must have spoken quietly and discreetly. Certainly there had been no attempt to make a fuss. Emma hadn’t heard him speak, but she did make out Dan’s response.
“You know I can’t help you with that. I’m not on the case any more. I’m a civilian. I know no more than you.”
The words were bland, conciliatory even, but she was used to pulling meaning from what he said and it seemed to her suddenly that he disliked Keith Mantel. She had thought everyone in the village liked Abigail’s father, felt nothing but sympathy for him. First Vera had been dismissive. Now Dan’s response was a surprise and disconcerting.
: She wandered outside, passing so close to Dan Greenwood that she could smell the wax on his Barbour jacket. The sky had cleared overhead completely. There was a thin moon and sharp pinpricks of stars. It must still be misty out to sea, because below the voices she could hear the fog horn on the Point. A deep rumble like thunder. The evening had begun in a rather decorous and subdued way, but now there was a pile of empty beer cans in the corner by the barbecue and the lifeboat crew cooks were laughing and shouting.
The brief lull in sound was unexpected. The music had stopped for some reason and the loudest cook was scooping a sausage into a bun, concentrating, his fat tongue showing through the vice of his teeth. In the silence, falling into it, not realizing it was coming, someone said, “Bloody hell, there’s old Mike Long. I haven’t seen him for years.” Then the noise started again, but by then everyone had stared at the tall, thin man and at the woman who was walking beside him.
Emma recognized the name and then the man in the light of the flames which the frost seemed to have tinged blue. She wondered if Robert had noticed him, if there would be another scene. But Michael Long no longer seemed angry. He was moving hesitantly among the crowd, meeting old friends. If he recognized Robert he didn’t show it.
The woman with him was Vera Stanhope. She saw Emma looking and came up to her, waving a can of lager as greeting. She had changed from the usual shapeless dress into crumpled baggy trousers and a huge navy sweater with a roll neck. She was still wearing the sandals.
“What are you doing here?” Emma asked. It was illogical but she blamed Vera for interrupting her meal with James the night before. The image of the detective standing on the step, battering at the door had been so strong that she couldn’t lose it, even though it had been Christopher standing there.
“Everyone has a night off, pet.”
Oh no, not you. You pretend to be a clown, but you’re the most intelligent woman I’ve ever met.
“Besides, it’s a good cause, isn’t it?” Vera beamed. “Lifeboats and that. Saving folks.” She looked back to the house. The fire was reflected in the long chapel window. “So this is where you and Abigail spent that summer. Sharing your secrets. Best friends.”
Emma looked at her sharply wondering how the detective could have guessed that best friends hardly described the relationship they’d had. Because the tone of her voice echoed Christopher’s when he’d said the night before, “She was your only friend. I always thought you hated her.” Had it been hatred? Emma wondered. Abigail had been the mistress and she the paid companion, flattering, laughing at the jokes, sympathizing when Jeanie Long came along to spoil it all. There had been resentment, certainly. But hatred? Why had she stuck it out for so long? Because there had been moments of real affection. And because in the Mantel household there had been a glamour missing in the rest of her life.
Vera was looking at her as if she expected an answer.
“We’d not long moved here,” Emma said. “I was lonely and Abigail was the first person I met who was friendly. Yes, we spent most of that summer together.” . “She was a bonny lass.” Vera emptied the can, squashed it in her fist and threw it onto the pile by the cook house “I’ve seen photos. I can’t believe there weren’t any admirers.”
“There were lots of them.”
Lads who offered to do her homework and came into school clutching cassettes of the music they’d taped specially for her. Lads who turned blotchy and tongue-tied when she gave them any encouragement.
“But no one special?”
“Not that I know of. She said she wasn’t interested in kids.”
“Someone older then? A lad from college maybe. Home for the summer.”
“She didn’t mention anyone.”
“Would she have done?”
At one time Emma would have answered immediately. Sure. Of course. We told each other everything. Now she hesitated and chose her words carefully.
“I don’t know. Thin
king about it again, recently, I probably didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. I mean, kids can be devious too, can’t they? And sometimes you don’t want to share your secrets with anyone. Not even your friend.”
Vera raised her caterpillar eyebrows and seemed about to speak, but then her attention was caught elsewhere. A woman was standing in front of the fire. She was side on, in silhouette, alone. She held a glass of red wine, which, with the fierce light behind it, looked black.
“Well, well, well…” Vera sounded pleased with herself. It was as if she’d been given an unexpected treat. “What’s she doing here, do you suppose?” Then to Emma, “You’ll recognize her, won’t you, pet? She’s not changed that much. Obviously kept in trim. The sort to go to the gym a couple of times a week, I’d say. And you can do a lot with make-up. Or so they tell me.”
The woman turned. She was slim, dark, well groomed. Her nails were the same colour as the wine.
“If I was a bitchy cow,” Vera said, “I’d have said she’d had a nose job. What do you think?”
Emma was about to say that she’d never seen the woman before in her life, then the way the sleek, black hair swung when she moved, reminded her. “It’s Caroline Fletcher, the detective in charge of the Mantel case the first time round.”
“Full marks for observation.”
“You’d have thought she’d want to keep a low profile,” Emma said. “After all that comment in the press.”
“From what I hear, our Caroline’s never done low profile in her life. But she’s got nerve. I’ll give her that. Rattling a few cages, I’d say. Putting on the pressure. They tell me she was a decent little detective in her time. She’ll not have lost the knack. Or it’ll be a fishing expedition, maybe. Everyone friendly and informal, more likely to gab. She’ll want to know which way the wind’s blowing.”
