Taking her seat next to Jilly in the womb-like interior of the Wigmore Hall — the holy ground on top of the mountain to chamber musicians and enthusiasts alike — sinking into the deep, crimson plush seats, Fran felt the hush of anticipation already upon the few people who, for one reason and another, had been privileged to be allowed to attend the rehearsal. One of the polished wooden doors at the back of the stage opened and the five musicians came on stage — the two violins, viola and two cellos — to a smattering of encouraging applause.
She’d thought Jonathan had looked tired, thinner than usual on her first sight of him the other night when he’d come down to The Watersplash. Now, he looked gaunt and exhausted, anything but ready to play a technically difficult and emotionally demanding piece. It could be just her imagination, or even the effect of the stage lighting, or the tension he must be feeling, though she doubted any of this, after what Jilly had told her yesterday.
The slow opening notes of the quintet began to flow around her, and determinedly she fixed her attention on the musicians as they bowed away at the lyrical opening bars of the first movement. The quartet had their own natural ease and fluency that came from playing together every day; and Jonathan’s rehearsal with them yesterday would hopefully have established some of the same rapport. The lights were dimmed; the richly textured notes rose to the gilded decorative apse above the platform, and filled the hall with a slow, lyrical, inspired melody, as the different strings began to interpret Schubert’s ravishing music.
Closing her eyes, Fran let the music wash over her, made herself let go, and sure enough the tight feeling that was screwing her up inside eased, a calmness and rationality she hadn’t felt for days took its place. Things suddenly began to make sense.
Two large fresh flower arrangements had already been placed on the faux marble columns either side of the stage. Lilies. She could smell them, faintly, from here. She sat very still, breathing in their scent, hardly daring to move, lest by doing so the small embryo ideas that were beginning to grow and take shape would shrivel up obstinately and die. But she found that her hands, resting on the bag on her knee, were trembling. Trembling with suppressed energy, as it gradually became clear to her in that darkened concert hall, with the wondrous music filling her ears, that she’d suddenly and miraculously come to herself again, recovered her wits, seen what she should have seen right from the first.
The case would seem to be all but sewn up. Yet Kate Colville, she remembered, had from the first shown reservations about Armstrong, perhaps trying to warn her not to feel too euphoric — to remind her that even the police weren’t quite as sanguine about the outcome as it might appear.
Her insides did a double roll. Yes, there had to be something else, other than her former husband’s hatred, at the heart of Bibi’s murder. Something darker and deeper than Fran had ever wanted to imagine. She couldn’t refuse any longer to acknowledge the undercurrents which she had always known, if she were being honest, were there, running swiftly and dangerously under the surface. Because of those letters, in Mark’s desk. Had Bibi given them to him? Or had he — maybe got hold of them some other way? With that monstrous thought, all mixed up with her other fears about him, Fran knew that whatever the outcome, she had to know the truth.
The music finished, those who had gathered to listen applauded enthusiastically, and though admittedly none of them were truly disinterested, being mostly friends, family, agents, the odd critic, it was enough to tell Fran that Jonathan needn’t have worried. If today was any indication, he would give the performance of his life tomorrow. Jilly turned a bemused and shining face to her, unable to speak. They hugged each other. There were tears in Jilly’s eyes. Fran didn’t want to break the spell for her, but she hadn’t any time to waste. ‘That was absolutely fantastic, but I’m sorry, Jilly, I have to go now. Listen.’ She put her hand on Jilly’s arm and spoke urgently. ‘I have to go away - maybe for a couple of days, but I’ll keep in touch.’
‘What?’ Jilly wasn’t yet quite back in the land of the living.
‘I’ll ring Membery tonight,’ Fran promised.
‘Well, OK — but why?’ she asked, still looking dazed.
‘I can’t explain. But trust me. Look, I have to go. Tell Jonathan I loved it.’
She gave her a quick kiss and hurried along the row, leaving a bewildered Jilly staring after her.
Out into the baking London streets again with wings on her feet, back to the office, no way of avoiding Oxford Street. Pushing her way ruthlessly through the shuffling masses, the souvenir stalls selling policemen’s helmets and I love London T-shirts, the street food vendors. Gagging at the smell of fried onions, boiling caramel and chocolate. Her shirt stuck to her back. God, it was just awful! Did no one realize there were better places in London to shop? The need for therapeutic shopping of her own — even for shoes — had disappeared for ever, she must have been mad even to have entertained the idea, in these crowds, in this heat, she would never shop again. Then she remembered she would have to slip out later for a few necessities.
Back in the blessedly air-conditioned office, she punched in Claire’s number and prayed. Her prayer was answered. ‘Where have you been?’ Claire exclaimed. ‘I couldn’t return your call straight away, it’s been hectic here since I got back, but I’ve been trying to get you for ages … oh God, Fran, I’ve just heard! I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
Fran thanked her briefly, and as succinctly as she could, she went through all that had happened. ‘Oh God,’ Claire said again. ‘If there’s anything I can do –’
‘There is, angel.’ For once, the universal, well-meant offer of sympathy in a crisis was one she could take up. Thank heaven for Claire’s French mother and a friend who was therefore bilingual. ‘Pin your ears back and listen, Claire. You know how abysmal my French is. I can get by in ordinary circumstances, but not on the phone. The thought of tracing an address through a telephone number blows my mind. I know how busy you are, but -’
‘Bugger that,’ said Claire elegantly. ‘Ask away.’
They spoke for several more minutes. ‘I’ll see to everything, seat reservation and the lot, while you do what you have to,’ Claire said at last. ‘But listen, are you sure all this is necessary? Why don’t you just ring him?’
‘Don’t ask. Just accept I have to see him face to face.’
‘All right, then. I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Trust me.’
After that, she spent time clearing up essentials with Kath. ‘Can you hold the fort a while longer? I’ll be back in as soon as I can make it.’
‘Just you carry on, if you feel it’s necessary. We didn’t expect you in so soon, anyway.’
‘How long have I got?’ She looked at her watch. ‘Oh, Kath, my watch. My good watch — not this thing, it never keeps the right time — you don’t happen to have seen it lying around anywhere? I thought I’d left it in my drawer on Thursday, but it’s not there.’
‘You were wearing that one on Thursday. You kept checking the time with me.’
‘In that case, I must have left it at home.’ But where?
‘If somebody bought me a Gucci watch, I’d take more care of it,’ Kath said.
‘A Gucci watch didn’t ought to have a dodgy clasp.’
But she hoped to God it was somewhere at home, that she hadn’t lost it, just because she’d been too clueless to have the clasp fixed. It was Mark’s last birthday present to her.
Another mad hour back amongst the crowds — Boots for a toothbrush and deodorant, John Lewis for a nightie and knickers, a few more necessities to tide her overnight — and she was back on the phone to Claire, stuffing her purchases into her big tote bag with her other hand.
‘All done,’ Claire said. ‘Got a pencil and paper?’
The address was in a suburb of Brussels called Overijse. The name of a road that sounded like Oomklomp or something else that echoed with the thud of big boots, with the house number at the end. It
hadn’t occurred to Fran that it might be in a part of Brussels where the predominant language was Flemish.
‘Everything taken care of. Seat reserved on Eurostar. Currency. See you at Waterloo to hand over your ticket.’
And there good, reliable Claire was on the platform with seat reservation, chocolate, magazines. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘Claire, love, I’m only going to be on the train for four hours max, but if it makes you feel any better, yes, I have my compass, thermal underwear, survival kit. The crossword, your magazines. And if all else fails, I have a Jeffrey Archer. Don’t worry.’
‘Seriously, Fran, be careful.’
Careful? Fran thought. Careful, when it’s my own husband I’m going to see?
Chapter Seventeen
It’s been a long journey. Not in terms of hours, but Fran has discovered that time can stretch to infinity when catastrophe might well be the end of it. It’s hot when she emerges from Brussels Midi railway station for a taxi to her final destination, but it isn’t the heatwave weather she’s left behind in London. The air feels cleaner, less used-up, there seem to be fewer people occupying more space.
This comforting illusion is quickly dispelled, however, as they’re caught up in the maelstrom of the Brussels rush hour traffic, as bad here as in any other major city, but after a time, the taxi reaches Overijse, which turns out to be a well-groomed, residential area. She’s deposited outside a pleasant, unremarkable house, surrounded by a fair-sized garden, and the driver departs after being paid what seems to be an inordinate number of francs.
She walks up the short path and rings the doorbell.
And there he is, familiar in working garb, jeans and a soft, dark blue cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up, neat and self-contained. He always looks right, whatever he wears. The hair he’s run his hands through falls in the usual cowlick over his forehead.
‘Fran!’
‘You look surprised to see me, Mark.’
Shocked might have been a better description. After that first astonished moment he answers not a word, just looks at her, drinking her in, then opens his arms. For the space of a dozen heartbeats, there’s nothing else in the world. It’s she who steps back.
It’s just an ordinary house from outside, nothing special. But inside it’s beautiful, unusual. He ushers her up two shallow steps into a wide, high hall, floored with black and white chequered tiles. Expensive-looking paintings hang on the walls. In one corner stands an old, decorated sedan chair with its door open, a lavish arrangement of leaves and berries which have been placed on its floor spilling artfully out of it. Mark’s doing? More than probable. In the opposite corner is an antique rocking chair in which reposes a fox, so lissom and relaxed as it lolls over the chair arm that she recoils, thinking for a moment it’s alive, grinning and watching her with its bright, shining eyes.
‘Gives everyone a shock at first, meant for a laugh, I guess. Come through to the studio.’
He leads her by the hand into a room, fully equipped as a drawing office, which extends right out into a large area of rough grass, into which shrubs have been thrust, here and there, like afterthoughts. There’s a square pool bang in the middle, surrounded by spindly metal chairs and a table. Inside the office, a stool drawn up to a drawing board shows where Mark has evidently been working. The room is up-to-the-minute modern, sparkling clean and the temperature is cool and air-conditioned.
‘Nice place you’ve got yourself, here, Mark.’ She hears the edge in her voice, but if he notices, he pretends not to.
‘The house used to belong to an architect, and when Henri Duchene bought it, he insisted the set-up in here was included in the deal, since he was interested in designing a house for himself.’ He laughs. ‘You should meet him, Duchêne, I mean. He’s incapable of buying just a box of chocolates, it has to be the whole bloody factory as well. This house was bought for an old retainer, since departed this life.’ He spins her round, holding her hands, looking into her eyes. It’s as if he can’t let go of her. ‘Now tell me what you’re doing here.’
She disengages herself. ‘Where is he, Mark? Where’s Jasie?’
For a long time he says nothing. ‘How did you know?’
‘Later. Where is he? Is he all right?’
‘Hey, what’s all this? Of course he’s all right! He’s staying with a very nice Belgian lady called Madame Bayard, who looks after her grandchildren during the day, and he’s having the time of his life.’
‘I’m not sure I can eat all this.’ Fran faced the biggest dish of steaming moules marinière she’d ever seen in her life, from which arose a delicate odour of garlic and wine. A bottle of Chablis stood on the table, and a large basket of bread.
‘Go on,’ said Mark, tucking his napkin under his chin like the other diners, ‘it’s a feast for a king, I can vouch for it. On Duchêne’s recommendation, so what could be better?’ He began to eat his own moules and, having tasted the first, raised his glass to the proprietor, cooking behind his counter, who beamed and raised his own in response. ‘Well?’ he asked, turning back to Fran. ‘They are good, aren’t they?’
‘Delicious.’
The fish restaurant was in an uninspired suburb of Brussels, the decor verging on the Spartan: a stone-flagged floor and white, rough plastered walls, wooden tables, but the food was cooked to order and every table in the small space was filled with apparently satisfied customers. Mark watched Fran as she began to eat and, once started, went through the shellfish as though she hadn’t eaten for a week - which probably wasn’t so far from the truth: her normally healthy appetite invariably deserted her when she was worried about anything, or upset. He signalled for more bread and another bottle of wine, he talked about this new assignment, his eyes brilliant — but it wasn’t until the last drop of sauce had been mopped up that he allowed the real talk to begin. He held her hand again across the table, and she smiled at him. The smile didn’t seem to take as much effort as before, and a weight lifted from his shoulders as he knew the magic between them was still there.
He took a deep breath and gradually began to tell her everything.
Over nine years ago … the York races …
Racing had never been Mark’s thing, on the contrary it rather bored him, since he wasn’t a betting man and couldn’t see any other excuse for getting so worked up at watching one horse try to beat another. But Chip, looking forward to a convivial few days with a crowd of like-minded men, had prevailed upon Mark to join them. Great place, the Ascomb Arms, and besides, it had a pretty receptionist that he remembered from a previous stay, a real knockout.
Mark said all right, then cursed himself for being drawn into agreeing. He’d long outgrown his brother’s ideas of amusement. He was past the age when a rowdy weekend with the lads could shift the blues.
But Chip had caught him in a savage mood. He’d just resigned from a partnership that was bringing him no satisfaction. Safe, but boring. Beginning to be contentious. His older partners, fearful of taking risks, had recently refused to back him in what he’d been sure was a winning design. He’d wanted a change, some space. Is this all the future holds? He hadn’t reached a mid-life crisis at thirty, had he? Perhaps he could learn something from Chip, after all.
Nevertheless, he’d felt distinctly juvenile, roaring up the M1 in Chip’s MG as if they were still eighteen.
They drove north and reached unfamiliar landscapes, with the Ferrybridge power station cooling towers rearing like primeval monsters out of the flat, coal-mining landscape, belching out fumes, which did nothing to alleviate his mood. Then later, sighting the square towers of the Minster rising from the gentle, rich, agricultural plain of York, where the sun lay like melted butter on the burgeoning corn, he began to feel better …
Sod it, he’d thought, putting his shirt on a dead cert at the races next day. What the hell? His inhibitions dropped away, he began to enjoy himself, though he lost more than he won, and drank more than he had since he was in college. Like Jonathan,
he was normally a moderate drinker. Unlike Chip, neither of them had ever felt the need to demonstrate their masculinity by propping a bar up and drinking to excess. They couldn’t forget their father.
But that weekend he’d felt reckless. Chip had been right, the hotel was good, the receptionist stunning … he’d joined the others in chatting her up a bit, persuading her to join in the party they had that night. He’d woken in her bed the next morning, alone and with no very clear idea of how he’d got there, or what had happened. He had a suspicion it might have been because somebody had spiked his drink, in all probability Jack Cavenham, whose idea of a joke that sort of thing was. He was desperately ashamed of himself, not least where the girl herself was concerned, and because he’d also been all too aware that Chip had been really smitten with her. Pulling a bird was one thing — though casual sex wasn’t the sort of activity he went in for — poaching on his brother’s territory something else.
The girl herself, however, already busy downstairs, had refused to enlighten him. Presumably, despite her virginal, untouched appearance, despite the vigilant mama Chip said used to preside over the hotel, this wasn’t the first time something like this had occurred. What sort of thing? Mark asked himself. It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t have known if he’d had sex with her; inconceivable, on the other hand, that he’d gone to bed with a beautiful woman without having sex. ‘Did I — did we?’ he’d begun, and she’d put her finger to his lips, smiling enigmatically, whether to save him or her from embarrassment, he never knew.
The only saving grace was that Chip had been equally pissed and had remembered nothing of the previous evening. So, as far as Mark was concerned, it was a discreditable episode, best left where it belonged, in the past. Until Bibi had turned up at Membery with Chip, and a seven-year-old child in tow.
Killing a Unicorn Page 22
