Because you could buy anything if you had the money. And he would have the money. Oh yes. For the first time in his life he would have the money. A modest amount at first. Be reasonable. No point in frightening people unnecessarily. But there would be more where that came from. Plenty more. Enough to keep him nice and comfortable for the rest of his life.
As nothing further was mentioned about the trouble at the Misbourne weir on the nine o’clock local news, the clientele of the Red Lion decided it had all been some sort of joke and turned their attention to matters more substantial. The discovery of six pheasants in old Gordon Cherry’s outhouse. And the shameful matter of Ada Lucas’s grandma’s tea set which had been valued, while still in her front room cabinet, by an itinerant dealer for fifty pounds when everyone knew it was hallmarked Rockingham and worth all of a hundred.
By turning-out time the business on the river had been practically forgotten. People wandered off in the moonlight or drove home, their minds full of other things. As the landlord said to his wife while she was funnelling the drips tray back into the cellar jug, ‘I reckon we’ve had our ration of excitement for this year.’
Which just goes to show how cosmically wrong a man can be.
Chapter Three
Ann Lawrence checked over her husband’s breakfast tray. Weak china tea. A four-minute egg. Fresh toast. An apple. Some Flora and Cooper’s Oxford marmalade. She put a sprig of lady’s mantle in a little flowered jug.
‘Would you mind taking this up, Hetty?’
Ann had called Mrs Leathers Hetty since she was a toddler and Mrs Leathers had always called her either Annie or Pickle or one of several other affectionate nicknames. But, on the day she married, Ann had mysteriously become Mrs Lawrence and no amount of argument, whether teasing or serious, could persuade Hetty to address her otherwise. It simply wouldn’t be right.
‘Course not,’ replied Mrs Leathers, immediately wondering where on earth she would put herself if the vicar (as she still thought of him) opened the door in his nightshirt. Or worse.
‘Just knock and leave it outside his room.’
Ann poured herself a third cup of coffee and took it into the library. It was almost ten o’clock, but she had thought it best to let Lionel sleep. He had been out very late checking various refuge centres, hostels and halfway houses and pestering his contacts in the probation service. Eventually, alarm for Carlotta’s wellbeing had overcome his anxiety not to offend her and he had called at Causton police station to report the girl missing. Back at home he had described at some length and in disgust their ‘complete and inhuman lack of interest’.
Ann had listened consumed by misery and guilt. She longed to turn back the clock and recall the ease of spirit and absence of anxiety with which she had once lived her life. How dull this state had sometimes seemed. Now she yearned for it to return.
The postman’s van was driving away. Ann went into the hall and emptied the large wire cage on the back of the door. There was always plenty of post. Lionel believed in keeping in touch - sometimes, Ann felt, with every person he had ever met in his entire life. Fortunately a great many of them appeared to have no wish to keep in touch with him. A common complaint at breakfast was that so and so had still not replied to his second (or third) letter.
Diocesan business had long ago tailed off but there was always correspondence relating to the various charities Lionel was involved with, journals (today the New Statesman) and begging letters. There were two for her. One she recognised as from an aged great-aunt in Northumberland who always wrote in August to remind her that it would soon be her mother’s birthday and she must not forget to pray for her. The other simply had her name on. No address. Someone must have pushed it through the door. People often did, especially in the evening when they did not like to disturb. Ann took the letter to the window seat in the dining room and opened it.
She was to remember that moment for the rest of her life: the vividness of deep pink hollyhocks pressing against the window, the raised petit point upholstery rough against the backs of her legs, a rim of dust next to her slippered foot, and herself unfolding the thin, slightly dirty paper out into a single sheet.
For one blessed fraction of a second she stared at the strange cut-out words, stuck on haphazardly, in bewilderment. Was it yet another sample of junk mail? Some new sort of advertisement? Then she read the words consecutively to see if they made sense.
There was a rush of sound inside her head. Then a staggering of the heart as if it had received a blow from a powerful fist. She sucked in air. And read the words again. ‘I Saw You Push Her In.’
Ann became aware of extreme cold. A quick upsurge of sour liquid filled her mouth. Struggling not to vomit or faint she rested her head on her knees. As she crouched, trembling, a shadow fell across the carpet.
‘You all right, Mrs Lawrence?’
‘What?’ Ann lifted her head. Then jumped to her feet. The paper fell, butter side up, onto the carpet. ‘What are you doing in here?’
A man was standing in the doorway, one hand resting casually on the frame. An extremely good-looking young man with short, curly hair so blond it was almost white and dazzling dark-blue eyes. There was a tattoo - suprisingly delicate - on his forearm. A dragonfly, azure and vivid green, the body a black exclamation point. He removed his battered denim cap, managing somehow to make this seeming courtesy an insult.
‘Lionel wanted the car at eleven but it won’t start. I think it’s the carburettor.’
‘You’re supposed to phone through.’ Her voice ran off the scale. He’d never done this before. Come into the house. Of all the times for him to choose.
‘The blower’s fucked.’ He smiled as Ann’s cheeks went scarlet. ‘I went to the kitchen to tell Mrs L but she’s not there.’
Having explained himself, the young man made no attempt to leave, just slipped both thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and stared at her with mock respect. The room suddenly became a lot smaller, crammed with tensions she willed herself not to understand.
‘I’ll tell my husband.’
‘Yeah. Right.’ Still he did not move.
There was no way Ann could leave. No way she would ease past that slender body, lounging so gracefully in the doorway. She forced herself to look at him, seeing insolence, even hatred in that brilliant glance then put it down to her present state of mind.
‘Dropped your letter.’
She snatched it up, crumpled it in her hand. Had he seen what it said? Impossible at that distance. She rammed the paper into the pocket of her housecoat and spoke with great effort.
‘You can go . . . um . . . Jax.’
‘I know that, Mrs Lawrence. No need to point that out.’
Ann stepped back, groping behind her for the window seat, lowering herself gradually down. What should she do now? Paralysed by indecision and alarm, she was saved by the arrival of Hetty Leathers.
‘Excuse me.’ Mrs Leathers, carrying a plastic tidy full of polish and dusters, pushed firmly past the chauffeur. ‘Some of us got work to do.’
A blink and he’d gone. One single flowing movement, like a polecat. Mrs Leathers couldn’t help noticing Ann’s distress.
‘You don’t want to let that load of old rubbish upset you.’ It was a mystery to Mrs Leathers that the Reverend could expose his wife to such riffraff. She started to remove the worn lace tablecloth, folding it carefully. ‘The sooner he slings his hook the better.’
‘It wasn’t just him.’ Ann braced herself. ‘Carlotta’s run away.’
‘She’ll fall on her feet. That sort always do.’ Mrs Leathers was not usually so forthright. She liked to think she was loyal to the Reverend as well as to his wife but today she just had to speak out. Ann was looking really ill. ‘I’ve finished in the kitchen. Why don’t you go and make yourself a nice cup of tea?’
Ann half ran from the room. She did not go into the kitchen but hurried blindly through the house with no sense of direction or understanding of where she was
going. Eventually she found herself in the linen closet staring blankly at stacks of folded sheets on slatted wooden shelves fragrant with the scent of dried lemon verbena.
She took the letter from her pocket and smoothed it out. Her hand was trembling so much the cut and pasted words jumped up and down as if in some mad dance. She felt she was holding something obscene. Coated with filth. Crawling with slimy invisible life.
She ran to the bathroom and tore the letter into dozens of tiny pieces then did the same with the envelope. She dropped them into the lavatory, working the handle over and over again until every scrap had disappeared.
Then she undressed, turned on the shower, and scrubbed herself fiercely all over with the hand mitt. She cleaned inside her ears and inside her nostrils and under her nails. She washed her hair, rinsing it over and over again. When she had finished, she folded up her housecoat and everything else she had been wearing when she had first touched the letter, crammed them into a bin liner and threw the lot away.
Afterwards, looking back, Ann was surprised she had not anticipated her correspondent’s next step. She had seen enough thrillers, read enough crime novels. But the telephone call still came as a complete and utter shock. Almost as strong a shock as the letter itself.
He seemed to be speaking through a mouthful of cotton wool. An accentless, half-choking mumble. He wanted money. A thousand pounds or he’d go to the police. He told her exactly when and where to leave it. Ann started to protest. Tried to say he wasn’t giving her enough time but the phone was banged down.
She never for a moment considered not paying and not only because of the danger of discovery. Consumed by guilt, Ann recognised that she and she alone had been directly responsible for the whole tragic situation. She had driven Carlotta from the house, pursued the girl to the river and failed, in spite of all her efforts, to stop her jumping in.
In fact Ann had now started to ask herself just how genuine these efforts had been. She remembered Carlotta crying, ‘You’ve never wanted me here, you’ll be glad to get rid of me,’ and knew it was the truth. The girl’s despair, her determination to jump had made her very strong but surely if she had tried just that little bit harder . . . And then that cry, ‘Don’t push . . .’ She hadn’t pushed Carlotta. Had she?
But whether she had or not, the fact remained the whole business was her fault. And it was only right that she should pay. It would be the first step towards salving her conscience. She could raise that amount by a visit to the bank. They knew her there and the balance in her current account would easily cover it. And if there were more demands, she would sell what was left of her mother’s jewellery. Surely that would balance the scales a little in her direction? The sad symmetry of this conclusion made her want to weep.
That night Ann took a torch to light her way through Carter’s Wood. There was a little picnic area with wooden benches and two long tables. She had been told to leave the money, sealed in an envelope and wrapped in a polythene carrier bag, in the litter bin.
She was more frightened of doing something wrong than of being alone among the dark rustling trees. Nor was she afraid for her own safety. The blackmailer would hardly wish to harm his golden goose and, not wanting to be seen, would be keeping well out of her way.
There were two litter bins. One was empty and Ann dropped the packet in. It made a gentle thump as it fell and she wondered if he was close enough to hear. A small animal screamed suddenly as she ran away.
Chapter Four
When her husband did not return at his usual time from his late-night walk with the dog, Mrs Leathers went to bed. Occasionally he would do this. Call in at the Red Lion where closing time was elastic to say the least, have a throw of darts and cadge a drink or a smoke. Sometimes she thought he’d stay the night if they’d let him. So she drifted off to sleep, pleasurably aware of the empty space by her side.
When she woke, the room was full of brightness. Mrs Leathers sat up blinking, looking round. She seized the bedside clock. It was ten past eight!
Mrs Leathers gasped and climbed quickly out of bed. Charlie never forgot to set the alarm. Six thirty on the dot, always. And he never got up until he’d drunk his tea either.
More puzzled than worried, Mrs Leathers put on a shabby candlewick dressing gown. She glanced back at the room as she was leaving, as if he might have slipped down between the furniture. The bed looked huge. She hadn’t realised quite how much space it took up.
Down the narrow, twisting stairs and into the kitchen where the harsh smell of Charlie’s cigarettes fouled the air, killing the fragrance of bread left to rise overnight on the Rayburn. Automatically Mrs Leathers filled the kettle and put two Typhoo tea bags in the pot.
She had never thought of herself as an imaginative woman but now her mind started running every which way. All those stupid soaps - that’s what Charlie would have said. They turn your mind, woman. And it was true that she was constantly enthralled by their exciting twists and turns. If this was television, her husband would have run off with another woman. Mrs Leathers’ heart, which had leapt briefly in her flat chest at the very notion, got a grip on reality and thudded back into its usual place. Let’s face it, she sighed aloud, who in their right mind would want Charlie?
Perhaps he had secretly become involved in a crime and had had to run away. That was more likely although he was so stupid he’d probably never know it was time to run away until it was too late. And who would he be involved with? A handful of boozy cronies down at the pub? He didn’t have a real friend in the world.
The kettle boiled over. Mrs Leathers filled the pot and called, ‘Tea time, Candy.’
But the dog did not come out of her basket. Mrs Leathers bent down, wheezing slightly, to peer under the table. Candy was not there. Which meant they had both been out all night.
Much more alarmed at the absence of the little dog than she had been over her husband, Mrs Leathers took the big iron key from behind the door and ran out into the front garden.
She stood at the gate under a lovely hibiscus (a Mother’s Day present from her daughter Pauline over twenty years ago) but its beauty, and indeed the beauty of the whole morning, was wasted on her. All she could think about was the whereabouts of Candy.
The red mail van appeared at the end of the lane. There was rarely any post for the Leathers and what they did get was usually addressed to Occupier, urging bookkeeping courses or the building of a double-glazed conservatory. And today was no different. The van wasn’t coming down.
Mrs Leathers ran out to stop the postman and just caught him. He couldn’t help staring. She looked so wild, grey hair sticking out everywhere, the bottom of her dressing gown caught up on brambles, slippers soaking wet.
‘Morning, Mrs Leathers. You all right?’
‘You haven’t seen my little Jack Russell, have you?’ Then, when the postman hesitated, ‘She’s mainly tan with black markings and white paws.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ he promised through the van window. ‘Cheer up. Dogs - they’re always running off.’
Not my Candy. Mrs Leathers flung on some clothes, buttoned any old how, pulled on her gardening clogs and ran off leaving the gate ajar, just in case.
She hurried onto the Green, her face screwed up with anxiety, staring first into the distance and then almost at her feet as if she might fall over the dog without noticing. One or two people, including Evadne Pleat, were out with their own dogs and all were deeply sympathetic. They asked if there was any special place they could search and promised to check with their neighbours the minute they returned home. Evadne offered to do some posters in bright colours to put on trees and the village noticeboard.
Mrs Leathers could only guess at her husband’s exact route the previous evening. But whether turning left or right at the top of Tall Trees Lane, he would have covered roughly the same territory, working his way round in a circle to come home.
Arriving at the churchyard she decided to go all the way through and down the Pingles
. This was a narrow alley running along the backs of around a dozen houses and much favoured by lovers and youngsters sniffing, swallowing or jabbing assorted illegal substances.
And as she walked, Mrs Leathers continued to call. Occasionally a garden shed was within reach and then she would tap on the walls and cry out, ‘Candy?’ She knew it was usually cats that got trapped in sheds but you couldn’t not try.
The Pingles led almost directly into a small coppiced wood which backed onto fields of wheat and barley now harvested and bound into vast, golden wheels to be rolled away for winter storage.
Mrs Leathers entered the wood making the soft clicking sound, tongue behind teeth, that she knew the dog would recognise. She stood very still, listening intently. There was the river gurgling and rushing over the stones. A swift scuttering by some frightened animal. Creaking branches and whispering leaves. A sudden whirring and a cloud of wood pigeons exploded into the air, fanning out and wheeling away like aircraft in formation.
Mrs Leathers wondered whether to venture more deeply, penetrating the heart of the wood. She knew it was unlikely that her husband would have been walking there in the dark but could not bear to leave even the most implausible area uninvestigated. She stepped forward a few paces, silent on the thick leaf mould, called again. And waited.
There was a thread of fragile sound. Almost inaudible. You couldn’t even call it a whimper. Mrs Leathers’ first impulse was to rush about madly, looking, calling, looking. Then, realising she might tread on the dog, she forced herself to stand still and be calm.
She tiptoed, murmuring gentle reassurances, backwards and forwards, parting nettles and dry old cow parsley, delicately shifting dead twigs and the occasional drinks can. She found Candy lying behind a fallen branch from an oak tree. The branch was large and very heavy and Mrs Leathers could not reach the dog without dragging it away. The sensible thing was to fetch help but she could not bear to leave Candy for a single minute. So she struggled and heaved and pushed. Splinters rammed down her nails and into the palms of her hands until she wept with pain and frustration.
A Place Of Safety Page 4
