‘That’s exactly what I’m wondering.’
‘What are you smoking, Hannah? Jon didn’t have a car, for one thing. And even if he’d rented a car, Cowes is on the Isle of Wight. It’s an island, remember? Water all around? There’d be a ferry involved.’ He pressed to my lips a finger that smelled like lavender soap. ‘And before you go off on another wild tangent, we kipped aboard Biding Thyme, so there was no sneaking out of the hotel room at night, either.’
I sighed, stretched out my arm and began playing with a lock of his hair, twisting it around my finger.
Paul closed his eyes. ‘May I go to sleep now?’
‘Certainly.’ I kissed the tip of his nose goodnight, lay down and stared at the concentric circles of light my bedside lamp was casting on the ceiling.
‘Maybe Alison would have been more secure in her relationship with Jon if they’d been able to have a child together,’ I mused, speaking more to the ceiling than to my husband.
Next to me, Paul stirred. ‘Well, that would never happen, would it?’
‘Didn’t, but could have.’
‘Not possible, Hannah. Jon had a vasectomy.’
I shot straight up into a sitting position, leaned over my husband. ‘What did you say?’
Without opening his eyes, Paul repeated. ‘Jon had a vasectomy.’
‘That’s what I thought you said.’ I plopped back on to my pillow, my brain reeling. ‘Are you sure?’
Paul nodded.
‘One hundred per cent positive?’
‘What’s it going to take, Hannah? A signed affidavit from his surgeon?’
‘When?’ I asked.
‘A year or so after Kitty was born.’
I sat bolt upright, stunned by the news. ‘Jeeze, Paul! Jon told you that?’
‘One night at the Cherub, when we were here on the exchange, in fact.’ He turned on his side to look at me. ‘Jon was feeling no pain at the time, and he let it slip. Frankly, I’d forgotten all about it until now.’
‘From talking to Alison, I don’t think she knows.’
‘That would surprise me very much. Jon and Alison seem very close.’
‘Maybe so, but take it from me, Alison’s clueless.’ I folded my pillow in half and propped it behind my back. ‘OK, you’re a guy. You tell me. Why would Jon keep his vasectomy a secret from Alison?’
‘Perhaps he was afraid she would leave him if she found out he couldn’t father her children?’
‘Could be,’ I agreed. ‘But aren’t vasectomies reversible?’
‘Sometimes. But the surgery would have to be private, not on the NHS’s dime. Maybe money was an issue.’
With Paul to alibi him, I was willing to scratch Jon off my list of suspects in Susan Parker’s murder, but something still didn’t compute. Why would a happily married man with only one child decide to have a vasectomy? Clearly, he didn’t want to have any more children with Beth. So, maybe he wasn’t as happily married as everybody thought.
Next to me, Paul began to saw logs.
I elbowed him awake. ‘We have to ask him, Paul.’
‘Ask who what?’ he snuffled.
‘Jon. Invite him to meet you at the pub. Ask him why he got that vasectomy.’
‘You’re not going to let me get any sleep until I agree, right?’
‘I see you understand.’
‘OK, I’ll try.’
‘Do or not do,’ I quoted, channeling Yoda. ‘There is no try.’
When Paul and I walked into the Cherub just before noon the following day, Jon was already there, sitting at a table in the corner, nursing a pint. When he caught sight of us, he shot to his feet. ‘Hi, Hannah. I didn’t know you’d be coming, or I’d have brought Alison along.’
He kissed the air next to my cheek. ‘Name your poison, folks.’
While Jon went to the bar to fetch a shandy for Paul and a lemon and lime for me, we sat down. ‘You go first,’ I whispered.
After the arrival of our drinks and the usual pleasantries, Paul took the lead. ‘Actually, Jon, we didn’t invite Alison on purpose. There’s something Hannah and I want to ask you.’
Jon sipped his lager, winked at me. ‘Very mysterious.’
‘Before we go any further,’ Paul continued, ‘I want you to assure me that you didn’t have anything to do with Beth’s disappearance.’
Jon’s eyebrows shot into the stratosphere. ‘Christ, Ives! How can you even think that?’
‘I don’t believe you did, but a couple of things that we’ve found out recently simply don’t add up.’
Jon ran a hand nervously through what was left of his silk-fine hair. ‘Like what?’
‘Your vasectomy, for starters.’
‘How did you . . .?’ Jon looked genuinely surprised.
‘You told me. Remember? Right here in the Cherub. After England won the Tournoi de France in 1997?’
‘I did?’
Paul nodded.
‘I must have been shit-faced.’
‘You might say that.’ Paul waited for that to sink in before asking, ‘So, why does a perfectly healthy man decide to have himself fixed . . .?’
Jon seemed to crumple before us, his body shrinking two sizes within his freshly pressed Cambridge blue shirt.
I finally spoke up. ‘Alison doesn’t know, does she?’
Jon closed his eyes, wagged his head, confirming my suspicions. ‘I always meant to tell her, but the time never seemed right.’ He looked up, his pale eyes somber. ‘It started out as just a little deception. I don’t know how it got so out of hand. I may even have broken the law.’
Now I was really confused. ‘Broken the law? Honestly, Jon, I don’t see the connection.’
Jon took a deep breath, let it out slowly, making us wait. ‘I didn’t tell the police that Beth committed suicide.’
I looked at Paul and Paul looked at me, then we both stared slack-jawed at Jon.
‘There was a note. It wasn’t . . .’ He sighed, shook his head. ‘It wasn’t addressed to me, it was for Kitty. But she was so young, just learning to read, really. I couldn’t show it to her then, could I? And later? Well, I’d met Alison by then. Fell head over heels in love with her.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Kitty took to Alison right away, too. How could I tell my daughter that her mum was a suicide, and that it was her fault?’
‘Your pronouns are confusing me, Jon,’ I said. ‘Whose fault? Surely you don’t mean that Kitty . . .’
Jon raised a hand, cutting me off. ‘After Kitty was born, Beth had a severe case of post-partum depression bordering at times on psychosis. One day, I came into the nursery and caught Beth holding a pillow over the baby’s face.’ What little color remained in Jon’s face promptly drained away. He gulped some of his lager, regained composure. ‘We got Beth into treatment, of course, but I couldn’t trust her alone with Kitty after that, not even for a minute. It took all the money we had, but I hired a nanny. When the nanny wasn’t available, or I had to be out of town, Kitty stayed with her grandmother in Exeter, or my mother would come to us.
‘We kept Beth’s condition quiet, of course. In public, she’d appear to be fine, but at home, she’d sometimes sink into depression for days at a time. And when she refused to take her medication . . .’ Jon let the sentence die, while I filled the silence with all kinds of horror scenarios gleaned from watching too many cop shows on television.
‘I see,’ Paul said. ‘You couldn’t take a chance of having any more children with Beth.’
Jon nodded glumly. ‘Beth refused to have her tubes tied, so I had to do something.’
‘Why didn’t you tell Alison?’ I wanted to know. ‘Why did you let her go on believing it was her fault she couldn’t have any children?’
‘I’m not proud of it, Hannah. It’s just that I loved Alison so much, I was afraid that she’d leave me if she knew.’
‘I don’t think you know Alison very well, then, Jon.’
‘What happened to the suicide note?’ Paul asked.
Jo
n stared at the ancient ship timbers that held up the ceiling of the fourteenth-century building. ‘It was a horrid, rambling thing. Beth in full off-meds mode. “I’m going to kill myself before I kill my child.” On and on and on. I was going to destroy the note, Ives, but in the end, I couldn’t. It’s in a safety deposit box at the bank.’
‘But why keep the note secret from the police?’ I wondered aloud. ‘Was there a suicide clause in Beth’s life insurance policy or something?’
‘It was nothing to do with life insurance!’ Jon exploded, slamming his fist on the table so hard that I had to grab my glass to keep it from toppling. ‘Don’t you understand? It was all about Kitty. I couldn’t burden a six-year-old with the knowledge that her mother was so unsuited to motherhood that she killed herself over it!’
Jon covered his eyes with his hands, breathing deeply. ‘At dinner that night?’ he continued in a calmer tone of voice. ‘When Susan Parker said she felt a pain in her head, I knew that my suspicions were right.’
So, Susan Parker had gotten to him. ‘What suspicions?’
Jon spread his hands out on the tabletop, fingers splayed. ‘My father had a German Luger from the Second World War. When he died, it came to me. I kept it in a box on the top of the wardrobe in the bedroom. The gun went missing the day Beth did.’
‘Jesus!’ In that instant, I saw it all. Beth, balancing on the stern of Biding Thyme, aiming the gun at her head, pulling the trigger. Beth and the gun toppling backwards into the sea, leaving only the tiniest speck of blood to mark her passing.
Paul reached out, squeezed his friend’s shoulder. ‘You should tell the police.’
Jon blinked back tears. ‘Why? It’s not going to change anything. Accident or suicide, Beth is just as dead.’
I reached out and covered one of Jon’s hands with mine. ‘But Alison needs to know, Jon. Tell her. Tell her everything. She thinks you’re still deeply in love with Beth.’
‘I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?’ Jon lay his head on his hands and began to cry.
SEVENTEEN
‘The UK government annual statistics 2007 reveal that over 3.2 million animals suffer and die in British laboratories in experiments that “may cause pain, suffering, distress and lasting harm”. An estimated additional 8 million animals are bred and then destroyed as surplus to requirements.’
www.Uncaged.co.uk
Another drink later, we left Jon, after extracting from him a promise that he’d have a heart-to-heart with Alison at the earliest possible opportunity.
Rather than return immediately to the B&B, Paul and I decided to hike to the medieval Castle that guarded the mouth of the Dart, hoping the spectacular scenery might lift our spirits. We were nearly there when my iPhone began to vibrate. I fished it out of the pocket of my jeans. I didn’t recognize the number. ‘Hello?’ I said a bit breathlessly. Paul has long legs, and I have to work to keep up.
‘Hannah, it’s Olivia Sandman. I would have called you sooner, but I had trouble dialing the US number, and my calls didn’t go through. Just got this weird buzzing. I’m at the Orange shop now, and they helped me out.’
I rested against the railing that separated me from a twenty-five-foot drop into the sea, and watched my husband’s back disappear around a bend. ‘I’m glad you called, Olivia. How can I help?’
‘It’s complicated,’ she said.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Remember when you asked me about Alf and where he was the day that medium got herself killed? And I said we was in Glastonbury?’
‘Yes.’ My heart did a flop as I suspected (hoped!) I knew where Olivia was going.
‘Well, we was, but he wasn’t.’
‘Where was he, then, Olivia?’
She waited a beat. ‘Look, I can’t talk now, but if you meet me, I can show you something.’
‘Where will you be, Olivia?’
‘Down in Kingsbridge. Today is when we picket the Biozencorp animal testing labs. We’ll be just outside the gates. Like they’d let us in! Hah hah. You can tell Alf you’re interested in joining us or something.’
I thought about Olivia’s plan for less than half a second before realizing I’d have to come up with a Plan B. No way I wanted to look at, let alone carry, a picket sign with a photo of a rheumy-eyed rabbit, or a cat with electrodes screwed into its tiny skull, or a crippled dog. My stomach lurched.
‘I’ll think of something, Olivia.’
‘OK. But be cool. And don’t say much.’
‘Why?’
‘You know. Vancouver.’
Right. I was a Canadian.
I’d already hung up the phone when it occurred to me: I didn’t have a car.
There was certainly a bus that went to Kingsbridge, but when I got back to the B&B and checked out Biozencorp on the Internet, I learned two things: it was a scientific research company claiming every major pharmaceutical company among its clients, and it was a good distance from the town center, on the Tacket Wood side.
Suddenly, like the Grinch, I got a wonderful, awful idea.
I told Paul what I was up to and invited him along. From his spot on the chaise lounge, he fanned the page proofs with his thumb and screwed up his face. ‘I’m not even halfway there, Hannah, and now my damn fool editor wants to change the title.’
‘To what?’
‘From Euclid to Riemann. Idiot! You’ve got to throw CGI into the equation if you want to grab the attention of high-school students.’
‘Of course you do, sweetheart.’ Euclid was the ancient Greek who invented geometry, so I figured Riemann was some modern dude, but otherwise I had no idea what Paul was talking about. Checking equations and formulas requires intense concentration and an eagle eye, I knew, so I gave my husband a swift kiss on the cheek, waved my iPhone under his nose so he’d know we would be tethered by AT&T and zipped out the door.
It took me less than five minutes to reach the car park at the Visitors’ Center where – Hallelujah, there is a God! – Cathy’s rental car was parked exactly where I’d left it.
I opened the back door, located the ignition key under the floor mat where I had been instructed to leave it, and climbed into the driver’s seat. If Europcar hadn’t picked the car up by now, I reasoned as I started the engine and pulled out on to The Quay, the little Corsa couldn’t be an all-important cog in their enormous fleet. It would be rotten luck if Europcar decided to collect the car that day, of course. What if they reported it stolen? What if my image was captured on one of the CCTV cameras scattered about town, following my every move?
A light went on in the vast, empty attic of my brain. CCTV!
In true Big Brother style, the UK has one CCTV camera for every fourteen persons, or so they say. Did the police have a videotape of the vehicle that ran Susan down? If so, they were keeping mum. I hadn’t noticed any cameras on the Embankment or in the Gardens, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. As I turned south on the familiar road toward Torcross, I adjusted my sunglasses, pulled my ball cap a bit further down over my eyes, and made a mental note to look into it.
At Torcross, I turned west, heading inland toward Kingsbridge. I had entered Biozencorp’s address into Cathy’s GPS, and followed the voice she’d chosen – John Cleese. Does a GPS get any more trustworthy than that? On the outskirts of Kingsbridge, ‘John’ directed me with confidence down a narrow paved road that ended at a compound of concrete block buildings surrounded by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence, topped by coils of barbed wire. A sentry box stood to the left of a sliding electric gate, which was closed. Two private security guards wearing brown uniforms, arm patches, and humorless expressions appeared to be on duty.
I pulled to the verge behind a passenger van and several other cars, parked, and climbed out. Keeping the cars between me and the road, I strolled along the narrow verge, casually checking each one of them for damage.
Alf’s much-decorated car was at the head of the line. As old as the car was, it seemed to have all its parts, and the
re appeared to be no damage to the left front fender. The finish, once a metallic blue, was now so bleached that any repair would have stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. It would have taken a body shop mechanic with the skills of Michelangelo to match that weather-worn, sandblasted blue.
Olivia, the youngest of the picketers by far, was easy to spot. Her red headband had been replaced by one in blue, which matched a tailored blouse tucked into a pair of white jeans. She stood to one side of the gates along with the usual WTL suspects, their number augmented that day by half a dozen representatives – according to their picket signs – of organizations called Uncaged and the British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection.
I needed to draw Olivia away from the pack.
I leaned against the bonnet of Alf’s car, warm against my bum, and thought. Did Kingsbridge have a newspaper? I pulled out my iPhone, opened the Google app and tapped in a search. Yes! The Kingsbridge and Salcombe Gazette came out weekly, and was owned by the same family that published the Dartmouth Chronicle.
I would be a reporter, then, but what would I do about my accent? I’m lousy with accents. The price one pays, I suppose, for being born in Ohio where our accents are about as nondescript and boring as we are. If I tried on a fake one, I’d be no more successful than those British actors who play Americans on TV and seem to suffer from the delusion that all Americans drawl and come from Texas.
I should begin with the tall guy, I thought, the one with the rasta braids, the one waving the sign declaring ‘To Animals, All People Are Nazis’. Definitely the Alpha Dog. Excuse me, sir – work the eyelashes overtime, Hannah – but I’m wondering if you have a moment to answer a few questions for the Kingsbridge Gazette?
I was rehearsing the dialog in my head when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Olivia shift her picket sign nervously from one hand to the other. No Bible chapter and verse for Olivia today. This time the message she carried was unambiguous – a picture of a sad-eyed, brown and white spotted dog bearing the caption, in red letters dripping blood, ‘Born To Die’. By the rigid set of her jaw, I knew Olivia was clenching her teeth, probably fretting that I’d blow her cover.
All Things Undying Page 15
