Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  “Oh come on…” she smiled, “trust me, on this ship you’d be quite a catch!”

  Fergus almost blushed.

  “Well I’m flattered, but, alas, not fooled.” He felt pleased with this answer in the circumstances. “Your dancing is, erm, very good.” He winced as he said it: why hadn’t he quit while he was ahead?!

  “Well, I’m flattered too,” she smiled.

  “I mean, I’m no expert, but my daughter was also a dancer.”

  “I know, Nicole told me, so your opinion definitely counts. Thank you.” Fergus was astonished that these two young women might have been talking about him.

  “She did? Tell you I mean.”

  The dancer smiled. Fergus tried to read her name badge, but she was slightly too far away and it felt awkward to ask.

  “Well I’m sure she was very good, anyway she certainly had a caring father.”

  “I hope so,” said Fergus. He knew from the ‘had’ that Nicole must also have told her his daughter had died.

  “If you’ve ever seen the video to ‘Roam’ by Summer Martins, she’s one of the four dancers in that, the brunette with the blue waist coat…”

  “Wow, I’ll check it out,” she replied, sounding impressed. “Well, I’d better go tell the Captain to put out that announcement… enjoy your day and don’t forget the show tonight!”

  “We’ll be there, enjoy your day too.” Fergus answered, slightly distracted by the way she twisted her brown hair around her fingers as she spoke to him.

  “I always do… this is the high life!” she called back as she walked away, leaving Fergus’ head spinning. Many of his old colleagues had never really enjoyed their working days, somehow unable to motivate themselves out of ruts in which they were unhappy but secure. It felt refreshing to spend a few moments with someone young and full of life, who loved what she was doing. And she could have avoided him, but she had chosen to share a few easy moments in his company and… and, goodness, how she reminded him of Justine.

  Fergus shut these ideas down the moment they had been thought and he headed back to Sylvie, humming happily to himself. His encounter had been innocent, sweetly so even, but his wife didn’t need to know everything.

  After breakfast, they went back to their cabin again – exchanging their usual friendly but language-hampered greetings with Rachel, who was busying herself by her airing cupboard – and they prepared for another lazy day on deck. As the sunny parts of the ship were overwhelmed with passengers basking in the tropical heat and as they themselves preferred the shady alcoves anyway, they spent the morning in the cool, towards the bow. Occasionally, one of them would go for a walk and perhaps linger for a few minutes in the sun, soaking up the rays and some vitamin D, before returning to their sheltered spot and their books. On one of these wanderings, Fergus, having climbed to a higher deck, looked down on the stern and, amongst the crowd, spied Gentle Henry and Tabitha resting on sun beds below; the former noticed him and gave a friendly wave, which he reciprocated along with a smile.

  Ambling further along the top deck, he caught sight of Richard and Cressida, standing by the rail, in relaxed conversation with the Captain, who also looked completely at ease. As he passed by, Richard noticed and gesticulated for him to join them, but Fergus wasn’t confident he would fit into this naturally urbane conversation, so he simply smiled and pointed downwards as if to say that he had to be somewhere, and Richard gave an understanding nod. During this brief exchange, the Captain had turned, curious as to whom Richard was waving at, and Fergus was immediately struck by his kindly face. He looked a quiet and friendly man, more at home whiling away a few minutes with individual passengers than he had been, ten days earlier, when the centre of attention at the welcome party. Fergus decided he liked him and hoped that at some stage he would at least have an opportunity to say hello. But that would have to wait, for now he had missed his chance, so he headed back down three decks to rejoin his wife.

  They had both noticed how the bar and drinks staff were divided into two very different types, with the vast majority continuing to impress them with their friendliness and immaculate presentation. Sylvie, in particular, enjoyed talking with them and hearing more about their lives, both on the ship and back home in distant, exotic countries. These bar staff always seemed willing to spend a few minutes chatting to her and, though he joined in less, Fergus would sit listening, equally touched by their gentle humility – the men as well as the women. However, there were a handful of waiters who were more wolf-like, coming around with pre-made drinks on trays and trying the hard sell, with some or other special offer.

  “Drinks sir, madam?” One such waiter asked today.

  “No thank you,” Fergus responded.

  “It’s a delicious mango cocktail, and they are half price.”

  “No thank you.”

  “But why not sir? It is such a warm morning and the drinks are very refreshing.”

  “We will get our own drinks later, thank you.”

  “But I think madam wants one, sir.”

  “Would you like one?” Fergus said, turning to Sylvie, only half hiding the irritation in his voice.

  “No.”

  “There you go…” Fergus said to the wolf, who slipped away to look for easier lambs, his face barely hiding his contempt.

  There was, in fact, a lot of marketing and selling on board and Fergus wondered how a cruise company could make so much effort to create a relaxing atmosphere only then to sabotage it with incessant attempts to separate passengers from their cash. It began to grate. Strategically placed staff with cameras, for example, sought to charge for photos in front of various themed backgrounds, the latest being a snowy Christmas scene, besides which one of the Show Troupe (not experiencing the highlight of his Show Business career) had been co-opted to play a reluctant Santa. Meanwhile, it seemed wine-waiters had been instructed to encourage those asking for glasses to buy bottles instead.

  “No, just two glasses please,” Fergus had pleaded one evening.

  “A bottle is much better value, sir.”

  “No, tonight we only want a glass each, thank you.”

  “We can keep the rest for tomorrow…”

  “But we don’t know what we are eating tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure then?”

  “Quite.”

  “Is that ‘quite’ as in ‘reasonably’ or as in ‘completely’?”

  “Very definitely ‘completely’, thank you.”

  “Well, if you are certain?” the wine-waiter half asked, conveying surprise anyone could make such a choice.

  “We are.”

  Even at Reception, where a display of decorative Christmas cakes had been set up, staff worked hard to persuade passengers to part with a few extra pounds and take one home. At one stage, there was also a ‘fashion show’ in the nearby lobby, which the ship had somehow hyped into a must-see event. Staff took their turns to stride the cat-walk, posing around in expensive garments, to the eulogy of a host with an over-loud microphone who, if you were to believe him, had never before seen such bargains. Amazingly, a number of passengers appeared taken in, gawping, applauding, gasping even, and Fergus was reminded of the crowd admiring the emperor in his new clothes. Sylvie was particularly unimpressed, seeing all these hard sells, along with the disingenuous communications they had received, as glimpses behind the cruise company’s mask – beneath all the smiles, it was very definitely a business.

  Back on deck, both jumped as the fanfare heralded the Captain’s latest update, which proceeded to be broadcast to a captive but increasingly uninterested audience – dozing on sun loungers or legs splayed from white plastic chairs. Only Fergus, on this occasion, listened a little more attentively, suspecting it wasn’t the Captain’s favourite moment of the day either.

  After it had finished, they continued to sit there for a further hour before making
their way up to deck ten, where they had discovered the waiters opened up the external doors to the restaurant, enabling passengers to have lunch outside. They kept to a simple salad and bread roll, accompanied by iced water, exchanging few words as they gazed out at the tropical sea and watched the swells passing by on their long migrations to break on distant shores. It was a lazy, idyllic way to spend lunch and a world away from the rushed sandwiches, eaten over a computer keyboard, which for Fergus (and millions of others) had long been the routine.

  Looking down on the stern again, they noticed the Caballeros in the Jacuzzi.

  “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub!” Sylvie joked, inspiring in her husband a chuckle even as he sought to identify which of the villains had thrown the dancer into the pool. Just then she appeared, smiling and laughing with the sunbathers, working her way across the lower deck. Fergus leaned forward, watching nervously as she neared the spa bath and the lurking Caballeros. Suddenly, one wolf-whistled piercingly in her direction, the sound carrying clearly to Fergus and Sylvie observing from high above, but she did not react. The Caballero sank back into the bath, laughing boorishly with his two friends and hiding any disappointment at her lack of response. The dancer herself continued unperturbed through the crowd, eventually disappearing from Fergus’ protective sight.

  As he sat back in his chair, Fergus felt a surge of animosity towards the Caballeros. He could not help but worry how many times Justine may have been confronted by their type – it was almost unbearable to consider. Such thoughts did not cross Sylvie’s mind and, even had they done so, she would have been more confident her daughter could have handled such situations. She was able to see, though, that her husband was brooding over the incident – this was so typical of him and she sometimes wished he would lighten up, but she said nothing, certain he could not remain affronted long in these perfect surroundings.

  Sure enough, Fergus’ indignation imperceptibly melted away in the sunshine and, sensing it was time to move on, Sylvie took his hand and slowly they ambled back to their immaculately made-up cabin, where they rested, both wondering how doing so little could prove so incredibly tiring.

  16

  London and the Chilterns – early April 2010

  Katie got into one of the pool of unmarked police cars at Paddington Green and headed to the A40. Subsequent to her visit to the Fredricks’ a few days after Justine’s funeral, she had returned to see them on half a dozen further occasions, though none had been as difficult as that initial time, when deep down she had known that all the best leads had already been explored. And all in vain.

  She remembered, on first arriving in the area and driving those last few miles to their house, how beautiful she had found the countryside and how terrible she had thought it for someone who had grown up there to have died so impersonally on a cold London street. These feelings had been further confirmed when she reached the house itself, with its well kept lawns and the encircling woodland beyond. The building exuded a quiet serenity and it had struck Katie as being both perfectly where it belonged – deep in the Chiltern countryside – yet somehow not belonging at all to the wider world and all its troubles. But now troubles had even reached here:

  “It looks like it’s going to be difficult,” she had confessed on that first visit, after they had ushered her in and exchanged pleasantries.

  A ginger cat with black markings had wandered into the room and jumped on to her lap, just after she had started to speak. Mrs Fredricks had been about to get up to dislodge him, but Katie had signalled she didn’t mind: in fact she loved animals, though it was strange to be having this sort of conversation with one on her knees. She had briefly wondered if the cat realised Justine was gone, whether he missed her, or if the entire tragedy was passing over his head, he being the only one who would not have been amazed had Justine walked through the door at that very moment. Katie gave him a stroke, which had reassured her more than him, then she continued:

  “We have interviewed the witnesses but, beyond the cyclist being a woman, they have given us very little to go on. We have placed signage up at the accident site, asking people to come forward if they saw anything. We have done as much work on the CCTV as we can, following the cyclist both as far back and as far forward along her route as possible. We have also interviewed women cyclists using those roads. I have not given up, really I haven’t, but I want to be honest with you too that, in my experience, it’s not looking very hopeful.”

  Katie now shuddered a little as, turning on to the A40, she remembered her own words from four years earlier. At the time she had worried that she had been too blunt, but she hadn’t wanted to pretend, to give false hope simply because it made a difficult conversation easier for her. Above all, she had felt ashamed… ashamed because she knew she was failing them and because, somehow, that must have shown as – though at that stage they barely knew each other – Mrs Fredricks had come and sat next to her, while her husband had sought to sound reassuring:

  “We are sure you are doing your best. We both understand it is difficult, but we also know that, whether or not you find her, Justine is gone. Finding the cyclist does matter, but it wouldn’t change anything.”

  “They’re lovely aren’t they?” Wendy had said as Katie walked back with her to the car.

  “Very, the cat too… but I am not going to be able to give them what they want and, I don’t know, I feel so unprofessional… no result and then them comforting me!”

  “You are doing fine, Katie… how would anyone else do any better? Just be as good as your word, don’t give up on them. Not yet anyway.”

  As Wendy’s words came back to her years after Wendy herself had moved on to other tragedies, Katie wondered how long ‘not yet’ should last? She had never given up but, to be frank, until a fortnight ago, she had run out of lines to follow and her subsequent visits to the Fredricks’ had been little more than social calls to a couple of whom she had grown quietly fond. They had always greeted her warmly, asked how she was, made her tea and provided biscuits, and they had never quizzed her in too much depth about the case, knowing it only embarrassed her to reveal how little progress she had been able to make. Where others would have been less understanding and bullied her to do more to find their daughter’s killer, the Fredricks had listened attentively to anything she had told them, but had also understood she was doing all she could. Then, two years ago, Mr Fredricks had said:

  “Katie, thank you so much for all you have done, for caring and for trying your best, but, Sylvie and I, we both know there’s nothing more you can do. Torturing yourself won’t help either us or our daughter.”

  He was right, she knew that… in fact he would have been right had he said the same thing eighteen months earlier.

  “You have to know when to let a case go,” her inspector had said only a few months after the accident, but he had said it out of concern for her rather than for wasted police time. Of course other crimes increasingly consumed her attention, but every now and then, she would still make the effort to try something new: fresh posters on each anniversary and, on days off when she was at a loose end, occasionally going to one of the sites along the cyclist’s route and watching for women riding recklessly. Even as she did these things she knew they were completely hopeless, that these excursions were merely temporary insanities on her part and that, short of a miracle, the case would never be solved.

  She was relieved Mr Fredricks had said what he had said, it needed saying and she was not sure when she would have had the courage. It wasn’t fair on them to keep pretending there might be a positive outcome. So, they had both hugged her, and then she had left for what she imagined would be the last time.

  Two years later and it felt good to be driving out to see them again. She had phoned them first, making it very clear that there had not been a breakthrough, but explaining that there was, nevertheless, something she wished to discuss with them.

  Kati
e switched on the radio and a loud trailer screamed out at her for a football match to be broadcast that evening, a man excitedly commentating on a goal from an earlier game. The noise went straight through her and she desperately and randomly punched at other buttons to quell it and find another channel. In this way, she stumbled upon a music station and soon found herself singing along to Summer Martins’ ‘Roam’:

  “It’s now ten years ago yet you’re sensing her still

  And it makes you so sad but it gives you a thrill,

  You hope you might glimpse her but you never will,

  She’s gone and she’s gone for good.

  And all of those memories you hold deep inside

  Are more precious than gold and you’re so full of pride

  That she was once yours and oh how you tried

  To protect her, you thought that you could.

  In the mountains she’s absent

  And she’s not out at sea,

  She’s not lost in a forest,

  Nor in the city,

  And you know that you may as well roam,

  ’cos she’s not coming home.”

  The song for some reason suddenly felt a little too close for comfort, maybe in view of where she was headed, and so she switched it off, driving on in silence.

  Perhaps it was that silence, perhaps in combination with the optimism of the early spring weather, but, as she headed deeper into Buckinghamshire along the M40 and spotted the first tell-tale red kites circling high overhead, her heart began to lift – the area was gorgeous, even from a motorway along which most people tore at seventy miles an hour. Yes, Justine had died far too early and on a cold London pavement, but millions lived in London, some never seeing anything beyond its streets, how lucky Justine had been to grow up here! Off the motorway, Katie navigated the familiar leafy lanes that led to the Fredricks’ home, remembering how in summertime these little roads were like tunnels, with lush green branches reaching across from both sides and overlapping in the middle overhead. She pulled into the driveway and surveyed the house and garden, wondering what that childhood must have been like, had it been as idyllic as she imagined or was the reality rather more humdrum? Knowing the Fredricks as she did and with a well developed picture of their daughter in her mind, Katie felt that, even if her upbringing hadn’t been perfect, it surely hadn’t fallen far short.