Gran would be at church and Jess pictured her sitting upright in what had always been the family pew. Though not approving of the modern services she bore them stoically enough when there was no alternative.
Jess smiled to herself. Dear Gran: she was a complex character, politically incorrect to the nth degree and frequently dismissing other people’s opinions out of hand. As a child, Jess had been hurt by the undeniable favouritism shown towards Verity, whom, Jess suspected, Rose regarded as her only true grandchild, but she was also capable of unexpected acts of kindness and more than once had surprised her by understanding her teenage worries when her parents had failed to do so.
She slipped out of bed and padded to the window, staring down the length of the garden to the gate at the far end. It was a sorry sight in the relentless rain, the branches of trees and shrubs bowed down with the weight of it and a few bedraggled birds pecking at the lawn. Very different from the fairy-lit surroundings of two weeks ago.
Her thoughts turned to Cassie and last night’s disclosure. What was the meaning of the mysterious letter tucked inside that book and then forgotten? Had Gran ever replied to it? It means so much to Owen, her mother had written. What did? And why the need for assurances that Fleur herself was happy? Did this mysterious something explain why Gran often seemed over-critical of her father? Though admittedly, while always scrupulously polite, he didn’t let her wilder assertions go unchallenged, a fact she obviously resented. A state of armed neutrality! Jess thought.
Turning from the window, she went for a shower before replacing her washbag and night clothes in an overnight bag, the only luggage she’d be taking back to Bristol that evening, wishing as she did so that she had several more nights to spend in the safety of home.
Sandstone was, as Rose always maintained, a family house, solid, unpretentious and comfortable. Adhering to its traditions, Sunday lunch always consisted of a roast and was partaken of in the dining room at the rear of the house, its French windows giving on to the terrace and garden. Today, as the rain continued to fall, it had been necessary to switch on the lights.
Jess, remembering her earlier musings, surreptitiously regarded her grandmother across the table. Her high cheekbones and large heavy-lidded eyes showed traces of the beauty she must once have been. As always she was perfectly groomed, her silver hair – impossible to think of it as either white or grey – impeccably coiffed thanks to her weekly visit to the hairdresser.
‘So how was the new vicar, Ma?’ Fleur enquired, passing her the potatoes.
‘Ghastly!’ replied Rose unequivocally. ‘Would you believe he began his sermon by asking everyone to call him Josh? Josh! How can one discuss theological matters with someone called Josh?’
‘Joshua is a biblical name,’ Owen pointed out, straight-faced.
‘It was bad enough,’ Rose continued, ignoring him, ‘when people spoke of our previous incumbent as “Reverend” or “the Reverend Jones”.’ A retaliatory glance at Owen. ‘Presumably, since grammar is no longer taught correctly, no one had told them the word “reverend” is an adjective, and that without the courtesy title they were baldly addressing him as the equivalent of “Handsome” or “Incompetent”.’
‘“The Handsome Jones!”’ Verity said with a giggle. ‘What should it be, Gran?’
‘The Reverend Mr Jones, of course.’
There was a slight pause, then Fleur said a little desperately, ‘This must be the first rain you’ve seen in a while, Jess.’
‘Yes – good old England!’
Rose, having had her say, was willing to be diverted. ‘I hope you have some photographs to show me, Jessica? Your grandfather and I honeymooned in Florence and it would be good to see whether much has changed.’
‘I’ve loads, Gran, but they’re on my phone. I’ll show them to you on the TV after lunch.’
‘That will be interesting, though I must say I prefer flicking through an album.’ She turned to Verity. ‘I believe your exams are over now, my dear? When will you have the results?’
Verity grimaced. ‘Not till nearly the end of August. It’s a total waste of time having to go to school for the rest of the term,’ she added, with a glance at her father. ‘It’s not as though we’re really doing anything.’
‘A perennial argument,’ he responded mildly.
Rose helped herself to gravy. ‘Did I tell you Mrs Hill’s grandson goes to the college? She was saying there’s been a lot of concern about bullying this term. I’m surprised you allow it, Owen.’
He flushed and Jess noted the tightening of his jaw, though his voice remained steady. ‘We hardly allow it, Rose; the school has a very strict anti-bullying policy and anyone caught flouting it is severely reprimanded.’
‘Well, it doesn’t seem to be working,’ Rose said serenely. ‘I hear several of the younger boys have gone home in tears. This beef is very good, darling,’ she went on, in almost the same breath. ‘Are you still going to Dewhurst’s?’
It took Fleur a moment to switch her train of thought. ‘Yes; they’re marginally more expensive, but worth the extra, I think.’
Rose having apparently shot her barbs for the day, the rest of the meal passed peacefully, and as soon as it was over Owen excused himself and went to his study. How was it, he thought furiously, closing the door behind him with a sense of relief, that the damn woman always went for the jugular? It was as though she deliberately sought out his most vulnerable areas and dug her knife in. He was well aware of the outbreak of bullying in the latter half of term and had taken stringent measures to contain it, but it was proving hard to eliminate completely. If it continued next term, they might be forced to consider exclusion, a move they were loath to take.
He walked over to his desk and bent over it, hands flat on its surface. Rose was getting worse, he thought despairingly. For Fleur’s sake he’d always tried to contain his anger at her constant needling, but the limit of his tolerance was fast approaching.
Truth to tell, he’d been in two minds about applying for the St Catherine’s job, precisely because of the proximity of his mother-in-law. But he’d been thinking of moving from the Bromley school for some time, and it was Fleur who’d seen the ad in the Times Educational Supplement and begged him to apply. And he was forced to admit that Rose had been more than generous in handing over her house to them at a ridiculously low price. Also, he reminded himself, there were times when she was charming and seemed almost fond of him, but they were few and far between and getting fewer.
He straightened, telling himself he couldn’t allow one opinionated woman to mar his enjoyment in the job he loved with a passion. If all it took to keep the peace was for him to hold his tongue, so be it.
The flat was in darkness when, with some trepidation, Jess arrived just after nine o’clock that evening. A scrawled note was propped against a candlestick on the table, reading Gone to the Peacock. Come and join us if you’re not too late. M.
She was too late, Jess thought thankfully, grateful to have some time alone in the flat as she forced herself to look down at the carpet where, unbelievably, a man’s body had lain. What had happened to him? Where was he now? Above all, who was he? All questions to which she was unlikely ever to find the answers.
Breakfast at Sandstone. Although it was Monday the girls were still in bed, not having to be in school until later, and their parents were enjoying the unusual calm. Fleur was trying to calculate the best time to phone Sue, while Owen skimmed through the local paper.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed suddenly, making Fleur jump. ‘That body that was washed up a few miles down the coast – it seems the man didn’t drown, he was murdered! And even more incredibly, I met him! There’s an artist’s impression here.’
‘You met him?’ Fleur repeated, laying down her cup. ‘Where and when?’
‘The day before Cassie’s birthday. If you remember, I had to go to Bristol to collect her present, and arranged to meet Charles for lunch. He was late as usual and I was at the bar having a pint while I wait
ed for him. This guy came and perched next to me and we started talking. Just general stuff really. He said it was his first visit to the UK and was asking about Bristol. Then Charles arrived and we went through to the restaurant, and that was the last I saw of him.’
He glanced back at the paper. ‘The police are appealing for anyone with any information to get in touch, but I hardly think a couple of words over a pint would count for much.’
‘It would prove he was in Bristol that day,’ Fleur said.
‘True. Well, I’ll give it a thought.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must go. Have a good day, sweetheart.’ And after a quick kiss he was gone. By the time the front door closed behind him, Fleur, intent on her worries, had forgotten all about her husband’s encounter.
FIVE
As Patrick was leaving for work that morning, a brightly coloured postcard dropped through the letter box, and since he was running late he slipped it in his pocket and promptly forgot it until half an hour later as he was opening office mail. The picture on the front was, predictably, the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Guess where I am! Jess had written.
Italy is glorious – I can highly recommend it! We visited Florence yesterday and it was breathtaking – too much really to take in on one visit. Good excuse to go back! Food, weather and hotel all great. As they say, Wish you were here! Love, Jess.
It was dated a week ago; she was probably back by now, and the realization awoke his previous worries about their brief conversation on the stairs at Sandstone. He’d give her a call later and hope to get some more information out of her, but with luck whatever the crisis had been would now be resolved. With which comforting thought, Patrick returned to his correspondence.
To Jess’s heartfelt relief, her encounter with Maggie that morning passed off smoothly. In fact, she was so exactly the same that Jess could almost have believed she’d dreamt the whole thing. But then, she told herself, she’d had two weeks to prepare.
‘Thanks for the card,’ Maggie said. ‘We were all very envious!’
‘I’m surprised it arrived before I did!’ Jess replied.
‘Only just; it came on Saturday. What time did you get back last night?’
‘Around nine. Not late by your standards, I know, but I didn’t feel up to changing and going out again. Did you have a good evening?’
‘It was OK. Connor was disappointed you didn’t show,’ Maggie added slyly.
‘I’m sure he got over it.’
She laughed. ‘We’re going to try that new Thai restaurant in Park Street this evening. It’s had good reviews. Table booked for eight p.m. OK?’
‘OK.’ So this evening would be the test, Jess thought; meeting the group en bloc and trying to guess which of them might be a murderer. She felt slightly sick at the prospect.
During the coffee break at work, however, there was a further development. A copy of the local paper was lying on a table, and while awaiting her turn at the coffee machine Jess picked it up. She was idly flicking through it when a headline caught her eye and she came to an abrupt halt.
BODY ON BEACH FOUND TO BE MURDER VICTIM
Her heart suddenly pounding, her eyes raced down the rest of the column:
At a press conference last night police revealed that the man whose body recently washed up on Clevecombe beach had not, as assumed, drowned, but died from a knife wound to the chest. Torquay landlady Mrs Emma Noble, 65, recognized the deceased from an artist’s impression and identified him as Bruce Marriott, an Australian who was staying at her B&B. He’d told her he’d be away for a couple of nights and had taken only his briefcase with him.
Police are anxious to speak to anyone with information concerning Mr Marriott’s movements since his arrival in this country and especially after 19th June, the date on which he left Torquay.
Below the report was a sketch of a face strongly resembling the one that had haunted her for the last two weeks.
Jess’s mouth was dry. Did Maggie know? If so, would it be noticeable when they met this evening? And why was a man recently arrived from Australia lying dead on their carpet?
‘Jess?’
Her colleague’s slightly raised voice penetrated her musings and she looked up.
‘If you’ve finished with my paper, I’d like a shot at the crossword before getting back to work.’
Jess flushed. ‘Sorry, Jan, I didn’t realize it was yours.’ She paused. ‘What’s all this about a body? It must have happened while I was away.’
‘Oh yes; he was found on the beach at Clevecombe – fully dressed, which seemed odd, and he’d been in the water some time. Bit of a shock to hear he’d been murdered, though. No one’s been reported missing so it was assumed he was a holidaymaker who could have come from anywhere in the country – or the world, for that matter. As, it seems, he had. At least thanks to his landlady he now has a name.’
‘He’d no means of identification on him?’
Jan shook her head. ‘But now they know who he was there’s sure to be much wider coverage.’
Her prediction proved well founded, for as Jess hurried out of the office two hours later in search of lunch her mobile rang, identifying the caller as Rachel.
‘Is this guy in the paper who I think it is?’ she asked without preamble.
Jess moved off the busy pavement into a doorway. ‘It must be, mustn’t it?’
‘I presume you’ve still not contacted the police?’
‘Give me a chance!’ Jess defended herself.
‘Well, here’s your opportunity. Now they’re actually asking for information.’
‘I’d still be chief suspect as whistle-blower.’
Rachel’s sigh came down the line. She changed tack. ‘How was Maggie when you saw her?’
‘Exactly the same. No hint of any trouble. We’re meeting some of the others this evening, and since I’ve no idea which, if any of them, was involved, I’ll have to be wary of everyone. Frankly I’m terrified I’ll give myself away.’
‘Tell you what: how about phoning the police and just saying you saw this man going into the block of flats? That doesn’t tie you down but it’d give them a lead. They’d interview everyone in the building but none of your lot would suspect you, specially since they thought you’d gone home before it happened. Admittedly it mightn’t lead anywhere, but you’d have done your “civic duty”.’
‘It’s an idea certainly, provided they’d guarantee not to release my name.’
‘There you are, then,’ Rachel said with satisfaction. ‘I’ll get off the line so you can call them now.’ And without giving her a chance to comment further she rang off.
Jess stood for a moment longer in the doorway, her appetite gone. Despite her apprehension she’d felt guilty about not reporting her involvement, and as Rachel said this presented a safer way of complying. But she didn’t want a lengthy phone call, being put on hold while she was passed from one extension to another and having to explain herself a dozen times. Better to go to the police station now and speak to someone in person.
In the event it was not all that straightforward. It transpired that the station was inundated with reported sightings and her request to speak to someone in charge met with short shrift.
‘No one’s available at the moment, madam, but if you could leave your contact number someone will get back to you.’
Jess shook her head. ‘This is important information. I saw this man go into a building on Friday the twenty-first.’
The civilian behind the desk hesitated. ‘If you could give us the address—’
‘No!’ Jess heard her voice rise in frustration and as she drew a breath to steady it a man emerged from an internal door, pausing as he caught sight of her. He glanced at them with raised eyebrows.
‘A problem, Bill?’
The man shook his head. ‘Just another alleged sighting, Sarge.’
Jess had had enough. ‘There’s no alleged about it!’ she said heatedly. ‘I saw him with my own eyes, but if no one be
lieves me I’m obviously wasting my time.’
She turned to go but the detective put a hand on her arm. ‘Just a minute, ma’am. I’m DS Rob Stuart and I’m working on the Marriott case. Am I right in assuming you have some information?’
Jess held his eye unflinchingly. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘Then if you’d like to come with me, I’d be grateful to hear what you have to say.’
With a look of triumph at the hapless clerk, Jess allowed herself to be led to a door across the foyer which her companion opened, ushering her into a small room containing little but a table and several chairs. While she seated herself he made a phone call and shortly afterwards a tap on the door heralded another officer, who identified himself as DC Masters and took his place next to the sergeant.
‘Now,’ Stuart began, ‘perhaps we could start by taking your name and address?’
Jess hesitated. ‘Do I have to give them? I’d be much more comfortable remaining anonymous.’
‘I’m afraid it’s necessary for our records, ma’am, but don’t worry, your details won’t be made public. So, you are Ms …?’
‘Tempest,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Jessica Tempest.’
‘And your address?’
Again, she paused. ‘This is where it becomes difficult. He went into the building where I live, but I don’t want to be known as the one who reported it.’
‘Ah, I see your point, but as I explained we never reveal our sources.’
Perforce accepting his assurance, Jess gave them the address of the flats and the date on which she’d seen the man who’d been identified as Bruce Marriott, making a rough guess at the time he’d arrived at the building.
‘What makes you so sure it was him?’ the constable enquired.
She improvised. ‘I was able to have a good look at him, because he was going in as I came out, and he held the door for me.’
‘Did he say anything?’
Should she hint at an accent? But his landlady would know whether or not he had one, so better play safe. ‘No, he just smiled,’ she replied. ‘Could you say a passer-by had seen him?’
The Ties That Bind Page 6
