by Susan Moody
‘I’m Janey Bennett,’ she said, when Kate was once again in front of her, ‘but I haven’t the slightest idea who you are.’
‘She’s called Kate Fullerton and she’s come about Lindsay,’ Sarah said, adding quickly, ‘she’s not the police or anything; I think she’s got some information . . .’
‘Why don’t you let her speak for herself? How do like your tea, may I call you Kate?’
The sandwiches were smoked salmon spread with some kind of piquant green sauce and layered between variegated slices of multigrain and white farmhouse bread. The cake had been made, so Mrs Bennett informed them, with ground almonds instead of flour. The tea was Lapsang Souchong, and she hoped Kate liked it, otherwise she was sure her husband – Michael, who by now had joined them, his old cricketing shirt bespeckled with tips of green grass, which also decorated his short grey beard – would be happy to go and make a pot of black tea; they had English Breakfast, Darjeeling or Assam or various assorted herbal teas if Kate liked or else—
‘Oh, do shut up, Mummy!’ Sarah said. ‘She’s perfectly fine with what she’s got, aren’t you, Kate?’ And when Kate said she was, Michael turned towards her and said that perhaps she’d better let them know whatever it was that she had come for, he was aware that it was . . . difficult for everyone but . . .
‘She’s been attacked herself,’ Sarah said, ‘and she wondered if it was by the same guy as Lindsay.’
Kate explained about the wine bar, about the Regular – Stefan – his apparent infatuation with her, the phone call and the notes. ‘But that’s exactly what happened with Lindsay!’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘Ringing up all the time, sending her ridiculous little notes. That’s why she came home, to get away from him.’
Her father, nodding, added that Lindsay had never told them the guy’s name, maybe she hadn’t even known it, but she did, said Sarah, something vaguely foreign-sounding, I’m sure she did, and Kate wondered if it might have been ‘Stefan’, at which Sarah frowned in doubt, said she wasn’t certain but it could have been, and he’d asked her out for dinner, in this really arrogant way, as though there’d be no question of her not accepting, and then he got really mad when she said no way, thank you.
‘Is that what happened to you, Kate?’ asked Mrs Bennett.
‘More or less.’ Kate hesitated, thinking that maybe she didn’t want to tell them about the whole hateful thing, nor did she wish to see a lurking thrill or perhaps a tad of revulsion in their eyes, watch them glance at her and then away, embarrassed, not knowing what to say, how to behave ordinarily when faced with extraordinary circumstances. But these people had suffered far more than she had, so she took a deep breath and explained, as briefly as possible, what had happened.
‘Bastards!’ said Sarah. ‘Buggering bastards!’ Mrs Bennett put her hand on Kate’s arm and murmured soothingly, ‘So dreadful for you, so horrifying,’ and Michael Bennett pressed his lips together for a moment, then said that hanging was too good for people like that. No revulsion from any of the Bennetts, only the kindest sort of pity.
‘Anyway, the point is,’ Kate said, ‘it was the Stefan person and his vile friend, Mick, who did . . . what they did, and it appeared to be a reaction to my refusal to go out with . . . with Stefan’ – she hated saying his name, as though they knew each other – ‘and it occurred to me, when I heard that he’d put the moves on your daughter and she’d turned him down just like I did, that it could have been one of them – or both – who came here and – and ran her down.’
‘Revenge, you mean?’ asked Sarah. ‘For refusing his invitation?’
‘That’s right. I’m sure the police asked, but did anyone see anything like a car they didn’t recognize, a stranger walking about?’
‘This is a small village,’ Mrs Bennett said. ‘Most people aren’t out late, there’s not a lot to do except go to the pub, and of course though the police made all sorts of enquiries, nobody saw anything, or heard anything which could identify whoever did it.’
‘The way we see it,’ Sarah said, ‘he must have followed her—’
‘Stalked her.’
‘—so he knew where she lived, and obviously he couldn’t have afforded to hang about during the day, waiting for her, in case he was noticed,’ and Michael added that the worst thing, for them, was that the police were pretty sure that once he hit her, he stopped the car and got out to check on Lindsay, ‘though we don’t know whether that was to see if she was alive, or if she was dead.’
‘We all assumed it was a random thing. And now you’re saying that it might not have been random, but a deliberate act of revenge, a . . .’ Mrs Bennett pressed her forefinger against her upper lip and closed her eyes tightly. ‘A deliberate execution?’
‘I’m wondering, that’s all.’
‘There’s so much ugliness in the world.’ Janey’s head turned from side to side as she spoke, her voice rising. ‘So much evil.’
‘So much good, too, Janey, don’t forget the way the village all rallied round, and Lindsay’s friends, and kind Truman, who spent so much time with us when it all happened, and now he’s gone himself.’
‘Yes, I know you’re right, but still . . .’ Janey Bennett stared darkly into some personal abyss.
‘Robbie insisted that he’d seen “one of them fancy cars” driving through the village around six o’clock that evening,’ Sarah put in briskly. ‘A sporty thing, he said, sort of dark, or maybe red, but he couldn’t pick one out of the pictures they showed him, thought it might have been foreign, like an Alfa or a Ferrari or something.’ All three Bennetts gazed at Kate as though she might magically be able to pin down the vehicle used and bring the criminal to justice, so she described the red car she’d driven away from the house where they’d kept her (SEM 123), in the hope that it might help the Bennetts: though she had no idea what kind of a car Stefan might have been driving eighteen months ago, when Lindsay was killed. She watched the three of them reliving the pain they must have endured, knowing that if Lindsay had been helped in time, she would almost certainly have survived. At first sight, they seemed a normal, happy family, but under the surface emotions must constantly be seething, especially when they thought – as they must so often do – of the ‘if onlys’ attendant on their daughter and sister’s death, the fragility of everything that we take for granted: one moment you’re strolling home from the pub on a summer evening, and the next you’re gone, obliterated. After two years, did the pain die down a little, did it start not to matter who was responsible, did the fact that she was dead become the paramount thing? She guessed not, was certain that, as in her own case, which was now more than ten years ago, they still burned for what these days was called ‘closure’, not just for her father but for Annie and Luisa as well.
She opened her mouth to say something of all this, then decided that it would look as though she were trying to muscle in on the Bennetts’ grief. ‘Thank you for the tea,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I need to get back. I’m sorry if I spoiled your Sunday afternoon, raised old ghosts.’
‘Oh, but you didn’t,’ said Janey, her face bleak. ‘The ghosts are always with us.’
Jefferson
Nineteen
Gordon had certainly done him proud. The ‘associates’, whoever they might be, had secured him not just a room but a whole suite on the fifth floor of what might not have been the grandest hotel in Quito but certainly felt like it. He was the temporary master of an enormous bathroom with the most modern of smoked glass and chrome fittings, a kitchen with a fridge crammed with goodies (patés, smoked salmon, things in small jars, things in bigger jars), a sitting room with a view over the city towards cloud-topped mountains and full of grandiose furniture and modern gadgets, including a state-of-the-art TV which was approximately two inches thick, and a hand-held keypad which, when he pressed buttons on it, variously opened and shut the drapes, switched on the heating, started the shower in the bathroom and locked the door, though he only discovered this when he tried to leave the
room. There were various elaborate flower arrangements ranged here and there, a gorgeously carved table in the centre holding a bowl sculpted from volcanic rock piled high with exotic fruit, a silver bucket with a bottle of champagne cooling in it, another flower arrangement.
It was more than Jefferson could possibly have afforded, or would have spent, even if he could, since he preferred to spend his money on other things than a few nights in an hotel. It was like travelling first class, which was very nice indeed (Head Office had sent him to Singapore several times), truly a different experience, but nonetheless, Jefferson would never personally have forked out for the cost of a seat that was three times as expensive as economy class. Fatalistically, he hoped that Gordon’s promised ‘rock-bottom prices’ meant that the room – the suite – would end up vaguely within a range he could manage.
The champagne came with a small card propped against it on which were typed the words With the Compliments of the Management Please Inform Us if there is Any Way We Can Be of Service! Well, Jefferson thought, looking at the luxury which surrounded him, maybe you could send in a dusky maiden to drop peeled (and de-pipped, please) grapes into my mouth before giving me an erotic massage, but apart from that, there isn’t really anything much I need. The thought of the dusky maiden triggered memories of Kate Fullerton as he’d last seen her, her over-emphatic cheeriness as though trying to insist that there was nothing wrong, nothing, thank you, the droop of her shoulders, how she hadn’t been able to maintain eye contact for very long. Perhaps she was afraid that either he’d get some kind of gleeful thrill out of imagining the cruelties which had been heaped on her, or else that he’d treat her with condescending pity; it would be hard to choose which was worse.
What he’d really like to do would be to hold her close against him and stroke her, smooth her fur; she reminded him of a dog he’d acquired when he was at university (his mother hadn’t ‘held’ with pets when he was growing up) which had been stricken with some virulent form of cancer, and which the vet had told him it would be kinder to put down. Holding it in his arms as he waited for the injection to take effect, he’d seen the same resignation in its eyes, as though it knew very well how difficult the rest of its life was likely to be and that there was no point in struggling against it. His hatred for the two men who had abducted and abused Kate was so deep that he had to get up and walk about the room to ease his agitation.
He wanted to tell her that for her, unlike his dog, there was every point in struggling, if only to prove that the bastards hadn’t broken her spirit. He had wanted her to come to the Galápagos with him, but of course couldn’t ask, though it had been obvious from the way she had grown so animated when describing the place to him that she knew the Islands well, and loved them. One of these days he hoped she would describe more of it for him, maybe travel with him; it would make an ideal honeymoon destination, even if they couldn’t afford a hotel like this, though if he was ever lucky enough to be marrying Kate Fullerton, he’d pay whatever it took and hang the expense.
His guide book had warned him that pickpocketing was a major growth industry in the capital, and tourists should take all precautions, so he set off on his first jaunt outside the hotel with his passport and money in a zipped bag purchased at Heathrow hanging round his neck inside his shirt. It was less comfortable than he’d have liked; the pull of the zip rubbed awkwardly against his skin and his chest hairs caught in the metal teeth at every step he took. Nonetheless, he strode confidently across marble-flagged squares, past impressive fountains and magnificently grand public buildings, secure in the knowledge that only the most brazen of pickpockets would be able to get at his valuables, unless he found himself caught in a honey-trap, a phrase which always made him think of the jars smeared with jam and half-full of water and drowned or drowning wasps which his mother used to set here and there in summer (‘wasps have rights too, Mum’). Despite its magnificence, he was acutely aware, as always in a major city, of the darkly seething underbelly lurking round the corner or down the alley, not just lurking but in some cases brazenly advertising itself: whore houses calling themselves massage parlours where every kind of carnality, straight or deviant, was available at a price and sometimes even included a massage, dealers and gun-runners, forgers, moneylenders, people-smugglers, bars which were little more than pick-up joints, places where, if you knew the names and had the money, you could buy a heroin hit, or rent a guy who, for the price of his next joint or meal or woman, would kill a person of your choice.
He walked down a street lined with market stalls selling miscellaneous items: fruit and vegetables, porcelain hand-wash basins, woven baskets, rusty tools, colourful blankets, straw hats. Buy, buy, the poncho-wrapped Indian traders kept urging him, lovely basket, fresh fruit, nice chisel very cheap, hats, Englishman, buy a hat, and one of them, his accent noticeably different from the others, called out, ‘S mad dogs and Englishmen, innit?’ In summer, his father never went out of the house without his Panama hat, in honour of his namesake, President Truman, so when Jefferson saw a hat which closely resembled his father’s he picked it up off a pile of others (‘Iss President Truman, innit?’) and handed over what seemed like an incredibly large sum of money which he humiliatingly had to fish out from the front of his shirt, painfully yanking at his chest hairs as he did so. The hat-vendor informed him that he’d spent three years working in the East End of London, England, for someone he called Meesta Beeg, but came home in the end firstly because he missed his mum and secondly because he was wanted by the police for murder. ‘Murder?’ Jefferson said, stepping backwards into a mess of orange peel and rotting flower stems.
‘Not really murder, ees my mate, he fall down in street and bang head on curbstone and is dead in one second, innit?’
But this abrupt demise wasn’t, so Jefferson gathered, the fault of the hat-vendor, who had only pulled out the knife in order to frighten his mate, and he wasn’t really to be blamed if the mate had misunderstood his intentions, was he, though the English police hadn’t seen it like that, but Jefferson could appreciate that it was impossible for him to go back to England, where he could earn much money, much more than here, and if Jefferson wanted a guide or an interpreter, he only had to return to the stall and he, Jaime, would be delighted to be of service, take him up into the mountains (and bring him back? Jefferson wondered), out into the countryside, see volcanoes and lakes, byootiful countryside, or wherever else he might wish to be conveyed.
Jefferson promised to return if he found himself in need of guiding and strolled on, reconciled to the irritation of the pouch inside his shirt and feeling as debonair as hell in his new hat with its black band round the crown, exactly like his father’s had been. When he finally returned to his hotel, and had endured a certain amount of unwelcome forelock-tugging and general smarminess from the lobby personnel, he took the lift up to the fifth floor. Opening his door, it was obvious at a glance that someone, or maybe several people, had been through his possessions. He stood in the middle of the room and slowly turned 360 degrees, observing the minute changes which became apparent as he did so. The bed had lost its original smooth-as-a-billiard-table look, one of his jackets now hung crookedly on its wooden hanger, a ripe kumquat had rolled under the table, and unless his hair had changed colour since his arrival in Quito, someone had made use of the silver-topped hairbrushes which had been a twenty-first gift from his father, had utilized the loo without flushing it afterwards and had plundered the contents of the fruit bowl. What’s more, the file of papers, which had been lying on a marble-topped side table with goat-shaped golden legs, was no longer there.
Was this the work of Gordon’s ‘associates’, or had a random fruit-loving sneak-thief gained access to his room without the knowledge of the hotel staff? If the latter, what would a random sneak-thief, fruit-loving or not, want with his papers? He envisaged the intruder finding the file, choosing a couple of pieces of fruit, sitting down on the edge of the bed, leafing through the pages and then, catching sight
of himself in the mirror, deciding his appearance needed tidying up and while he was at it, he might as well try on the gringo’s jacket, first searching the pockets for any forgotten valuables, and actually, taking a leak as well. Talk about brass neck! his father would have said, a term which always made Jefferson think of the National Geographic and photographs of women with dozens of metal rings stretching their necks until they looked like human screw-in light-bulbs.
Upper lip circumflexed with distaste, he flushed away the contents of the loo, afterwards vigorously washing his hands. He wondered whether he should pretend not to have noticed any signs of intrusion, or whether he should complain to the brown-nosers on the reception desk. He made himself a cup of what the label described as tea but which tasted more like boiled snapdragons, and considered the question, finally deciding he would be a step ahead of the opposition (whoever they might be) if for the moment he acted as though he had noticed nothing untoward. If Kate had been with him, they might have sat down on the balcony with a glass of chilled champagne, gazing at the cloudy peaks in the distance while they discussed whether to tell or not to tell. ‘Discretion isn’t necessarily the better part of valour,’ Kate might have said, looking at him fondly, and he would have murmured sagely, ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ at the same time wondering what discretion had to do with valour in the first place, and they might then jointly have come to a decision, before pouring a second glass of champagne prior to going out somewhere nice for dinner. He could have arranged for the champagne to be in their room when he booked the hotel, and the card might then have said With the Compliments of the Management and Congratulations on Your Marriage! or something similar. He opened the complimentary bottle, poured himself a glass (Cheers, Gordon!) and sat alone on the balcony looking at the view. There were two active volcanoes outside Quito, he’d read, when he had been mugging up on Ecuador prior to arrival. Suppose one of them erupted during the night, ash silently floating down like black snow while he innocently slept, covering the city and smothering its inhabitants . . . He would hate to end up like the people of Pompeii, caught in extremis and preserved for ever in the postures of an agonizing death; ash could reach temperatures of over a hundred degrees, he’d read somewhere.
