A Tangled Thread

by Anthea Fraser

  Mrs Monroe’s soft Scottish voice interrupted her. ‘Mrs Lawrence, I’m sorry about your husband but it’s the police you should be contacting, not me.’

  ‘Please hear me out; I need to speak to you not because I believe this Johnnie Stewart is my husband, but because I’m sure he’s not. I just have to have proof.’

  ‘And why should you think I could provide it?’

  ‘He lodged with you for two months, the paper says. All I’m asking is for you to spare me ten minutes or so and confirm the photograph that I’ll show you is not the same man. I promise you I’m not mad or dangerous or unhinged in any way, and I’m quite happy to meet you in a public place rather than your home if you’d prefer that. It’s just that all this publicity and the artist’s impression or whatever it was have been exceedingly difficult for me and my family, rekindling our grief.’ Despite herself, Jill’s voice trembled.

  ‘Of course, I do understand.’ The tone had softened. ‘And if it means so much to you, of course I’ll see you. I lost my own husband, and I know how it feels.’

  ‘That’s so good of you, thank you so much.’

  ‘Will you be coming alone?’

  ‘Yes; I … don’t want to put anyone else through this.’

  ‘Then of course you must come to the house. Have you the address?’

  ‘Yes, I looked it up.’

  ‘When would you like to come?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Jill held her breath; she’d already booked a seat on the morning plane. ‘After lunch some time?’

  ‘Very well, Mrs Lawrence, I’ll expect you about two thirty.’

  ‘Forgive me for saying so, Jill, but you seem a little distracted this morning! In that last piece I played at least three wrong notes and you didn’t even notice!’

  Jill wrenched her thoughts from anticipation of her trip. ‘I’m so sorry, Edward. If you wouldn’t mind playing it again, I promise to give it my full attention.’

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ he said, ‘just concerned that you seem to have something on your mind.’

  He deserved some sort of explanation. ‘It’s just that I have to make an unexpected trip tomorrow, and there are various things to plan.’

  ‘You should have cancelled the lesson.’ He studied her flushed face. ‘Can I be of any help? Run you to the station or airport or anything?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream—’ She broke off. Truth to tell, she’d been concerned about leaving the car overnight in the long-stay car park, but there was no way she could ask her family’s assistance; they’d only talk her into not going.

  He was watching her. ‘Really, it would be no trouble.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Scotland, just for one night.’

  ‘A long way to go for one night!’

  Jill abandoned her reticence; there was no reason not to tell him the truth. ‘The point is that this man who was stabbed up there and whose photo is everywhere you look is very like my husband.’

  He looked shocked. ‘The one who was featured on Crimewatch?’

  She nodded. ‘You must think I’m mad, because it can’t possibly be, but I have to satisfy myself that it’s not him.’

  ‘How will flying to Scotland help you do that?’

  ‘I’m taking a photograph to show his landlady. She’ll be able to give me a definite answer and then I can relax.’

  ‘You poor thing,’ Edward said gently. ‘This must all be very difficult for you.’

  She gave him a shaky smile. ‘Don’t be too sympathetic or you’ll make me cry! But if you really mean it, it would be wonderful if you could run me to the airport.’

  ‘Of course I will, and meet you on your return. So now you can stop worrying and sit back and listen to a perfect rendition of my homework!’

  London

  Paul Devonshire was frying sausages for his supper when his phone interrupted him and he was pleasantly surprised to find an old university friend on the line. Barnie Reid had been one of the group who went round with him and Greg, but since he’d remained in the north they kept in touch only spasmodically by email.

  ‘Barnie! Great to hear from you! How are things?’

  ‘Not so bad, old pal. But before we start exchanging news, I presume you’ve seen pictures of this bloke found dead in Scotland?’

  Paul stiffened. ‘Yes?’ he admitted cautiously.

  ‘Remind you of anyone?’

  ‘You must know it does.’

  ‘Yep, but there’s something else. For the last week or so a pal of mine up here has had something on his mind and it all came spilling out over a pint last night. It boils down to the fact that he thinks this bloke might be his father, who allegedly died years ago. And to crown it all his father’s name was Larry – or Laurence – Gregory.’ He paused and when Paul didn’t speak – because he couldn’t – he went on: ‘Laurence Gregory – Gregory Lawrence. Coincidence or what?’

  Paul moistened dry lips. ‘Like Greg being known at uni as “Larry” Lawrence? It took me a while to remember to call him Greg, like everyone else down here.’

  ‘I still think of him as Larry.’ Barnie paused again. ‘We lost touch after we graduated; did he marry Sally Hurst?’

  Sally! ‘Oh my God!’ Paul breathed. ‘I’ve not thought of Sally in years, but your mentioning her in this context rings a bell. We were out in a foursome one time, Larry and Sal and me and Rosie Teal, who I was going around with at the time. I don’t know how it came up but we got on to talking about names and Sal was teasing Larry because his was interchangeable. “You can’t know if you’re coming or going!” she said. And Larry said something to the effect that we might laugh, but it gave him a dual personality, which could come in useful one day! It was a throwaway line,’ Paul ended flatly. ‘A joke.’

  ‘But as you say, oh my God.’

  ‘Logically it can’t be either of them,’ Paul insisted a little desperately. ‘Lots of people have the same name – you only have to look on the Internet – and you said this Larry Gregory died some time ago.’

  ‘Allegedly died. As did Greg Lawrence. Allegedly. But since he was blown up there wouldn’t have been a body, would there?’

  Numbly, Paul recalled his first sight of the e-fit, when he’d briefly wondered if this Johnnie Stewart could conceivably have written the Farthing piece. Now, incredibly, it seemed possible that Greg himself had been alive and writing his anonymous column until a few weeks ago. The Sunday Chronicle knew him only by that name: the fact that someone called Gregory Lawrence had died would, even if they’d heard of it, have meant nothing to them. But where, for God’s sake, did Johnnie Stewart come in?

  ‘To answer your question,’ he said slowly, ‘no, he didn’t marry Sally; he married a girl called Jill and I was his best man.’

  ‘So what do you make of it all?’

  ‘God knows. Why is your friend so sure it’s his father?’

  ‘Photo comparisons. They got in touch with the Scottish police who drove down and took DNA samples from him and his brother, so they must be taking it seriously.’

  ‘Did you tell him he also looked like someone you knew?’

  ‘No; I was on the point of it, but it didn’t seem the right moment. So now the poor bloke’s on tenterhooks waiting for the DNA results.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to do the same,’ Paul said. And though there was undeniably relief in the sentiment, he couldn’t help feeling he was shirking his responsibility.

  Foxclere

  Jill also received a phone call that night, from Daphne Harris.

  ‘I know it’s rather short notice, dear, but we were wondering if you’d like to come for supper tomorrow? Nothing formal, just pot luck.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, Daphne, but I’m going away for the weekend.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s fine; as long as you have something pleasant to look forward to, after that Crimewatch business.’ She hesitated. ‘You carried
if off magnificently at the Trents’, but I had the feeling you were more upset than you were letting on about that picture in the paper.’

  Jill smiled. ‘Very astute of you; I was.’

  ‘But you’re over it now?’

  ‘Not really. Actually, I’m flying up to Scotland tomorrow to speak to that man’s landlady.’

  Daphne’s gasp came down the line. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘What possible harm can it do? She must have known him better than anyone else up there and, if I take a photo of Greg with me, she’ll be able to tell me definitely that it wasn’t him and then I might get some peace.’

  ‘Is Georgia going with you?’

  ‘No; she’s as upset as I am, though neither of us will admit it. It wouldn’t be fair to put her under the strain, and when I come home I’ll be able to tell her it’s not her father.’

  ‘But you’re not going up alone?’

  ‘I’ll be fine; it’s just a quick trip. I’ve booked in for the night at a hotel and will fly back the next day.’

  ‘I could come with you if you like,’ Daphne offered diffidently.

  ‘Bless you, but this is something I have to do alone.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. And you’ll let me know the outcome?’

  ‘Of course I will. Over a pot-luck supper, if I’m lucky!’

  Edward was as good as his word and Jill was grateful for his company on the drive to Gatwick. Her courage was fast running out and she kept asking herself what on earth she was doing, flying four hundred and fifty miles on a whim. But she’d committed herself now and the peace of mind that would result was worth a king’s ransom.

  At the airport Edward found her a trolley and escorted her as far as the check-in desk, where he took his leave.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I’ll be waiting in the arrivals hall when you land, but you have my mobile number if you can’t see me immediately.’

  ‘Many thanks again, Edward; you’ve made this so much easier,’ Jill told him.

  ‘My mission in life!’ he said with a rare grin, and she knew he was trying to cheer her. She smiled back and, as the man in front of her moved away, went forward to collect her boarding pass.

  Richard was well aware of the risks he was running, not only to his marriage but to his career, appalled to discover that having considered his self-control unassailable, it had withered at the first challenge. With Victoria, ‘love’ had been a pleasantly undemanding background to life – a watercolour in muted shades, whereas his feelings for Maria were altogether more strident, highly coloured and impossible to ignore. Since he’d met her life had taken on a feverish intensity he had never experienced before – colours deeper, music louder, food more flavoursome. It was a startling and uncomfortable experience.

  They’d made love again during the lunch break on Thursday, and, arriving at her home ahead of him, she’d awaited him in her dressing gown, naked beneath it. At least, he consoled himself, he’d never mentioned the word ‘love’ to her, even at the height of passion. To do so would have been the ultimate betrayal of Victoria, who had responded to his now frequent approaches with undisguised pleasure, intensifying his guilt.

  During the intervening week he’d waged an internal battle, arguing that, having discovered himself capable of passion, he could now gratify it with his wife. But the vision of Maria, her copper-coloured hair spread on the pillow, her alabaster body inviting his caresses, was too powerful and he wasn’t yet ready to give her up. There were only three more Thursdays till the end of term, which would provide a natural break. He would indulge himself till then, and by September would long since have freed himself from her spell.

  Meanwhile, his sense of guilt spread from his wife to his mother, and he realized he’d not checked how she’d coped with that disturbing newspaper picture. On the Saturday morning, therefore, after Victoria had left for The Gallery, he rang her number, only to be greeted by the answerphone. Her mobile also went to voicemail and, with an exclamation of annoyance, he phoned his sister.

  ‘You never let me know how Mother reacted to that sketch,’ he began accusingly.

  ‘You never rang to find out,’ Georgia replied.

  Richard bit his lip. ‘I’ve been feeling guilty about that.’ Though only for the last few minutes. ‘Was she very upset?’

  ‘I think so, though she tried to hide it. She came up for lunch that day and was going to some do in the evening. She seemed more worried that people there would want to discuss it.’

  ‘I’ve just tried both her phones but couldn’t get through. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘She’s gone away for the weekend.’

  ‘Oh? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know; some friend she wanted to see but she didn’t give any names.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask?’ Richard demanded impatiently.

  ‘No, brother dear, not believing in the third degree, I didn’t. If she’d wanted me to know, she’d have told me.’

  There was a pause, then: ‘When’s she due back?’

  ‘Sometime tomorrow.’

  ‘Right, I’ll try again then.’ Another pause. ‘All well with you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Millie fell off a swing in the playground yesterday and gave us a fright, but thankfully she escaped with a grazed knee.’

  A vision of the red-haired Toby Chiltern lying under a clutch of children flashed into Richard’s mind and he hastily dismissed it. ‘These things happen,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed,’ Georgia agreed dryly.

  ‘Salaams to Tim, then, and have a good weekend.’

  ‘You too.’

  Not a very satisfactory conversation, Richard thought, going in search of his golf clubs, but at least he’d made an effort.

  Blaircomrie

  Having paid the taxi, Jill turned and surveyed the neat stone house outside of which it had deposited her. Heart in mouth she opened the gate, murmured a greeting to the ginger cat that was regarding her balefully from the fence and walked up the path.

  Jill’s first impression was that Mrs Monroe must be about her age, though she seemed older. Her fair hair was greying and there were lines round her deep-set hazel eyes.

  ‘Mrs Lawrence?’ she said with a smile, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Beth Monroe. Come away in. I thought a cup of tea might be welcome after your journey?’

  ‘It would indeed,’ Jill assured her, though she’d just finished a bar lunch in the hotel where she’d left her case. She was led into a room at the back of the house where a tea tray with a plate of obviously home-made scones stood on a low table.

  ‘Have you come far?’ her hostess enquired, indicating an easy chair.

  ‘Quite a way, yes,’ Jill acknowledged, seating herself. ‘From Sussex, actually.’

  Beth Monroe, teapot in hand, turned to look at her in surprise. ‘On the south coast? My goodness, that is a long way. I’d somehow thought you were fairly local. That makes me feel—’

  ‘I must apologize again for this imposition,’ Jill broke in nervously. ‘It’s just that ever since that newspaper came out—’

  ‘Of course, I quite understand.’ She poured tea into one of the china cups, offered milk or lemon, and handed it to Jill together with a plate and a prettily patterned paper napkin.

  ‘Now, help yourself to a scone. They were only made this morning.’

  ‘They look delicious.’ And, lunch notwithstanding, Jill took one.

  ‘You want to know about Mr Stewart, of course,’ Beth went on, seating herself, ‘but I fear there’s little I can tell you.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘The police gave me a lecture about not vetting my lodgers.’

  Greg’s photo was burning a hole in Jill’s handbag but she allowed her hostess to steer the conversation. ‘Didn’t he offer any background information?’ she asked.

  ‘Only that he was divorced and had spent some years in Australia—’ She broke off at Jill’s sharply indrawn breath as some tea slurped out of her cup on to the saucer. She hastil
y set it down on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s a rather horrible coincidence. My husband also grew up there.’

  Beth said quickly, ‘Well, please don’t worry; I was about to tell you earlier that the police have apparently traced his family. They live in Yorkshire, I believe.’

  Jill released her breath, only aware as she did so of the tension that had gripped her.

  ‘Really?’ she said shakily. ‘Well, that’s certainly good news.’

  ‘I should have mentioned it on the phone,’ Beth went on apologetically, ‘but you took me by surprise and I didn’t think of it until later. Though if I’d known you were coming so far, I’d have made some effort to stop you taking the trouble.’

  ‘I think I’d still have wanted to come, because of his resemblance to my husband.’ Jill bent down to retrieve her bag and, withdrawing the photo which she’d extracted from its bedroom frame, she passed it across. And watched with growing fear as the colour left her hostess’s face.

  Beth looked up at last, her haunted eyes meeting Jill’s. She moistened dry lips. ‘I … don’t know what to say.’ Her voice was a croak.

  Jill leant forward, hands gripped tightly together. ‘Well, for God’s sake say something.’

  Beth looked down again at the photograph in her shaking hand. ‘I can’t explain it, Mrs Lawrence, but without a shadow of doubt this is my lodger, Johnnie Stewart.’

  TEN

  Blaircomrie/Gatwick Airport

  After leaving Beth Monroe, Jill walked the streets of Blaircomrie in a daze, its grey stone houses a sombre backdrop to her mood. How could Greg possibly have been alive all this time and not let them know? Despite her seeming certainty, could Mrs Monroe be mistaken? And what of that family in Yorkshire? Myriad questions circled her brain, all without answers. The only acceptable solution was that he’d been left with amnesia following the bomb blast – though admittedly selective, as he’d remembered living in Australia. And he’d said he was divorced – another sharp stab of pain. In effect she was grieving for him all over again, this time with the added bitterness of abandonment.