by Tom Bradby
There was an island in the middle, with a large bowl of fruit salad, several full of crisps and an open bottle of red wine.
There was a young shout of ‘No,’ and a blond-haired boy charged into the room, carrying an aeroplane, followed by Jessica. ‘Not on the table,’ she said to him, before catching sight of Julia and moving briskly across to kiss her. ‘Give me the plane, Danny. Not inside.’
Danny tried to duck past, but Jessica caught him and swung him underneath her arm as she mounted the steps to the door to the hall. She looked over her shoulder, mouthing an apology to Julia.
Jasper de la Rue came in and Julia was too close to the door to avoid having his arm draped over her shoulder. She was led through to the conservatory, where the table was laid. His annoyance over her presence at the meeting last night seemed to have been forgotten. There was a flagstone floor in the conservatory, the room to the right, now also with polished floorboards, transformed into a day-room, with comfortable sofas in dark, rich red and newspapers spread on large ottomans, the front page of The Times spilling on to the floor.
Outside, the garden was a hive of activity. The line of pennants on top of the tent still fluttered in the wind and the trestle tables that made up the stalls were up and, in most cases, already covered in produce. Julia watched Hattie Travers walk from one side of the lawn to the other carrying a pile of books.
‘The boys are playing tennis,’ Jasper said, and it took Julia a moment to comprehend that he was probably referring to Alan, among others.
Jasper was called back by his wife and Julia stepped out of the open doors on to the thin strip of gravel path then the lawn beyond it. She watched Hattie Travers reach the second-hand bookstall and begin to stack the books on the table, Cynthia Walker helping, her little girl sitting cross-legged on the grass below, reading. Ahead, beyond the line of trestle tables, the oldest de la Rue girl was trying to play badminton with her younger sister. They squealed with delight, then collapsed on the ground, flat out on the grass, beneath the net, staring at the sky. They were dressed for the summer, with bare legs, white plimsolls, and bands in their hair.
James Rouse was sitting on a rug on the bank watching them, wearing a red and white striped shirt, jeans that were too tight and a pair of black brogues. Julia raised a hand in greeting, but moved off in the other direction, towards the swimming-pool and the tennis court beyond it, squinting against the bright sun as it broke through a gap in the clouds.
The swimming-pool was shielded by a brick wall that had been erected for safety, and there was a large grass area beside it, where her father had manned ‘Toss the Caber’ all those years ago. Adrian Rouse stood there now, a drink in his hand, looking out over the wooden fence to the field that led down to the common. The sign next to him advertised ‘Pony Rides’.
As she passed, Adrian seemed to sense that her eyes were upon him, for he turned and looked briefly in her direction before, once again, returning to his solitary view of the common.
The tennis court was behind a high beech hedge and as Julia walked through the gap in the middle of it, she heard Alan say, ‘Bugger.’
He’d missed a shot and was resting against the fence. He was sweating, his hair hanging over his forehead. He smiled at her and pushed away. At the other end of the court, Michael Haydoch raised his racket in greeting.
‘He’s too fit,’ Alan told her.
‘He’s too fat,’ Michael said.
Julia squatted on the bank beside the hedge to watch. Michael was serving. He was wearing a pair of white shorts, white socks and tennis shoes, his shirt discarded by the side of the court. As he threw the ball up and prepared to strike it, she watched the muscles tensing in his arm, abdomen and legs. His hair was shorter than she remembered and the pelt that ran from his chest to the waistband of his shorts seemed denser. He was sweating, too, but not as much. His head was so much narrower than Alan’s, though perhaps that had something to do with the density and length of their hair.
Julia watched the ball flying to and fro across the net. Alan was the more skilled player, with a strong top-spin on his forehand, which forced his opponent from one side of the court to the other, but he was not as fit as Michael, who never gave up on anything.
Eventually, Michael dropped a ball short, which had Alan almost falling into the net on the far side of the court. He straightened and caught his breath, putting his right hand in the small of his back.
‘Persistent bastard,’ he said to Julia.
‘Who’s winning?’
Alan gestured to the other side of the court with his racket. Michael looked at her, without expression.
They returned to their respective ends and Michael served again. He was a tall man and his serve was fast and straight. Alan looked chubbier because of the baggy shorts he was wearing, but Julia could see that he would benefit from losing weight. He had a loose-fitting tennis shirt on which seemed to emphasize rather than hide his tummy.
They fought this point ferociously and for a long time Alan seemed to control it, but once more Michael managed to drop the ball suddenly short and this time Alan fell as he tried to reach for it, careering into the net. He lay there for a second then got up, smacking his racket briefly against the ground as he stood and walking back to his end of the court without catching her eye.
Julia did not look at Michael to see his reaction. She was a little embarrassed and turned away, just as the youngest of the de la Rue girls came through the hedge to tell them that lunch was ready.
As Julia walked into the conservatory, Jessica took her arm and sat her down in the chair next to hers. A few seconds later, Michael came in, with a towel around his shoulders, the sweat glistening on his tanned upper body. Julia saw that Jessica was smiling at him.
‘Are you going to put your shirt on, Michael, or are we supposed to sit here and drool?’
‘Sit there and drool.’
‘Come and sit on the other side of Julia,’ Jessica said.
Julia found she was flushing. Jasper de la Rue, Adrian and Leslie Rouse and her mother were all opposite, looking at her. Alan had still not appeared. Michael went to get a T-shirt from a bag in the room next door and returned, fully clad, to sit next to her. She didn’t know whether to greet him or not. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to kiss me.’
‘You’re covered in sweat.’
‘Working up an appetite.’
‘Did you win?’
‘Result inconclusive, technically, but yes.’
Alan came in and sat down at the other side of the table, between Leslie Rouse and Henrietta de la Rue. Adrian was staring at the table.
‘How Alan hates losing,’ Michael said.
‘And you don’t?’
‘Not as much as him.’
Jasper had already carved the chickens in the kitchen and put the meat on a large, Mediterranean plate. Henrietta passed Julia a plateful.
‘What are you doing at home?’ Michael asked.
‘Between jobs.’
‘What have you just finished?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘Which country?’
‘China.’
‘Perfecting the art of the monosyllabic answer.’
‘What do you want, Michael?’ Henrietta asked, poised over the chicken.
‘Breast for preference, Henrietta, but anything will do.’
To her annoyance, Julia felt herself going red in the face again.
‘Well, what have you been doing?’ she asked, when they had both received their plates.
‘Left the Service.’
Julia nodded. She was hoping to get into conversation with Jessica, who had turned half to the right in an attempt to feed her little boy.
‘I gather you’ve got yourself hooked up with that charlatan,’ Michael said.
Julia frowned, trying to pretend she didn’t understand what he meant.
‘Professor Malcolm.’
‘He’s just an academic,’ she said.
‘That’s not what he thinks, though, is it?’
Julia did not answer.
‘So you’re telling everyone Pascoe is innocent?’ His voice was loud. Conversation around the table, which had been in a lull, suddenly died off.
Julia took a sip of the white wine Jasper had just poured. ‘It must be possible that he is innocent surely, and that some other psychopath was responsible.’
Caroline Havilland was looking at her plate, so was Alan. Adrian was staring into the middle distance. Only Leslie Rouse still looked in her direction. Julia thought her comfortable face the most hostile.
‘But Pascoe confessed,’ Jasper said, frowning, standing to fill other wine-glasses. ‘Why would he do that if he wasn’t guilty?’
‘Why would he confess if he was?’
‘I don’t understand your logic.’
‘Most people who are really guilty don’t confess, do they? And if you read Robert Pascoe’s statement, it’s not convincing.’
‘In what way?’ de la Rue asked.
‘Well, he doesn’t mention anything …’
Julia caught sight of Alan looking at her. Of all the people around the table, his expression seemed the least disapproving. ‘Go on,’ he said, quietly.
‘There was no mention of Alice at all and … well … I mean, if he was confessing, wouldn’t he have said something about …’ Julia could not progress further. Caroline was avoiding her eye. ‘I mean,’ Julia went on, ‘what about the other man in the leather jacket – the stranger they never traced?’
‘What are they talking about, Mummy?’ Danny asked.
Everyone turned to look at him.
The silence was broken by the sound of Alan’s chair being pushed back. On the way to the lavatory, he passed behind Julia and ruffled her hair affectionately. Then Jasper de la Rue and Leslie Rouse began talking and gradually conversation picked up again.
‘Thanks,’ Julia said, under her breath, to Michael.
After lunch, the de la Rues decided that coffee would be taken in the pavilion by the swimming-pool, away from preparations for the fête. Caroline had slipped away to help make sure that everything was running properly.
There was shade up by the pool and Julia preferred to sit in it rather than swim, though all the de la Rue children and James jumped in as soon as they had changed. The cloud had broken up now and it was warm again.
The sound of a trumpet drifted up from the garden below, as the band began to warm up.
Alan came through the gate, disappeared into the changing-hut, then emerged and dived into the pool, his tummy bulging over the waistband of his shorts. He and James played piggy-in-the-middle with the two girls.
Michael came up and lay flat along the edge of the pool on the spot where Sarah had been filmed in her yellow bikini. He had taken off his shirt again and she tried not to look at him.
Adrian Rouse and Henrietta walked in with the coffee. Adrian was wearing a yellow V-neck sweater, Henrietta a dowdy denim skirt. They sat in the shade.
As Henrietta poured the coffee, Julia heard them talking about the weather and how good it had been. Henrietta asked Adrian about their holiday plans and he explained that they were going to Cornwall, without the children since James would be away and Elizabeth was going off with her boyfriend. Julia could not imagine Leslie and Adrian enjoying a holiday together.
She could add little to the conversation, since she had no holiday plans.
Alan and James were still teasing the girls.
The younger of the two girls was wearing a pink bikini with white spots. She appeared to have no sense of the appropriate space and distance that should be kept between a young girl and a man who was not her father. James did not seem bothered by this and allowed her to clamber on his shoulders, but when she swam over to Alan, Julia saw clearly that he was uncomfortable with the physical intimacy. He gently but firmly put her back down into the pool, or swam away, trying to make a joke of it, but she pursued him.
James did not notice this, neither did anyone else. Michael was still lying flat out on the other side of the pool, with his eyes shut.
But to Julia, it became more pronounced and awkward until, eventually, Alan got out. James and the girl tried to persuade him to come back in, but he refused irritably.
Julia stood up and went over to Alan, who was sitting in a chair. She ruffled his hair as she passed, understanding how painful his loss was and how easily one could be reminded of it.
She turned to smile at him, then wandered out of the enclosure. As she went, the band struck up, marking the official opening of the 1997 West Welham Village Fête.
As he came over the neck of the valley to West Welham, Mac stopped by the side of the road, the car shuddering as it came to a halt.
He got out and climbed on to the bank, so that he could look down on the village, before taking off his sunglasses and cleaning them on his shirt, squinting and holding his hand above his head to shield his eyes from the sun.
There was some smoke rising from beyond the church and he could see a big tent in one of the gardens close to Julia’s home. As he had before, he thought about how far removed this genteel valley of middle England was from his own terraced home in Leeds.
He got back into the car and drove on down, pulling slowly into the car-park at the pub. He had been here twice before to stay with Julia, shortly after they had left Sandhurst, and knew that the house owned by Pascoe’s mother was in a narrow lane the other side of the Rose and Crown.
Before getting out, Mac took another look at his notebook. He had copied down the names from Richard Claverton’s fishing journal.
The two separate columns reflected, in some way, he thought, two opposing sides: Ford, Haydoch and Rouse in one camp, Claverton, Pascoe, Danes and Wilkes in the other. Mac had crossed out Claverton and Danes’s names, since they were dead, and this left only Pascoe and Wilkes in the right-hand column. Common sense dictated that Pascoe had to have been the author of the letters to Claverton.
Mac couldn’t be certain, but he thought that the names were divided by rank. Pascoe, Claverton and Danes were soldiers, and he guessed that Wilkes was, too. He had met both Ford and Rouse and was confident that Haydoch was probably an officer as well. One side was enlisted men, the other commissioned officers.
As he put the pad in his pocket and walked round the corner, he saw that the windows in the pub were open and trade was brisk. He had been half expecting to find some form of protest, but life in the village seemed utterly normal. Everywhere there were posters advertising the village fête and he could hear a band tuning up.
He knocked on Pascoe’s front door. There was no answer so he tried again.
The curtains were drawn upstairs, but, if he was in, Pascoe wasn’t receiving visitors.
After knocking twice more, without success, Mac walked into the Rose and Crown. There were two or three men leaning against the bar, deep in conversation, but it was noisy and Mac couldn’t hear what they were saying. He attracted a few idly curious glances, before he removed his sunglasses.
The landlord was plump, with an unkempt moustache. He was assisted by a thin youth whose face was covered in freckles. Mac waited for one of them to finish serving.
The landlord, pulling a pint of Guinness, finally glanced in Mac’s direction.
‘I was looking for a Professor Malcolm,’ he said.
Conversation around the bar dipped. The two men next to him stopped talking and turned round.
‘David Malcolm. I believe he is staying here.’
The landlord was looking down at the Guinness he was pouring. ‘Top of the stairs, left, end of the corridor. Room five.’
‘Thanks,’ Mac said. He smiled at the man closest to him and wove his way through to the door in the corner.
The stairwell was beyond the toilets. It was narrow, its carpet threadbare. At the top, he went through a fire door into a corridor that looked as if it had been recently refurbished. The carpet here was new and the picture
s on the walls had brass lights above them.
Number five was next to the fire exit and Mac looked down through the glass panel to the car-park and his old Fiesta, tucked in at the end. He knocked.
There was no answer.
He was about to knock again when the door opened. It was gloomy inside and Professor Malcolm looked as if he had been asleep. ‘Mac,’ he said.
‘Sorry, is this …?’
‘No, come in.’ He yawned. ‘I must have fallen asleep again.’
Professor Malcolm yawned once more and stretched. There was an open box on the desk in the window that contained a number of brown envelopes. There were some papers next to it, with a book face down on top of them, but Mac’s eyes were drawn to the wall. It was hard to see who all the photographs depicted, but he could make out the Havillands and Alan Ford, and the Rouses, whom he’d met once while walking up on the ridge with Julia. And Alice, of course.
Professor Malcolm sat on the bed.
Mac saw that the woman in the centre was Sarah Ford – it was the same picture he had seen in the newspaper today, next to an inside article that had given more details of Pascoe’s release. Looking at her now, she reminded him in a way of Julia. They had similar classically beautiful faces and both had lustrous dark hair, though Sarah’s was longer and straighter. And they shared that sardonic, amused smile.
‘Is this man Pascoe innocent?’ Mac asked.
‘Possibly. On the central issue, anyway.’
Mac frowned in confusion.
‘He’s not a particularly attractive character. I would say he was certainly watching Sarah.’
‘Who is guilty?’
‘We don’t know.’
Mac stared at the picture of Pascoe on the wall. He looked much younger than he had in the newspaper. ‘Why did he confess if he was innocent?’
Professor Malcolm stretched, pushing his arms back and rolling his neck. ‘I’m not certain. I think he probably had severe post-traumatic stress disorder and, therefore, was an easy target for the police.’
‘Why do you have all this?’
