A Family Concern

by Anthea Fraser

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Anthea Fraser from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Family Tree

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Recent Titles by Anthea Fraser from Severn House

  The Rona Parish Mysteries

  (in order of appearance)

  BROUGHT TO BOOK

  JIGSAW

  PERSON OR PERSONS UNKNOWN

  A FAMILY CONCERN

  ROGUE IN PORCELAIN

  NEXT DOOR TO MURDER

  UNFINISHED PORTRAIT

  A QUESTION OF IDENTITY

  JUSTICE POSTPONED

  Other Titles

  PAST SHADOWS

  FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

  THICKER THAN WATER

  SHIFTING SANDS

  THE UNBURIED PAST

  A FAMILY CONCERN

  Anthea Fraser

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in 2006 in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2006 by Anthea Fraser.

  The right of Anthea Fraser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Fraser, Anthea

  A family concern

  1. Parish, Rona (Fictitious character) – Fiction

  2. Women authors – England – Fiction

  3. Murder investigation – Fiction

  4. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9’14 [F]

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6351-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9164-8 (paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-687-8 (ePUB)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Prologue

  A tune was circling in her head, a senseless jingle that was somehow full of menace. Then she was falling, falling … Suppose he hadn’t gone after all, but was waiting, just out of sight, to catch her?

  A scream clogged her throat as she scrabbled frantically for a finger-hold – but too late! Her arm was seized in a tight grip and shaken, gently at first, then with increasing urgency.e

  ‘Freya! Freya! Wake up – it’s all right, honey, it’s all right!’

  Slowly, fearfully, she opened her eyes to see, in the dim light from the uncurtained window, Matthew’s concerned face looking down at her.

  ‘Thank God!’ she said shakily, feeling the sweat coursing over her body. ‘Oh, thank God!’

  ‘Welcome back. You frightened me to death with that blood-curdling shriek.’ He smoothed the damp hair off her face. ‘The dream again?’

  She shuddered, gripping his hand. ‘It was – annihilating. I was falling …’

  ‘Well, you’re not falling now, you’re safe in bed with me. So turn over, there’s a good girl, and I’ll rub your back for you, then we can both get some more sleep.’

  But she was sitting up, swinging her feet to the floor. ‘You go to sleep, Matthew,’ she told him, reaching for her dressing gown. ‘I daren’t – not yet; I might drop straight back into the dream. I’m going to make myself a drink.’

  He sighed resignedly. ‘All right – I’ll come with you.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she protested, though not, he thought, convincingly. He shrugged into his own robe, taking her arm as they went down the narrow staircase. These nightmares were becoming a pain; this was the third she’d had in a week, and he couldn’t imagine what had kicked them off.

  The little kitchen looked alien at this hour, Freya thought, as though they were somehow trespassing. Or perhaps her vision was still distorted by the dream. She shivered, watching as Matthew filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘I’m sorry to keep waking you,’ she said contritely. ‘If you like, I’ll sleep on the sofa for a while.’

  ‘Then I’d have even further to dash to your rescue!’ But the disturbed sleep of the last week was starting to tell, clouding his concentration during the day. He spooned chocolate powder into two mugs, filled them with the boiling water, and brought them to the table.

  ‘What exactly do you dream?’ he asked as he sat down. ‘Might it help to talk about it?’

  She was silent for a while, staring down into her mug. Then she lifted it and sipped gingerly at the hot liquid. ‘It’s always the same,’ she said at last. ‘I’m falling – I’m not sure where from, and—’

  ‘That’s one of the most common nightmares,’ he interrupted, in an attempt to reassure her. ‘Everyone has it at some time or other. No doubt Freud would have an explanation for it.’

  Freya shook her head. ‘It’s more than that. There’s this tune going round and round in my brain.’

  ‘What tune?’

  ‘I can never remember it afterwards. And someone else is nearby, someone who mustn’t know I’m there.’

  ‘A man?’

  She considered. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not really.’ She gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘It sounds pathetic, I know, but at the time it’s terrifying, believe me.’

  ‘Worth seeing the quack, d’you think? For something to help you sleep through, just till you break the pattern?’

  ‘I’m not taking sleeping pills,’ she said positively. Then she smiled, putting her hand on his. ‘Poor Matthew! You didn’t expect this when you asked me to move in with you.’

  He smiled back. ‘I’m prepared to take the rough with the smooth,’ he said.

  One

  For the first time that she could remember, Rona Parish was not looking forward to Christmas. Nothing would be the same, she thought miserably. Her parents’ marriage had recently broken down and her father was in the process of finding himself a flat while the divorce went through. Furthermore, the split had resulted in tension between herself and her twin sister, Lindsey, since they tended to side with different parents.

  Admittedly, her mother had invited her and Max for Christmas lunch as usual, but Rona had still not committed them, fearful she might appear to be letting her father down. Nor had she felt able to ask him if he’d be spending the holiday with Catherine, the woman he proposed eventually to marry, though it was more than likely she’d be with her son and his wife in Cricklehurst.

  ‘You can’t keep pu
tting it off,’ Max remarked one evening. ‘At this rate, we’ll end up in solitary splendour. What’s Lindsey doing?’

  ‘We haven’t spoken for nearly two weeks,’ Rona said expressionlessly. ‘She’s as prickly as a hedgehog at the moment.’

  ‘She might opt out and spend it with Hugh.’

  Hugh Cavendish was Lindsey’s ex-husband; now, to the concern of her family, back in Marsborough.

  ‘No, I’m almost sure she’ll go to Mum. She’s still blaming Pops for all this.’

  ‘Well, technically speaking, he is the guilty party.’

  ‘Would you have put up with all he has over the last few years?’ Rona demanded hotly, adding after a moment, ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that.’

  Max grinned. ‘Come on, love, lighten up. Find out what he’s doing and we can take it from there.’

  Rona was mulling over this conversation the next day as she walked along Guild Street, now festooned with decorations and coloured lights. The shop windows glittered with tinsel, fake Christmas trees were draped with scarves, belts and sequinned evening bags, and in Netherby’s Department Store, children queued to see Father Christmas. And they were only halfway through November, Rona thought impatiently. But concerns about Christmas could wait: a more pressing worry was that it was only ten days to Pops’ retirement, and since no one outside the family knew of the split, Mum would be expected at all the festivities. Rona was quite sure she wouldn’t attend.

  Max was right, she decided suddenly; she needed to know her father’s plans, both for next week and for Christmas, and it was no use pussyfooting around waiting for him to volunteer them. A glance at her watch showed it had stopped again, and she swore under her breath, shaking her wrist and lifting it hopefully to her ear. Silence. Admittedly it had been a twenty-first birthday present, she conceded ruefully; perhaps it was unreasonable to expect a watch to last indefinitely.

  Above the noise of traffic and the chattering crowds, the Town Hall clock helpfully relayed the three-quarter chime. Two forty-five, Rona thought; with luck, she’d catch him at the bank.

  But luck was not with her. She was informed that Mr Parish would be in on only alternate days this week. ‘Winding down, as you might say,’ Mavis Banister, his secretary, told her. ‘He’ll have a full schedule next week, though: on Monday there’s a reception for key clients and their wives – some sixty-odd people; on Wednesday it’s the presentation at Head Office, followed by dinner with the General Manager and his wife; and then on Friday, as you know, we have the farewell party here. A good excuse for your mother to indulge in some retail therapy!’

  Rona smiled dutifully. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘No doubt I’ll run him to earth.’

  At the other end of town, unaware of his daughter’s frustration, Tom Parish stood in the middle of the room and looked about him. It wasn’t, he told himself, as though this was a long-term project; he could manage very comfortably here for the two years or so it would take for the divorce to come through. The furniture and fittings, though not what he’d have chosen, were comfortable enough, and with his books and personal belongings, he could soon make it look like home. And though Guild Street was a fifteen to twenty minute walk away, Catherine’s house in Willow Crescent was just round the corner. In fact he’d noted, with a lift of the heart, that the roof of her bungalow was visible from the kitchen window.

  The room in which he stood was at the front of the building, overlooking Talbot Road. There were, in all, three blocks of flats along the length of it, one at either end and one, the building in which he stood, roughly in the middle. Each was distinctive in style and replaced a rambling old house that had been demolished in the 1960s. There’d been an outcry at the time, Tom remembered, about the insensitivity of placing these stark, modern blocks in such a setting, but lack of interest in aesthetics was as rife in Marsborough in the sixties as it was in the rest of the country, and protesters could only be thankful that at least they weren’t built of concrete. Now, forty years on, they had melded into their background, and only newcomers to the area professed astonishment that such sacrilege should have been countenanced.

  His sole reservation, Tom reflected, was that Hugh, his ex-son-in-law, had a flat in one of the other blocks. Still, it was a long and winding road, and they were more likely to run into each other in Guild Street than here.

  From Hugh, Tom’s mind slid automatically to his daughter Lindsey, and he sighed. She’d been deeply hurt by his, Tom’s, behaviour, heaping on him all the blame for the breakdown of the marriage. Bless her, he thought fondly; she’d even coerced Avril – who for years had taken no interest in her appearance – into buying a couple of new outfits and some make-up. His heart contracted as he recalled his wife standing in their sitting room in her new finery, awaiting his reaction. The tragedy was that it had all been too late.

  He turned back and studied the room again, planning how he’d rearrange the furniture. It would be a relief to move in here; they’d decided not to cause waves during his last days at work, and to keep up appearances till after his retirement – at that stage, five weeks away. In the interim he would remain at home; there was always the chance of emergency calls from the bank, and the neighbours would notice if he weren’t there.

  Strangely, since her initial tears, Avril had shown no emotion, and once his possessions had been moved into the guest room, things had in fact been easier than for some time. They met only at breakfast, when they treated each other with punctilious politeness. He knew she’d be as glad to see the back of him as he would be to go. Well, next week was D-Day. His last day at the bank would be Friday, his sixty-third birthday, and then he’d move in here and the next stage of his life could begin.

  He walked slowly out on to the landing, where the estate agent was tactfully waiting.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ he said.

  Avril Parish stood at the window of her guest room, lost in thought. That morning, over breakfast, Tom had broached the subject of his various leaving engagements. ‘Everyone’s expecting you to attend,’ he’d said gently.

  ‘And you know that I can’t,’ she’d replied. ‘We agreed not to go public and I’ve honoured that, but playing happy families before all your colleagues is just not on. I’ve given it some thought, and decided the best solution is a diplomatic dose of flu.’

  He hadn’t met her eyes. ‘There’ll be gifts for you, too, in recognition of your support all these years,’ he’d said, adding quickly over her choked laugh, ‘and you were supportive, Avril, for most of the time.’

  Beneath the table, her fingernails had dug into her palms. She would not cry.

  ‘Whatever,’ she’d said after a minute, ‘but I’m not going to play the proud little wife, Tom, and that’s final. Take the girls with you.’

  Well, she’d brought it on herself, she reflected now, though she’d been too pig-headed to see it at the time. Over the last two or three years she’d gradually let herself go, slouching round the house in old clothes, not bothering with her hair or make-up. And she’d begun – she couldn’t remember why – to needle him constantly, in an attempt to evoke some response. She should have known Tom wasn’t confrontational, that he’d patiently deflect her complaints and criticisms, and in the process add to her resentment.

  Pops is still an attractive man, Lindsey had warned her, and he meets attractive women every day in the course of his work.

  Indeed. Well, no use crying over spilt milk. Though too late to save her marriage, she had finally taken herself in hand. In the last six weeks she’d had her hair restyled, bought some much-needed new clothes and taken a job at the local library. And when Tom finally moved out at the end of next week, she’d take her plans one stage further. That was why she’d come into this room which, since he’d been using it, she had entered only once a week in order to clean it.

  She turned from the window and surveyed it critically. It was a good size, she thought with satisfaction, the fitted wardrobe giving extra floor space
and adding to the air of spaciousness, while the button-back chair that had been her mother’s, into which she had loved to snuggle as a child, afforded comfortable seating. Since Mother had died, though, the room had been little used; its wardrobe was the repository of summer clothes in winter, winter clothes in summer, while the bed’s sole purpose had been to provide a surface for laying out things to take on holiday. All that would be needed, she concluded, was a fresh lick of paint and some new curtains.

  She returned to the landing and regarded its closed doors, picturing what lay behind them. Until a month ago, she had shared the other front bedroom with Tom, and the two back rooms she still thought of as belonging to the girls. In between the master bedroom and what had been Rona’s was the door leading to the small box-room. Avril opened it and looked inside. Piled higgledy-piggledy were suitcases, carrier bags crammed with the girls’ university papers, old picnic hampers and a dusty violin case, memento of a passing interest of Lindsey’s. It would need a good sorting out and, by the look of it, several journeys to the tip and the charity shops.

  Pushing open her own bedroom door, she studied the wall adjoining the box room, and nodded slowly to herself. It shouldn’t present any problems.

  Rona reached her father on his mobile as he got into his car outside the flats.

  ‘Hello, sweetie, how are you?’

  ‘Fine. I just called at the bank, and discovered you were playing hooky.’

  ‘To good effect. I’ve found myself a flat.’

  ‘Well done. Where is it?’

  ‘In Talbot Road. “Mulberry Lodge”, if you please. Sounds grandiose, doesn’t it? It must be the name of the original house.’

  Rona hesitated. ‘That’s not where Hugh—?’

  ‘Same road, different block. I’ve arranged to move in at the end of next week. Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Actually, it was next week I was wondering about.’

  ‘Ah yes. All this business put it out of my head, but you, Max and Lindsey are, of course, invited to my leaving party. Sorry for the short notice; I hope you can make it?’