Forgive Me

by Susan Lewis

  I got a text back from BJ about four in the morning.

  It said: You did good. Lie low and speak to no one.

  So, they knew you were hurt, but I still did good.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  DCI Gould clicked off his phone and fixed Dan Collier with a fiercely intent stare. “It was arson,” he said shortly. “The place reeked of petrol.”

  Dan pressed his fingers to his eye sockets trying to ease the tension that had been building up in his head since he’d heard the news. He was lucky to have gotten this meeting so soon after the event, although he guessed Andee had paved the way.

  “So, the question is,” Gould continued, “was the perp, or perps, targeting only the house, or did they know someone was inside?”

  Dan said, “For me, the bigger question right now is, will Marcy survive it? And the next that comes to mind is, who the hell did it?”

  Gould conceded the points.

  “When I spoke to Andee first thing,” Dan went on, “she confirmed that all three of them, Claudia, Marcy, and Jasmine, were due to be at the dress rehearsal last night, but Marcy stayed behind at the last minute. So a change of plan that whoever did it wasn’t prepared for?”

  Gould absorbed this thoughtfully. “Initial take from the scene,” he said, “is that she heard something and went to investigate. It’s probable that she tried to put the fire out but the smoke overwhelmed her.”

  Not even wanting to picture Marcy’s fear and desperation, the horror she must have felt when she’d realized their beloved house was on fire, Dan said, “Have you been up there yet?”

  “I came back about an hour ago. Both bedroom wings are intact, so’s the tower, but most of the kitchen, sitting room, and part of the roof have gone.”

  Dan’s heart folded around a visceral ache of despair. He frowned to try and ease the tension again. “Well, it’s just a house,” he stated, certain Claudia saw it as more than that, “and I’m sure it can be fixed. What really matters is Marcy. She’s having a second surgery as we speak.”

  Gould nodded grimly. “Yes, Andee told me. I haven’t met her, but . . . Dear God, this is a bad business.”

  It certainly was. “I should probably tell you,” Dan said, “that I know who Claudia is and more or less why she and Jasmine changed their names, so I’m guessing someone’s talking to the husband?”

  Gould appeared unsurprised by the admission, or the question. “I’ve already spoken to Carl Phillips in London, so he’s on it, but given that we know Huxley-Browne couldn’t have done it himself, it’s going to be a question of finding out who he got to act for him. Good luck with that. However, one of my guys here, Leo Johnson, is trying to track down this Miles Montgomery character who was asking around about Claudia a couple of days ago.”

  Dan stiffened. “I didn’t know about that,” he declared. “Did Claudia?”

  Gould shook his head. “I was waiting to hear back from Carl Phillips before contacting her . . .” He propped his head onto one hand. “Jesus, if ever there was a wrong judgment call . . .”

  Dan snapped, “So what leads do you have on this Montgomery bloke?”

  “None so far, but given it’s almost certainly a false name . . .” He clicked on his mobile as it rang. “Barry, talk to me.”

  As he listened his scowl deepened, but all he said was, “OK, keep at it and let me know if there are any other witnesses.” Ending the call, he said to Dan, “One of the officers at the scene. Apparently a neighbor spotted a youth running away some time after the fire started. He didn’t get a good look at him, but maybe someone else did. They’re going door to door at the moment and forensics are all over it, obviously.”

  Picturing the scene in his mind, Dan said, “I guess you’ll need to speak to Claudia at some point?”

  “That’s a given, but I don’t expect she’ll be back this way anytime soon. I’ll have to send someone to Swansea—and if I had anyone spare it would help. Still, at least Andee’s managed to establish that the name Miles Montgomery means nothing to her. I guess no surprise there, but the description we have of him—large and middle-aged—doesn’t fit with ‘a youth running away’ from the scene. So this puts two possible perps in the frame—the one who carried out the attack and a likely handler, or conspirator. Knowing Huxley-Browne, I’d say this could be a pretty crowded frame. When did you last speak to Andee?”

  “Just before I arrived here. She and Graeme are on their way back now. Leanne’s staying for a while. She took some clothes over this morning. I’m driving there myself when I leave here, with Henry.”

  Gould said, “Good. Claudia’s most likely still in shock, but try talking to her if you can. There’s a chance she might be able to give us some names or information that’ll help move things along.”

  CLAUDIA WAS IN the room she and Jasmine were sharing at a Premier Inn, close to the hospital. They’d checked in just after five this morning, and a while later Leanne had turned up with clothes and toiletries so they’d been able to shower and change. The phone chargers had been a thoughtful addition.

  Leanne had taken Jasmine across the road for a bite to eat a few minutes ago, but Claudia, unable to face even the thought of food, had stayed here. All that mattered was getting her mother through this.

  Marcy would survive, the surgeon had sounded confident about that when he’d spoken to them earlier. The tests on her vital organs had revealed no irreparable damage and the extent of the burns, though severe, wasn’t considered life-threatening. However, they were almost certainly going to be life-changing, not only physically, but mentally, given the damage inflicted on her face. It was far too early to say exactly how disfiguring the injuries would be, but Claudia had seen enough burns victims on TV and in newspapers to know how they looked months, even years into the future.

  Apparently skin grafts were due to begin on Marcy as soon as sometime in the next few days. At this moment she was undergoing further surgery for more of the charred and dead skin to be cut away, and merely thinking of it made Claudia ball a fist to her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

  The only way to distract herself from the panic, and the guilt, was to focus on the certainty that this had been no accident. The fact that someone had been asking around about her a few days ago was enough to confirm that she’d been found, and the fire had been a message from Marcus letting her know that she hadn’t escaped him, and never would. She had no idea how he had tracked her down; it hardly mattered, although his sister would have had a hand in it, and presumably they’d paid someone to carry out the crime. She wondered if Marcus had meant for her to be inside the house and the arsonist had got the wrong person. More likely the instruction was for the house and everything in it—most particularly the attaché case—to go up in flames.

  Why couldn’t he have just got someone to break in and steal it? Perhaps he had. She recalled the feeling she’d had lately that someone had been in the house, and now she was convinced that they had. She hadn’t checked since they’d moved in to see if the case was still where she’d hidden it. So it was possible that Marcus, or his sister, already had it, and the horrific act of vandalism inflicted on the house was to punish her, to spite her and remind her who had all the power.

  Or the case could have perished in the fire.

  She didn’t know, because she hadn’t yet been told, the extent of the damage. She could hardly bear to think of it; it was like imagining a beloved friend injured and abandoned, helplessly waiting for her to return to begin the process of restoring it to glory all over again. At least it stood a chance, could even emerge from the tragedy more splendid than before, but that was never going to happen for her mother. The surgeon’s miracles could only work so far, and suddenly she felt so overwhelmed by the horror of it all that she had to push it from her mind or she simply wouldn’t be able to cope.

  A WHILE LATER, unable to stand the hotel room or the waiting any longer, Claudia put on her coat to go back to the hospital. Her mother wasn’t expect
ed to be out of surgery yet, but she couldn’t go on sitting around driving herself crazy with guilt and fear, and such murderous thoughts of revenge were making her nauseous. She needed some air, some space between herself and her conscience, although she knew she’d never find that. This was all her fault, her mother wouldn’t be where she was if it weren’t for their crazy attempt to start again—if it weren’t for the fact that she, Claudia, had taken the attaché case and held on to it.

  After texting Jasmine to let her know where she was, she left the room, and a few minutes later she was being buzzed into the Burns Intensive Care Unit in time to see her mother being brought back from one of the theaters in the middle of the horseshoe-shaped specialist center.

  The surgery had gone as well as hoped, she was told as Marcy was settled on the ventilator while drugs to maintain her blood pressure were tapered down. Again, her entire head was swathed in dressings, apart from her eyes and mouth forming three shadowy gashes in the ghoulish white of the helmet. It was stifling in the cubicle, the way it had to be for burns patients, but Claudia hardly noticed the heat. She was transfixed by the discoloration around her mother’s left eye where fluorescein dye, the nurse explained, had been used to check the depth of the burns. There was no sign of infection, she was assured, although it remained a concern, so drops would be regularly applied to reduce the risk. A further surgery was scheduled for tomorrow to take skin from her underarm in order to remake the left eyelid.

  Claudia had never heard of such astonishing procedures before, and would have been happy to remain unenlightened.

  “We’ll be keeping her sedated for at least the next few days,” the senior nurse informed her. “This will stop her fighting the ventilator, although the aim is to get her off of that as quickly as we can to avoid a chest infection.”

  Claudia didn’t ask how much pain there was going to be once her mother was conscious; it was something that would have to be dealt with when it happened. For now, it was important simply to take one step at a time, and the fact that the second surgery hadn’t uncovered anything worse than was already known—as if that wasn’t terrible enough—must count as a blessing.

  As the nurses worked quietly around the bed, Claudia sat down and took her mother’s right hand between both of hers. The skin was as soft and unblemished by fire as her own, while the other hand was in a boxing-glove-size dressing that continued up to her shoulder. All blisters had been removed during surgery and the small amount of exposed skin on her neck glistened red and raw each time a soothing coat of paraffin was applied. Through the small frame of bandages around the mouth it was possible to see that her lips were swollen and taut and silvery, and each time a nurse gently moved her head Claudia was reminded that beneath the dressings her mother’s burnt scalp was now entirely bald. What had been left of her hair on admission had been shaved off to avoid infection.

  Time hissed and bleeped quietly by as Claudia tried to connect with her mother by telepathy, to assure her that she would get through this. You mustn’t worry about the house, she told her silently, or about anything else. You’re all that matters.

  She was concentrating so hard that it was a moment before she realized there was a hand on her shoulder. Seeing it was Jasmine, she tilted her head to press the paper-gloved fingers to her cheek. Like her Jasmine was wearing a gown, a hat, and shoe covers, obligatory protection when visiting this ward. “Are you OK?” she asked.

  “I guess.”

  They hadn’t spoken about the violin again; there was nothing they could say to make the loss of Joel’s precious gift any easier to bear.

  “Leanne’s still here,” Jasmine said, “and Dan and Henry have just arrived.”

  Claudia didn’t know what to say.

  “Don’t worry, they know they can’t see her, but I think they wanted to lend some moral support.”

  Claudia nodded distractedly. It was kind of them, but her mind was suddenly more focused on the individual, or individuals, who’d come to her home and done this. Faceless and nameless they might be, but her hatred for them was consuming.

  “How did the surgery go?” Jasmine asked, sounding as though she was afraid of the answer.

  Bringing herself back to the moment, Claudia said, “Quite well apparently. Another is scheduled for tomorrow.” She glanced up as a nurse came to check the bank of computers behind the bed. So much technology, all of it playing a vital role in keeping her mother steady and out of pain.

  She’ll pull through, the surgeon had said, but it’s going to take time.

  Pressing a kiss to her mother’s good hand, Claudia stood up for Jasmine to take her place. “Talk to her,” she said. “She’ll want to know you’re here.”

  After removing her protective clothing and disposing of it, Claudia went in search of Henry and Dan, who, in her bizarrely dislocated state, were feeling like people she used to know from a long time ago.

  A nurse directed her to the BICU waiting room, which wasn’t far from the secure doors to the ward, and as she entered both men rose to their feet. Henry looked so pale and shattered that she felt a bolt of irrational anger toward him. It wasn’t that she didn’t know the situation was serious, how could she not, but seeing it reflected in Henry’s eyes was making it more real than she was willing to accept right now.

  “Claudia, my dear,” he said, coming to envelop her. “I hope you don’t mind us turning up like this. I just had to be near, even if I can’t see her.”

  “It’s lovely that you came,” she told him, aware of the slight shake in his arms.

  She turned to Dan and allowed him to hug her too, but she could feel herself withdrawing even as his strength seemed to embrace her. He was a good man, decent beyond anything she’d known for years, but she couldn’t take that sort of kindness now. She was still too traumatized, confused, and horrified to know how to respond to anything beyond what was happening to her mother.

  “Leanne’s gone to make some phone calls,” Dan said, as if she’d asked.

  Claudia nodded and gestured for them to sit down, as though they were in her sitting room and everything was normal and tea might be on its way.

  The sitting room. Don’t go there. Not now.

  “The nurse told us,” Henry said, “that the op today went well. That’s a relief.”

  Claudia forced a smile. Everything was being judged differently now—relief came with the successful removal of more burnt skin, not with the finding of lost keys, or sinking into bed after a stressful day.

  Now all she could think was: How much is going to be left of her beautiful face? How damaged are her muscles, her tendons, her hand, her arm, her lovely skin?

  How severe is the pain going to be?

  Henry said, “Can we get you some tea or coffee?”

  She looked at him and wondered what she could possibly say to him, or Dan, that would make any sense of this. There was so much they didn’t know, where would she begin? Did she even want to?

  “The police are at the house,” Dan told her. “It’s already been confirmed that it was arson.” He paused as Claudia flinched. “Did you have any idea that it might be?” he asked gently.

  She let her eyes drift, not clear enough in her mind to know how to answer.

  “Claudia,” he said, taking one of her hands. “We know who you are, and we know who . . .”

  She turned to look at him. “What do you know?” she asked stiffly.

  Henry said, “Your husband . . .”

  She rose to her feet. “How do you know?” she demanded, glaring at them. “How long have you known?”

  Henry replied, “Andee will be able to answer your questions, she’s the one who figured it out. DCI Gould at the station confirmed it . . .”

  Claudia’s eyes flashed. “I don’t know him. He’s making things up.”

  “Claudia,” Dan said, gently but firmly. “We need to help the police find out who was behind this.”

  He was right of course, but she just couldn’t seem to break fr
ee of the anger, the outrage that they’d all known who she really was and had never told her. Did he have any idea how humiliating that was? How patronizing and deceitful?

  Was it even important?

  All that mattered was her mother, but it was easier hanging on to this fury than it was to try and deal with her guilt.

  “I think you should go now,” she said sharply. “It was kind of you to come, but we can—”

  Dan protested, “Listen, I understand how hard this is for you, but you have to help the police—”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” she cried angrily. “My only job now is to make sure my mother gets through this and you two, who’ve pretended you didn’t know who we really are . . . You can . . . You can . . .” As she started to break down Dan caught her, and held her, but she pushed him away. “Thank you for coming,” she mumbled, struggling to control herself, “but I need to go now,” and before they could stop her she left the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Andee stopped as she reached the police tape that surrounded the coach house, her padded coat and scarf helping to keep out the cold. At least it wasn’t raining, although the ground was awash with puddles created the night before by the firemen’s hoses.

  In spite of being familiar with many of the forensic team hard at work at the scene, she knew better than to breach the tape, or even to try and talk her way in. They had a job to do and she wasn’t here to disturb them, or to press them for information. She’d come simply to gauge for herself, in the cold light of day and now that the fire engines and their crews had departed, just how much damage the blaze had caused. Until she went inside it wouldn’t be possible to assess the full extent, but from where she was standing it was obvious that the central part of the house, kitchen dining area, and sitting room had taken the brunt of the attack. Her heart ached as she thought of how lovingly Claudia had put it all together, the exquisitely restored cornices and windows, the hand-crafted units, quirky patchwork sofas, splendid refectory table, and colorful mismatched chairs . . . All the care and pride she’d put into it gone in one random act of violence, or revenge, or whatever it had been.