by Rebecca Tope
‘Gwen was desperately upset by what had happened. She must have felt it would do enormous harm to her reputation. One of the first things she said was, “Well, that’s the end of my career as a tour guide.” We all kept assuring her there was nothing she could have done, but we couldn’t convince her. I suspect she also felt rather bad because she hadn’t liked Sarah.’
‘Oh?’ Drew interrupted for the first time. The story had him spellbound until then, but this was clearly important.
‘Just one of those things between women, I imagine. Sarah did nothing to make herself likeable, I must say. She was rather stolid, unsmiling and intense. Rather demanding, too – always making sure Gwen knew what she expected from the trip. Gwen seemed to resent her at times.’ He shrugged, as if animosity between women was just another of life’s many mysteries.
‘Anyway, although it was in all the British newspapers, they didn’t make anything like as much of it as they did the Hatshepsut shooting two or three years ago. It was all a bit “Ho-hum, here we go again,” especially as only one person died. The gunman was the usual fundamentalist nutcase, apparently. We thought he probably objected to Sarah’s shorts. She was a bit overweight, you see, and – well – you could see rather a lot of flesh. Her top was tight-fitting, too. But that’s so ironic, because she was actually a very straitlaced girl, with a lot of time for Islam. She loved the muezzin calls and the commitment to regular prayer.
‘The aftermath wasn’t as ghastly as it could have been – mainly thanks to Gwen. She shielded us from any more unpleasantness with great skill. We were due to fly home the next morning anyway, and after we’d all given statements to the police, that evening, we were free to go as planned. Gwen stayed behind to be with poor Sarah and to meet her husband if he decided to fly out. I think in the end he stayed in the UK and had her flown home for cremation. I’d rather expected to be informed of when it was, so I could send flowers, but there was no contact.
‘I haven’t seen any of the group since we arrived back on the thirteenth of April last year. I sent Gwen a Christmas card, but heard nothing from her. I admit I’m rather sorry about that. She and I got along very well, I believe. In fact—’ he smiled shyly, and dropped his gaze to the table, ‘– I did hope, just for a day or two, that we might – well, keep in touch afterwards. And maybe something a little bit more. If it hadn’t been for that Trevor chap—’ He shook his head angrily. ‘But you don’t want to hear about that. It’s got nothing to do with her performance as a guide.’
Drew tried desperately to find a pretext for encouraging this intriguing diversion. All he could manage was ‘Oh? Who was Trevor?’
‘Well,’ Habergas hesitated. ‘He had been with us at Giza earlier on that day, but then he went off alone. He wasn’t with the group, but he’d known Gwen from a previous trip. I think he was living in Luxor. I got the idea he was following Gwen about. I heard him arguing with Sarah, too. He must have felt awful afterwards. Something about Moslem women being oppressed. Sarah was very tactless, you see. She’d go up to women in the street and ask them impertinent questions. Of course, hardly any of them understood her. Only some of the very young ones had any English.’
‘Silly girl,’ said Drew with due pomposity. ‘I’m surprised Mrs Absolon didn’t warn her not to behave so recklessly.’
‘Perhaps she did,’ Habergas offered loyally. ‘But Sarah wasn’t a person to heed advice, I’m afraid.’
‘And this Trevor person also tried, from what you say?’
‘Not exactly. He just told her she was an ignorant little fool who had no idea what she was talking about.’ Habergas clearly recalled this moment with some relish. ‘He was an odd chap – a loner, I suppose. But Gwen liked him. After he showed up, she hardly noticed me,’ he admitted sadly. ‘Even when I gave her the necklace.’
Drew held his breath, and said nothing. A flicker of an eyebrow was all he permitted himself.
‘It wasn’t anything much. Just a thank-you present for being such a good guide. I gave it to her the day before the shooting. I didn’t want to make a public display of it, so I just gave it to her in Cairo. It was nice, but nothing too elaborate or expensive. I think she liked it.’ The wistfulness was hard to bear.
‘Well, that’s more or less it,’ Habergas summarised. ‘It was undeniably traumatic and it coloured the whole holiday retrospectively. I’d saved for years to do the trip, and I enjoyed it enormously until that last day. I haven’t been abroad very much, which is why Gwen’s laid-back style suited me so well. I went on a Nile cruise in my twenties, and saw all the temples and tombs and so forth, and have been a keen amateur student of Egyptology ever since. But I was attracted by the modern Egypt, too – the oases in particular. We had freedom, combined with security, whilst getting well off the usual tourist trail. Another terrible irony is that we were only visiting a popular tourist site on that very last day. We were desperately unlucky to be at that place at that particular moment.’
He stopped speaking, clearly reliving the emotions of that momentous day in the heat and sand. Then he gathered himself, and looked directly at Drew. ‘I appreciate your hearing me out. You didn’t have to, I know.’
‘I was glad to have the background,’ Drew said heartily. ‘It confirms our decision to offer Mrs Absolon some work, when we find her. She sounds absolutely what we’re looking for.’
‘It would be nice to see her again,’ said Habergas. ‘You know how easily people drift apart. I spoke to Janet on the telephone sometime during the summer, when we floated the idea of a little reunion, but concluded that it wouldn’t be very much fun, under the circumstances. Since then, I’ve just drifted back into my old life, as one does. And now, perhaps—’
Drew took this signal to leave. He had Trevor, necklace, Sarah Gliddon and all to ponder over – more than enough to justify the forty-mile round trip. Effusively, he thanked the man again, and wished him well, silently congratulating himself on the success of his cover story and the sincerity of his good wishes.
But Habergas had one last surprise in store for him. ‘You’re not really looking for her to give her a job, are you?’ he said, as Drew stepped out of the house. ‘Nobody would employ a woman over seventy these days.’
Drew had no choice. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said earnestly. ‘I assure you we make no discriminations based on age.’
The man looked him steadily in the eye. ‘I think you’re a detective,’ he said. ‘I think you’re hoping to blame Gwen for Sarah’s death – just like her husband did.’ Before Drew could summon up any further bluster, Habergas went on, ‘But I’ve told you the absolute truth, whoever you are. How you use it is up to you.’
CHAPTER TEN
Maggs didn’t go directly home after leaving the office. Instead she headed for the village of Fenniton, and rode her motorbike straight past the Slaters’ house. She’d looked them up in the phonebook – there was only one W. Slater. She slowed for a quick look, but not enough to attract attention to herself. Somebody was in – the light was on in the front room, but the curtains not yet closed. A figure was moving about in the middle of the room.
She rode round the next corner and dismounted. The bike was quickly secured to a lamppost and she walked back the way she’d come. It was getting rapidly darker and she assessed the chance of anyone seeing her as minimal. Cars passed sporadically, but beyond that there was no sign of life. Everybody was indoors, eating, watching television, getting their kids to bed.
As she approached the house, she saw Genevieve Slater close the curtains of the lighted room. Her arms were stretched upwards, displaying the curve of her pregnancy in all its enormity.
Maggs slid through the front gate and up to the window near the fence dividing the house from next door. Anybody walking past the house might well see her – but thankfully there were no pedestrians in sight. Pressing her ear to the lower section of window, she listened intently. Nothing. Not a word. Either they weren’t speaking in the room, or the glass was too thick. It was a
few minutes before she realised – Double glazing! Designed to keep sound at bay.
Muttering crossly to herself, she stood upright and tried to find a chink in the curtains to peer through. Finally, at one edge, she found a space big enough to make a spyhole. Unfortunately, a small holly bush grew directly below it, making access highly uncomfortable, but she persevered – after all, she was a detective now – and was rewarded by a scene of apparent domestic harmony.
Genevieve was on the sofa, legs propped on a pouffe in front of her. A man sat in the single armchair holding up a newspaper, so Maggs could only see the top half of his head. He was tall, with a big head, to judge by the length of his legs and the width of his brow.
As she crouched against the prickly bush, Maggs heard the engine of a motorbike and thought for a moment that someone had stolen hers. Standing up, she peered into the street and saw a youth of about her own age draw to a halt outside the house and lean his bike carefully against the kerb. He took off his helmet, and walked through the front gate. Maggs hurriedly crouched low again, praying he hadn’t seen her. Explaining what she was doing would be a real challenge. An inspiration came to her, and she quickly unbuttoned her trousers. If she was caught, she would pretend to be having an emergency pee in the bushes.
But it seemed she would not be required to explain herself. The young man walked purposefully up the path to the door at the side of the house. When the doorbell rang, Maggs observed the reaction inside the room. The man looked round the edge of his paper, bringing his hands together slightly but retaining his grip on his reading matter. He obviously had no intention of going to the door. He said something to Genevieve, who likewise made no move to get up. Maggs watched the silent scene in suspense. ‘Hurry up, one of you! Go and answer the door!’ she muttered.
Eventually, in an obvious huff, the man set his paper down carefully and got to his feet. He disappeared out of the room, and Maggs heard the key being turned in the door around the side of the house. She crept out of the holly bush and moved towards the corner.
‘Yes?’ came Willard’s voice, full of suspicion.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ came a light voice with a lilting Welsh accent.
‘No, I bloody don’t. Who the hell are you?’
‘Now, don’t be like that, Uncle Willard. I’ve come all the way from Anglesey.’
‘Good Christ! It’s Stuart, isn’t it? I haven’t seen you since that horrific Christmas when your whole family descended on us. You must have been about twelve.’
‘That’s right,’ said the visitor cheerfully. ‘Can I come in? I’m on an errand from my Mum, mainly. I’m having a year out, see, and catching up with some of my relations. Thought it might be fun to drop in on you, specially as Mum wants to know if you’ve heard anything from Granny. She’s getting really worried. Talking about calling the police if she doesn’t turn up soon.’
‘Oh bloody hell. You’d better come in.’ The door slammed and Maggs heard no more. She returned to the window and waited in vain for the two men to reappear. Instead, Genevieve got up and went slowly out of the room – presumably in answer to a summons from the hall or kitchen. Maggs sighed, and started to leave. At least she’d learnt something, she consoled herself.
Next morning, Drew heard Maggs arrive before he’d finished his breakfast. ‘What’s she doing here so early?’ he asked Stephanie, Karen having already left for work. His daughter fluttered her eyelashes knowingly, but offered no explanation.
When his assistant knocked on the front door, instead of letting herself into the office, he knew something must have happened. She burst into the hallway as soon as he let her in and stood there looking tragic.
‘Auntie Sharon’s got stomach cancer!’ she announced dramatically. ‘They say she’s only got a few weeks to live. She phoned my mum last night.’
Drew stood his ground, careful not to encourage any further histrionics. If he so much as raised a hand, he feared she would throw herself at him and start weeping on his chest. That wouldn’t be a problem for him, but he wasn’t sure how she’d feel about it afterwards. ‘Poor lady,’ he said.
‘She’s only thirty-nine!’ Maggs protested. ‘And they say there’s nothing they can do for her. She must have had it for months – she’s been feeling poorly and drinking gallons of indigestion stuff.’
‘They wouldn’t have been able to cure it,’ Drew said gently. ‘Maybe added a few months to her life, but it wouldn’t have been at all pleasant. They remove your stomach and you have to live on gunk that’s specially prepared. It really isn’t any fun.’
‘Anyway – I’m going to go and see her now,’ Maggs told him firmly. ‘She’s always been my favourite auntie. I used to stay with her in the summer holidays. She’s great.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Oh – the other side of Bradbourne. Not far. I’ll be back by lunchtime.’
‘Isn’t she in hospital?’
‘No – she discharged herself. She doesn’t believe in hospitals.’
‘But—’ Drew tried to remember his plans for the day. ‘I really need you to mind the office.’ With anybody else, he supposed he might be accused of insensitivity; with Maggs, he could say what he liked.
‘Sorry,’ she shook her head. ‘I can’t help it. I wouldn’t be any use to you, the state I’m in. Let me just go and make sure she knows – oh!’ A flurry of tears drowned what she’d meant to say. Drew abandoned his efforts not to be too kind, and patted her on the shoulder.
‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘It’s obviously come as a big shock.’
‘Thanks,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ll be all right later on.’ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and gave herself a shake. ‘Actually, I’ve got things to tell you,’ she remembered. ‘I went to Fenniton last night and had a bit of a snoop at your lady-friend’s house. They had a visitor. A boy called Stuart, who calls the man Uncle Willard. Looking for his Granny, he said. Interesting, eh? I think I’ve earned a morning off, helping your investigation in my free time. I promise I’ll be back by one. You do understand, don’t you?’
‘Course I do,’ Drew said. ‘You’ve got to go.’
‘You can phone Genevieve and tell her she doesn’t have to mind Stephanie this morning.’ Maggs seemed reluctant to leave, loitering in the doorway, evidently torn between alliegances to work and family.
‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ he agreed. ‘Go on.’
She grimaced. ‘It’s all right when they’re actually dead, isn’t it?’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s the dying that’s a bummer.’
And at last she was heading down the path, pulling on her crash helmet as she went.
Drew gathered Stephanie’s things and carried her round to the office. He was aware of a definite feeling of relief at not seeing Genevieve again so soon, mixed with frustration: time was going by, and he ought to find something constructive to do with his morning.
He set Stephanie down in her usual corner, and arranged a selection of toys within her reach. As he tried to order his thoughts, he found something was niggling him: some crooked piece of logic to do with Genevieve’s mother. Genevieve couldn’t pursue her own investigations into Gwen’s assumed death because she might attract police attention … But why should that be a worry? Why should Genevieve asking questions about Gwen Absolon be any more suspicious than Drew Slocombe doing so?
It could only be the case that someone else somewhere, who already had reason to think the Slaters were involved in Gwen’s disappearance. If someone had heard Willard shouting at her, or seen him in a compromising situation with her – that person might well make damaging deductions if questions came to be asked. If it was true that Willard had killed Gwen, and then vowed to Genevieve that he hadn’t, she might be reluctant to confront anyone who could provide proof that he was guilty. If the painful truth had to come out, it would be better coming from somebody sympathetic, like Drew.
The only witness that Drew was aware of was the Kennett woman on the t
rain. And she had claimed to see two people digging a grave in the late evening of August 12th. For the first time, Drew realised he could at least follow up the date. He could ask Genevieve if she could remember where her husband was that night, although, seeing that it was now nearly eight months ago, it was very doubtful that she’d remember.
It was past the time when he should have arrived at Genevieve’s house with Stephanie, and he still hadn’t phoned her. He assumed her veto on phone calls had now been lifted and he rang the number that she’d given him.
There was no reply. He let it ring for ninety seconds, giving her time to get out of the bath, in from the garden, down from a loft ladder. He visualised her at the bottom of the stairs in a terrible broken heap. He imagined her labour had started and she was having strong contractions in rapid succession. He considered shutting the office and rushing to her side. Or calling an ambulance. It never even crossed his mind that she might have gone out deliberately, abandoning her promise to look after Stephanie.
Stephanie had strewn cotton reels, crayons, small plastic bottles and painted wooden bricks in a careless semicircle around her. She was now crawling resolutely across the room to the filing cabinet. Drew was aware that she could hurt herself if she tried to pull herself up by the drawer handles and they came flying open – so he was meticulous about keeping the cabinet locked at all times. He therefore paid little attention when she began to do exactly as he’d expected. Grasping the handle of the second drawer up, she pulled hard. At first it held, and she began to take her weight on her feet, though with a decided wobble. The handle was just too high for her to get a useful purchase, but she persisted. The next Drew knew, there was the sound of metal sliding on metal, a startled cry from the child and then a loud knock. The drawer had acted just as Drew had imagined it would, hitting Stephanie hard with its sharp lower edge. It caught her just above the eyes. By the time he’d rushed over and picked her up, she had a bleeding gash at least three inches long.
