One May Smile

by Penny Freedman

  10

  DAY FIVE

  When sorrows come they come not single spies

  But in battalions. 4.5

  Some sort of crash wakes me out of that exhausted sleep that can come out of hours of wakefulness and I see Sophie scrabbling about under the little dressing table in the corner of the room. I reach for my phone to check the time. It is 7.30. What is the matter with this girl? Every other morning she has been dead under the duvet, and now she’s up at what I might hyperbolically call the crack of dawn if this weren’t Denmark at midsummer.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ I enquire pleasantly.

  She starts, jerks her head up, bangs it on the dressing table and scrambles to her feet, scarlet-faced, but before she can say anything, Freda sits up. ‘Something breaked,’ she says, and the two of us turn accusing eyes on Sophie. She looks terrible now the flush has faded from her face but she is dressed and has washed her hair and made an effort with some makeup. She picks up her bag and hugs it to her.

  ‘Sorry I woke you,’ she whispers. ‘Nothing’s broken. Just dropped my bag.’

  ‘Where are you going at this hour?’

  ‘I’m – I just need to get out for a bit. I thought I’d go for a cycle ride, actually.’

  ‘Has the rain stopped?’

  ‘I think so. See you later.’ And she’s gone.

  I climb out of bed and stand on a chair to peer out of our high little window. The rain does seem to have spent itself and the sky above the trees is already a promising blue. I push the window open and lean out, savouring the damp, salty air. Then I hear footsteps on the gravel and see Sophie come out, run to the summer house at the side of the drive and emerge wheeling a bike. Several bikes came over on the ferry, strapped to the back of the van, though I have yet to see anyone ride one. I remember vaguely being told a story on my first evening here about Zada’s bike. I forget the point of it exactly but I think the joke was that it is a state-of-the-art machine that has never been ridden by its actual owner. I wonder if it’s Zada’s bike that Sophie has taken now, following the ancient Oxford custom of regarding the bike as what economists term a free good – a resource needed by the society and available without limit at zero cost.

  I watch Sophie mount the bike, pedal over the gravel to the gates and turn left towards Helsingør, and I think how appealing the idea of a day out on a bike is. I should have to take Freda, of course, and none of the bikes here will have a child seat, so it would mean going into Helsingør and hiring one. Not impossible – I’ve seen a garage near the castle with a Cykler til leje sign, which I take to mean Cycles for hire. With James at the police station, there will surely be no rehearsals today, and the likelihood is that the others will sit around here annoying each other, like bored kids on a long car journey. I look at Freda.

  ‘What do you think,’ I ask, ‘of going for a picnic?’

  She looks puzzled. ‘A breakfast picnic?’ she asks.

  ‘No. We’ll have an adventure,’ I improvise. ‘We’ll go on the bus into the town and we’ll have breakfast in a café. Then we’ll get a bike just like my bike at home, with a little seat for you, and we’ll go to the beach for a picnic.’

  She lies down and puts her thumb in her mouth. ‘Want to go on your home bike,’ she says, indistinctly.

  I sit down on the bed beside her. ‘But my home bike is in England, sweetheart.’

  ’I want to go in England.’

  Her face is crumpling into tears. I scoop her up and sit her on my lap. She turns her face to mine. ‘I decided,’ she says, ‘I don’t like ventures.’ You and me both, sweetheart, I think, and at this moment you speak for everyone in this house, I imagine. The familiar wash of guilt hits me. I didn’t email Ellie last night as I meant to. I got distracted by Sophie. With so many adults behaving like children, I lost sight of the actual child, didn’t I?

  I never had much in the way of strategies for dealing with my children and I’m no better equipped to deal with Freda. Bracing or bribery is all I have and bracing will hardly do for this poor little scrap who is actually trying quite hard to be brave and reasonable. I put my lips close to her ear and I murmur, ‘How about pancakes for breakfast, and after that we’ll phone Mummy and see if she’s having a nice holiday.’

  ’Will you make the pancakes?’

  ‘If we have them at a café, there’ll be syrup,’ I wheedle.

  ‘All right.’ She gives the glimmer of a smile. ‘I might get sticky, though.’

  ‘So might I,’ I say, and she starts to giggle.

  Taking advantage of this temporary lifting of spirits, I scramble us both into our clothes, throw a few child-related necessities into a bag and march us out of the house. On the drive we meet Ray, who is just getting into the van.

  ‘Not taking the van to get the pastries this morning, surely, Ray?’ I say. ‘What’s happened to the fitness regime?’

  He laughs. ‘Already been for my run. I’m off to pick James up. He just rang. They’re letting him out.’

  ‘Really? So rehearsals today then?’

  ‘I assume.’

  ‘Well, change of plan then. Freda and I were planning a day out, but if this thing is actually going on, people need to start getting used to their costumes.’

  Of course I’m glad that they’ve released James but I really could have done with a hike on a bike, and I feel bad about disappointing Freda, though she is actually more fixated on the pancakes; she has been chanting pancakes, pancakes, pancakes for some time and with mounting ferocity. In fact, I see a tantrum in the offing if we don’t get moving; any moment she will be lying on the drive eating gravel.

  ‘You couldn’t give us a lift into town, could you, Ray?’ I ask. ‘I‘ve promised Freda a pancake breakfast.’

  Ray offers us seats on the bench beside him at the front but I’m playing safe in the light of recent events and I put us in the back, with our lap straps on. As we approach the town, Ray says, ‘Jim’ll be waiting so I should pick him up right away. There’ll be a café round the corner in the market, won’t there? OK?’

  I remember our experience with the hotdogs. ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I was planning on going to the castle café.’

  ‘The castle café?’ He sounds surprised. ‘Expensive there, isn’t it?’

  ‘But good. And child-friendly. But don’t worry. I wasn’t expecting you to take us there. We can walk from here.’

  He says nothing but when we get to the police station, he parks right outside in a space that says parkering forbudt and he says, ‘Stay here, will you, and argue with anyone who kicks up a fuss? I’ll only be two ticks. Then I’ll drop you at the castle.’

  ‘But Ray –’ I protest, but he’s gone, taking the steps up to the doors of the police station two at a time. Damn. Do I look like a woman who is good at arguing with traffic wardens? Well, perhaps I do to those who don’t realise that I’m one of the developed world’s last pedestrians. I peer down the street looking for signs of a uniform.

  ‘Tell me if you see anyone wearing a hat,’ I instruct Freda, but she is looking mutinous. ‘We’ll count to a hundred,’ I concede, ‘and if Ray’s not back we’ll walk to the café.’

  We sit and watch the street while I count at a brisk pace. I’m just at fifty when I see not a uniform but a woman I recognise, the mystery woman I saw James talking to on the day we arrived – the woman I connected, on no very good evidence, with the Karin Conrad talked about, Karin whose brother loaned him the fatal car. She is not very distinctive looking – average height, slim, dark blonde hair – but what makes her noticeable is that she is wearing, as she was when I saw her previously, denim dungarees of the kind I remember being worn for a while by über-feminists in the 80s but which are now, I feel sure, genuine work clothes. Hence my leap to Karin and the garage.

  As I watch her, she walks briskly past the van, stops at the police station, takes one step up and then freezes for a moment before turning and heading back fast, but not quite at a run, i
n the direction she has just come from. I watch her for a moment and then see that James has materialised on the pavement looking at her too. She was planning to go into the police station but changed her mind when she saw James. Why?

  James and Ray get into the front seat of the van and Ray says, ‘Gina’s going out for breakfast, Jim. What say we do the same?’

  James twists round to glance briefly at me but then turns back to Ray. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t mind delaying our return to the madhouse.’

  Ray drops us at the castle entrance and goes off to park the van. Freda, finding herself walking between two adults, demands to be swung along and James participates awkwardly. Small children are clearly outside his comfort zone. The café is just opening up as we arrive and we are the first people in. It’s small and furnished mainly with tables for two. Without discussion, Freda and I take one table and James seats himself on the opposite side of the room. We are by the window, where we can take an interest in the world; James (or Jim – who else but Ray would think of calling him Jim?) lurks in a corner. When Ray comes in, he looks surprised to see us sitting separately but I am quite happy not to eat my pancakes in the company of James and his black dog aura when I have the potentially entropic combination of Freda and syrup to deal with.

  Actually, we have a lovely breakfast. The pancakes come nicely doused in maple syrup and accompanied by rashers of bacon, American style. Freda doesn’t care for the bacon so I get double, which suits me. I have remembered to bring a scrunchie to tie Freda’s hair back, so stickiness is confined to her face and hands. The coffee is wonderful and I order a second pot while I reorder the day in my mind. I shall have to stay here and start the business of trying on the costumes. If things don’t fit, I need to know now. I’m hoping that Freda has forgotten about the proposed bike ride, or was never very keen on it anyway. I shall just have to keep her here with me, and hope to keep her entertained. And I haven’t forgotten that I promised her we would ring Ellie, but I need to wait until there are other people around to distract her, so I can have a quiet word with Ellie about what is going on here. Anders Mortensen may have let James go but he has got his teeth into this case and there’s every possibility that he will arrest each of us in turn until he finds his murderer.

  James and Ray are still making their way through a multi-course breakfast when we leave and Ray lifts a laden fork in a farewell gesture. Although the grounds and the café are open, the castle doesn’t open till ten o’clock – another fifteen minutes – but Adam has negotiated access for the company from nine each day so I stop at the gatehouse to ask the gatekeeper to unlock the door into the courtyard.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re the early birds,’ I apologise.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I already unlocked it for the girl.’

  I’ve no idea who he means but I smile and thank him and through we go. As we’re crossing the courtyard, I start to feel in an inner pocket of my bag for the key to the cellar which is my costume store, but before I even start feeling for it I know I’m not going to find it. It is a huge iron key on a heavy ring and I have been conscious of it clanking about in my bag ever since it was handed over, grudgingly and disapprovingly, by the gatekeeper on the day the costumes were delivered. This morning, I realise, there has been no clanking, and I haven’t felt the weight of it on my shoulder. I rummage anyway, even to the extent of sitting down on the flagstones and emptying out my bag, willing it to be there and knowing it’s not. I sit, surrounded by the detritus of my daily life and consider possibilities.

  I have been neurotic about this key, lending it to no-one, replacing it in its designated pocket in my bag, terrified of losing the damned thing and having to face the wrath of the surly gatekeeper. I rewind to the last time I had it in my hand. It was, I suppose, shortly before Conrad made his dramatic appearance on Wednesday afternoon. No, I had it after that. I remember going back to lock up when Ray set off carrying Conrad. So I must, at some point, have taken it out of my bag, but if I did I have completely blanked it out, which says something worrying about my mental state. Well, there’s only one thing to be done.

  ‘Sorry, Freda,’ I say, bundling everything back into my bag, ‘Granny has to go and grovel.’

  ‘What’s grobel?’ she asks.

  ‘Watch and learn,’ I say.

  The door to the courtyard opens as we approach, on the stroke of ten from the courtyard clock. I return to the gatehouse, intending to confess all, but I lose my nerve when I look into the gatekeeper’s stony face and instead I smile brightly. ‘I am SO sorry,’ I say, ‘but I’ve forgotten to bring the key to the cellar. Do you think you could possibly let me in?

  He frowns and I feel a blush rising from my throat into my lying face. He knows. He knows I’ve lost it.

  ‘Just this once?’ I add, weakly.

  He gives a puff of irritation. ‘But the girl has it,’ he says. ‘I told you.’

  The girl. Who does he mean? ‘But I haven’t given the key to anyone,’ I protest.

  For an answer, he turns and calls out something into an inner office behind him, then comes out and takes hold of my arm – something I really dislike and I would object to if I weren’t feeling so firmly in the wrong at this particular moment. He steers me at speed across the courtyard while Freda hangs onto my other hand and runs to keep up with us. At the cellar door, he stops and points at the handle. ‘Open it,’ he commands, so I turn it and the door creaks open. ‘You can go in,’ he says, and gives me an unfriendly little push.

  ‘So kind of you!’ I say as I step inside but I fear the irony is lost on him. I am conscious that he is standing at the open door watching me as Freda and I negotiate the uneven steps down into the cellar. The light is on and I can see who is down here. Sophie is standing in her mad scene costume – her tattered bride’s dress – scarlet-faced and guilty, just as I’ve already seen her look today.

  ‘You stole the key!’ I yell at her. ‘You stole it out of my handbag. That’s what you were doing this morning. Stealing the key out of my bag.’

  She flares back. ‘What are you talking about? I didn’t steal anything. I just borrowed it.’

  I hear the heavy door close above us and shut the sunlight out as the gatekeeper leaves. Sophie says, ‘You were asleep. I was going to leave you a note.’

  ‘I woke up!’ I roar. ‘We had a conversation. Why didn’t you ask me for it?’

  ‘I was embarrassed.’ Her voice wobbles. ‘And you’ve made such a big deal about never letting it out of your sight.’

  ‘For a good reason. It was entrusted to me. I was worried sick when I thought I’d lost it!’

  ‘Well some people have more important things to be worried sick about!’ she yells back. ‘Try thinking about that.’ Then she sits down on a trunk and starts to cry. Dear God, not again.

  ‘Why,’ I ask more quietly, ‘did you want your costume anyway?’

  She gets up and starts pacing about. ‘I don’t know,’ she says with her back to me. ‘It’ll sound stupid when I say it, but I just wanted to get away from all the crap at the villa and just get into role. You know, put the costume on and be Ophelia. Do some of the speeches. I’m good in the part, I know I am, when there isn’t all the other stuff to think about. I wanted to feel I was good at something, that’s all.’

  ‘But why be so furtive about it?’

  She turns on me. ‘Why can’t you stop asking bloody questions?’ she screams. ‘Sod you and your fucking costumes.’

  Then she’s away, taking the steps at a run and leaving the heavy door hanging open.

  ‘Freda,’ I say, ‘Sophie said some nasty words just then. It’s not a good idea for you to try saying any of them.’

  She nods solemnly then starts climbing the steps. ‘Shall we go on a bike now?’ she says.

  I look around at my costumes. I’m sick to death of all this – the on-off rehearsals, the egos and spite, the tantrums and tears, the mistrust and the lies. Sophie was lying to me, I’m sure. It was a feebl
e story, insulting in its feebleness. What point was there in rehearsing a part she didn’t expect to play? As far as Sophie knows, James is still at the police station and as she told it last night, she thinks he’s going to prison. No more Hamlet and no more Ophelia. So why all this – slipping out of the house, stealing the key, dressing up? What the hell is she up to?

  Freda is now at the top of the steps, teetering dangerously.

  ‘Sit down, Freda,’ I bark, more fiercely than I intended to because I’m scared.

  She sits down, startled, and her thumb goes into her mouth but she doesn’t cry. She has more spine than most people round here. I spot the key lying beside a pile of Sophie’s discarded clothes. Well, I’m going to lock up and she’ll have to get round the gatekeeper if she wants her clothes back. I pick it up and go up the steps to Freda. I pick her up. ‘Sorry I shouted,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and find a bike.’

  ‘Can I have a carry?’ she asks, milking the moment.

  ‘Just as far as the bridge,’ I say, and I carry her across the courtyard in the sunshine. I go through the gatehouse, avoiding the eye of the gatekeeper, and when we reach the drawbridge I am about to put Freda down when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a large white object falling from the battlements towards the moat. It is only when it hits the water that I see that it is a body wrapped in the floating draperies of a wedding dress.

  11

  TRAFFIC

  Scott heard the text message come through on his phone at some time after midnight and turned the bedside light on to look at it. Murder mystery, he read. Read your emails. Even if his phone hadn’t told him the message came from Gina, he would have recognised it – bossy and infuriating – as unmistakeably hers. The morning was soon enough, he thought, and switched out the light.