One May Smile

by Penny Freedman

  I usher them out into the garden, where they settle on a bench under a tree, Freda still clinging to David, and then I go into the kitchen, where Emma is washing vegetables, and ask if she could possibly make a cup of tea while I go and shower. Upstairs, I find our room in chaos. Drawers have been emptied, the beds have been stripped and the contents of Sophie’s suitcase are lying in a heap on the floor. I haven’t got time to wonder about this now. I bundle stuff back into the drawers and into the case and leave the beds till later. Then I wash my hair in the shower, apply a lot of deodorant and too much perfume and rummage through my clothes for something to wear. Most of the clothes I have with me have been subjected to the Freda treatment by now and bear the scars accordingly, but I find a skirt I haven’t worn yet, and a black sleeveless top that looks vaguely cool. There is no time to blow dry my hair, so it will dry into a frizz, but it will have to do.

  They have had their tea and are ready to go when I get back downstairs, and they depart amid little cries of appreciation from Susan Forrester – So kind! Really very kind! I wave them off and wonder what to do next. For some reason, the most urgent thing seems to be the blow drying, so I do that, taking Freda with me and giving her my strings of beads to play with.

  When I turn the hairdryer off, we hear the sound of a car on the gravel outside and then a voice issuing orders. ‘No, keep it the right way up, Ben! It’ll be wrecked if you carry it like that!’ The tone would be unmistakeable, even we didn’t recognise the voice. It has a particular brisk bossiness that is passed down in the female line in my family – on the mitochondrial DNA, I believe – and Freda is already showing signs of it. For the moment, though, she looks at me wonderingly. ‘Mummy?’ she asks.

  We speed downstairs to a frenzy of hugs and kisses. Then Annie appears from nowhere and before long I am de trop; it is clear that she intends to give Ellie the narrative of the week’s events and would rather not have editorial interventions from me.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ I say, ‘but if you want to know about my three-hour interrogation by the police, Ellie, I’ll be happy to tell you some time. And Freda, do tell Mummy what we had for our picnic today.’

  I wander off to consider the next few hours. I wonder where David intends to stay. He doesn’t know that Ellie is here and I am released from Freda duty, so that should be a joyful surprise, shouldn’t it? The cool, blue room at the Marienlyst begins to seem like less of a fantasy; Ellie and Ben and Freda can have the room here, can’t they? And I can decamp with David. I find my laptop and get onto the hotel website to find the phone number. Then, because I have no phone, I go through the garden to the beach to see if I can find someone to borrow a phone from.

  Most of the company are on the beach, but they are not the raucous crowd we encountered when we arrived five days ago. There are no ball games going on and no-one even seems to be swimming. They are sitting or lying around in groups, reading or talking quietly. If it weren’t for the sand and sea setting, they would most resemble travellers who have encountered an unexpected hitch and been delayed on their journey. They look like people who are waiting for something, unable to enjoy the present moment, pleasant enough though it is, because the next stage is the important thing. I see Zada sitting on a rock like a siren, talking animatedly on her phone and I wait until she has finished before moving across to her. Her expression as she watches me approach is alarmed and defiant both at once, with defiance winning by the time I get close.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘I haven’t come to shout at you. You told the police what you knew, like we’re supposed to. It led to my spending a day at the police station and having my phone confiscated, but don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I do feel a bit bad,’ she says.

  ‘Bad enough to lend me your phone for a quick call? It’s local.’

  ‘Feel free.’ She hands it over. ‘You chose a good day to be out. The police have been here looking for James’s mobile and I have to tell you they treated my vintage Issey Miyake with total disrespect.’

  ‘That’s why my room’s in chaos. I thought I’d been singled out.’

  ‘Nope. We all got the treatment. Shall I move away?’

  ‘You’re fine. It’s not personal,’ I lie.

  When I get through to a young woman in reception at the Marienlyst I ask if a Mr David Scott has a reservation for tonight and I’m told, as I feared I would be, that she cannot give out that sort of information. ‘How awkward,’ I say. ‘The thing is, (giggles girlishly) he is my boyfriend.’ There, I’ve said it. ‘We’re supposed to be meeting here for a few days’ break but I’ve got a feeling that we may have got our wires crossed and we both think the other one has booked a room.’ Silence. ‘Of course,’ I say, ‘if you still have rooms available, it’s not a problem. We can simply – do you have rooms available?’

  ‘We have one or two,’ she concedes warily.

  ‘Well, look, I think the best thing is if I book one of those just to be on the safe side, and if it turns out that he has already booked then we can cancel one. Of course, that will be a bit annoying for you, having two rooms tied up and not available for anyone else, especially as he won’t be arriving till quite late, but –’

  ‘Did you say Scott?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. David.’

  ‘Mr Scott has already a reservation,’ she says coldly.

  ‘Oh fine, good. Excellent. They’re not always as useless as you think they are, are they? Men, I mean.’ I’m wondering now how I can find out whether he’s booked a double room. ‘I hope he’s booked a really nice room,’ I say. I try the girlish giggle again.

  ‘Mr Scott has a reservation for a double room with a sea view,’ she says. ‘Is there anything else?’

  There isn’t and I hang up.

  Zada has been listening to this with delight. ‘Gina Gray,’ she says, ‘what are you up to?’

  ‘Planning to have my wicked way with a policeman, Zada,’ I say and return her phone. Then I run upstairs and pack some things into my hand luggage bag. The sight of my sweaty cotton pyjamas brings me up short, though, and I snatch up my purse and run crazily down the road to the little parade of shops where I spotted the underwear butik on that innocent day when we first arrived here. The wares here are pretty cheap and quite nasty, tending to slippery viscose in unconvincing colours, but I find a sky blue nightdress that will be all right when I’ve cut the large bow off the front of it, and is certainly an improvement on the sweaty pyjamas. I pay and run back, getting indoors just before David returns.

  My plans for tonight’s sleeping arrangements are, astonishingly, accepted without argument; Ellie and Ben may have an argument with Freda if they try to displace her from the big bed but I shan’t be there so it doesn’t matter. David has found a guest house for Susan Forrester near the hospital and freed himself from responsibilities there, so in the early evening we drive up to the Marienlyst Hotel’s calm, wide, white stucco front for all the world like any normal couple away on a mini-break. A policeman and a murder suspect? Who knew?

  Our room actually is cool and blue and we pour ourselves drinks from the mini-bar and sit out on the balcony watching the sea. When we’re settled, though, and I try to get started on my theories about Conrad and Sophie, David absolutely refuses to listen. He’s seeing Anders Mortensen tomorrow, he says, and he needs to go in with a completely open mind. He will happily discuss it all with me after that but for this evening the subject is off limits.

  ‘Well, what are we going to talk about, then?’ I demand truculently, and he says rather snappishly that I could ask him how his week has been, so I get sarcastic and we very nearly have our first row before we’ve even got as far as dinner. Then it starts to rain (really, the weather here is so like ours it’s no wonder Hengist and Horsa felt so much at home in England) and we decide to go and eat. We find we have the choice of an American barbecue or an ultra-chic menu on which all the vegetables seem to have been reduced to heaps of pastel foam. We opt for this
one and though we can’t dine under the stars, as I had imagined, because of the rain, our shared amusement at the foams gets us into a better humour. And David tells me about the Viking ship museum in Roskilde, which he came to on a holiday with his parents, and it’s such a relief just to sit and listen and not have to talk that I cheer up considerably and eat two puddings since the foams were not at all filling.

  Back in the cool blue room, we don’t open the windows wide to the song of the sea because of the rain and because the wind has got up sufficiently to blow small objects off the dressing table. When I put on the sky-blue nightie and get into the wide, soft bed, I feel a wonderful sense of relaxation and release from thought, as though my brain has been injected with a local anaesthetic, and as I drift off to sleep while David is in the bathroom cleaning his teeth, I think that there is something I’m supposed to be staying awake for but I can’t remember what, and it probably doesn’t matter anyway.

  14

  COLLABORATION

  ‘You really will have to wake up now,’ Scott said, ‘or the coffee will be cold.’ He watched as she struggled up from sleep.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘Where – who’s – why are you wearing a suit?’

  ‘Official business. I’m seeing Anders Mortensen at ten thirty. I left it as long as I could to order breakfast.

  ‘Breakfast? Where?’

  ‘Out on the balcony if you think it’s warm enough.’

  She climbed out of bed, took down his raincoat which was hanging behind the bedroom door, slipped her feet into his slippers and shuffled out onto the balcony. ‘Lovely,’ she said, putting a croissant on a plate and pouring coffee. She lapsed into silence though as she ate, her eyes preoccupied. She was looking slightly better for her night’s sleep, he thought, but still oddly unlike herself. Wrapped in the oversized grey-brown coat, she looked sallow and small and almost vulnerable, if one could ever use that word about Gina.

  Eventually she said, ‘So you’ve told Mortensen you’re a policeman?’

  ‘Yes. Happened to be in the area. Wondered if I could offer any help from the UK end.’

  ‘Did you mention me?’

  ‘God, no. He won’t talk to me if he thinks I’ve got a personal interest, will he?’

  ‘I suppose not. So what’s your cover story? Why are you in the area? Viking ships?’

  He smiled, pleased with himself over this particular inspiration. ‘Well, meeting Susan Forrester on the plane was a piece of luck. I was having trouble coming up with a convincing story but she’s the perfect cover. I can say I’m an old friend and she’s asked me to come along and give her some support at this difficult time. I’ve asked her and she’s happy to go along with that if it means I can winkle information out of the police here.’

  ‘Isn’t that a personal interest?’

  ‘Not the same,’ he said. He looked at his watch, realised it was time to go and went inside to gather up wallet, keys, sunglasses and phone. ‘Sophie’s a victim,’ he called. ‘You’re a suspect.’

  ‘Well, thanks.’

  He turned to look at her. She looked stricken. What had he said?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, going out to her.

  ‘Nothing’s the matter. It’s fine.’ She had her face hidden in her coffee mug.

  ‘When I said you’re a suspect, I didn’t mean that I think you’re a suspect. I just meant – you know what I meant.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. And the aim is that by the end of my session with Mortensen you won’t be a suspect any more.’

  ‘Right.’

  He looked at her. ‘OK?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s just –’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Just that this isn’t how I imagined it would be.’

  ‘How what would be?’

  ‘Your being here.’

  ‘You told me not to come, as I recall.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you imagined what, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the knight in shining armour thing. Like you’re doing for Susan Forrester.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, turning to go, ‘I think you’ll find this method will do the job better. The shining armour thing would just have got me booted down the station steps.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You look exhausted,’ he said – unwisely, as he realised from the look on her face. ‘Go back to bed. Rest. Don’t think. l’ll see you later.’

  ‘See you,’ she said, and turned to look out to sea.

  * * *

  Anders Mortensen greeted him civilly but not warmly, much as he himself would have greeted an officer from a foreign force who strayed onto his patch in the middle of a murder inquiry, Scott conceded. ‘So, what brings you to Helsingør exactly?’ Mortensen asked,

  ‘I came with Susan Forrester, Sophie Forrester’s mother. She’s very upset, obviously. Her husband’s dead and she was worried about coming here and coping with all this on her own so I offered to come with her.’

  ‘And what is your relationship with her?’

  ‘I don’t have a rel – I’m an old friend. An old family friend.’

  ‘I see.’ They had arrived at Mortensen’s office and he stopped at the door to give Scott a searching look. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand,’ he said as he ushered him into the room, ‘when I tell you that I made some background checks on you after you telephoned.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘That you are who you say you are.’ Mortensen smiled briefly. ‘You are a detective chief inspector in the Marlbury police force. What size city is Marlbury?’

  ‘Not large. About 40,000 people.’

  ‘There are two residents of Marlbury involved in this case. I wonder if you know them at all? Virginia and Marianne Gray?’

  He was looking intently at Scott as he produced the names. Scott had expected that he would make the Marlbury connection but it still felt like an on the spot decision when he said, ‘I have come across Virginia Gray, yes. She works in one of the universities.’

  ‘So she does. But these are not her students.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She is here at her daughter’s request, I understand. She has prepared the costumes for their performance.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Again Scott got the intent gaze, then Mortensen seemed to relax. ‘So,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘you said you have been following reports of the case – or cases – in the newspapers. What do you know so far?’

  Scott sketched in what he knew about Conrad’s death, omitting circumstantial detail provided by Gina, and then said, ‘About Sophie Forrester I know only that she appears to have fallen, jumped or been pushed from the battlements into the moat at the castle and that you are holding one of the students, James Asquith, in custody. I’ve not been to the castle yet but I’ve looked at some images on line. They’re not battlements as one might imagine them are they? It’s a grassed over area.’

  ‘But it’s a long fall.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Mortensen watched him. ‘Mrs Forrester – Susan, did you say? – has not yet spoken to me –’

  ‘No. She’s most concerned with what the hospital can tell her. That’s why she asked me to –’

  ‘What has she told you about her daughter’s condition?’

  ‘That she has been kept in a medically induced coma but that the doctors are hoping to bring her out of that today.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No mention of a pregnancy?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It may be that the hospital staff have not told her that. But Sophie was pregnant – only a few weeks – and she lost the child after her fall. James Asquith admits that he was the father of the child, and he admits that their relationship had broken up because he didn’t want her to have the child.’ He opened a file and handed a sheet of paper to Scott. ‘A transcript of a text message we found on Sophie Forrester’s phone.
It was sent to her at 07.05 on the morning of her fall.’

  Scott looked at the words on the page, scanned, it seemed, from the screen of a phone.

  Police are releasing me this

  morning. Want to start with

  a clean slate. A chance for

  you and I to put things right.

  How about we meet and

  rehearse our scene just the

  two of us? Our secret. Then

  we can knock their socks off

  at rehearsal. Wear the white

  dress to get us in the mood,

  you look beautiful in it anyway.

  Not sure about my timing.

  9.30ish? On the battlements.

  xxJ

  Scott scanned the message and wondered what Gina would make of it.

  ‘What does he say about this?’ he asked.

  ‘He denies that he sent it. He says he didn’t have his phone with him when he was brought in.’

  ‘And he wasn’t searched?’

  ‘He came voluntarily for questioning. He wasn’t arrested.‘

  ‘What would his motive have been?’

  ‘Sophie Forrester told someone that Conrad Wagner was blackmailing Asquith. It is possible that he wanted to silence her.’

  ‘What was the blackmail about?’

  ‘We don’t know and we won’t until Sophie is able to talk to us.’

  ‘The person she told about the blackmail –’

  ‘– Says that Sophie refused to say any more.’

  ‘And you believe that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. The person is Virginia Gray, as it happens.’

  ‘Really?’ Scott was thankful that he had not let Gina tell him this part of the story and didn’t have to act surprise. ‘But she thought it was worth telling you about it all the same.’

  ‘In fact, she didn’t. This information came to us from one of the other students who overheard the conversation.’ He digested this for a moment and then asked, ‘What does Asquith say about the blackmail?’

  ‘He absolutely denies it. He says that Sophie is a hysterical person. Virginia Gray is of the same opinion.’