Dying Flames

by Robert Barnard

  “F—” began his father, then thought better of it.

  He swallowed, then decided what to do. He turned, put his arms around the boy’s shoulders, and hastened back across the mud. There was to be no Sunday dinner that day till the roast pork was well dried out and all appetites were gone. As a rule the police presence in Brightlingsea was, in the locals’ opinion, as useless as an answer phone, but after a frustrating series of transfers to one after another low-level policemen, a promise was made that a car would be sent. They picked up Tim’s father, and he took them down to the river and pointed over the flats to the boat.

  He was talking to them for the rest of the day, and from his window as he went to bed, he could see lights on the flats, a canvas arrangement, and the shadowy shapes of the SOCO men and women going about their grisly business.

  Graham was beginning to wonder whether the children’s grandmother had been as good as her word about telling her son Harry where Adam and Christa were, when he rang him.

  “You don’t know me. I’m Harry Webster. I was married to—”

  “Peggy, of course. You’re Adam’s father.”

  “Yes. My mother tells me you’re looking after the children, and doing it very well. I’m enormously grateful.”

  “I’m not sure I’m doing it well. I have no experience, and I’m sure to be making mistakes. But I’m doing what I can. Christa is not a child anymore, by the way.”

  “No, of course not. I just meant Peggy’s children…. I gather that she’s taken off.”

  “Yes. That’s what we’ve assumed. I’m beginning to think it could be more serious than that.”

  “I see…. Things are very difficult at this end.”

  The words came out hangdog and embarrassed. Graham didn’t take to the man.

  “So I gather,” he said. “Would there be any less objection from your wife to your seeing Adam if she knew that Peggy’s not in the picture at the moment?”

  “Maybe…Just a little. But that’s not the major objection. Shirley’s not unreasonable, but we have our own family now. You can see she wouldn’t want to be landed—”

  “And you can see that Adam is unhappy at being regarded as a burden to be avoided or shunted off as quickly as possible.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “Particularly as his mother generally had interests more pressing than her children.”

  “Oh, she did. Peggy was a quite awful mother sometimes.” Graham left a silence. Some inklings of Adam’s difficulties during his growing-up period seemed to dawn on Harry.

  “I’m fairly free tomorrow.”

  The voice sounded less than heroic, and even less than fully decided. But Graham seized on it.

  “When could you come down? I’d like to have a talk with you myself.”

  “Early afternoon? I could have a bit of time with Adam then, when he finishes school. I can tell Shirley I’m kept late.”

  So Graham gave his usual direction—“three down from the general stores”—and rang off.

  He was unsure what to expect from Harry Webster, but he certainly didn’t anticipate a strong mind. Adam’s force and obstinacy probably came from his Webster grandmother. When he told the boy to come straight home, Adam’s face first lit up, but only for a second. Then the lowering expression that had recently disappeared from his repertory of looks took its place.

  Harry rang the doorbell at ten past two on Tuesday, shook hands genially, and accepted Graham’s offer of a cup of coffee. He had obviously had a pub lunch, along with the maximum allowed quantity of beer. He was slim, tallish, and naturally good-humored, but the lack of backbone showed in ineffectual gestures and an inclination to shy away from awkward questions as soon as they came up. Shirley obviously had an easy victim.

  “I know of you, of course,” he said, sitting down with his cup. He didn’t seem to mean primarily Graham’s reputation as a novelist.

  “Peggy told you I was Christa’s father, I suppose?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I’m not. Peggy’s and my brief affair—if it’s not dignifying it to call it an affair—was six years earlier.”

  “But why did she?…Oh, I suppose she put that around because you’re quite well known. She had to use and broadcast the fact that you and she had…been together.”

  “That’s right. Or rather that’s what I guess. She was cagey on the subject when I talked to her recently. I think we both know Peggy well enough to take everything she says with a pinch of salt.”

  “I suppose we do. And the children do too. They’re under no illusions.”

  “No. But I feel very sorry for them. It is confusing to have a mother who habitually fantasizes or tells downright lies.”

  “Yes, I imagine it is. But my mother says they’re taking her absence very well.”

  “So far. But though they’re skeptical about Peggy, I don’t sense any downright hostility. So they’re bound to be worried underneath.”

  “I’m sure they are. Any idea who she’s gone off with?”

  “I’ve been out of her life for twenty-five years. I wondered if you might have more ideas.”

  Harry thought about this, wondering whether to shy off and deny all knowledge. But by and by he decided it would be easier to face up to the question.

  “I suppose she could have met up with anyone from her past life.”

  “Or her present. But you’ll know most about her past.”

  “Yes.” His mind was searching in that past for names. “She slept now and then with Michael whatsit from the players, who was her favorite director. Oh, you know about that. There was a Romford businessman called…called Meyer, I think. There was the odd besotted fan, and a boy much younger than herself who played for Romford United…. I’m not being much help, am I?”

  “I can’t say at this stage. I’d like to hear about someone who really stood out. Someone whose affair with her was something special, for her or for him, or both.”

  “Was there such a person? If so, I never heard of him. It was all brief flings, one-night stands or at most one-month ones. Nothing you could call serious.”

  Graham was struck again by a resemblance to his own sex life.

  “I did wonder about Michael Halliburton.”

  “That’s the name!” said Harry. “He was just one of two or three people in the RAPs who were directors. He was her favorite. But she probably slept with the other two as well. The RAPs haven’t caught up yet with women directors.”

  “I wondered about that. I thought it might be like Ingrid Bergman always sleeping with her leading man of the moment—only with directors instead. But then I wondered if Michael Halliburton could be Christa’s father.”

  Harry Webster considered this.

  “It would tie up with one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She never received any maintenance for Christa.”

  Graham thought for a moment.

  “Until she got it out of you.”

  “That’s right. You could say I was a fool to adopt her—”

  “I expect your wife says exactly that.”

  “Over and over, and even though I’ve ceased having to pay. I liked Christa, thought she had talent. But if it was Michael, slapping a maintenance order on him might have soured the relationship, and Peggy relied on him for good parts, and for the sort of coaching and bullying that made her successful in them.”

  “And Vesta could have taken the affair a lot more seriously than she pretends to.”

  But Harry was dubious about that.

  “Maybe. But I’ve never seen any sign of that. She works with Peggy in the shop, and surely it would have come out. I think it’s a genuinely open marriage. As ours was.”

  “On principle?”

  “No, in practice. When Peggy started playing away, I felt I could do the same. It was messy, but it worked for a while.”

  “But you had to be mother and father to the children, I would guess.”

  “So
mething like that. I suppose Peggy cared about them both, in her way. But she never cared for them, never felt responsible for them.”

  “And you can’t take responsibility for Adam now.”

  It was not a criticism, just a statement. An expression passed over Harry’s face.

  “No way. No chance at all.” He swallowed. “I love my wife. Don’t get me wrong. But it wouldn’t be fair on Adam. She’d make his life hell.”

  “You have children, you and Shirley, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. But they’re still young. They’ll be kept on a tight rein. That’s Shirley’s way. Adam never has been. It simply couldn’t work.”

  They were interrupted by a key in the front door, and its opening. Adam rushed through into the front room.

  “Dad!”

  Harry had stood up. He raised his arms and Adam ran into them. Graham was surprised to note that Adam was as tall as his father. As he got up to go into the kitchen and leave them alone, he got a glimpse of the shot so dear to producers of soap operas: the shot of an embrace, one face seen above the other figure’s shoulder, and the face showing doubt, or hatred, or obsession—some emotion that we know the other figure isn’t aware of and doesn’t share. The expression on Adam’s face was doubt and disillusion. He was experiencing the lack of warmth in the embrace.

  Graham fiddled and fussed for as long as possible in the kitchen. When the coffee was ready, he took it in on a tray, muttered something about biscuits, then left them to it again. There was conversation going on, but it seemed to be mostly question and answer, and it lacked passion. Back in the kitchen he found some chocolate and some ginger biscuits and put them on a plate. There was some panettone in the bread tin, and he sliced it and buttered it, as Adam liked it. He was just taking it in when the telephone rang in the study.

  “Graham Broadbent speaking.”

  “Ah, Mr. Broadbent. This is Sergeant Relf here.”

  Graham felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “Do you have some news?”

  “Maybe, and maybe not. Does Brightlingsea mean anything to you?”

  “I’ve been there. It’s a little seaside and yachting place about ten miles from Colchester. I seem to remember two of the characters in a Graham Greene novel having a dirty weekend there. It doesn’t seem likely, but I suppose he would know. It’s the yachting that it’s known for.”

  “I was really asking, did it have any associations with Peggy Webster?”

  “With Peggy? Not that I know of, but it’s within fairly easy reach of Bidford, where she used to live.”

  “Only there’s been a body found there. Woman of about the right age. The body’s been in a little wrecked motorboat on the flats there for some time—two weeks or more, they think.”

  “I see. Have you told Ted Somers?”

  “Yes. He’s going down to Colchester, to the police morgue there. He’s taking his son with him. I think he’s pretty shaken by the news. I’d guess he always expected her to turn up.”

  “Well, apparently she has before. You sound as if you’re fairly sure it’s her.”

  “Not fairly sure. But we’ve e-mailed them the photo we had and they think it could be. I wondered if you would care to be there when the Somerses see the body.”

  “I don’t know about that. Ted and the brother know her far better than I do. But I’d like to be there for Ted, if he’s upset. I’ve got a lot of respect for him.”

  “They expect to be at Colchester police headquarters about seven tonight.”

  “I’ll be there…. I just hope it’s not her.”

  “Well, naturally. So do her family, I’m sure. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high.”

  “It seems so unlike Peggy. To go out with a whimper like that.”

  As he put the phone down, he heard the front door closing. He regretted he had not shut the study door. When he went into the front room, he found Adam crying. He was willing to bet it wasn’t for his mother.

  Chapter 13

  Sitting in Judgment

  When Graham arrived in Colchester, it was nearly seven o’clock in the evening. Parking was easy to find, and when he made himself known at police headquarters, he was told that the two Mr. Somerses had arrived five minutes before. He was taken through to the waiting room outside the mortuary by a fresh-faced, young constable who looked as if he were playing truant from school.

  The two Mr. Somerses mentioned were sitting on a bench—together but apart. Ted was bent forward, his face in his hands. His son was staring at the wall opposite, his face granite. When he saw Graham approaching, he got up and went to meet him.

  “I think you must be Graham Broadbent. I’m Oliver Somers. It was good of you to come.”

  “I just thought your father might need all the support he could get. It’s going to be difficult for him.”

  “It’s difficult for him now,” said Oliver, gesturing. “For all of us. The emotions are so…mixed.”

  He was, Graham guessed, not much older than himself. It suddenly seemed strange that he knew so little about him. If people had mentioned him at all, the references had been unspecific. He was sturdy, with plenty of flesh on him, but no feeling to him of comfort or relaxation. Restless, questing—someone, Graham felt, who didn’t easily make do with second best or with slipshod work or dubious standards. Graham’s thoughts were interrupted by a police sergeant emerging from a door at the far end of the room and coming to fetch the two men to the mortuary. If he had actually dragged his feet, Ted could hardly have been more obvious in showing his reluctance. Mixed emotions or not, grief and regret were now clearly in the ascendant. Walking beside him, Oliver offered his father his arm. It was rejected gently.

  Graham sat down on the bench, and it was now his turn to stare at the opposite wall. Somehow he had no doubt that the body was Peggy. Perhaps it was Essex that seemed conclusive to him: here she was, in her ending, back in the area that had started her on her rackety life of lying, fantasy, making waves, and disastrous relationships.

  The door at the far end opened again. It was obvious he was right the moment he saw Ted’s and Oliver’s figures in the doorway. Ted seemed to have shrunk, his shoulders to have become still more bowed where once they had been square and straight. He and Oliver talked to the police sergeant, then Ted went off with him and Oliver came over.

  “Ted’s going to give his account of that last night,” he said, “the one in the restaurant. The sergeant’s agreed that we can go, since we probably haven’t got much to add. They think this case will be handled mainly by the Romford police, but they’ll be going into how and why the body was found around here, whether she was known here, whether anyone remembers her being here around the time of the disappearance. I’ve told Dad we’ll be in the nearest pub, which is the Crown. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. I want to give any support I can.”

  “The children are okay?”

  “Yes. Well, not entirely. Christa is always all right of course, being so in control of herself and everyone else. She’s in Romford living with a friend most of the week. Adam’s just had a visit from his father, and it didn’t go well. But he’s resilient, even if he’s not as tough and together as he thinks. He’ll be with friends. I told him I might not be back till tennish.”

  The Crown was a pub of the brass-lamp and funeral-parlor walls variety, and it was too early for it to be crowded. Graham got two pints and they found themselves a table where they could talk privately. Oliver reverted to the matter of Adam.

  “How do you think he will react to his mother’s death?”

  Graham thought.

  “I don’t know…. I’ve given up making assumptions about the lad. He may feel very uncertain at the moment, though he gives the impression that he lives for the day and fits into whatever the circumstances of the time are. That’s upbringing and training, I suppose. I gather Peggy’s time was always her own, rather than her children’s. He must be wondering what the next few years have in sto
re for him, not to mention where I fit in.”

  Oliver looked at him hard.

  “So what do the next few years hold for him?”

  “Possibly going to live with your father—especially if he marries Kath Moores and comes back to live in Bidford. Or alternatively staying on with me. Possibly commuting between the two: he seems to have settled well into school at Hepton Magna, and he could go to his grandfather for weekends.”

  “You’ve no connection with him though, have you?”

  Graham shook his head. “None at all. I’ve never had children, and though I’m not conscious of having missed anything, I wouldn’t say no to having responsibility for one I liked for a few years. How about you?”

  Oliver jumped.

  “I’m…well, pretty much in the same position as yourself. But my job—I’m in insurance—takes me away a lot. And I’ve virtually never met the boy. I was leaving my father’s one evening when he and Christa arrived on a visit. Hail and farewell. Frankly, I don’t relish the idea of taking him on.”

  “I didn’t suggest that you should, only that you might welcome the opportunity. One thing Adam doesn’t need at this stage is a reluctant guardian.”

  Oliver gazed gloomily into his still-full glass.

  “You make me sound like a real bastard.”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “Perhaps there’s no other way it could sound. But not knowing the lad, and never having had anything to do with Peggy for the last ten years or more…”

  “That would be when she cheated you over the house sale?”

  “Yes. She had just got married, it was soon after Adam’s birth. I liked Harry Webster so far as it went, which wasn’t very far. He got on all right with Christa, brought in a reasonable income, and Peggy and he seemed fairly happy. So there were good omens for the whole family, and I was willing to throw in a contribution to making things work. I had made a nice little nest egg from buying shares during the privatization boom and selling them before things went sour. The money would go direct to Dad, would provide him and Mum with a really stable last few years, and it would come back to Peggy and me when they died.”