‘That’s what you do in a diary,’ I say. ‘You write about what happened. Your private thoughts. Remember, “Journaling for Writing”. That’s what the course in Hythe was all about.’
‘Why did you show it to the police?’
We’ve reached the first floor so I stop and look at Rick. He’s never very tidy but today he looks wilder than ever, hair on end, jumper apparently on inside-out. I can’t believe that I ever thought he was attractive, that I ever considered sleeping with him. That’s something I didn’t tell Harbinder, though she’ll know when she’s read my diaries.
‘Someone wrote in my diary,’ I say. ‘The police think it was the killer.’
The silence lasts until the staffroom. Vera and Anoushka are sitting on the sofa, talking about the play.
‘Hallo, you two,’ Anoushka looks up. ‘You’ve got your top on inside-out, Rick. That’s meant to be lucky.’
I’m teaching all morning so Rick doesn’t get another chance to corner me. It’s a busy day; I have a rehearsal at lunchtime and a planning meeting with Vera in the afternoon. It’s not until the end of the day that I see I have an answerphone message. So much has happened over the last two weeks that, for a moment, the name Henry Hamilton doesn’t register.
‘Hi, Clare. It’s Henry, from St Jude’s. I’m visiting some friends in Brighton at the weekend and I wondered if you’d like to go out for a meal. Gosh, it’s nerve-wracking doing it like this. If you don’t want to, just say, or ignore this message. But I hope you do. I’m rambling now. But text me if you’d like to. I do hope you will.’
I sit in the library, where I’m waiting for Georgie, staring at my phone as if it’s going to tell me what to do. Then, before I have a chance to regret it, I type the words, ‘I’d like to. Where and when? C.’
The door opens and Georgie comes in, accompanied, I’m not thrilled to see, by Patrick O’Leary.
‘Hi, Mum,’ she says, ‘am I late?’
‘Hallo, Miss Cassidy.’ Patrick smirks at me.
‘Hallo, Patrick,’ I say coldly. ‘Hi, Georgie. No, you’re OK. I was just checking my messages.’
‘Ah, young people and their phones,’ says Patrick.
I ignore him. ‘Are you ready, Georgie?’
Patrick follows us all the way to the car park and stands there while I put my bag in the boot.
‘Do you want a lift?’ Georgie asks him. Why is she suddenly displaying such consideration and good manners? I don’t like it at all. I pray that he’ll refuse.
‘Nah, you’re all right. I’ve got my bike.’
But, as I drive away, he’s still standing there in the car park. Watching us.
Chapter 23
I keep Georgie close all week. On Wednesday morning we go into the police station so that they can take her fingerprints and handwriting samples. We are talked through the process by a uniformed female police officer who has all the social skills lacking in Harbinder and Neil. In fact, she is so sympathetic — talking about school and dogs and whether we’ll have a white Christmas — that I almost want to sit there, in the little cubicle off the room with all the computers, and tell her everything: about Rick and Henry Hamilton, about the Count Fosco impersonator writing in my diary, about my fears that Simon will use the situation to take Georgie away from me for ever. But I don’t. I chat pleasantly to PC Olivia Grant, sipping a cup of disgusting coffee and watching Georgie write ‘Hell is empty’ on a lined refill pad from Ryman.
At the end of the week Simon drives down from London to collect Georgie from school. I’m irritated by him, by the way that he comes into reception and waits there, jingling his keys, by the way that he greets me with a world-weary sigh, mentioning that he has taken the afternoon off work, which is ‘mad’ at the moment (this to someone about to spend two unpaid hours watching teenagers singing about a carnivorous plant). But there’s no doubt that when Georgie accompanies Simon out of the main doors, rolling her eyes at me behind her father’s back, I can feel my headache lifting for the first time in a week. Now I only have to worry about keeping myself safe.
The police car is outside my house when I get home. I never know whether I’m meant to acknowledge them or not so I compromise with a furtive wave. Herbert shows no such restraint, rushing up to the unmarked car and barking shrilly. I drag him inside. Then I put on the double lock, pull the curtains, and pour myself a glass of wine. Three glasses later I realise that I’ve forgotten to eat and make myself some toast. I’m worried that I won’t sleep. On Thursday I cracked and bought myself a new diary, a utilitarian notebook with ‘Reporter’s Pad’ written on it. I imagine myself sitting up until dawn, writing and writing. But the alcohol does its work and, when I get into bed, I fall asleep immediately. I wake up at three to find Herbert staring at the window and growling softly. It’s a long time before I sleep again.
Saturday is a long day. I’m meeting Henry in Chichester at eight-thirty but I’m trying on clothes at midday, wondering what to wear. I don’t want to look too keen or too casual. My black skirt is too teachery, my grey cardigan too much like a mum. In the end, I compromise with black trousers and a slightly sheer shirt. I take Herbert out for his last walk, tentative in my suede boots, which have a slight heel (one benefit of going out with someone so tall). The police car is still there and I imagine its occupants eating hamburgers and flirting half-heartedly.
‘Give us a chip.’
‘What’ll you give me back?’
‘Shut up and pass the ketchup.’
But when I walk past them, I see that they are both middle-aged men, sitting in stony silence.
I’m meeting Henry at an Italian restaurant near the Buttercross, an elaborate stone structure in the centre of the town which was apparently once a covered market. As I approach, I can see Henry in the window, wearing glasses as he reads the menu with an expression of faint surprise. He’s thinner than I remember and slightly cadaverous-looking in the light of the candle in front of him. Just for a minute, I want to turn and run away, back to Herbert and home and safety. Instead I run my hands through my hair, rearrange my scarf and push open the door.
‘Clare!’ His head brushes the light fitting as he stands up.
‘Hi.’
There’s an awkward moment when we don’t know whether to kiss but in the end we shake hands, almost knocking over the candle. The waiter takes my coat and Henry asks me if I’d like a drink.
‘I’m driving,’ I say.
He doesn’t urge me to have ‘just one’ but I do anyway. Henry is drinking water.
‘It’s very good of you to meet me,’ he says.
‘It’s nice to get out,’ I say, hoping that I don’t sound like a pathetic loner with no social life.
The waiter arrives and Henry orders heartily, starter and main course. I’m not very hungry and had been hoping to get away with just a salad. I dither in a way that would have annoyed Simon intensely. In the end I order prosciutto melone and pasta puttanesca.
‘I love Italian food,’ says Henry. ‘I’m not sure about this place though. The waiter’s from Russia and apparently the chef’s from Albania.’
I laugh. ‘How do you know?’
‘I asked,’ he says, looking surprised. I hope that he’s not going to turn out to be one of those foodie people who asks how they make their ragu. Simon has become a real food bore since marrying Fleur. Georgie told me they gave each other porcini mushrooms for Valentine’s Day.
‘How’s Georgia?’ he says, when the menus have been cleared away.
‘She’s with her dad this weekend. We’re divorced.’ I realise that Henry has never asked about my marital status. Is this because his intentions are strictly honourable? Did he really just want to meet for a cosy chat about R.M. Holland?
‘How long have you been divorced?’
‘Five years,’ I say. I leave a gap for him to fill and thankfully he do
es so.
‘I’ve been divorced for ten,’ he says. ‘Seems like longer.’
‘You must have married young,’ I say.
‘We met at university,’ he says. ‘But I suppose it was down to upbringing as well. Both my brothers married in their early twenties. I felt that I was quite slow leaving it until twenty-five. Sandra felt the same. She was from a working class family too. Her mother was already hinting that she’d missed the boat. It’s incredible really. It was only the nineties but it feels like the eighteen nineties.’
‘I met Simon at university too,’ I say. ‘We were the first of our friends to get married. I don’t know what we were thinking.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘My son has a steady girlfriend and I want to say “for God’s sake, don’t get married yet”. I don’t, of course.’
‘How many children do you have?’
‘Two boys, Freddy and Luke. Freddy’s studying maths at Durham, Luke’s in sixth-form. He’s the one with the girlfriend.’
‘Georgie’s got a boyfriend,’ I say. ‘He’s six years older than her. I don’t want her to have a relationship at her age but, like you say, you can’t give them advice. You have to let them work it out for themselves.’
Our starters arrive. Henry forks up salami without really noticing what he’s eating, which is better than going on about how it’s made in Calabria from contented pigs.
‘So,’ he says, ‘have you got any further with the mystery of R.M. Holland?’
‘Which one?’ I say. There are so many mysteries in my life at the moment that I genuinely can’t remember what had so interested me in the letters Henry had found. Was it whether RMH had killed his wife or what he had done with his daughter?
‘Mariana,’ says Henry. ‘The letters mentioned the mysterious daughter. The one who seemed to die but didn’t have a grave.’
‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘No. I haven’t been able to find out more. The thing is . . .’
I hesitate. Now is the time when I should tell him about Ella’s murder, explain that I’ve been rather distracted recently. But I don’t want to. It’s so nice to be with someone who isn’t talking about ‘what could have happened’ or ‘what the police are doing.’ But, if he finds out and I haven’t mentioned it, I’ll look cold-hearted at best, suspicious at worst.
‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘things are difficult at work at the moment. We’re all very upset — a colleague, a friend of mine, died a few weeks ago.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Henry. ‘How did your friend die?’
‘She was killed,’ I say. I’m horrified to find my eyes filling with tears.
But Henry is looking at me with calm kindness. ‘What an awful thing to happen. Do you want to talk about it or would you rather have a night off?’
I’m so relieved that I almost laugh aloud. I wipe my eyes, hoping that my mascara hasn’t run. ‘A night off,’ I say.
So we talk about books and music and whether TV adaptations are ever as good as the original. He says that he loved the BBC version of War and Peace. I say I thought there was too much peace.
‘Most people skip the war bits,’ he says.
‘They’re the best bits,’ I say. ‘I really didn’t care about Natasha and Pierre.’
‘You’re a hard woman,’ he says.
‘I suppose I must be.’
My prosciutto is chewy and my pasta is too salty but I don’t care. It’s so nice to be in a restaurant talking about Tolstoy with a good-looking man. And Henry is good-looking, I realise, somewhere around the pasta stage. I don’t know why it took me so long to notice.
Over coffee, he asks me about the school.
‘I’m fascinated by the thought of the R.M. Holland rooms.’
‘There’s not that much to see,’ I say. ‘We use the old part of the school for some lessons but it’s not very convenient for large classes. The teacher’s library is there, though, and the dining hall and chapel. The chapel’s newish, nineteen-twenties, very Art Nouveau and kitsch. The only untouched room is Holland’s study. It’s up a spiral staircase and all his old books and pictures are there. We take groups of adult learners up there sometimes. It’s out-of-bounds to students, of course.’
‘I’d love to see it,’ he says.
‘I’ll show you one day,’ I say. ‘I’ve got the key.’ I’ve got a key to the study, of course, but actually I have the school keys too because I locked up after the rehearsal yesterday.
‘What about now?’ says Henry. ‘When we leave here?’
I don’t know if he’s joking or not. The thought of going into the empty school with Henry fills me with such contradictory emotions that I genuinely don’t know what I feel. Would it be romantic? Creepy? Weird? Or just an adventure? Then I remember, as if I had ever really forgotten, that a stranger who is probably also a killer has been writing in my private diaries. I should go home, bolt the doors, and spend the night cuddling my dog.
‘Are you serious?’ I say.
‘I thought it would be fun,’ he says. ‘And I’d like to be alone with you.’
We look at each other. His eyes are very dark, almost black.
‘I have to get back for my dog,’ I say.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I understand.’
It’s him giving in so quickly that makes me change my mind. Why not? I think. It will be an adventure. And maybe it’ll be romantic too, who knows? I have a sudden vision of us having sex on the chaise longue in Holland’s study. I surprise myself at the readiness with which this X-rated fantasy appears. Even when I had — briefly — contemplated going to bed with Rick, the actual act had remained veiled in my mind. PG, at the very most.
Henry insists on paying and I don’t demur too much. We go out into the frosty night and walk to the car park. I’m relieved that we’ll be travelling in two cars. At least I’ll be able to escape if I have to. Then I think: why am I planning my escape?
‘I’ll follow you,’ he says.
‘The roads are twisty,’ I warn. ‘Use your satnav as well.’
The roads are winding and very dark. There’s a sliver of moon but it’s shifting through the clouds, at one moment appearing like a ghostly smile, at other times hidden completely. My headlights hardly seem to penetrate the blackness as I take the country route, past frozen fields and spectral trees. Not a car or another human to be seen. The driveway to Holland House is the darkest of all; overhanging branches scrape against my roof and the gates appear almost out of nowhere, stark and black, with the stone lions on either side. They are padlocked but I have the key. As I get out of the car, I see that Henry, in a black jeep-like vehicle, is right behind me.
We park in front of the main entrance, in a way that is forbidden when students are around. The doors open easily and I disable the alarm. I hope the caretaker won’t take it into his head to do one of his night rounds but, if all the rumours about his drinking are true, he’ll be spark out in front of the TV by now.
We climb the stairs, our feet suddenly very loud on the wooden steps. Hear not my steps, which way they walk. I don’t want to switch on the overhead lights, so I use the torch app on my phone. It illuminates the occasional school notice or age-old portrait. Long dead Hollands in their gilt frames. I think of Alice and her dying fall. Now would be the perfect time to see her ghost. But the house is silent.
We walk along the first floor corridor, past the locked doors, the empty windows. At the spiral staircase I stop to get out the second set of keys.
Henry says, ‘Clare.’ I turn. He pulls me towards him and kisses me.
It’s one of the best kisses of my life, long and passionate, his hands in my hair, his body pressed against me. Is it going to happen, I wonder. Are we going to have sex? Surely two adults can’t kiss like that without having sex?
After what seems like hours I pull away. ‘The study,’ I say, slightl
y breathless.
‘The study,’ he says. And I see the gleam of his teeth as he smiles.
We climb the stairs. I have the keys in my hand but see that the door is very slightly ajar. I push it open.
I’m prepared for the dummy in the chair. I have warned Henry and remind myself not to be shocked. But I’m not prepared for the figure lolling behind the desk, his features illuminated by a sudden shaft of moonlight.
It’s Rick. Rick with a knife in his heart.
Of course Ebrahimi’s death was a terrible shock. I remember standing there with the newspaper cutting in my hand, then going back to my rooms, lying down on my bed and shaking. Who had sent me the fateful papers? Who had written the translation with that slender, slanting pen? And who had written the words ‘Hell is empty’ on the reverse? Could it be Bastian? Or Collins? It seemed impossible but who else could possibly have known about the Hell Club and that terrible night?
I pondered these questions over the next few days. Indeed, I thought of little else. But in the end, I pushed my fears away and carried on with my life. After all, what else could I do? And I was young, I had my health and my strength. You understand, my dear young friend? Yes, I see that you do. Youth is arrogant, which is as it should be. I was sorry that Ebrahimi was dead — and I sincerely mourned my friend Gudgeon — but there was nothing that I could do to bring them back to life. So I continued with my studies and even began to court a young lady, the daughter of my tutor. Life was sweet that spring, perhaps all the sweeter for the thought that I had escaped from the pall of death. For, at that time, I believed that I had escaped.
How the wind howls.
Part the fifth
Harbinder
Chapter 24
I was in bed when I got the call. I wasn’t asleep, just flicking through my phone, making a move in Scrabble, popping a few balloons in Panda Pop, reading about people’s stupid lives on Facebook. Then Control rang to say that a body had been found at Talgarth High. I was on my feet immediately, texting Neil to meet me at the school.
The Stranger Diaries Page 17
