After a few minutes, she began to set a tray for him. She knew he liked ham salad sandwiches and a sliced, cored apple accompanied by a chunk of Lancashire cheese. With a nice cloth on the tray and a pot of tea, she crept up the stairs. He was sobbing. As quiet as any mouse, she placed the tray on a landing table, then knocked on his door. ‘Gus?’ She paused. ‘Gus, are you all right? I’ve brought a sandwich and a bit of fruit. Some hot tea, too.’
Inside, Gus dried his eyes. It occurred to him that he had scarcely eaten for twenty-four hours, and his strength was failing. ‘Come in,’ he said, his voice wavering.
She placed the food on a bedside cabinet, poured tea and milk into his cup. It seemed impolite to look at him. Men did not weep. If they did, they probably preferred to shed tears without an audience in attendance.
‘Sit down,’ he told her.
She sat.
Gus took a mouthful of tea, but did not begin to eat. ‘Sheila, my daughter died early this morning.’
A hand flew to her throat. Not that pretty girl in the gorgeous grey suit. She was so lively, so beautiful, so—
‘Not Harriet,’ he told her. ‘This one was older, and she had a different mother. This one was Mathilda.’
There was nothing to say except, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Her mother died giving birth. Mathilda was frail. I took her to the nuns, and they fought time and time again to save her. And I allowed that, even though I knew that brain damage could increase with every fit. But the machinery told us she was viable, even if she did need ventilation because of varying levels of necessary sedation.’ He drank more tea. ‘I decided to let her go.’
‘Oh, Gus.’
He sighed. ‘It’s been a long night. Thank you for the food. Thank you, Sheila, for everything.’
Knowing she had been dismissed, Sheila left the room. She now knew who Katherina was and why Gus visited the grave. Like many males, he hugged the most precious of truths close to his chest, living life as if now was all that mattered. Buried in research, he had seldom allowed grief to interfere with his regime. She admired him more than ever before. This was, indeed, one of the greatest of men.
Sheila did her chores, prepared an upside-down cake for the oven, tidied away dishes and pans.
‘Sheila?’
He was in the doorway. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said.
‘I need your help. I want you to go to the lab in Manchester – I’ll give you a letter and I’ll phone them – and you must ask for the Mathilda file. No one will think that odd because we often give female names to lines of research. The deeds for the grave are in there. Mathilda’s body will be brought to a Bolton undertaker. Please come to the funeral with me.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘There will be just us and a handful of nuns. But she has to go back to her mother. She should have gone with her in the first . . .’ His voice died. ‘I did wrong, didn’t I?’
She had never before heard him expressing self-doubt. ‘Who can say? Mathilda might have made it, Gus. Only God knew the outcome.’
He nodded. ‘But I played God, you see. I played a being whose existence I have never acknowledged. I kept her alive. Who was I to make a decision of that magnitude?’
‘But—’
‘But she should have been allowed to die at birth or soon after. The fight began there and then, and I could see that it was potentially futile. Once the baby was stable enough to travel, I took her to the nuns. It cost money and time, yet I was fool enough to let it happen – to make it happen. I feel so ashamed of myself.’
Sheila was lost for words. She opened her mouth to offer a grain of comfort, but nothing emerged.
‘Be there for me. My family – my real family – knows nothing.’
‘I’ll be there. I’ll get your deeds. Telephone the lab.’
‘Yes.’ He turned to leave.
‘Gus?’
‘You did nothing wrong. Being an eminent scientist doesn’t mean you are not human. Mistakes are human.’
He smiled wanly, then left the doorway.
Lisa was a light sleeper. She had to have complete quiet, and, even if her bedroom was absolutely dark, she needed the eye mask. The slightest sound, the smallest chink of light, and she was wide awake and annoyed.
It was just after two thirty when she heard the first noise. She knew the house off by heart, was used to its aged creakings and groanings when water pipes cooled, when the wind blew, when a door wasn’t closed properly. Weaver’s Warp had a lot to say for itself, but it wasn’t speaking tonight. Whatever she had heard was a wrong sound, a different noise.
She sat up, peeled off her mask, switched on a forty-watt lamp and reached for her dressing gown. It was cold. Nights were developing an edge, as if preparing England for the coming of autumn. Gus was away. Gus would not have been much use, anyway. Had he been here, she might well have blamed him for the disturbance, as he had a disconcerting habit of working well into the night. Lisa wondered whether Harrie was up and about. Or had Will arrived?
She got out of bed and pushed her feet into a pair of mules. Even Ben was away. She could not imagine Ben as a protector, but there were no men at all in the house. The very sight of a man might put off a burglar. Had Will’s dog found a way in yet again? His dedication to Hermione was commendable, but rather a nuisance.
It was no good. She would have to go and see what was going on, or she would never get back to sleep. Another little sound – a quiet thud this time. And none of the disturbance was coming from above, so Hermione was not having another of her accidents. Hermione’s misfortunes were different in nature; they were loud and accompanied by a great deal of cursing.
She opened her bedroom door and stood on the landing. There was someone downstairs. These were not kitchen sounds; no water tumbled into a kettle, no cups or plates clattered. It was the study. Lisa’s hearing had been likened to that of a bat, especially when the children had been young and up to mischief. There had been no midnight feasts for Harrie and Ben, because Mother had radar.
Feeling a little foolish, she crept down the stairs and saw a light under the study door. Gus’s office was often lit in the night, but this light was mobile. It was a torch. Should she wake Harrie? Should she phone for police? It was probably nothing; she would make a complete idiot of herself if she sent for help and it wasn’t needed. Perhaps it was Harrie in the study. If the lights in there had fused, a torch would be needed. It could be Gus. He often turned up when least expected.
At the study door, she stopped. She could hear the thud of her heart; she swore she could hear breathing. The breathing was not her own. She was suddenly terrified. As she turned to run, she overturned a Victorian sewing stand. The sturdy item made loud contact with parquet floor. As she righted herself, an arm reached out from behind and covered her mouth. Fighting and kicking, she was dragged into her husband’s office.
Thrown into a chair, she blinked hard. The torch was shining right into her eyes.
‘Where is it?’
Lisa bit the hand that tried to stop her breathing. When he drew back, she made a supreme effort to compose herself. ‘Where is what?’ She remembered how poor Annie had looked in hospital, knew what this man had done. He was probably capable of murder.
‘The gun.’
She had no idea. ‘I don’t know.’ But she could not tell the truth, dared not say that Hermione had taken charge of the thing. The old woman had enough problems without being beaten senseless by this thug.
‘Then you’d better find out. Because I am not going down for Birmingham. All right? What did I just say?’
‘You are not going down for Birmingham.’
He laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. ‘Get the gun,’ he said.
She blew out her cheeks. ‘It’ll be in a safety deposit box at the bank. Or with our lawyers. It’s not here.’
He looked round the dimly lit room. ‘You wouldn’t know what’s here and what isn’t. Bloody dump.’
She offered no further comment.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got your mobile number. I’ll phone you tomorrow, and you can tell me where I can find the gun. Otherwise, there’ll be real trouble.’
‘You’d better go. I’m not alone here.’
He smirked. ‘I know more about this house than you can imagine. This isn’t my first time in your home. And someone has been helping me to watch. Oh yes, I’ve been keeping eyes and ears open. There’s nobody here except the old witch upstairs.’
Lisa had reached the end of her rope, but she held in all she wanted to say. It was important that she stayed alive. It was vital that she should ring the police.
‘You used to love me,’ he said, a nasty edge to his voice.
‘Mistake,’ she replied.
He pushed his face close to hers. ‘Phone the police and I’ll make sure you suffer. They’ll not find me in a hurry. Plenty of time for me to make sure that you and yours suffer. And I mean suffer. Get me that gun. After that, I’ll bugger off and take my chances.’
He left the way he had entered – through an open window.
Lisa breathed deeply. Harrie was one of the fortunate people because she slept through most things. Lisa thanked God because her daughter was safe. What was to be done now? What would any sane person do? Firstly, she locked the window. There was no alarm in here because Gus set the things off with monotonous frequency.
She picked up the phone and dialled the three nines. Before the connection had been made, she slammed the receiver back into its cradle. ‘I know more about this house . . .’ he had said. ‘This is not the first time . . .’ Think, think. ‘Someone has been helping me to watch . . .’
Eileen. Eileen had been following Sal Potter for weeks now. ‘If you ask me, she’s a burglar in disguise. She’s up chimneys and pulling kick boards off in the kitchen, says she’s after mice. There’s something funny going on, and I don’t mean funny ha-ha. Now, she’s rattling about in both sideboards . . .’ Why did people not listen properly to Eileen? In a nonsensical way, the woman made sense.
Lisa sank into Gus’s leather chair. She would wait until morning. Tomorrow, there was going to be an extraordinary general meeting. Now, where was that address?
Eleven
Lisa was in what she judged to be the daftest position ever. Across from Sal Potter’s house, she had secreted herself behind a ragged hawthorn hedge that had probably never been manicured, and she was lying flat on a couple of black rubbish bags. It was extraordinarily cold. The leaves and branches were prickly, she was getting cramp, and she was a fool.
What the heck was she doing here in the chill of dawn? Why hadn’t she simply picked up the phone again and had him arrested? She shifted position in order to achieve a degree of comfort, failed miserably, took a sip of tepid coffee from a Thermos jug lid, hid as best she could, and lit a cigarette. It was about five o’clock and the sun was threatening to rise. All around her, pasture was sodden from recent heavy rain, and her shoes were ruined. Decent shoes, too, she mused as she waited.
Quarter past five. She sat up. It was too early to be completely flattened in the cause of safe concealment, and the hedge was thick enough. ‘I’m not here,’ she told the distant Friesian cows. ‘I am a product of your collective imagination.’
She bet herself a new pair of shoes that Jimmy Nuttall was living with Sal Potter, that he had sent her to spy. The bet didn’t really count because she would be buying new shoes anyway, but there were shoes and there were shoes. If she won, it would be serious shoes with a serious matching handbag. She could wander into Jenkinsons and see if her old collagen friend could kit her out.
Hugging her knees, she kept her eyes glued to Sal Potter’s windows. The next couple of hours were going to be the longest week of her life. There was a big hole in the right leg of her tights. She should have worn old jogging pants, but she couldn’t because she didn’t have any. ‘Could have, would have, should have.’ Twenty-five to six.
Think. Think. Keep occupied. Ben’s going to be OK. That was what Harriet had said, and Harriet was the cleverest person known to Lisa. Except for Ben himself, who was off the graph in most directions. He was living with travelling folk, was washing his clothes in a stream, was writing a book. It was time somebody in this family did something vaguely interesting.
A quarter to six.
I am lucky, Lisa thought. This bloody gun business had been to protect her, to prevent Jimmy from naming her as accomplice in his burglaries. But she didn’t care any more. He was going to be locked up. Had it not been for her inquisitiveness, he would have been in a cell already. She was here to prove Eileen right. Wasn’t she?
The sun announced its arrival, brilliance stretching across a promising sky just before the true light appeared. Perhaps she should go home. This was a stupid place to be. What on earth would customers think if they saw her in such a state? Six o’clock. Clever people were still in bed; only lunatics hung around in damp grass just to prove an Irishwoman right.
A door slammed, and Lisa thought she might have a heart attack on the spot. He was there. She peered through gaps in the hawthorn and drew breath sharply. Large as life and twice as ugly, Jimmy Nuttall had emerged from Sal’s house. It had to be her house because it was the only one in sight. Eileen had been right. Sal Potter was looking for the Birmingham gun. ‘Hell’s bells and buckets of whitewash,’ she whispered. ‘Conniving cow.’
He dragged carpet from the back end of his van, got into the driver’s seat and reversed off Sal’s land. So he wanted his gun back today, did he? He’d be getting more than a gun, a lot more. Arrested, was what he would be getting. She stayed for a few minutes, then edged out of the field gate and began the walk back towards her car. She had proved Eileen right. And the danger was still out there. He had to be caught. Today.
‘I know this may sound terrible,’ said the dark brown voice at the other end of the line, ‘but people do play tricks. I am sorry to tell you that this would not be the first time. We haven’t yet had the death certificate, and the person who called about the funeral could have been a nasty prankster. It was a mobile number, you see. It’s currently switched off, and we haven’t been able to ask for the necessary paperwork. So I found Dr Compton-Milne’s home number because I need to speak to him.’
Harrie held the phone away from her ear and examined the item, as if there might be something wrong with it. The man with the graveyard voice had just told her that she was dead. Symptoms to prove that she was adhering to life were manifold, and not the least among them was the fact that she was able to speak. ‘I am Gustav Compton-Milne’s only daughter,’ she informed the invisible entity, ‘and I remain in the land of the living.’
‘You are Mathilda?’
‘No, I am Harriet.’
‘What about Mathilda?’
A flippant response about Australian folk songs was deleted from the agenda before it saw the light of day because the man was so very serious. ‘There is no Mathilda,’ she replied. ‘There’s just Harriet and Benjamin.’
‘Died in Nazareth House in Didsbury? Aged twenty-seven? Interment at Tonge Cemetery after a requiem Mass? We have to pick up the deceased, and we have never dealt with a Nazareth House before. It would not be the first time such nastiness has happened, which is why we seek confirmation in this case.’
Harrie sat on a stool. If she hadn’t sat, she might have fallen, as she suddenly felt dizzy. ‘Who phoned you?’ she asked.
‘Dr Gustav Compton-Milne, professor of microbiology. It could have been one of his students, you see. There are some nasty people about. Sorry to have—’
‘He’s in New Zealand. My father is working in Auckland – he’s an expert in the field of hospital super-bugs.’
There followed a short pause. ‘I have no number for Nazareth House, and I have never heard of the place, but I shall find it if it exists. It’s outside our normal area, you see. We usually bury people from Bolton and the surrounding district. Yes. That would be t
he sensible thing to do if your father is abroad. I shall look for a number. Thank you for your time.’
The line went dead. Harrie continued to hold the phone, her fingers curling tightly around it until she felt pain in her knuckles. The world had gone mad, and her mother had gone missing. Mathilda was dead, and Father was abroad and . . .
Did people really make hoax calls to undertakers? If it was a hoax, why Mathilda? Who picked such an unusual name?
Lisa rushed in while Harrie was still perched open-mouthed on her stool, phone clutched to her chest. ‘Crisis,’ Lisa yelled. ‘Upstairs. Now. We need to get together – you, me, your gran and Eileen. Annie, too.’
Harrie blinked a few times. ‘What?’
‘We have to have a meeting.’
‘Who’s Mathilda?’ Harrie asked.
Lisa tutted. ‘No time for who’s who, sweetie. I’ve been under a hedge watching – oh, never mind. Then I went and arranged for Simon to supervise your shop and Roger to run mine. It’s the gun, you see.’ She ran out of the kitchen.
Harrie felt very strange. She dug into a chemist’s bag and pulled out the article she had purchased the previous day. ‘Might as well go the whole nine yards,’ she said to the package. ‘It’s a mad day, so let’s try to make a royal flush of it.’
Several minutes later, the flush was performed in the downstairs loo. It was game, set, match and bull’s eye. So many mixed metaphors. Harrie was pregnant.
He would be in possession of the missing gun today. Lisa wouldn’t dare talk to the police – she would be implicated in the burglar-alarm scam. She hadn’t the guts. Now, he needed to go to the twenty-four hour garage for a few more supplies. He knew all the back lanes. The only vehicle he might meet would be a tractor.
List. Had he forgotten anything? He had to stop this rocking. His mind was busy all the time, inventing scenarios and imagining outcomes, fearing prison, thinking, thinking. List. A fridge would have been good, but he couldn’t carry one, and there was no electricity at Cotters Farm. His brain was working, yet it wasn’t. There was something wrong with his legs. They weren’t steady; nor were his hands. Gun, gun, gun. It was all he ever thought about.
Parallel Life Page 24
