Having chosen a supermarket that Belinda and I rarely used, I wandered round in a daze knowing that when I got home I wouldn’t want half of what I bought and I would have forgotten many other items I needed. Adding to my disquiet was the fact that I didn’t know where anything was on the shelves. I hadn’t used ‘our’ supermarket since April.
Dumping the plethora of carrier bags in the car, I went in search of a condolence card I could put in with the letter to Nazira. I saw a few people I recognised and hoped they accepted a polite ‘Good morning’ and a smile. I didn’t want to get into a conversation with anybody.
I passed the old stilted Market Harborough Grammar School and headed for a small card shop tucked away in one of the side streets. Crossing the road beyond the school, I had a feeling I was being watched. I stopped and looked around me but there was nobody I recognised, or anyone who was obviously looking at me. I shook my head and carried on walking.
After Blue-Ridge was searched and then in Cochem when Henke and Schwartz told me I had been followed/observed – whatever they wanted to call it – I was acutely aware that it might all still be going on. I had no idea why it should be but my ignorance of events stretched way beyond those two facts.
Checking again, and shrugging off my suspicions, I headed for the card shop.
I was pleased when I found exactly the right card. Feeling satisfied that something had gone right for a change I called in at a small teashop for an unsociable cup of coffee. When closing the door, the same sensation was there. Looking through the glass door, I couldn’t see anybody who might be interested in me, but I still selected a table that allowed me to observe as much of the street outside as possible.
The coffee was good.
An earlier customer had left a copy of The Times on the opposite table, I reached across to retrieve it and at the same time I happened to glance out of the end window. On the opposite side of the road, checking the traffic before crossing, was Sophie Mackintosh. I sat back without taking hold of the paper and watched Sophie. Although she was wearing sunglasses, there was no doubt in my mind that I was looking at the woman I had last seen in a hospital bed in Brunei. Automatically I reached into my pocket for some loose change, putting what I hoped would cover the cost of the coffee and a small tip on the table.
Sophie had crossed the road and disappeared out of view. Rushing out of the teashop, nearly colliding with a little old lady who was innocently passing by, I dashed round the corner ready to call Sophie’s name but I couldn’t see her. I ran to the next corner and looked up and down the High Street, but again it was as though she had been spirited away. Not knowing which way to go didn’t lessen my determination to find her.
I was sure I hadn’t imagined it – she had really been there.
I spent a good twenty minutes walking up and down the High Street, looking in every shop, checking every side road, every alleyway, glancing behind me, and praying that she was suddenly going to appear before me.
It couldn’t be sheer coincidence that she was in Market Harborough; she had to be looking for me. What other explanation was there? I went back to the pedestrian precinct and again searched every shop but with no success. Unaware of who or what was around me, I carried on through the precinct to the supermarket car park. There was no point in searching anywhere else; it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
I sat in the car staring at the other shoppers.
Although I was sure there was no mistake, if the woman wasn’t Sophie why wasn’t she there for me to see when I left the teashop. Perhaps my suspicions were now confirmed, I was still under scrutiny, but why Sophie? It was too much of a coincidence that only a few minutes after having the feeling I should see her. Her hair seemed shorter, she was wearing a summer’s dress that fell below her knees, and her sandals were a light tan, open-toed and fastened above her ankles. I had taken in all this detail in a matter of seconds so why would I make a mistake about her identity?
Why was Sophie Mackintosh in Market Harborough when I was in the same town? There was only one answer.
Eventually I drove home, unpacked the car and then took a rather generous whisky into the conservatory. Drinking at lunchtime wasn’t a habit of mine but on this occasion I thought I might make an exception. My thoughts were all over the place again.
The weather had improved, meaning the garden regained some of its beauty in the sunshine. The dahlias in the only flowerbed Belinda had allowed towards the end were in full bloom, with the bordering fuchsias and geraniums complementing the small but magnificent display. The garden had always been Belinda’s pride and joy but as she became less able to tend it, we reduced it down to what I was now looking at. The previous summer she had sat in the conservatory for hours, a smile on her face as she enjoyed the products of her own talent, her modesty taking over only when somebody else admired her achievements.
Opening the side door, I wandered out into the ‘her’ garden. The grass, long enough to retain some of the morning dew, was once again in need of a cut, but a bit like the decorating, the energy and enthusiasm were simply not there.
At least seeing Sophie had temporarily taken my mind away from Abby’s suicide. I scoured the papers for more information without success. Although he had been an important man in Brunei, his death had only warranted a few paragraphs on page twelve – an explanation probably didn’t justify any coverage at all. When there was nothing in the previous day’s paper, I had considered ringing the Brunei High Commission in London; however, it was unlikely they would have told me anything even though I was prepared to tell them of our friendship.
I turned round and looked at the house.
Things had changed significantly in only a few short months. I had lost the woman who gave me everything yet had expected so little in return. I had resigned from Astek, the company that had allowed us to enjoy a very acceptable standard of living, and the company whose severance package meant that I didn’t have to work for years, if at all – but I had to remember that I did promise myself I would begin a new career after the summer school recess.
My mother-in-law had had a stroke from which, mercifully, she seemed to be recovering, and it appeared it could be the catalyst to an improvement in our relationship. Although my relationship with Annabelle didn’t need improving, it had moved up a notch or two because she thought I had ventured into her private space. We had shared her secret and now I regarded that as a positive move.
Outside the family, I had been a suspect in a brutal murder and then witnessed the legal system covering up what might have really happened. With my involvement in the murder investigation possibly over – not forgetting the interrogation in Cochem – and hoping a visit to an old friend in Brunei would bring a little well-earned respite, its Internal Security Police orders me out of country without explanation, and that was after being abducted and questioned by the British High Commissioner.
Not wishing to relegate Elizabeth’s condition to being less important than any of the other occurrences, everything else happened because all I wanted to do was mourn the loss of my wife on my own and without any outside interference. In the end, the outside had done more than interfere.
I shook my head in disbelief and then wondered why I had left one final episode to last. In the midst of everything else that was going on, I met someone who had an undeniable effect on my emotions. Sophie Mackintosh took over my life for a short while to the exclusion of Belinda. I didn’t like what was happening but there was nothing I could do about it. Therefore, seeing her, or seeing someone I thought was her, in Market Harborough had set my pulse racing, and it wasn’t because I wanted an explanation for what had happened in Brunei, or why she was possibly following me.
My fascination with Sophie Mackintosh wasn’t because she could be the source of enlightenment: it was because, regardless of the promises I had made, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Perhaps, after all, she was the source of an explanation but not about Brunei. She could explain why
she had come into my life so soon after I had lost Belinda; she could explain why I was having this constant battle with my conscience.
I was also rambling to myself, yet again. Going back into the conservatory and locking the door behind me, I decided I would go to the golf club after all. I needed a diversion and perhaps something to stimulate me other than the past and what might have been.
On a Friday afternoon, the Golf Club was invariably busier than on other weekday afternoons. Fortunate to find a recently vacated slot in the members’ car park, I took out my clubs from the boot of the car before heading for the clubhouse.
Located between Great Oxenden and Market Harborough the club was neither ostentatious nor overly modest; it fitted nicely between the two descriptions. The course was nearly one hundred years old and the original clubhouse tastefully extended, allowing its five hundred members (and visitors) to enjoy excellent bar and restaurant facilities. The course was relatively short but demanding and normally a thoroughly enjoyable eighteen holes of golf.
Charles was a also member and we had played a few games together over the years, but he belonged to a close-knit group of over sixty-year olds who protected their right to play to their own standard, and sometimes to their own rules, with alacrity.
After dumping my shoes and clubs in the changing rooms, I went into the bar in search of a possible playing partner. It was two o’clock on a Friday afternoon, the car park was full but the bar was almost empty. I assumed that the sunshine had encouraged players rather than escapists to the club that afternoon.
I was about to leave the bar and have a round as a singleton when I heard my name called: “Mr Blythe!”
I turned round and saw Roland Crook the barman-cum-steward grinning at me from behind the bar. He had obviously been in the stockroom when I first went into the bar.
“Hello, Rollo,” I said, walking a few paces back into the room. “How are you?”
“I’m fine thanks, Mr Blythe, but long time no see.”
I shrugged. “A couple of months, Rollo, a couple of months.” I didn’t know how much he knew. I wasn’t exactly a regular at the club. When Belinda was well enough to fend for herself, she had insisted on me going to play when I was back in the UK. Rollo and I had shared a few jokes and stories at the bar over the years and I suppose we had struck up more than a passing acquaintance.
“I was very sorry to hear about your wife, Mr Blythe.” Trying to cover his embarrassment, he looked down at the glass he had picked up and was vigorously polishing.
“Thank you, Rollo. You’re busy today.”
“There are a couple of societies in and lunch was murder.”
I leant on the bar. “I guess a round is not recommended?”
He glanced out of the window towards the first tee. “Probably not, looking at some of them I doubt whether they’ll be back in under four or five hours. You could try going to the 10th, but you’ll be in the middle of them then.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, beginning to move away from the bar.
“Did the lady get hold of you, Mr Blythe?”
“Lady, what lady?”
“Eh, Wednesday, about ten o’clock, this lady came into the bar and asked whether you were on the course.”
Rollo suddenly had my undivided attention. “What did she look like?”
He thought for a moment. “She caused a bit of a stir, actually. Not many ladies walk in here dressed for the city. Most of them are players, if you see what I mean,” he added with a wry smile. “She certainly got the attention of most of the gentlemen.”
“What did she look like, Rollo?” I asked patiently.
“Over five six, maybe five eight or nine, quite tall, actually. Sandra’s five seven and she was taller than her.” He saw my look. “Erm … early to mid-thirties, attractive, blue eyes, well a bluey-green actually, slim but, you know, well proportioned in the right places without being too personal. Shortish light brownish-blondish hair and a lovely smile.”
“You were quite observant, Rollo.”
He shrugged. “Learn to be in this job, Mr Blythe. But, as I said, she was unusual for ten o’clock in the morning and she wasn’t the sort you forget easily.”
“What did she say?”
“She came into the bar, had a good look round and then came over.” He shrugged again. “I was doing some tidying. She asked if you were out on the course.”
“And you were able to tell her that I wasn’t.” On Wednesday morning when I became frustrated with not being able to get on with the decorating, I had gone for a drive. I couldn’t remember where I went in detail but at one stage I did drive past the entrance to the club.
“From here I can see most people starting a round, and that morning I’d been clearing up after a late-do the night before. I was able to tell the lady that I definitely hadn’t seen you.”
“I see. What did she do then?”
“She didn’t seem too worried, said it wasn’t urgent and that she’d probably find you at your house.”
“Did she give her name?”
“No and I’m sorry, Mr Blythe, I didn’t ask. Suppose I ought to have done really. But she gave the impression that she knew you well.”
“That’s all right, Rollo. I know who she was.”
I drove straight back to Blue-Ridge. The doubts I had about seeing Sophie that morning had now disappeared. This time it could have been no one else but her; the description Rollo had given me fitted her perfectly.
She had been in the club on Wednesday and now it was Friday. If she was looking for me, why hadn’t she come to the house? And how did she know I was a member of that golf club … of course, over Mama Wong’s fish and chips I’d told her where I lived and I must have mentioned it then.
Nevertheless, if she were spying on me she wouldn’t have been that open about looking for me. She would have known the next time I was in the club Rollo would tell me about her visit.
Where was she and what was she actually up to?
Chapter Twenty-Five
I did not have to wait long to find out.
I was not familiar with the car parked to the right of the garage but I certainly recognised who got out of it. Her presence explained why the gate was open.
The only occupant of the metallic-silver Audi was Sophie Mackintosh.
Watching my car crunch its way up the driveway, she stood with her elbow against the her car’s roof and with her sunglasses dangling in the other hand.
“Hello Richard,” she said as I slowly climbed out of my car, trying to think of something, anything I could say that would be sensible.
“Sophie! I suppose I ought to say this is a surprise but seeing you isn’t unexpected.”
“Why, was I really that obvious?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, “but I’ve come from the golf club and yes, I do know you were there two days ago asking after me.”
I closed the door of the car. Sophie was about ten feet away looking at me, she appeared cool and calm, and the opposite of the way I was feeling. Seeing the person who had been on my mind almost constantly since the sighting in Market Harborough was unsettling.
“There is an explanation,” she said, tapping her lip with one of the arms of her sunglasses.
“You’d better come in,” I said.
“Thanks.” She reached into her car to pick up her shoulder bag. The car beeped as she activated the alarm.
I waited for her to walk past me, her expensive perfume bringing back the short-lived memories of Brunei. There were so many questions bursting to come out but I was determined to maintain my composure.
I didn’t know why she had come to see me and I wasn’t too sure I wanted to know.
She walked ahead of me along the hall towards the kitchen and dining room. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Where shall we go?”.
“Depends whether we are being formal or not,” I said. “Kitchen to the left, living room is back here.”
S
he smiled that smile again and reached for the handle to the kitchen door. “Have you decorated recently? I can smell paint.”
“Yes, started a couple of weeks ago but I haven’t finished yet.” She walked over to the kitchen window and peered into the garden. She nodded. “I like what I see.”
“Thank you. Would you like something to drink? I asked, opening the cupboard. I was pleased that I had been shopping, but she probably knew not only where I had been but also what I had bought.
She turned round and leant against the Belfast sink, the smile still on her lips. “Do you have any green tea?”
“Yes, Bella drinks it all the time.”
“That would be lovely.”
I needed to fill the kettle but Sophie was standing in front of the taps. I felt uncomfortable about crossing the kitchen because it would mean I would be too close to her: I would be invading her space and she mine, and it was too soon.
She must have sensed my hesitation. “Here, let me,” she said, coming over and taking the kettle from me. Her hand touched mine and I felt a shock run through me.
Why was this woman still affecting me?
Plugging in the kettle and to hide my confusion, I got the mugs and tea from the cupboard. Over the years I had been in the company of hundreds of attractive women, some of whom, much to my amusement and to a certain extent my enjoyment, had flirted with me, and I with them, but none of them had affected me for more than a fleeting moment. I had always told Belinda about where I had been, and who had said and done what. She used to joke about the descriptions I gave her but there was always that look in her eye that warned me never to take the flirtations any further.
I didn’t need to be warned.
Would I have told Belinda about Sophie? Having breakfast and an evening meal with another woman had never happened before. Our disastrous outing to cave Beach had been a little more intimate but … but if Belinda had still been alive then none of that would have happened.
Pooh Bridge: conscience stricken Page 26
