Green and Pleasant Land

by Judith Cutler

  ‘People get locked into their stories. Perhaps they need to rewrite their own stories to make them bearable.’ He worked on a knot. ‘So many of my patients lie to me about their injuries, you know. They swear blind that they’ve done the exercises I’ve suggested, or contrariwise that they’ve rested when it’s clear they’ve been out jogging.’

  Fran acknowledged the temptation with a chuckle. ‘But my physios always found out within two minutes: it wasn’t worth it. And I did want to get fit quickly – walking up the aisle on crutches was never on my agenda. So, for once in my life, I did as I was told.’

  ‘So if I suggest you try Pilates, you might give it a go?’

  ‘I play tennis regularly,’ she bridled.

  ‘But I bet you still play as if it’s badminton. Get yourself a coach and use the correct muscles. And give Pilates a try for the sake of all the others. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good. To go back to your question, if Natalie’s parents wouldn’t come clean, how could the others?’

  ‘Not without damning old friends. You’re right, of course.’ But if she could accept the community’s silence, she found it hard to take the collateral damage. Edwina might be prepared to forgive and forget, but Dan and the Crown Prosecution Service might not be so keen to condone the assault, to which Bethan, perhaps even now ogling the interviewing officers, had confessed. Alex, the letting agent, was apparently pressing for action against Ted; at very least he wanted restitution, as did the property owner and her insurers. And restitution would be better than a criminal record, so he might agree.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘I wish I knew. It’s so frustrating not being part of the process. We’ve got to pack our bags and walk away.’ They were taking Marion to lunch before they set off for home the following day. As for Edwina, they were worried about her and her future. But perhaps belonging in the village would trump being a snitch.

  ‘Surely you’ve always had to do that – to hand decisions to a jury.’

  ‘Of course. But I’ve always been able to discuss with the Crown Prosecution Service the best way forward. This time it’s simply none of my business.’ She’d made it her business to help Paula, of course, and had given Stu a bit of an earful, though she’d made it clear she understood his motives. As for Robyn, she’d been back in court again; all she could do was text her to wish her well. She wouldn’t search out Iris and talk her into withdrawing her resignation: in her position she’d have felt too compromised. As for Ted, would he lose his job? Not her business. ‘Hell’s bells! What’s that you’re doing?’

  ‘That’s you getting tense again. Go on, let the tension go. That’s better. Now, let’s just work on this area here, and then you can have a drink of water and join Mark …’

  And tomorrow, tomorrow, they could go home.

  ‘I wanted to thank you, Mrs Roberts, for all the assistance you’ve given during the course of this enquiry. Ms Harman said it was invaluable, in more ways than you know.’ Naz smiled his handsome smile, and looked across to Fran and Mark, who were about to take the old lady to lunch.

  ‘But what a waste of police time and resources, all because one stupid young man couldn’t get my statement right twenty years ago.’

  ‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t?’

  Mrs Roberts’s smile was one of pure delight. ‘What an observant young man you are. Why do you ask? Oh, I suppose that’s a question I’m not supposed to ask. After all these years, it’s hard to tell. But what I’d like you to do is reach something down from the loft for me. A desk diary. Come with me.’

  Naz obeyed; Fran and Mark inspected her books.

  Mrs Roberts was carrying the diary when she returned. ‘When I retired, I was afraid I’d go gaga if I didn’t keep my brain active. So I made myself write down from memory all sorts of trivia. But you may find it less trivial – who knows? I recorded the name of the constable who took my statement. See? If you have any doubts about its authenticity as a contemporary record, I’m sure your forensics team will be able to dismiss them. Now, some people have a good memory for faces.’

  ‘I have myself, actually, Mrs Roberts,’ he explained.

  She clapped her hands with pleasure. ‘Well, I can’t pick out villains in crowds, but when two or three weeks after I gave my statement I saw the dim young man who took it canoodling with a young woman I’d seen in TV shots of press conferences, I took enough notice to jot that down too, together with the name of the pub where I saw them. I had it in mind to complain to the police, but thought they’d write me off as a nosy old busybody. I have no doubt, Naz, that if I saw them now I’d be able to identify them. From photographs or in the flesh.’ She handed him the diary, open at the page.

  Naz nodded seriously. ‘You recorded the man’s name as Webster. Would this be the same Webster?’ He brought up a photo on his laptop.

  ‘It would indeed. He’s getting a bit paunchy, isn’t he?’

  ‘Thank you. And would you like to look at some images of women and do the same?’

  ‘With pleasure. It so fascinates me that such a small device can hold so much material.’ She pointed with a manicured and varnished fingernail. ‘That one, Naz. That one. And from some dark corner of my brain, a name is emerging. As it should. She had her name on bylines in local papers for a while. Bettany or Beth something? Well, either they were too wrapped up in each other for him to do his job properly, or she was actively distracting him.’

  ‘May I take this with me? I assure you that I shall take personal responsibility for it.’

  She watched him insert it into a plastic bag and write out a receipt.

  ‘Thank you. I trust that you’ll use the information both well and wisely. And now I wonder if I might ask you to return the box to the loft before you go. As you can see, Fran and Mark are wearing their best bibs and tuckers; I’d hate them to get dirty before we leave for lunch.’

  ‘Of course. But before I do, would you mind telling me about all those books?’ He nodded at the bookshelves.

  ‘Those are for pleasure. And those – well, I celebrated my seventy-fifth birthday by completing a doctorate on the influence of landscape on behaviour.’

  EPILOGUE

  ‘Time for a nightcap before we head back to the hotel?’ Mark asks. The evening is warm, calm. And tomorrow there’s yet another trip to yet another crusader castle. He’d rather not think about that. At least coming with a coach party – a very upmarket coach party – meant he hadn’t had to drive up, or even worse, down those terrifying roads.

  ‘Why not?’ Fran tucks her hand in his and they set off gently along the Kyrenia sea front, hand in hand. ‘Alcohol units on holiday are like calories on holiday: you don’t have to count them, do you? And you deserve a reward for going all the way up Saint Hilarion Castle this morning.’

  ‘You know what, I’d rather have stayed behind with the wrinklies with the bad knees or hips. I’m going to have to tackle this damned vertigo – Caffy says she knows a hypnotherapist who might help.’

  ‘That’s something to drink to, then. How about that place over there? No, too noisy. And not that Irish bar. How come there are Irish bars all over the world?’

  ‘Because they all show live sport? Bloody hell.’ Mark stops dead in his tracks. ‘Fran, that guy behind the bar. The one yelling at the other guy.’ He moves them closer.

  ‘The tall one about to throttle the shorter one? No, I don’t want to be involved in someone else’s problems.’

  ‘I think we’ve been involved in the tall one’s problems already, though he doesn’t know it. Fran, it’s Phil Foreman – got to be, surely. He may have gone to seed a bit, but that’s him, isn’t it?’

  He draws her closer. Shrugging, Fran colonizes a table as far from the bar as possible. He orders them both white wines. The tall guy abandons his victim with a snarl, and reaches for a bottle.

  ‘That’s not an Irish accent.’ Mark’s interrogation skills have completely evaporated, but he gets awa
y with this poor gambit.

  ‘Yorkshire. Mind you, it’s probably picked up a few others on the way.’ He breaks off to speak to a woman who must once have been startlingly pretty and is still attractive in a sun-baked way. He pulls her to him uxoriously and kisses her, before despatching her with a pat on her bum, though he watches her on her way as she slips into a back room.

  ‘Have one yourself,’ Mark suggests as the wine glugs attractively into chilled glasses.

  He feels like a PI in a noir movie. No doubt Fran is watching and chuckling.

  He returns with the wine, which is unexpectedly good.

  ‘It is him, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I pretended I thought I knew him from the TV – I could hardly talk football with my background, could I? The question is, do I – do we – say anything?’

  ‘Two old folk turn up at the bar and on the basis of a glass of nice cold wine tell him his wife and son are still alive?’

  ‘He’s got no other children, remember. And there’s a handsome, well turned-out young man the other side of the world. Don’t we have some sort of moral duty?’

  ‘Like you’d tell Homer he’s got eyesight problems and what he thinks is reddish purple is actually blue so his most quoted line is rubbish? He might not have his son, Mark, but he’s got a good marriage – you can see from the body language.’

  ‘Except they’re not married. Can’t be. Natalie’s never been declared dead.’

  ‘And that would stop a man like Phil if he really wanted a wedding? It would have stopped you, but you’re a law-abiding goodie, not a guy who half murders an employee in front of a dozen witnesses.’

  Mark’s not happy. ‘It’s always been our rule to find out the truth and let other people make of it what they will.’

  ‘Generally speaking, those would be the people who wanted the truth found.’

  ‘Didn’t he? He employed that private detective friend of yours.’

  ‘But only for a while. And remember Markwell saw him burn everything connected with Natalie. He’s made a new life. A number of new lives. And why not?’

  ‘But he doesn’t know he still has a son.’ Mark’s grief for his daughter was never far away, was it?

  ‘Ask yourself this: if he did find out that Hadrian had been alive all these years, what would he do? Specifically, what would he do to Natalie?’

  As one they look to the bar. The argument with the barman has erupted again. Almost unconsciously Mark is on his feet, pushing his way towards the trouble. ‘Cool it, Phil, eh?’

  The tall man abandons his fight, though he still bunches the barman’s T-shirt tight to his throat, to jab a finger at Mark’s chest. ‘What’s it got to do with you, eh? Oi, I was talking to you!’

  But Mark is walking back to his table, and, leaving the rest of his wine untouched, has taken Fran’s hand and is walking back to the hotel.