A Question of Identity

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘When she saw the milk and the curtains, she was worried too. It turned out she had their key, so she collected it from her own house and we waited while she opened the Coombeses’ front door and called Lucy. When there was no reply, she asked us if we’d go in with her – for moral support, I suppose.’

  Sarah’s fingers tightened on the handkerchief she was holding, and it was Clive who continued.

  ‘The sitting room looked as though they’d just left it to go up to bed. The cushions on the sofa were still dented, and a copy of yesterday’s paper lay on the floor. There were mugs on the table, with coffee dregs in them.

  ‘In the kitchen, pans were piled in the sink, presumably from last night, waiting to be washed. It was . . . like the Mary Celeste.’

  He sat down next to Sarah, taking her hand. ‘So . . . we went upstairs, still calling her name.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She was lying on the bedroom floor, and it was . . . obvious that she was dead. There was no sign of anyone else, but the boys’ beds had been slept in. The covers were thrown back, and there was . . . a teddy bear on the floor.’

  ‘God!’ Guy said under his breath.

  Sarah had started to tremble. ‘I don’t understand it!’ she said on a high note. ‘They were a devoted family – everyone said so. It couldn’t have been Kevin, but then where is he, and where are the boys? God, Dad, they’re only five and three! You don’t think whoever killed Lucy would kill them too?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll turn up safe and well,’ Guy said firmly, though he was sure of no such thing. ‘Go on; what did you do next?’

  ‘Frances just . . . went to pieces,’ Sarah said shakily. ‘She was screaming and crying and trying to get to Lucy, but Clive insisted she didn’t touch anything. We took her back next door, and he phoned the police while she rang her husband.

  ‘Then the police arrived, and because we’d been first on the scene, we had to wait till we could be interviewed separately, in case one of us remembered something different. A policewoman sat with us, so we weren’t able to discuss it. Frances’s husband arrived home, but they wouldn’t let him see her. We could hear him shouting in the hall, and Frances started crying again. It was . . . like a nightmare, when you try to wake up, and can’t.’

  Guy leant forward. ‘You say you knew at once Lucy was dead. How, when you didn’t feel for a pulse? Was there . . . any blood?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Not that we could see, but it was her face . . . her eyes. They were open.’ She shuddered to a halt, covering her own face.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Guy said contritely. ‘I was just wondering if there was any clue as to how she might have died.’

  There was a brief silence, then Clive said awkwardly, ‘I appreciate there’s nothing you can do, but Sarah just . . . wanted to see you.’

  ‘Of course. I’m glad you phoned. What happens now, do you know?’

  ‘We have to go to the police station in the morning and sign our statements. We might also have our fingerprints taken for elimination, though actually we didn’t touch anything in the house, and Frances only touched the front door.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s a bit late, I suppose, but I really feel I should let the Head know, and preferably before the news gets out.’

  Guy looked at his watch. It was just after eleven o’clock. ‘I think you should phone now,’ he said. ‘Who is the Head?’

  ‘Miss Rawlings.’

  ‘You have her number?’

  ‘I can find it quickly enough.’

  ‘Then you go and do that. I’ll wait with Sarah.’ Guy glanced at his daughter, who was winding the crumpled handkerchief back and forth between her fingers. ‘Have you any sleeping pills?’ he asked her.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then I suggest a glass of brandy. You need something to knock you out for the night.’

  ‘I keep seeing her face, Dad,’ Sarah said sombrely, ‘and then remembering her at school, laughing and full of fun. It just doesn’t seem . . . fair!’

  ‘Murder seldom is,’ Guy said, and immediately thought how trite it sounded.

  She put a hand over his. ‘Thanks for coming. Clive was wonderful, but I needed you.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  Clive came back into the room. ‘Poor woman, she’s very shaken,’ he said, ‘and, of course, desperately worried about Ben and his little brother.’

  ‘Do they both go to the school?’ Guy asked.

  ‘No,’ Sarah said, ‘Archie’s still at play school. He comes with Lucy, though, when she collects Ben.’ It seemed too soon to use the past tense.

  Guy looked up at Clive, still standing uncertainly by the door. ‘Have you any brandy?’

  He shook his head. ‘There’s some whisky, which Dad drinks when he visits us.’

  ‘Then I suggest you both have some, to help you sleep. If there’s nothing I can do, I should be going; Avril will be worrying. I have to go to Stokely tomorrow to meet the removal men, but I’ll phone when I get back. You might have some news by then.’

  He stood up, and Sarah with him. ‘Try not to worry about the children,’ he said quietly. ‘If it was her husband, and he meant to kill them too, he’d have done it at the same time. He’s most unlikely to hurt them now.’

  But, he reflected grimly as he got into his car, wasn’t that just the unhinged, desperate thing fathers did in these circumstances? He sent up a quick prayer for the safety of the little boys and also for their father, wherever he was, that he’d contact the police the next day.

  ‘Just along the road from Sarah!’ Avril was saying on the phone. ‘It’s . . . unbelievable, isn’t it? And it was she and Clive who found the body!’

  ‘That’s awful, Mum!’ Rona exclaimed, genuinely shocked.

  ‘Sarah phoned Guy as soon as the police let them go, and he went straight round. He said there were still police cars outside the murder house.’

  ‘And there’s no sign of the husband or children?’

  ‘Not so far. He must have snatched them out of their beds, bundled them in the car, and sped off with them.’ She paused. ‘It was on the local news this morning; didn’t you hear it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is, thank God you’re not involved this time. I must say, it makes a change!’

  Rona had intended to spend the day working on the biography, but her mother’s news had shaken her and she couldn’t settle. It was Max’s day at the art school and Lindsey would be at work, so neither was available for a chat. In fact, she’d not spoken to Lindsey since she left the house on Monday morning, and her two messages had remained unanswered.

  Reaching a decision, she rang her father’s number, and was relieved when he picked up at once.

  ‘Hello, poppet, this is a nice surprise! How are things?’

  ‘Mixed, I’d say. I’ve just had Mum on the phone about a murder in Belmont, which Sarah and her fiancé stumbled on.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I’m in need of company, and I was wondering if I could pop round and join you for a sandwich or something?’

  ‘Of course; I’d be delighted to see you. A good excuse for a pub lunch!’

  ‘See you in about an hour, then.’ Putting down the phone, Rona logged on to the BBC and clicked ‘News’. The murder featured prominently, with more details than Avril had been able to furnish. The husband of the murdered woman, she read, had spent Tuesday evening at the local rugby club, not leaving until eleven o’clock. Friends he’d been with expressed horror and disbelief at the subsequent turn of events, claiming that he had been in good spirits when he left for home.

  So what, Rona asked herself, had happened when he got there?

  The Swan was an unassuming little pub, ten minutes’ walk from Tom’s flat.

  ‘Catherine and I sometimes come here when neither of us can be bothered to cook!’ he said, as they settled at a corner table. ‘It’s quiet and no frills, but the food is good.’

  ‘Will this be her birthday treat tom
orrow?’ Rona teased.

  Tom smiled. ‘I think we can rise to something a bit grander for that!’

  ‘Which reminds me.’ She took a gift-wrapped package from her bag and handed it across. ‘Could you pass this on, with love from Max and me?’

  ‘Thanks, darling. It will be on the breakfast table.’

  ‘I was remembering last year,’ she went on, ‘when we were all at lunch in Cricklehurst and Jenny went into labour.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. We’re hoping for less drama this year!’

  Rona hesitated. ‘How is Jenny? And Daniel?’

  ‘They seem OK. She’s staying with her parents at the moment, but he went up to see her last week and is going again tomorrow, for Alice’s birthday. As it happened, work brought him in this direction on Tuesday, so he spent the night with Catherine. She said he seemed fine, and gave no sign of anything being wrong.’

  ‘Then perhaps nothing is,’ Rona said.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right. Now, tell me how Sarah got mixed up in this murder.’

  Rona relayed what she had learned. ‘From all the signs, it looks as though it must have been the husband,’ she finished, ‘though according to Sarah they were regarded as the ideal couple and adored their children. The main worry at the moment, of course, is to find them.’

  ‘Poor little blighters; whatever happens now, their lives will never be the same.’

  ‘Sarah’s particularly upset because the five-year-old is in her class, and one of her favourites.’

  ‘A bad business all round.’

  Their food was laid before them – shepherd’s pie for Tom, cod and chips for Rona.

  ‘On a more cheerful note,’ he continued, reaching for the salt and pepper, ‘how’s that twin of yours? I’ve not spoken to her in weeks.’

  ‘Things aren’t going too well on the love front, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh no, not again! I was hoping this chap would be the one.’

  ‘I think she was, too,’ Rona said sadly. ‘I know they had a row at the weekend; with luck it’ll blow over, but at the moment she’s a bit fragile.’

  ‘Poor love! I must give her a call.’

  ‘Don’t say I mentioned Dominic,’ Rona warned.

  ‘I’ll be discretion itself! She’ll probably be in touch, anyway, with a present for Catherine.’

  Rona hoped he was right, and the fact that Lindsey was distracted about Dominic and not overfond of Catherine in the first place had not erased all thoughts of the forthcoming birthday. Perhaps she should give her a reminder.

  As it happened, Lindsey forestalled her by phoning that evening, immediately after Max’s routine call.

  ‘I presume you still have the photograph?’ she began without preamble.

  Her head full of other matters, it was a moment before Rona’s mind clicked into gear. ‘Oh – yes, yes I have.’

  ‘I’ve just had William on the phone, and there’s been a development. He’s invited me – and you, if you’d like to come – to go round for coffee and hear about it.’

  ‘Linz, I really—’

  ‘And you could return the photo at the same time.’

  Rona sighed. ‘When would this be?’

  ‘Unfortunately not until Monday, because I’m away for the weekend.’

  ‘Oh Linz, that’s great! Did Dominic—?’

  ‘Nina and Steve have invited me down to their cottage in Hampshire. Double N have just redone it.’

  Nina and her friend Nicole, trading as Double N, had been responsible for the make-over of Lindsey’s flat.

  Rona said tentatively, ‘Has Dominic—?’

  ‘Dominic,’ said Lindsey, ‘is history. I told you that.’ And before Rona could comment, she hurried on, ‘No doubt Mum’s been in touch about this murder? There was a garbled message on my answerphone when I got in. I suppose I’ll have to ring her back.’

  ‘Yes, it’s all rather horrific,’ Rona said, accepting, since she’d no choice, the switch in subject. ‘It’s a woman who was on the PTA at Belmont Primary, and her little boy’s in Sarah’s class. There was no sign of a forced entry, Mum said, so it looks as though the husband’s the culprit.’

  ‘It usually is,’ Lindsey agreed. ‘Now, are you going to come and hear what William’s found, or not? After the time you’ve hung on to the photo, I think it’s the least you can do.’

  ‘All right, I’ll come. Oh, and Lindsey, before you go: you haven’t forgotten tomorrow’s Catherine’s birthday, have you?’

  The ensuing silence informed Rona that indeed she had. ‘God!’ Lindsey said then. ‘One thing after another! OK, thanks for the reminder; I’ll send some flowers. The coffee invitation’s not till eight o’clock, by the way, so I suggest we have something to eat first. Meet me at Dino’s about six?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Rona said.

  The murder made the ten o’clock news, and Rona watched, mesmerized, as white-coated figures moved up and down the path of the house in Belmont. It reminded her shudderingly of when she had watched the same performance at the house next door.

  ‘Police have issued a photograph of the victim’s husband, Kevin Coombes,’ the newscaster intoned solemnly. ‘They’re appealing to him to get in touch with them, and to take his young sons to the nearest police station, where they’ll be cared for until relatives can collect them.’

  A photograph came on the screen of a dark-haired man in his forties, whose only distinguishing feature was a deep vertical line between his eyes. Rona stared at it, trying to reconcile it with the devoted family man Sarah had known, picturing him playing cricket on the back lawn with the boys, carving the Sunday roast, watching television with his wife. Could this really be a killer’s face? In the last year or two she’d been unlucky enough to come in contact with several murderers, but there’d been no common factor to set them apart, mark them out for what they were. Of more immediate urgency, was it the face of a man who would harm his children? She could only pray it was not.

  Barnie Trent was a large and jovial man, though the staff at Chiltern Life spoke darkly of a formidable temper if deadlines were missed. He had a high, domed forehead and astute grey eyes that missed nothing. At six foot two he towered over his wife, a mere five foot. However, what Dinah lacked in height she more than made up for in personality; she’d a mass of wiry black hair, a singularly deep voice and the most infectious laugh Rona had ever heard. She was extremely fond of both of them, and in the past had felt far more comfortable in their home than she did in her parents’.

  By the time they arrived for supper the next evening there’d been no further news on the Belmont murder. Avril, who seemed to have taken it on herself to issue a daily bulletin, had reported that they were saying prayers for Ben at school assembly, though thankfully his classmates were too young to appreciate his danger. Sarah and Clive had been to the police station during their lunch break, and, having signed their statements, hoped that ended their official involvement. Though Avril didn’t say so, Rona knew that on a personal level it would last at least until Ben and his brother were safely restored to what was left of their family.

  As features editor of a glossy monthly, the case didn’t fall within Barnie’s remit, though he was concerned to learn of the connection, albeit tenuous, with Rona’s family.

  ‘Mum says Sarah’s terribly upset,’ she ended. ‘She had to take her class as usual, and Ben’s empty place was hard to ignore. She only just managed to get through it before breaking down.’

  ‘You read of these cases every day in the press,’ Dinah remarked, ‘but you never expect it to happen so close to home.’

  ‘Still,’ Rona said rallyingly, ‘we have more cheerful things to discuss! How long is it now till Mel’s baby’s due?’

  ‘About seven weeks,’ Dinah replied.

  ‘And Barnie says she’s having a much easier pregnancy than last time?’

  ‘So far, thank God, but I worry about her having her children so close together; Sam’s just four, and the next one mig
ht well be born on Martha’s third birthday. Just think – three children under five!’

  ‘She’s a healthy young woman,’ Barnie put in, ‘and she thrives on motherhood.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll fly over to see the baby?’

  Dinah smiled. ‘Try and stop me!’ She reached into her bag. ‘And I wouldn’t be doing my grandmotherly duty if I didn’t produce photographs. These are the latest.’

  She passed Rona half a dozen prints, all showing the two children in the garden of their home. Sam hadn’t changed much since Rona had seen him on their visit a couple of years ago – a taller, sturdier version of the toddler she remembered. Martha though, who’d been a baby at the time, was unrecognizable – a solemn little girl with large eyes, darker than her blond brother.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ Rona said dutifully.

  Max, who had been busy in the kitchen, reappeared. ‘Dinner is served, ladies and gentleman, if you’d care to come down.’

  With no dining room, the kitchen was of necessity called on for entertaining. The table, laid with the best silver and crystal, was positioned alongside the patio doors leading to the garden, and in the darkness beyond them, reflections of the candles danced like fireflies.

  True to form, Max had produced a gourmet meal of blinis with smoked salmon and sour cream, followed by roast duckling and ending with lemon parfait served in scooped-out lemon skins.

  ‘Found out any more about that photograph you were asking about?’ Barnie enquired, as coffee was served.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve not given it much thought. But believe it or not, the owner of Springfield Lodge has a painting by Elspeth Wilding. I went to have a look at it last week, and while I was there I asked about the school, but she couldn’t help.’

  ‘Did you get in touch with the Gazette?’

  ‘About photographers? I asked Tess Chadwick, but she said much the same as you and referred me either to the archives in Buckford or the Internet. I did go on line, but there was no easy route, and I gave up.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it a couple of times since you phoned,’ Barnie remarked, helping himself to cream, ‘particularly the person who was inked out. There’s a faint chance there could be a story behind it, and if there is, and you run it to earth, you might write an article on it.’