The House on the Cliff

by Charlotte Williams

  After Frank left, I managed a short lunch break, nipping over to the deli to get a takeaway sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was a bright, sunny day, and I could have gone over to the park to eat, but instead I decided to get back to the office so I could take a nap on the couch. That didn’t work out, though. Instead, I had a series of irritating interruptions: Branwen appeared with a card to sign for Meinir, the hypnotherapist upstairs, who was leaving that week; Dougie, the cognitive behavioral therapist, dropped by for some advice on a client; and, to cap it all, a workman started drilling the road outside.

  Just as I felt I was going to scream, there was another knock at my door. I glanced at my watch. My first client of the afternoon wasn’t due for another hour. And then I remembered that I’d scheduled a meeting with a policewoman about the Morgan case. She’d phoned to ask if I could answer some general questions, even though I hadn’t yet agreed to become a witness, and I’d made an appointment with her at the office. I’d meant to think about what I was going to say, but I’d completely forgotten about it. And now she was here.

  I took a deep breath, got up, and showed the woman in, sitting her down in the armchair I normally use for my clients. I asked if I could get her a tea or coffee, but she refused, so I sat down in the chair opposite and waited while she got out a warrant card and flashed it at me briefly. There was a picture of her on it, looking rather startled by the bright light of the camera, and a name: Detective Sergeant Lauren Bonetti.

  “Thanks,” I said and she put it back in her bag. She got out a reporter’s notebook and a pencil. I was surprised she wasn’t using some kind of electronic gizmo to log her thoughts, instead of such an old-fashioned device. In fact she was rather surprising all round. I’d vaguely imagined an older woman, possibly in uniform, or at least dressed in some kind of dowdy navy-blue outfit, but she wasn’t in the least like that. She was about my age, possibly a little younger, with curly brown hair, dark eyes, and freckles, dressed in a rather stylish asymmetric top, shortish skirt, patterned tights, and chunky-heeled boots.

  “Just a few questions,” she said, flipping over the cover of the notebook. “I just want to establish a few facts before you decide whether you want to make a statement or not. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

  There was a pause. I said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

  “I need some basic information, that’s all. Just to get a picture of how you work.” She hesitated. “You see, it’s rather unusual for us to take this kind of evidence. I haven’t had a case like this before.”

  I nodded in what I hoped was a noncommittal way. I didn’t have anything to hide, but I was well aware that this wasn’t an informal chat, either. So I was careful not to say anything more than I needed to.

  “Now, when was it that Gwydion Morgan first came to you?”

  “Back in September. I can tell you the exact date, if you like.”

  “That would be useful.”

  I got up, went over to my desk, and flicked through my appointments diary. “Here we are.” I read out the date. “And there were several more sessions after that.” I leafed through the diary, giving her the dates of each one as I found them.

  I came back and sat down.

  “Thanks. That’s great.” She noted something on her page, then looked up at me. “He didn’t stay long, did he?”

  “No.” Once again, I didn’t elaborate.

  “Is that normal? For someone to leave so soon?”

  “Yes and no.” I paused. “Some people stay for just a few sessions, others go on for years. It all depends, really. On what they think they need.”

  “I see.” She looked thoughtful. “So he felt he didn’t need more, did he?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “And what did you think?”

  I chose my words carefully. “He seemed to have found some benefit in the therapy.” I paused. “But I expect we could have got further, had we carried on.”

  She nodded. There was a short silence, and then she said, “Do you keep files on your patients, by any chance? Case notes, perhaps?”

  “Yes. But they’re mostly quite brief. These days I tend to rely on this.” I tapped my head.

  “No problem.” She gave me an encouraging smile. “I wonder if you could tell me about those sessions with Mr. Morgan. Describe how the dream came out, in your own words.” She paused. “Don’t worry if you get anything muddled up. This is just a preliminary interview. We can take a proper statement later.”

  I did my best to run through what had happened in my meetings with Gwydion, starting with the second one, in which he’d mentioned the recurring dream about being locked in a box, and going on to describe, as the sessions progressed, how he’d begun to remember more and more: hearing voices outside the box, realizing that the box was a boat, hearing a scream and a splash as something big, like a body, hit the water. She listened attentively, continuing to make notes, until I came to the end of my story.

  “Thank you, Dr. Mayhew,” she said. “That’s just what I needed.” She paused. “So this dream went on to trigger Mr. Morgan’s conscious memory of the events that took place on the boat when he was a child. All those years ago. Is that right?”

  “Yes. That’s what he told me.”

  “Is that a common phenomenon? A dream triggering a childhood memory like that?”

  “No. Not common. But it does happen. There are some well-documented studies in the literature.”

  “And is the memory of a child as young as six reliable, do you think?”

  “I would say so. Theoretically, a child of that age would be quite capable of understanding the significance of a traumatic event and remembering it later.”

  She looked satisfied, and I began to congratulate myself on my authoritative tone. But then the conversation took a turn for the worse.

  “Now . . .” She flipped back through her notes. “There are just a couple more things. . . .”

  “Go ahead.” I tried not to sound alarmed.

  “Did you have any contact with Gwydion Morgan outside your sessions with him here?”

  Now that she’d asked me, I realized this was the question I’d been dreading.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Would you mind telling me more about that?”

  “Not at all.” My neck began to feel hot. “His mother phoned me after our second session. He was depressed, she said. She was worried that he was suicidal, so I agreed to drive down to the family home to see him.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Nothing much. It wasn’t that serious, he was just feeling rather low. I did my best to talk to him, but he wasn’t very communicative. However, he came back for his session the following week.”

  I saw no need to mention my other meetings with Gwydion, either at Creigfa Bay or the Travelodge—certainly not the Travelodge—unless she pressed me further, which, to my relief, she didn’t.

  “Do you usually visit your patients—sorry, I mean, clients—at home?”

  “Not as a rule.” I could feel the heat rising up my neck into the back of my head. “But this seemed to be a genuine emergency.” I hoped it wouldn’t spread to my face. “And I don’t like to be too inflexible.”

  “Of course.” She paused. “We’ve also been in touch with the victim’s mother, Solveig Lindberg. It seems you met with her in Stockholm?”

  The question hung in the air. There was an awkward silence as I searched for an answer.

  “Why did you do that?” She looked up at me quizzically.

  “Well . . .” I wasn’t sure what to say. “I know it sounds odd. But I’d planned a trip around a conference there, and it seemed an opportunity to tie up some ends regarding my client. So just curiosity, I guess.”

  There was a brief moment of silence and then she said, “Goes with the territory, I suppose.” She smiled. “I’m just the same.”

  I smiled back, relieved.

  “Well, I think tha
t’s about it for today.” She began to gather her things. The notebook and pencil went back into her bag, and she adjusted her top, smoothing down her skirt. “Thank you so much for your time.”

  She put out her hand.

  “Not at all.” I shook it, looking her briefly in the eye. I somehow got the impression she trusted me, but I don’t know why that was. “What will happen next?”

  “Well, we’ll be collecting evidence for the hearing, which will decide whether the case goes to trial.”

  “When will that be?”

  “A couple of months, I’d say. We’ve got our work cut out. I’ll be in touch again to get a formal statement if we need one.”

  “D’you think I’ll be called in?”

  She paused. “Yes, I think it’s quite likely that you will be.”

  “I see.” I couldn’t help feeling a little alarmed, but I tried not to show it. “OK, then. Fine. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  I walked her over to the door, opened it and saw her out. I waited as she walked down the corridor. When she got to the top of the stairs she turned, smiled, and gave me a little wave.

  I smiled and waved back. Then I went back into my office to wait for my next client.

  The following Friday evening, what with the drama with Nella, not to mention my fiasco with Gwydion and the visit from Detective Sergeant Lauren Bonetti, I felt I deserved a break. So after I’d cooked supper for Bob and the girls, I changed into a black silk tea dress, added a string of pink glass beads, a battered leather jacket, suede ankle boots, and my Stockholm beret, and went out.

  When I got to the arts center I found Mari and the usual suspects, Sharon, Polly, and Catrin, gathered round a table in the bar. There were a couple of other women there, too, who I didn’t know so well. I bought a round of drinks, sat down next to Mari, and joined in the conversation. I’d missed the beginning of it, so Mari filled me in.

  “You’ve heard the news?” she said, turning to me.

  “No. What news?”

  “Our friend Evan Morgan.”

  The others stopped talking and looked at me.

  “He’s not my friend—” I began, but Mari cut in.

  “They’ve fixed the date for the hearing. It was on the six o’clock news this evening. Didn’t you see it?”

  I shook my head. “No. I had an evening session.”

  There was a silence.

  “How come Bob’s defending him?” Mari’s tone was suspicious.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Mari looked sideways at me. “You know, that business you were asking me about, with the Swedish au pair?” She paused dramatically. “Apparently Evan took the poor girl out on his boat, tried to rape her and, when she wouldn’t have it, chucked her overboard. Left her to drown.”

  “Is that what they’re saying?”

  “More or less. Reading between the lines.”

  I knew it was no good getting an accurate picture of exactly what had been reported from Mari. She was incapable of telling a story without exaggerating. So I tried to change the subject.

  “Did you get that part in the Bassey film then, Mari?”

  She ignored my question, narrowing her eyes, a mischievous smile on her face.

  “You know something we don’t know about all this, don’t you?”

  “No, not really.”

  She didn’t believe me. Neither did the others, who were still looking at me expectantly. I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to appear snooty, but neither did I want to involve myself in gossiping about the Morgan family.

  “Look, if you must know . . .” I shot Mari an accusing glance. “As I’ve already told Mari, there’s a connection between this case and one of my clients. Ex-clients, I should say. I can’t really discuss it at the moment. Professional ethics, sort of thing.”

  The assembled company nodded gravely. I was pleased to have come up with a credible explanation for my silence on the matter, for the moment at least. But the speculation continued.

  “I knew Evan was no angel,” Mari went on, “but I can’t believe this. I mean, rape, murder. I’m lucky to have escaped with my life.”

  More grave nodding ensued.

  “You know what he’s doing now?” Mari’s voice assumed a conspiratorial tone, though she was talking at the top of her voice, as she always does. “He’s having it off with that little secretary of his.”

  “ ‘PA’ they’re called these days,” said Sharon, apropos of nothing. “Not ‘secretary.’ ”

  “PA, whatever. Her name’s Rhiannon.”

  “Not Rhiannon Jenkins? Bright girl, very pretty. Blonde?” Sharon looked a little anxious as she spoke, I thought.

  Mari nodded. “I don’t know her surname, but yes, that’s got to be her.”

  “I taught her in college a couple of years ago.” Sharon looked mildly shocked. “She can’t be more than about twenty-five or so.”

  “Well, there you are. That’s Evan for you.” Mari frowned. “But the weird thing is, so I’ve heard, that he’s serious about this one.” She adopted the conspiratorial tone again. “Apparently, she’s pregnant.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t hide my curiosity. This was a piece in the jigsaw I hadn’t come across before.

  “Yup.” Mari looked triumphant as she delivered this choice piece of gossip.

  “How do you know?”

  “Heard it through the grapevine. It’s a small world, the theater.”

  “And . . .” I tried to sound casual. “Is she keeping the baby?”

  “So it seems. Wants to marry him. Age gap and all.” Mari paused. “Though this murder charge will put paid to that, I suppose.” She picked up her empty glass. “Now, who wants another drink? My round, I think.”

  I left the arts center late that night. I wasn’t in any hurry to get home. Things were still very tense between me and Bob. We were continuing to avoid contact with each other as much as possible. He’d announced that he was going to visit his mother in the valleys, so he’d taken the girls with him for the weekend. For once, Nella hadn’t complained. I’d told them I couldn’t come, that I needed to catch up on my paperwork. I was looking forward to having the house to myself for the weekend. Perhaps, I thought, a little solitude would be good for me. The conflict between the two of us seemed to have escalated rather than decreased after Nella’s escapade in London, and I needed some time to take stock.

  I didn’t notice anything was wrong with the car until I got home. I parked under the street lamp outside the house, in the usual way, got out, locked the door, and then I saw it. Spray-painted over the bonnet, in red letters: BITCH.

  It was hurriedly done, but the word was unmistakable. As I looked at it, I felt a current of fear run through me. Emyr, I thought. He must have got the sack, and this was his revenge. Or could it be Evan Morgan, perhaps? To scare me off becoming a witness at the hearing? But he couldn’t have known about my visit from DS Lauren Bonetti. And his connection with Bob would surely have prevented him from acting in such a way. It had to be Emyr, I was sure of it.

  At that stage I could have panicked, but I didn’t. Instead I left the car where it was and walked quickly into the house. Once inside, I bolted the front door, double-locked it, and slotted in the chain. I called the police and they said they’d try to send someone round in the morning, but it might have to wait until Monday. I didn’t call Bob, or Mari. I didn’t see the point of worrying him while he was away. I made myself a cup of chamomile tea, to help me sleep, and before I went to bed inspected the house, checking and double-checking all the doors and windows to make sure they were secure. Then I climbed the stairs.

  Someone out there was trying to frighten me, I knew. It could be Emyr. Or Evan. Or someone else. But I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

  I lay in bed for a while with the light on, listening for any sound in the house, in the garden or in the street outside. But all was silent. I listened for the crunch of foot
steps on the gravel path outside, the thud of a crowbar forcing a window, the click of a key in a lock, or the squeak of a doorknob turning, but none came. So I switched off the light, turned over, and slept till morning.

  The weekend passed uneventfully, but I found it hard to relax. In the morning I waited for a policeman to arrive, but no one came, so at midday I took the car into the garage and was told it had to be resprayed, at vast expense. I left it there and took a taxi home. I spent the rest of the time tidying up the garden, catching up on the laundry, and going over my accounts. During the day, while I was occupied and busy, I felt fine, but it was at night that I began to be afraid. That evening I dutifully toured the house, checking that all the doors and windows were locked, and when I was in bed I froze at the slightest sound in the house or outside. The next morning I felt a profound sense of relief that I’d got through another night without incident. I told myself that the graffiti scrawled on my car was probably the work of a passing vandal, rather than anyone who knew me; that even if it was Emyr who’d done it, the attack would have satisfied the grudge he had against me, and against the world, and he wouldn’t be troubling me further. But I didn’t quite believe it.

  By Sunday afternoon I was thoroughly keyed up, tense and jumpy; so when Bob and the girls came home, I was relieved to see them. I told Bob that someone had vandalized my car and that I’d taken it in to the garage, but I didn’t elaborate. After everything that had happened between us, I wasn’t about to run to him for help. He didn’t seem to notice how edgy I was, and went straight off to his study to work. Nella closeted herself in the bedroom again, so I stayed in the kitchen chatting to Rose. And then, after she’d gone to bed, I went up to see Nella.