Fragile Lives

by Jane A. Adams

  Mac had rarely felt as comfortable with anyone. Miriam was funny and gentle and bright and over lunch they talked about everything but work.

  ‘How did you find the boathouse?’ Miriam asked as they dawdled over coffee. ‘Property on long-term let is like gold dust round here.’

  ‘A friend of a friend,’ Mac said. ‘The owner knows a friend of mine, Rina Martin and she thought—’

  Miriam laughed. ‘Ah, the redoubtable Miss Martin. Wasn’t she in television, or something?’

  Mac nodded. ‘Mrs Martin,’ he said. ‘She was widowed. And yes, television. She played Lydia Marchant in Lydia Marchant Investigates. My mother was a fan. She’s been a very good friend since I moved here.’

  ‘Oh yes, that rings bells. Wasn’t she mixed up someway in … when the old lady was murdered and that kid? I remember reading something in the local paper about her disarming the boy’s father. Some joke about Lydia Marchant still investigating.’

  Mac laughed. ‘That sounds about right. She runs what pretends to be a boarding house but it’s really a retreat for ex-performers. They’re all quite mad in the most wonderful way and Rina is one of the most astute people I have ever met. Sharp as a box-load of knives. But she didn’t actually disarm Edward Parker. That, apparently, was Tim, aka The Great Stupendo or, no, I’m forgetting, he’s given up the clown act and he’s sticking to Marvello the Mentalist.’

  Miriam was laughing, shaking her head. ‘None of that make any sense at all,’ she protested.

  ‘Seeing Tim in an orange wig makes even less. He’s finally come to his senses and they had a symbolic cremation. I mean, Tim’s tall and dark and thin-faced and kind of gothic. Would make a magnificent vampire, but a children’s clown? I really don’t think so.’

  The waitress brought their bill and Mac picked it up.

  ‘No,’ Miriam said. ‘We go Dutch, OK? This time, anyway.’

  ‘This time?’

  She nodded. ‘When I let you take me out on a proper date, then I’ll let you pay.’

  ‘Very generous of you,’ Mac said trying not to show just how hard his heart pounded at the thought. ‘And is that … is that likely?’

  She picked up the bill, glanced at it and then reached for her purse. ‘Oh, I think it might be,’ she said. ‘Remember, you’ve got trial by shopping to go through first, that is if you’re still up for it?’

  Mac had forgotten about the sister’s birthday present but he nodded eagerly. ‘I’ll do my best to pass,’ he said.

  When the phone rang at three o’clock that afternoon Rina had a strange premonition. She hesitated before picking up. If her sense of who it was happened to be correct, did she really want to take this call? Did she really want to deal with the implications?

  Chastising herself for momentary cowardice, she lifted the receiver.

  ‘Peverill Lodge. Rina Martin speaking.’

  ‘Hello Rina, I’m glad it was you that picked up.’

  On the phone she sounded even younger than she was, Rina thought. She glanced towards the living room door, but no curious heads peeped round to see who the caller was. The piano tinkled and crashed, notes driven to their limits by the enthusiastic playing of Stephen, the self-professed musical partner in the Montmorency act. The Peters sisters sang, their voices striving hard to rise above the enthusiastic but unskilful performance.

  Rina winced. ‘Hello, my dear,’ she said glad that the phone was cordless. She retreated to her private room and closed the door.

  Silence enfolded her. She fancied it was so quiet she could hear her own heart beating an irregular rhythm.

  ‘I won’t ask you where you are or any of that nonsense, but tell me, are you well? George will want to know.’

  Karen laughed softly. ‘Oh, Rina,’ she said. ‘If we’d had someone like you in our lives earlier things might have turned out so differently.’

  Rina doubted that. Karen, she felt, was more a result of nature than of nurture and little of that nature came from the mother’s side. Unless, of course, there had once, in Carol Parker’s life, been some instinct to nurture and protect. Karen possessed that in spades, though circumstance had warped her expression of it.

  ‘I’m fine, Rina,’ she said. ‘I’m doing all right. How’s George? Where have they put him? I don’t suppose the authorities would just let things lie so he could stay with Paul’s family, could they?’

  She sounded hopeful. Rina sat down. ‘He’s at Hill House,’ she said. ‘Been there a week, and he’s back at school. He’d found a friend at the home and seems to be settling in as well as you’d expect. He knew you’d be in touch. He asked about you.’

  ‘Course he’d know,’ Karen said. ‘Look, Rina, I’ve sent you a postcard. Pass it on to him, will you. And don’t feel embarrassed if you have to tell that policeman about this call. I know you might, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be long gone and far away. You take care now and give my love to my little brother. Tell him to work hard and that I miss him.’

  The phone went dead. Rina sat, clutching it against her chest aware that tears pricked at her eyelids.

  Karen was too young to have done the things she had and too young to be on the run. She reminded herself that Karen and her mother and brother had spent years on the run and it was hardly a new experience for the nineteen year-old. She was an old hand at it.

  She’d have to tell Mac, of course, but she’d make sure George got the card. After all, what forensics could they usefully get from a postcard? It would have passed through scores of hands before it reached her. When the phone rang again she was caught off guard. Was it Karen ringing back?

  ‘Peverill Lodge. Rina Martin speaking.’

  It wasn’t Karen. Rina recognized the voice. ‘Fitch? And how are you on this fine afternoon?’

  She heard the man pause as though uncertain of his response; questioning whether or not she was taking the mickey. ‘I’m fine, and the boss says to say thanks for the meal. He likes his home cooking. He’s got a woman comes in and does it for him. I like it too.’

  Rina thought it might be inappropriate to laugh. Somehow she restrained herself. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll pass your thanks along.’

  ‘And there’s another thing,’ Fitch said.

  ‘I thought there might be.’

  ‘The boss thinks you and that copper, you’re all right. On the level. So he’s told me to give you some details. A family got their kid back. The dad, he’s willing to talk to you. You got a pen handy?’

  Rina scribbled the details. The address was, she reckoned, about twenty miles away. ‘After what happened to Patrick,’ she asked, ‘isn’t this man afraid the gang might hear about us poking around?’

  Fitch made a sound in his throat that might have been a laugh; might just have been contempt. ‘He’s a tough cookie,’ he said. ‘And he’s sent his family away. Very far away and he’s working with the boss to try and bring some of the other families on board.’

  ‘And what makes your boss think I can do any good here?’ Rina asked, suddenly fazed by this new responsibility.

  ‘He don’t know, does he, but he’s willing to try anything. His boy’s dead, Mrs Martin. Wouldn’t you try everything, even the long shots?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fitch,’ Rina said softly, ‘I rather think I would.’

  Mac had arranged for the police artist to go to Hill House as, that way, he didn’t need to organize chaperones. Cheryl was quite excited about it all and the other kids buzzed about trying to get a look at what was going on.

  Mac sat in the kitchen with George, looking through pictures on the laptop he had brought with him while Ursula worked with the artist. After ninety minutes or so, they changed roles, George having, once more, drawn a blank on the photos.

  Ursula was very quiet as she studied the images Mac showed her, volunteering little in the way of conversation and only really responding to the questions he put to her, though her responses were perceptive and detailed.

  ‘And you still think he
was older. Late forties, maybe?’

  She shrugged. ‘Older than you. His face looked kind of lived in. The blond one was younger and he looked like life hadn’t touched him. Like he didn’t really care. Like it was all just a bit of a laugh.’

  ‘Taller than me?’

  ‘The blond one, about your height. The other one was … the middle of his head was level with the blond one’s shoulder.’

  Five foot seven, five foot eight inches, Mac estimated.

  But again, she drew a blank on the pictures he showed her, picking out people who were similar, but not quite right. She was articulate and concise in being able to tell him what was different, what the same, but the men they were looking for were not on Mac’s laptop.

  The artist came in with George; she looked pleased. She laid four drawings down on the kitchen table and they studied them.

  Mac was impressed. There were the differences you would expect from eyewitness reconstructions, but both the pictures of the blond man and his shorter, bald companion were remarkably alike. Mac had seen the artist at work many times, he knew she would have been very careful not to lead either of the kids, so he felt confident that these pictures were valid.

  ‘We’ve got CCTV footage to go through,’ he said. ‘I think these should give a much clearer idea of who we’re looking for. You’ve done well, both of you.’

  ‘Ursula’s been showing me some of her drawings,’ the artist said. ‘She’s very talented.’

  George stared at her. ‘You draw? You never told me that.’

  She shrugged. ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I never really have the time.’

  Twelve

  The postcard from Karen arrived on the Monday morning just before Rina and Tim left for his audition. Rina separated it quickly from the rest of the post and slipped it into her bag. A quick glance showed a view of Frantham promenade. The irony of that amused her.

  ‘Do you have everything, Tim?’ For once, he didn’t have his carrier bags crammed with equipment.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m fine. I’ve got me and a few props. Marvello is ready.’

  Behind him she could see the entire household, a twitter with excitement, crowding into the hallway ready to see him off. And they’re right, she thought, this is quite a big thing for Tim. She stroked the little watch she had put on especially for the occasion. Truthfully, the strap was a bit tight now and the tiny, elongated face had looked better on the younger, slimmer woman she had been when her beloved Fred had given it to her, but it would be unthinkable not to wear it on a day like today. Her good luck talisman, both for Tim’s performance and for the meeting Duggan had arranged with a certain Mr Randall, something about which made Rina uneasy and apprehensive. She chided herself for letting her imagination get the better of her and then stroked the watch again, listening for Fred’s voice in her head, telling her that it would all be fine.

  She was disturbed to find that even Fred’s ghostly memory seemed determined upon silence today.

  Tim opened the car door for her then waved gaily to the rest of the Martin family and they were on their way.

  ‘You seem in good spirits anyway,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I feel pretty confident today. I hope it’s not ill-founded. But you, my dear Rina, you seem far from fine and what did I see you hiding in your rather formidable bag?’

  ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ Rina hauled the bag from the footwell on to her lap. It was, she supposed, rather large, but she felt the need to carry a great deal with her. It wasn’t, she thought, so much a handbag as an emergency survival kit. Her niece, a mother of three, had once emptied the contents of hers on to Rina’s table, attempting to find some small object that had slipped to the bottom. Rina had been amused at the assortment of sticking plasters and toy cars and spare underwear in case of accidents, but on reflection, she was no more restrained. You never knew when you might need sticky tape or insect repellent and recently she had even given in and bought a mobile phone – though she tended to think of it as an electronic dog lead and she switched it off more often than it was on.

  ‘So,’ Tim asked her, ‘what were you hiding from our family of inquisitors?’

  ‘It’s the postcard from Karen. She must have bought it before she left. Look.’

  Tim glanced sideways and chuckled to himself. ‘Always prepared,’ he said. ‘She’d have made a great boy scout. What does she say?’

  ‘Well, it’s really for George,’ Rina said, hesitating to read it.

  ‘And George will tell you anyway, and every postman between here and wherever she posted it will have had a gander so …’

  ‘I suppose so. She doesn’t say much really, only that he’s not to worry, that she’s fine and seeing a lot of new things and that she’ll be in touch. Not a lot she could say really, is there?’

  ‘No,’ Tim agreed. ‘Oh, it’s such a nasty business, Rina. Makes you despair.’

  ‘Well, you’d better not do too much of that, we’re here. Time to shine, Marvello.’

  Rina watched from the back of the ballroom as Marvello performed. She was impressed. He really had seemed to hit his stride. The hotel wanted close-up magic, table to table and Tim had risen to the challenge with just a pack of cards and a set of spirit measures borrowed from the bar. A nice touch, she thought. She moved closer as he drew to the close of his presentation, a little fearful for him now he was at the most difficult point of his act. He produced a battered old book from his pocket and handed it to the manager. Invited him to open it at any page and make a note of the page number and a short phrase written there.

  Marvello turned his back, staring with exaggerated interest at the view out of the large seaward windows.

  ‘You are ready? The book is closed and everything is written down? Might I ask you now to put your note into your pocket and keep it there?’

  Once that was done, Marvello turned. He touched the book and closed his eyes, concentrating. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I think I see.’

  Opening his eyes he studied the manager. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that it is a page between twenty and twenty-five … No! Don’t say. In fact, I think it is a page between twenty and twenty-three, so twenty-two. No, no, it is in fact page twenty-three and I think …’ He screwed up his eyes momentarily. ‘Ah, yes, it’s clearer now. The phrase you have chosen is halfway down the page, in fact no, it’s right at the bottom of the page, a little line all on its own and it says … it says: “watching Jack”. Yes, “watching Jack”.’

  Marvello rather spoiled the effect then, by grinning broadly. The manager withdrew the slip of paper from his jacket and revealed what he had written.

  ‘Page twenty-three, bottom line and it is indeed, “watching Jack”.’

  ‘Well,’ Tim said. ‘I thought that went rather well. What did you think?’

  ‘Nice,’ Rina told him. ‘Very cleanly done. When did they say they’d let you know?’

  ‘Oh, he did the usual thing about having a couple more acts to see, which is nonsense, of course. And they’ll let me know tomorrow.’ He sighed, suddenly deflated. ‘What if they say no, Rina? What if I really can’t hack it?’

  She reached over and patted his arm. ‘You were good, Tim, very smooth and the close-up stuff is where you’re at your best.’

  Tim snorted. ‘Needs must,’ he said. ‘It takes fewest props and costs less in set-up. As a kid I saved my pocket money for weeks, buying shitty illusions out of the back of comic books, then my dad bought me a book on card magic and I never looked back. I like doing this stuff. It’s close and intimate and it’s shared, somehow. That feels good, Rina, but I swear, if I don’t get this job, I’m giving up and it won’t be just the clown suit going on the bonfire. I’ll settle down, get a proper job.’

  ‘And what would you do?’ Rina asked him gently. ‘What will you do that you can give your heart to?’

  Tim said nothing, he just gripped the wheel very tightly and stared hard at the road ahead.

  Midmorning Mac got a call from
his old boss and by the time he’d replaced the receiver he was trembling, visibly.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ Sergeant Baker demanded. ‘You’ve gone white.’ He pulled out a chair and forced Mac to sit down.

  ‘There’s been a sighting,’ he said. ‘A possible break on the Cara Evans case.’

  Baker was nonplussed for a moment, then remembered that Mac had a life before Frantham. ‘Something that happened in your last job?’

  Mac nodded; he had forgotten that the name was not common currency, that Eden had read his case file, but his reasons for leaving his last position were not widely known.

  ‘A little girl was kidnapped and then killed. Cara Evans. She was six. We’ve had no leads. Nothing for months, but there’s been a sighting of her killer and it’s been verified. He was caught on CCTV.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say that he’d been there when she’d been killed.

  ‘Good news then?’ Frank Baker approved. ‘Good they’re keeping you in the loop.’ Often, you moved on, you lost touch with open cases. ‘Nasty, the way these things circle back to bite you though, isn’t it?’

  Mac was puzzled. Baker elaborated, unaware of just what deep wounds he probed. ‘Kidnap, murder. You leave one behind and land yourself with another load.’

  ‘Patrick Duggan was a lot older than Cara Evans,’ Mac pointed out.

  ‘It’s still somebody’s kid though, isn’t it? My Andrea’s twenty-seven, but she’s still my little girl, never mind that she’s got two of her own.’

  Mac nodded. He’d felt elated at the news that at last there had been a breakthrough in the Cara Evans case but now Baker’s comment, ‘Still somebody’s child’, resonated through his mind. Depression settled about him like thick fog as he went through to give Eden the news.

  The house belonging to Thomas Randall was set well back from the road down a half-mile long drive. It was a Victorian building, Rina guessed, assuming also from the look of the outbuildings that it had once been a farm with a high wall running around the main buildings and wrought-iron gates facing the drive.