‘That is why I can’t tell you about it. Or Justin.’
‘But what if . . .’
We let the unasked question hang there for a moment. Then Megan completed it. ‘What if Justin shot Lars because he thought Lars had killed his father and in fact it wasn’t Lars, it was Dad?’
‘Oh, Megan! That’s not what I was going to say at all.’
‘Megan!’ Bill barked. ‘Have some compassion, will you?’
He stood up and moved around the kitchen table towards Brooke.
She pushed back her chair and leaped to her feet. ‘No, Dad. You killed my husband’s father and won’t tell me why. And you, Megan, accuse him of being a murderer.’ She bit back a sob. ‘Justin is a good man and I love him.’
Bill hesitated.
‘Goodbye.’ Brooke turned away from them and hurried out of the kitchen. A moment later they heard her car set off down the lane.
Thirty-Eight
‘Why did I do that?’
Megan was staring morosely at her recently refilled glass of wine. Bill had disappeared upstairs to his study and his needlepoint.
‘I mean – we told Brooke Lars had been killed and then I virtually accused her husband of killing him, all in one fell swoop.’
‘It did seem a little abrupt,’ said Toby.
‘And then Dad goes and tells her he killed her husband’s father. Like that’s going to help anyone. He’s kept all these damn secrets for so long, you’d think he could keep another one.’
‘You’d think so,’ said Toby. But, in reality, he thought it would be a very good thing if the Guth family kept a lot fewer secrets from each other.
‘Poor Brooke! I wish Alice was here. She’d know what to do. She wouldn’t start accusing various people in the family of killing other people. She’d get us to stick together. She’d get Dad to tell everyone what really happened on the submarine. And she would figure out who really killed Sam Bowen and Lars.’
‘I think you are giving her too much credit,’ said Toby. ‘It seems to me she is as guilty as Bill about keeping secrets.’
‘Maybe she has some plan? Now. Maybe Alice knows what’s going on?’
‘I think that’s what Bill is afraid of,’ said Toby. ‘That Alice knows what’s going on.’
‘Dad can’t be right that Alice killed Sam, can he?’
‘Of course not,’ said Toby. Firmly. His belief in his wife’s innocence was unshakeable. He couldn’t allow it to be shaken. ‘No chance.’
‘You’re right,’ said Megan. She stood up and put the bowls in the dishwasher. She began to wash up the small number of pots on the kitchen counter. Toby grabbed a dish towel and started drying.
Megan had the last pot in the washing up bowl, and she was staring down at the suds, shoulders hunched and lips pursed. She let out a sob.
‘Come here,’ said Toby.
He was a lot taller than Megan, who pressed her face closely into his chest. The sobs came faster, and he held her close.
His phone buzzed. He broke away from Megan and checked the screen. It was Alice. ‘Hey! Are they letting you go?’
‘Yes. Just now.’
‘That’s great! So they’ve admitted you’ve got nothing to do with it?’
‘I don’t think so. They had to let me go or charge me. And they haven’t gotten enough evidence to charge me. Yet.’
‘Oh well. It’s great you’re out.’
‘Toby? Can you come and get me?’
Toby glanced at the two bottles of wine on the table and felt foolish. ‘I can’t. I’ve had too much to drink.’
‘Oh, Toby!’
‘I can get a taxi and come and fetch you.’
‘Don’t worry. I can get a cab from here myself.’
‘I can ask your dad if he can go and get you. He hasn’t had as much to drink as me.’
‘Hey, it’s fine, Toby. I’ll see you soon.’
Megan went up to her room, and Toby waited for Alice alone in the kitchen, restricting himself to one more glass of wine.
He thought about the shooter. Megan was right: he could still be after Toby. He felt safe enough inside the house with two armed policemen watching, but that wouldn’t last for ever. At some point soon Toby would return to London. Where he would be a sitting target.
The police, or someone, had to figure out who the shooter was and catch him.
He checked the window and saw the two policemen in their car parked on the other side of the lane. He boiled a kettle and made them both a mug of tea: surely even in these days of Starbucks and triple lattes all policemen still liked tea.
He took two mugs outside. The policemen were grateful, but ushered him back into the house with an admonition to stay put. He glanced back at the dark marsh, wondering whether anyone really was out there. An unseen owl hooted on its night patrol.
It would know.
Twenty minutes later, a taxi pulled up outside the house, and Toby opened the front door for his wife. She stood there, her skin wan in the porch light, her face taut. She looked exhausted but somehow composed, as if she had just pulled an all-nighter at her law firm on a big deal.
They both hesitated, both unsure of how she would behave towards him. Then she threw herself into his chest, and held him tight. She was the second Guth sister to do that to him that evening; he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed.
Alice looked up. ‘Toby, they said that Lars has been shot and killed on the beach. And someone shot at you too!’
‘That’s right.’
‘God, I’m so glad they missed! I mean missed you. Poor Uncle Lars.’
‘Come in,’ Toby said. ‘Have a glass of wine.’
‘Is there anything to eat? I’m starving. There must be some cold turkey left?’
‘Yeah. Or I think there’s some soup. I can warm that up for you?’
‘That would be good. Thanks.’
She came into the kitchen and Toby emptied the remains of the carton of soup into a bowl and stuck it in the microwave.
‘Tell me what happened. On the beach.’
Toby told her as he watched the bowl of soup circle in the microwave, but he was interrupted just as the machine pinged.
‘Alice! You’re out!’ said Bill, appearing at the kitchen door.
‘What did you expect?’ said Alice. ‘They couldn’t keep me any longer without charging me.’
Bill held open his arms for her. Alice ignored him, and started eating her soup. Bill let his arms drop.
That was the second Guth sister to reject him that evening, Toby thought.
‘I’m sorry about Uncle Lars, Dad. I know he was a good friend of yours.’
‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘Yes, he was. And he was a brave man. I’ve told Toby and Megan the real story of what happened on the submarine.’
‘Really?’ Alice glanced sharply at Toby, making him feel unaccountably guilty. ‘It’s a shame no one will know about what Lars did. His family.’
‘Yes. I guess I am lucky Donna told you girls.’
‘You’re also lucky you’re not dead.’
Bill raised his eyebrows, stunned.
‘I mean, someone tried to kill Toby this afternoon, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, they did.’
‘And no one knows why?’
‘I’d like to speak to you about that.’
‘Not tonight, Dad. Not tonight.’
Bill sat down opposite his daughter. ‘There are things we must discuss.’
‘And there’s soup I’ve got to eat,’ said Alice. ‘Look, Dad. I’ve been questioned by the police all day. I’m exhausted. I just want to eat something and go to sleep. OK?’
‘All right,’ Bill nodded, controlling his impatience.
Toby joined them at the kitchen table, and there was a painful silence as Alice finished her soup. Toby wondered what Bill wanted to say to Alice and what Alice didn’t want to say to Bill. He also marvelled at how Alice had somehow managed to take control of the situation within moments of retur
ning.
She finished her soup, and got to her feet. ‘Well, goodnight,’ she said. She hesitated and then kissed her father on the top of his head, eliciting a brief smile.
‘I’ll be up in a moment,’ said Toby.
‘Do you think she knows you suspect her of killing Sam?’ Toby said to his father-in-law after Alice had gone.
Bill shrugged. ‘Who knows what Alice knows?’
Toby joined her in their bedroom twenty minutes later. The light was off and Alice was on her side facing away from the door.
‘You OK?’ Toby said as he undressed.
There was no reply for several seconds. Then Alice spoke. ‘No. You?’
‘No.’
Toby undressed and got into bed. It had been a truly dreadful day. He had seen a man get killed only two feet away from him. He had nearly been killed himself. And Alice? God knows what Alice thought. God knows what Alice had done.
Toby had always felt comfortable in the Guth family, secure in its warmth and its minor arguments. But now it was blowing up around him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
At least he had Alice.
Didn’t he?
He turned, reached over and touched her back.
She tensed. He left his hand there. Then she rolled over and grabbed him by the shoulders tightly. ‘God, Toby, I’m so glad you are still alive!’
‘So am I,’ he said. ‘Believe me, so am I.’
She kissed him, gently for a few seconds, and then urgently, and then she was on top of him and he inside her.
Thirty-Nine
Megan sat on her bed and stared at the four walls of her crappy little room. It was the smallest in the house; well maybe Maya’s was smaller, but Maya’s was cuter and had a view out over the marshes, whereas Megan’s room looked out over a scruffy field to a row of back gardens in the village. It was true she could see the windmill on the hill above Barnholt, the real windmill with its broad wooden sails, not one of those giant propellers spinning out to sea.
There was no floor space. One large suitcase remained upright and unopened, the contents of the other covered the carpet. It was not as if there was anywhere to hang anything.
Megan wondered if this was where she would stay for the next few weeks in Norfolk. Surely, once everyone else had left and Dad had returned to London, she could take over Alice and Toby’s room?
This was so not working out as she had planned. As in most big families, Megan assumed, each child had their role. Alice was the conscientious elder daughter, Maya was the youngest cutest one, Brooke was the anxious one, and Megan was the naughty one.
She had enjoyed this role as a child, getting into scrapes and rubbing her father and mother, both of whom she loved desperately, up the wrong way. She had run away from the house in Cobham when she was eight, and hidden herself away in nearby woods until two a.m.; she had got caught smoking when she was twelve at the International School in Brussels and she had been discovered by her Australian boyfriend’s mother having sex with him when they were both aged fourteen in the garage in the expat compound in Riyadh. He wasn’t even really a boyfriend, but he was a kindred spirit and he had his own issues which intrigued her.
Then their mother had died. Megan was nineteen and at college. All four girls had reacted in different ways. Maya’s beauty had become soulful, and she had withdrawn from the family; Brooke’s anxiety had increased to the point where their father sent her to a therapist; Alice had taken over from their mother in running the family and Megan became that bit more disruptive. She dropped out of college. She found a boyfriend who was a jerk and a criminal. She took stupid jobs that didn’t suit her. She occasionally sought her father’s advice, but, whenever she did so, she was careful not to follow it. She let her sisters down, especially Alice.
She didn’t exactly do it on purpose. When she had accepted the invitation to Alice and Toby’s wedding in London, she thought she was going to go. It was just, when the day arrived, she didn’t. Why should she? They didn’t really want her there. The family wouldn’t notice her absence: they would probably be glad she wasn’t around to embarrass them all. She was doing them a favour by not showing up.
And all that was fine, because she knew that her mom and dad loved her, and even when her mom died she knew that Dad together with Alice could cope. She was safe screwing up her life, because her family would always be there for her.
But now what was she doing? Behaving like a brat. Coming home with all her stuff like some freshman dropping out of college. Being rude to her father.
This time the family could not cope. The family was falling apart around her. Alice was in trouble. Dad was losing control. Brooke had run away scared, following her own husband who felt justifiably betrayed. Maya had slipped away without anyone noticing.
Which left Megan. And Toby.
She liked Toby. He was kind. He was concerned – not just for Alice, but for all of them, including her. He took her seriously.
It was no surprise that Alice had nabbed him; Alice was always going to marry a kind, supportive, good-looking husband.
Now Megan had a job to do. She had to pull her family back together again. None of her sisters could do it.
She was smart. At least as smart as Alice – no, she must stop comparing herself to her sister!
She couldn’t believe her father’s fear that Alice had killed Sam Bowen. Like Toby, she wouldn’t believe it. The police couldn’t figure out what was going on, so she must.
She opened her computer and began tapping out ideas. Things she knew. Things she suspected.
Then she looked for connections.
Assuming her father was telling the truth, there seemed to be two possible avenues to follow, both connected to the Alexander Hamilton: Craig Naylor’s death on board the submarine and Commander Driscoll’s approach to Pat Greenwald.
First Megan checked online for any traces of reporting on the Hamilton’s near-launch back in 1983. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing. There were articles and extracts from books on the other near misses that Sam Bowen had mentioned: the false readings of missile attacks at NORAD and at the Soviet early-warning centre in the early eighties.
Next, Lieutenant Naylor’s death. There was very little about this either. In fact, all Megan could find was an obituary in the local paper of the town in New Jersey where he had grown up and where his parents lived. There was a photograph of someone who looked very much like Justin Opizzi. Craig had been a good-looking guy with a warm, open face and a military haircut. He had played for the high school baseball team, and left a grieving wife, Maria, a father who was a lawyer, and a mother, as well as a younger sister, Victoria. There was a memorial service at the local Presbyterian church.
Nothing about how he had died. And nothing about how he had separated from his wife.
Megan didn’t know whether Craig’s parents were still alive: it was possible. But his sister was, as was his ex-wife, Justin’s mother; Justin had spoken to them both about Craig’s death.
Megan had never met Vicky, nor had she heard any mention of her within her family, although she had heard quite a lot about Craig himself. Given what Justin had said about Vicky’s suspicions of Craig’s death, and her own father’s reluctance to face her, it was quite probable that Bill and Vicky had avoided each other over the years.
Should Megan try to contact Vicky?
Maybe. From what Justin had reported, she sounded as if she was still angry about her brother’s death. It was possible that Justin hadn’t asked her the right questions, or hadn’t been entirely honest about what she had told him.
Megan hesitated. Justin would not be at all happy if she contacted her, and neither would her father. But then Justin wasn’t happy anyway, and pissing off her father was nothing new. She considered a phone call, but decided on an email. A little searching on the Internet yielded Vicky’s email address, and she quickly tapped out a brief message:
Hi Vicky,
My name is Megan Guth: I am
Bill Guth’s daughter. I am with my father and the rest of my family in England. You may have heard that Sam Bowen, whom I understand you have met, was murdered a couple of days ago, and that Lars da Silva was shot earlier today.
I’m sure the British police have been in contact, but do you mind if I ask you a few questions? This is tearing my family apart, and I need some answers.
Regards,
Megan Guth
Megan hesitated before hitting Send. It was likely Vicky would ignore the message. And if she didn’t, she would ask Megan what really happened on the submarine, and Megan wouldn’t be able to tell her.
What the hell? Megan had to do something. She clicked Send.
If Craig Naylor’s death was indeed what had spurred Sam Bowen’s murder, the most likely reason seemed to be that someone was trying to prevent that news from coming out. Who? Her father? Alice protecting her father? The US Navy or the US intelligence services?
And what about Lars’s death? Well, that could be an attempt to shut him up as well. Or it could be Justin taking revenge on who he believed had killed his natural father. But was there any reason that Justin might have killed Sam Bowen?
None that Megan could think of.
Unless maybe Justin was concerned that the world would find out that his father wasn’t a hero after all, but had actually wanted to start a nuclear war? That couldn’t be right: it was clear Justin had no idea what had happened on that submarine; that was what was driving him so crazy.
She heard a car pull up outside and Alice enter the house, but Megan ignored her sister.
OK, Commander Driscoll next, and then Pat Greenwald.
Once again, the only substantive mention of Commander Driscoll was a brief obituary in a Wichita Falls newspaper from July 1984. Nothing about the cause of death, just that it had been ‘sudden’. Blowing your brains out counted as ‘sudden’. Megan jotted down the names of his brother and parents, and his ex-wife and their two children.
She was more hopeful in her search for Pat Greenwald, and indeed there was quite a lot about her involvement in the anti-nuclear movement in the 1980s and 1990s. There was even a short Wikipedia entry for her. Which stated that she was murdered in 1996.
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