Nothing to Lose

by Anna Legat

  ‘What do you mean, Dad?’

  ‘When you went to South Africa, you vanished. You gave up on us. You may as well have been dead. We didn’t hear from you for months on end. We didn’t know anything. We didn’t know what to make of it –’

  ‘And we had to get used to it,’ Mother adds. ‘Or else we’d go insane with worry. You have to do the same.’

  ‘But I –’ Gillian wants to tell them how mature and responsible she was in her time, how there is no comparison between her and Tara, but the words fail to come and the conviction is nowhere to be found. Was she really reliable? How often did she write to them? Not that often, and in between those scarce letters they sat and waited for a sign of life from her. It can’t have been easy. Were there days when they imagined the worst?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

  ‘What’s there to be sorry for?’ Mother asks. ‘You just have to have confidence in Tara, like we had in you, like it or not. You have to trust her.’

  ‘It’s those pills. If I hadn’t found those pills, I’d have every confidence in her, but now... God, I don’t know what to think!’

  ‘If it weren’t the pills, you’d find something else to worry about. Mothers are brought to this earth to fear the worst – that’s what we do best.’ Mother puts her hand on Gillian’s shoulder. It’s a small and delicate hand but it has the power to lift Gillian back to her feet. ‘Think about it – Tara’s dealing with a whole new world. She has to come to terms with life as it is out there, not as it used to be and certainly not as she wants it to be. It must be an overwhelming feeling. She’s struggling with it, trying to control it. She’s a control freak, just like you –’

  Gillian opens her mouth to object, but thinks better of it. No one knows her better than her mother – there is no point denying it. She lets the old woman talk. ‘She’ll make mistakes. You made them, too.’

  Gillian thinks back to her wild days, her drinking excesses, her anger, her loneliness, her broken marriage, her – mistakes.

  ‘We all make them and we all learn from them.’

  ‘Some of us do, some don’t,’ Father looks at Gillian pointedly, but soon his face breaks into a grin. He means what he says, but he doesn’t want Gillian to take it to heart. It’s all a joke with him.

  ‘Well, let’s hope Tara learns from hers,’ Mother says. ‘But whether she does or not, you simply cannot barge into her life and run it for her. She needs to control it, not you. You must not wrestle that control away from her. Let her be, and she’ll come to her senses. We’ll speak to her. We’ll keep an eye on her. Just be patient.’

  Gillian shakes her head. Patience is not her virtue. She wants to scream, go to Exeter, and drag Tara home by the hair. Put her under house arrest. Help her.

  ‘Are you ready for pudding?’ Father asks. ‘I am. I believe it’s lemon tart. Am I right?’

  ‘You’re always right, dear,’ Mother nods.

  *

  Gillian is lying in her old bed, in her old room, cuddling her old blanket that is so frayed and threadbare that, if this were her house, she would’ve thrown it away ages ago. But this is her parents’ home and they never throw anything away. They have kept her old lamp, the silly one with moving pictures of a skipping Tigger. The lamp still works. It had worked through her childhood and then through Tara’s. Tara, too, has spent many nights here, safe and sound. This is now her room as much as it is Gillian’s.

  She couldn’t go back home to her empty four walls and the cat. She needed to hang on to that sense of security, that sense of everything will be fine, that only her parents can generate. She was given a mug of warm milk and was dispatched to her room at ten. Mother would never go to bed before Gillian – that is a well-established ritual – and because Mother’s bedtime was at ten, Gillian’s had to be too.

  She never thought she would be able to sleep, but the milk has wormed its way down to her stomach and her limbs, which are now lazy and don’t want to do anything other than sleep. Her eyelids are heavy too, and as much as she doesn’t believe in miracles, she knows she is about to fall asleep.

  *

  The charge sheet has arrived from the CPS, and the charges are exactly as Scarface predicted. No surprises there. It looks like Gillian’s unanswered questions will remain unanswered. She is trying to adopt her parents’ philosophical stance and let go. Sometimes there are no answers. Sometimes we can only do so much, and that has to be enough. Scarfe has assigned her to take charge of Operation Beret – a cigarette and alcohol-smuggling gang operating from Sexton’s Canning, with its net thrown as wide as Bath and Bristol – places with large student populations. Students – little money, little sense, getting by on the cheap. Tara springs to mind, and the demons begin to crawl out again.

  Her telephone stops them in their tracks. It’s PC Miller. ‘A Samantha Orwin is here. She wants to talk to you.’

  Gillian rolls her eyes. ‘What have I done now? Tell her, if she wants to make a complaint she has to go above my head.’

  ‘She wants to talk to you. She says it’s about the Poulston head-on.’

  *

  The woman sits down. She looks down too. Her hair is unwashed and has lost its bounce. She doesn’t resemble Luke Orwin’s wife from only a few weeks ago. A widow now – just months before she became his ex-wife. Technically – a widow, but not a grieving one, not by any stretch of the imagination. So it strikes Gillian as very odd when a thought occurs to her that Samatha Orwin looks like she is in mourning. Is this going to be a soul cleansing get together? A touch of absolution seeking? Let’s face it, Mrs Orwin had little sympathy for her child’s father when he was alive. Has she decided to offer him an official post-mortem tribute – clearing his name of all those vile child abuse accusations? Or maybe it will be an apology to Gillian for making her life a little bit awkward, telling on her to Scarfe? No. If Gillian was a betting woman, which she isn’t, she would bet on the former. She decides to be magnanimous and assure the woman Luke Orwin’s name will not be dragged through the mud.

  ‘We don’t have enough evidence to implicate your husband in causing the collision,’ she tells her. ‘There are no grounds to allege he was driving under the influence of alcohol. Small consolation, I know-’

  ‘It’s not about that,’ Mrs Orwin interrupts her. ‘I bet he’d been drinking all night after I...’ She pauses to stare at her hands folded into two small fists in her lap. ‘But this is not about Luke’s drinking. Not just about drinking. He knew of Margaret and Vic Adams, you see.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He resented them. I worked for them, looked after Vic when Margaret was in hospital having an operation – for cancer, it was. Every time she had radiotherapy I’d stay with Vic. I’d take Imogen with me, sometimes, especially if it was the weekend and Margaret was too weak to take care of things. I needed the money. Luke fell behind with the maintenance payments. It was his fault, to be honest with you! He never paid a penny!’ Mrs Orwin looks at Gillian, pleading for solidarity. Gillian nods encour-agingly. ‘Imogen wasn’t at home a couple of times when it was Luke’s turn to have her. But he didn’t earn his turn – he never paid a penny!’

  ‘You said.’ Gillian nods again.

  ‘He’d go bonkers! Especially when he was drunk, and he’d always be drunk. That’s why I say he probably was drunk as anything on that day...’ her voice falters. ‘I think it was Dutch courage. He really wanted to show them what a big bully he was, that’s what I think. I don’t think he meant to kill them – just give them a scare on the road. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Slow down,’ Gillian is finding it difficult to follow. ‘How can you be sure he knew about them, knew where they lived?’

  ‘He followed me. The last Sunday I went there with Imogen. It was only to say goodbye to the two of them. Victor was a lovely man, a bit confused, but a proper gentleman. Margaret too. I went there that Sunday before the accident. Margaret was done with her radiotherapy sessions and would no longer need
me to stay with Vic, but we really got to like each other so she invited us over, just to say thank you for looking after Vic. That Sunday – it was Luke’s day with Imogen, but he didn’t pay and I was angry with him, and Margaret had invited both of us, Imogen and me, for lunch. So I told him to go away. I didn’t realise he waited outside and then followed me to Margaret and Victor’s place. He made a scene there, really frightened Victor. He was yelling, threatened poor Vic, kicked their flower pots on the porch. Made such a racket! Margaret was really upset, but I begged her not to call the police, not in front of Imogen... I went out to tell him what a bloody idiot he was, they were only two old people I had done some work for... He stormed off without a word. I thought nothing of it. But now... I don’t know. He wasn’t all there,’ she knocks on her temple with her small fist. ‘Maybe the next day he – I thought I had to come and tell you this.’

  *

  This case simply won’t be put to bed. She shouldn’t be stirring it again, she knows, but Gillian has to go with her instincts. Not enough time has been spent going behind the closed doors in this case. Luke Orwin for one. His links to Margaret and Victor Adams. Gillian realises it could be a total coincidence: he was legitimately on the road that morning, delivering petrol where he was supposed to take it, and they joined the traffic to go to their daughter’s. It would be an unscheduled trip for them. Luke Orwin could not have planned for it. Besides, they were behind him. He probably didn’t even know they were there. Pure chance. And yet, he might have recognised them or their car, he might have tried to intimidate them on the road, play some nasty cat and mouse game...

  Gillian can’t let it go. It isn’t her style to let go. She will drill into this damned case, knock on every door, put all the leads together until it all makes sense. She remembers what Jon said upon reconstructing the sequence of events – it looks like they all had a death wish. Going deeper into it, Gillian feels they were all in on it. They knew each other. She has to penetrate this bizarre network of total strangers who weren’t strangers at all. Luke Orwin and Margaret and Victor Adams, Ben Rydal, Emma Rydal and Trevor Larkin – they all knew each other.

  She dials Riley’s number, and to her astonishment, he answers it on the first ring. ‘Hello there! This has to be a social call – I’m told the case is closed.’

  ‘We charged Ryan Parks and Megan Vitoli, yes. But I have some loose ends. I need your help to track down Trevor Larkin.’

  ‘So it isn’t a social call?’

  ‘Try his bank, Barclays, Newport Street branch in Greyston. Try BT.’

  ‘I won’t get data protection waivers if the case is closed.’

  ‘I know, but that never stopped you before.’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Personal satisfaction.’ Gillian puts the phone down. She knows Riley will find Larkin. Meantime, she will speak to Ben Rydal.

  *

  The arboretum is beautiful at this time of year. Autumnal colours don’t shout for attention like the colours of spring; autumnal colours lay your mind to rest. Sent by an elderly lady manning the office on a wild goose chase around the woods, Gillian finally finds Ben Rydal battling with the low-lying branches of an exotic bush specimen. Perhaps the branches are actually roots. They are curly and devoid of leaves. They have encroached over a footpath Rydal is obviously attempting to clear.

  ‘I was told I’d find you here,’ Gillian says.

  Rydal gets up and wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his khaki shirt, leaving a smudge of muck across his face. Despite that, he looks more than tempting: ruffled hair caked with sweat, rolled up sleeves revealing veins and strained muscles, and a pair of secateurs in his hand. ‘Oh, DI Marsh,’ he approaches to shake her hand. ‘Family Liaison officer came over yesterday to inform me about the manslaughter charges being laid against that man, can’t remember his name. Not that it’ll make any difference to Emma.’

  ‘I imagine not. It makes a difference to me to get the right man, though.’

  ‘Job well done then, I suppose.’ He puts down the secateurs and leans against a tree trunk, his raised arm revealing a patch of sweat on his armpit. He smiles. ‘Sorry, I was being fastidious. It is important to all of us, so we can move on with our lives. I’ve asked Vanessa and Pip to move in with me now that people can’t point fingers in my direction, and talk. So yeah, thanks for getting to the bottom of it, getting your man.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve got the right man.’

  ‘Oh?’ He stops smiling. ‘I guess the court will decide that. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘I mean I don’t think I have the whole story here. The man in custody tampered with one of the cars’ brakes, but –’ Gillian tut-tuts to highlight the reasonable doubt in her mind. ‘his actions cannot account for everything that happened that day, especially not for your wife’s death.’

  ‘I think her own recklessness is to be blamed in equal measure.’ His face reveals nothing more suspicious than regret.

  ‘Perhaps. Still, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Shall we walk back to the office? We can talk comfortably there. I was planning a tea break when you turned up.’

  Gillian has no objections to that. She could do with a cup of coffee. She had shot out of her office in a hurry, leaving her own tea and Mrs Orwin’s untouched.

  They are walking arm and arm – sort of. Ben Rydal is a tall man and Gillian comes up only to his armpits. He rests the pair of oversized secateurs over his shoulder. He says, ‘What questions?’

  ‘Trevor Larkin,’ Gillian tells him without any preambles. ‘How do you know him?’

  He screws his face, thinking. ‘I don’t believe I do know the man,’ he says at last. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s the man you said hello to at the inquest. Just as you were leaving. Average build, a bit on the heavy side, balding man, in his early fifties, I’d say... He wasn’t in the collision per se, he was ahead of it, suffered some injuries as a result of that second tank explosion. He came to the inquest. That man.’ She stops to face him and to watch every twitch in his every muscle.

  Rydal stops too. He nods. ‘I know him, yes. Didn’t know his name was Larkin. He comes here often, on his own. At least, he used to come here. I haven’t seen him in a while, not since the accident, maybe earlier than that. He’d park his car in front of our office, over there,’ he points to a number of spaces marked Staff - Reserved. ‘Always in the same spot. I didn’t mind. I cycle, don’t need the parking space. When I saw his car I’d know Vicar was around.’

  ‘Vicar?’

  ‘I called him that in my head, Vicar. Just the way he looked made me think of a vicar – a sort of innocuous type, quiet, in his own world. Just coming here to get away from it all.’

  ‘Did you ever speak?’

  ‘No, not really. A hello from time to time, a smile, that’s all.’ He gazes at Gillian intently. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’ She returns his gaze.

  ‘Please yourself,’ he shrugs. Then he sighs, ‘For what it’s worth, do you really think I’d greet the man there at the inquest, under your very nose if he and I were up to some conspiracy pact to kill my wife? Well...’ He shows her inside the small office building, and walks behind her.

  The old lady is still there. She smiles. ‘Found him then?’

  ‘Yes, I found him, thank you.’ Gillian smiles back.

  ‘Tea?’ Rydal puts on a kettle, which is on top of a filing cabinet, surrounded by mugs bearing the Botham House logo.

  ‘Coffee, black please, if you have any.’ Gillian sits in a comfortable chair in the waiting area. Behind her is a stand with hundreds of leaflets about local tourist attractions. ‘I’m DI Marsh, Sexton’s Canning CID,’ she tells the smiling old lady.

  ‘About Ben’s wife? The accident?’ The lady is no longer happy. She looks deeply troubled.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Such a tragedy.’

/>   Rydal brings two mugs to the waiting area where Gillian is sitting, and sits on a chair next to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ Gillian reaches for two sugar sachets left scattered on a small glass table. She stirs the sugar in thoroughly. ‘Yes, a terrible tragedy. My unenviable job is to get to the bottom of it. I just have a couple of inquiries, a few questions to ask Mr Rydal,’ she informs the lady.

  ‘I shall leave you to it. You probably need some privacy.’ The lady gets the hint, gives Rydal a supportive, well-meant nod, and takes herself outside.

  Gillian takes a sip from her mug and scorches her lips. She forgets sometimes she now takes her coffee black because of some nonsense Erin told her about milk intolerance in women over forty. ‘Have you got any milk?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rydal fetches a carton of semi-skimmed from a small bar fridge in the corner of the office.

  Halfway through her milky coffee, Gillian says, ‘Trevor Larkin was also a customer at your late wife’s branch in Newport Street. He only opened his account there recently, two months ago. He transferred all his banking there and took a large loan to buy a car. Aston Martin. He obviously knew your wife –’

  ‘He didn’t drive an Aston Martin. As little as I care to know about cars, I would know an Aston Martin if I saw one. Are we talking the same man? He drove a Skoda. A silver-grey Skoda, estate-type thing.’

  ‘That’s what he may have been driving before he got the Aston Martin. His wife did mention he used to have a sensible car. I think she put it this way – a sensible car. I think a Skoda may qualify as such.’

  ‘Wait a second, what did you say? Two months ago? That’d be just under a month before the accident –’ Rydal looks positively pale. Blood has drained from his face, leaving it ashen. ‘I knew I recognised that Skoda, didn’t know from where... About three-four weeks before the accident Emma told me she was being followed by some lunatic on the road. He was parked outside our house. She showed me the car. It felt familiar, but then there are many identical cars out there – I didn’t think anything of it then, but it bugged me for a while. Now I’m sure – it was the same grey Skoda Vicar drove. I can say that with a degree of certainty because now, you see, I know now it wasn’t the car that was familiar – it was the man behind the wheel of that car. Vicar.’