Suspicion Points Read online

  I lowered my voice. ‘I understand what you mean about the differences between distraught and how she should have been. And I doubt I would have picked it up. Do you think anyone in this case is acting one way when they should be acting another?’

  He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. Unless one of the suspects is a psychopath who has no empathy or conscience, everyone is behaving as if they are innocent.’

  ‘Psychopaths can be very cunning. Some are charming.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s why they’re so hard to catch.’

  Our lunch arrived. The Cornish Brie and homemade chutney on my sandwich was delicious and filling. The cappuccino was perfect and came with two chocolate mints. Robert’s plate was piled with thick slices of brown bread, cheddar, pickle, butter in a dish, and an apple.

  ‘All our suspects seem to be so normal,’ he said as he buttered his bread and laid a slab of cheese on top.

  ‘I disagree. Some are, but in my opinion most are far from normal.’

  He’d just taken a bite of his bread, and couldn’t reply, but he looked curious.

  I continued before he could argue. ‘Phoebe and Stuart – an artist and a writer – they’re not normal occupations, and I don’t mean that in a derogatory way. Perhaps unusual would be a better word to use. Put twenty random people together and how many would be artists and writers? And then we’ve got the clothes designers and their wives. Again an unusual occupation and that’s before we consider their lifestyles. Most homosexuals are open about it these days, but they keep it secret. They’ve even gone to the extreme of getting married. Margaret’s got a normal occupation, but living at Pengelly House is an unusual lifestyle, wouldn’t you say?’

  He nodded. ‘But by normal, I meant psychologically normal and I think they are. None of them have typical psychopathic tendencies. They all have friends – ’

  ‘Bridget’s mother hasn’t,’ I pointed out. ‘And I bet Elaine hasn’t either.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘Mm, but I’d say that’s not their choice. They, especially Bridget’s mother, want friends, but their negative qualities of possessiveness, spite and bullying have turned people against them. A typical psychopath tends to be a loner from choice. But, of course, there are untypical psychopaths.’

  I sighed and sipped my coffee.

  The story about the little boy haunted me so much I couldn’t sleep that night. It also changed my perception of things. When I went to my first Guide camp I met girls from every class. I’d envied the rich ones who talked about their ponies, big houses and exotic holidays. Now I was thankful for my parents, who had been gentle with us.

  My brothers had been thrashed by my dad a few times, and they deserved it. My mum had thrashed me once and that was for throwing stones at a friend I’d had a fight with. I knew I’d deserved it because, as my mother said, I could have blinded her. To reinforce the message, after she had thrashed me, she dragged me weeping to my friend’s house, made me tell her parents what I had done and they all agreed that I was not to see her for a week. It took me a long time to get over the punishment, but I never threw stones at anyone again.

  How many unhappy rich girls had I envied? I’d never know.

  13

  ROBERT

  Sharon’s transformation reminded me of the way Judith had made me realize that the colours I wore were wrong. She was at medical school and I had come home from Paris for Easter. Her mother had given her a book called Colour Me Beautiful.

  ‘Robert, your shirts are the wrong colour.’

  I didn’t care. They were good quality, comfortable and pure cotton.

  ‘You’re summer or winter. Your shirts are for people who are autumn and spring.’

  ‘What?’

  How do you choose them?’ she asked.

  ‘By the size and the make.’

  ‘Do you think about the colour? Do you really like brown and grey and fawn?’

  ‘They’re practical.’

  ‘They don’t suit you. I only realized last week when I was reading this book. You looked much more handsome when we were at school and you wore white shirts.’

  ‘Colour can’t make any difference to how you look,’ I argued. ‘A splash of spaghetti sauce on a white shirt and you look as if you’ve worn the same shirt for days. Worse, stains don’t come out of white or pale colours no matter how much washing powder I use. White shirts look dirty even when they’re not.’

  A few days later she bought me a white shirt and a tube of stain remover. In her bedsit, she made me stand in front of the mirror in my brown shirt.

  ‘Now turn around, take it off and put this one on.’

  I took off my brown shirt. ‘Why don’t you take off your dress?’

  She winked at me. ‘Later.’

  I put the white shirt on.

  ‘Now look in the mirror.’

  She was right. I did look better. I took her in my arms. ‘I like the colour of your dress, but I’d like it better if it was on the floor.’ I kissed her.

  That was the night I asked her to marry me. That was the night she said, ‘Yes.’

  Vanessa was going to the writers’ group on Tuesday night.

  ‘Whatever time I get home, I’ll send you an e-mail,’ she promised.

  I thought she would be too tired, but before I went to bed that night I checked to see if she had sent me an e-mail. She had.

  Ethel’s right. George and Olivia both dislike Phoebe. Ethel did a brilliant job of pretending she didn’t know me. She saw me enter and came over doing her spiel about being the secretary and asking me what I wrote and if I’d ever been published. She took me over to Phoebe and introduced her as the president. Phoebe was being very welcoming. She smiled and said hello to people when they arrived. Then her manner changed. An overweight, balding man who looked mid to late 40’s, just as Ethel described, came over to the table where Phoebe was sitting. I heard Ethel call him George.

  Phoebe asked him where he’d been. That was odd because she didn’t ask anyone else. A few said they were sorry they hadn’t been there last week, and she was normal about it. But when George said he’d been ill, she didn’t look as if she cared. Now this bit’s strange. He gave her a five pound note. Instead of her giving him three pounds change, she said he was a pound short. He said he didn’t have it.

  She said, ‘We agreed.’

  He looked around as if he was frightened someone would hear. ‘I’ve been ill.’ He was whispering.

  She said, ‘I’m sure if you look in your pockets you’ll find another pound.’

  He looked, and I think he was desperate to find some more, but couldn’t. Then Phoebe said, ‘Remember that you owe seven pounds next week.’

  I thought it might be a good idea to befriend him, so I said I’d give him a pound. He was very grateful.

  Not sure what to make of that, but she seems to have some hold over him. I think he was telling the truth about being ill. He did look pale.

  Ethel was right about his work too. He wrote some story that I couldn’t understand. It was full of long and unusual words. He sounded as if he’d swallowed a dictionary. Someone else read it out for him. The comments were fair, but George said that it didn’t work because of the way it had been read. Phoebe said that the way it had been read was the only good thing about it. Harsh but true. I’ll go along next week and see if I can find out more.

  We went to the pub afterwards. Not wanting to be too obvious that I wanted to talk to George, I sat next to Olivia, who spent a lot of time moaning about the smoking ban. She drank a lot and was unsteady on her feet by the time we left the pub.

  I gave her a lift home. She’s almost certainly an alcoholic, which is a shame because she’s a fantastic writer. She lives in a housing association flat. She has a son, but he left home as soon as he went to college. He never visits, which upsets her. She doesn’t even know where he lives.

  She left her handbag in my car. Thinking she wouldn’t be able to get inside I was going to run after her,
but she must have had her key in her pocket because by the time I’d got out of the car I saw her going inside. I’ll return her bag sometime today – it’ll be a good excuse to get to know her better. If you’re free, do you want to come with me? I’ll introduce you as my boyfriend. I’ll ring her first. Be prepared – her clothes are bizarre.

  The next morning Vanessa sent me a text. Olivia hadn’t missed her handbag. She was in bed when Vanessa rang and sounded as if she had a hangover. They’d arranged for us to go to her flat in the evening, which saved me the trouble of having to slip away from Sharon on some pretext.

  Olivia’s flat looked as if it had been burgled. It was hot and it stank of cigarette smoke. Vanessa had not exaggerated when she’d said Olivia’s clothes were bizarre. A black lace skirt dotted with sequins was worn with fishnet tights, white trainers and a skimpy yellow vest that showed grubby bra straps. The hotchpotch made her look as if she’d started to dress for ballroom dancing, had changed her mind and decided to go for a walk. The cheap perfume she wore failed to mask her body odour.

  As soon as we arrived she offered us a drink.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Coffee would be good.’

  ‘Haven’t got any.’

  ‘Tea will do just as well.’

  She giggled and pointed toward the kitchen. ‘See if you can find any tea bags. There might be some.’

  From the kitchen door I saw the overflowing bin. Empty wine and gin bottles lay on the floor. Foil food containers had gone mouldy. I didn’t go in. I went back to the lounge. ‘It’s okay, I can do without. We only came to return your bag.’

  ‘You must stay for a chat,’ she insisted.

  ‘Only if it’s no trouble.’

  She pushed papers and books off the sofa onto the floor. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Thanks for making Vanessa so welcome at the group last night. She’s been trying to get the confidence to – ’

  ‘It was a great poem,’ said Olivia. ‘Very original.’ She gazed at me and smiled flirtatiously. I wondered if she’d forgotten that Vanessa said I was her boyfriend, or if she didn’t care. She poured gin into a glass, filled it with tonic and sat in the armchair.

  ‘I was telling Robert how fantastic the group was,’ said Vanessa. ‘What’s the president’s name – I’ve forgotten.’

  Olivia took a large swig of her drink. ‘Phoebe. Little Miss Perfect. Never does anything unconventional. Not like me. She’ll never take risks. Plays it safe. Always has done. Even when we were at school. I was good at school too. Had to be. They were strict. My parents were too. Never put a foot wrong, I didn’t. Then I went to university. It was me, Phoebe and Margaret, another of our friends.’

  I guessed it was the same Margaret who worked in Medical Records.

  ‘We were all so excited about going to Exeter together and we were all doing the same history and English degree. But they didn’t change. They were the same as they were at school. Now me, I changed. I grew up. But not them. I started smoking and then . . . ’ she looked as if she was about to cry. After taking a swig of her drink she went on. ‘I fell in love. Phoebe and Margaret didn’t. They were too busy working and studying. They became so dull. They started a homework club. How tedious can you get? They wanted me to join. Me? Join a homework club? No, I had fun.

  ‘He was a lord, the man I loved. Well, the son of a lord. He was like me. He wanted fun too. We smoked. We went to parties that went on all night. We drank. All sorts of stuff. Sometimes I was so drunk I couldn’t stand up and I’d have to stay in bed the next day.’

  Olivia talked as if being drunk was an achievement.

  ‘That sanctimonious Phoebe said it was a waste of a day. But you have to try out all these things, don’t you? One of the tutors was furious with me. Threatened to write to my parents. He knew them. I did try and get back on track. I never needed to study at school, but I only just passed the first year exams. That was a bit of a shock. Phoebe said it was because the cannabis was destroying my brain.

  ‘The next year our tutor insisted that I join Phoebe’s homework club. It was so dull. Phoebe had to structure everything. She’s a control freak. There were ten of them in the homework club. We met at a different member’s place three nights a week. ‘We’ve all got to help each other,’ Phoebe was forever saying. Drove me mad it did. She still says it and it still drives me mad. It’s her mantra. She’s always preaching.

  ‘We’d have tea and coffee or water when we were working and then two hours later, when we finished, we were allowed to have food. We all had a rota for bringing something. The food was the best bit. When it was my turn to bring food, I was supposed to bring some sort of dessert, but I forgot. You should have heard the fuss. They all got so cross you’d think they were going to starve to death. I didn’t last longer than one term.’

  ‘Did your work improve?’ Vanessa asked.

  ‘I suppose it did,’ Olivia admitted reluctantly. ‘But my social life was dying. And I was dying of boredom. I think the homework lot were glad when I didn’t come back. Just before the next exams the tutor read me the riot act. Threatened he’d write to my parents, he was so angry when I left the homework club.

  ‘My boyfriend and I went to a party a week before the exams started. It went on all night. I thought I’d better go to the lecture, the grumpy tutor was holding, but I didn’t have time to go home and have a shower and change my clothes, so I went straight to the lecture room. I was the first one there . . . that was a first for me. Phoebe’s face was a picture when she walked in and saw me. She looked amazed and then really pleased. She came over and sat next to me. Then she saw I was in my party gear. She was all scrubbed and clean. You could tell that she’d gone to bed at a respectable time, and got up early, had a shower and a healthy breakfast – she was always going on about eating properly. She looked like the Virgin Mary in her navy trousers and white polo necked jumper.

  Vanessa smiled. ‘That sounds like an interesting title for a book.’

  ‘What does?’ asked Olivia.

  ‘The Virgin Mary in a white polo necked jumper.’

  Olivia laughed so loudly I was sure the people in the flat upstairs could hear her.

  ‘What happened to your boyfriend?’ I asked.

  ‘We were in love. Real love. It wasn’t his fault what happened. We did things that were really exciting at first. Didn’t realize the dangers. Phoebe warned me, but not in a friendly way. She was condemning. ‘Cannabis first and then you’ll need something stronger, Olivia,’ she said. The bitch was right. Oh, I never did heroin, but he did. He died. I found him dead. I was pregnant.

  ‘His parents didn’t want to know about the baby. Nowadays, with DNA tests, I could have taken them to court. They blamed me for his death. But they were the ones who made him do wild things. His nanny was the one who gave him all the love. And when he went to boarding school he never saw her again. It had a bad effect on him. He felt rejected. I don’t suppose they considered him to be important. He had five older brothers who were married with sons to inherit the estate and keep the family name going. They had seven legitimate grandsons, they didn’t need any more.’ She put her hands over her face and wept. ‘Phoebe’s right. I’ve wrecked my life.’

  ‘It’s not too late,’ said Vanessa firmly.

  ‘It is. My son’s ashamed of me,’ she sobbed. ‘Phoebe was right about that too. I should have had him adopted. I was going to, but when I saw him, I couldn’t. I should have. He only loved me when he was little. When he grew up he said I embarrassed him.’ She made an effort to stop crying. ‘Look at this . . . if I can find it.’

  She went to the stack of books in the corner. While she searched I wondered if her tears were really for herself. Was she stricken with guilt because she had set fire to the wrong house and killed an innocent man and a baby?

  She found a photo album, which she gave to me. ‘My parents were so proud of me. They liked Phoebe and Margaret too. We were inseparable when we were at school. My parents bought me a camer
a and this album so I could record my experiences.’

  Vanessa looked over my shoulder as I opened the album. The first photo was of three smiling girls standing in front of an ancient looking building. Phoebe and Margaret were easily recognizable. I guessed the other girl was Olivia, but she looked so different it was hard to tell. Dressed in classical clothes of a dark skirt and white blouse with well cut hair that shone. The contrast between what she had been and what she had become was tragic.

  ‘Margaret – she’s in the writers’ group too, isn’t she?’ said Vanessa.

  Olivia nodded.

  ‘It’s unusual that the three of you not only went to school together, but are all writers,’ said Vanessa.

  ‘It’s what drew us together. There was a creative writing club at school and we were all in it. We all wanted to be writers. Phoebe’s made it, but I haven’t and Margaret writes short stories, which are not commercial enough on their own, even though they’re brilliant and she wins most of the competitions she enters. She’s made a lot of money in prizes over the years. She’s trying to write a historical novel, but she’s finding it difficult.’ She saw me looking at the photo.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. You wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t told you, would you?’

  ‘No,’ I said softly.

  Olivia wiped away her tears with a sodden tissue. ‘I always cry when I look through this album.’

  I turned the pages. One photo had been enlarged and under it Olivia had written, Margaret, Phoebe and me in the front garden of our home for the next three years. She’d even put the address. Her writing was neat and cursive. The house in the background was large and imposing and had three floors. There were probably about eight bedrooms.