Suspicion Points Page 18

  ‘Parties?’ said Vanessa, succeeding in looking nonchalant. ‘Does Phoebe give the parties?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are they any good?’

  He frowned. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ Vanessa asked, looking as if she hoped he was going to reveal something scandalous.

  ‘You know, standing around talking. No music or dancing, just talking, drinking and eating.’

  I looked at him with disapproval. ‘So you like her enough to go to her parties.’ I wanted him to say he didn’t go to them, but he’d heard about them and thought they sounded boring.

  ‘We used to be friends and I helped her before I realized she was just – ’

  ‘So you have been to her parties.’

  ‘Yeah. Used to go to all of them. Not any more though. I’m on the black list. Don’t get invited now.’

  I had to make sure. ‘Does she have the parties at her house or hire a hall or something?’

  He wasn’t fazed by what was an odd question. ‘At her house. Otherwise I might do what you’re suggesting and gatecrash!’ He grinned. ‘That’d serve her right.’

  That left us with Olivia. Vanessa was visiting her every morning to make sure she got out of bed and had a shower. The next time I saw her was the Monday after I’d taken George off our list of suspects. Vanessa had kept me informed about her progress, but I was nevertheless surprised by how different she and her flat looked. Her hair was clean but messy and she didn’t smell of body odour. She wore a dark green polo necked jumper and jeans. The flat was cleaner and tidier, although she still had a lot to do. She must have turned down the central heating, because it was no longer stiflingly hot.

  Olivia led us into the flat. Suddenly she turned to Vanessa. ‘I need a drink. I need a cigarette.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ said Vanessa. ‘What have you eaten today?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What have you had to drink?’

  ‘Nothing alcoholic. Just coffee.’

  ‘Then no wonder you’re miserable.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be miserable if I had a drink and – ’

  ‘Yes, you would,’ said Vanessa. She went in the direction of the kitchen. ‘What food have you got?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Olivia, you’ve got to make an effort. Spend the money you save on booze and cigarettes on decent food.’

  We followed Vanessa into the kitchen, where she opened the fridge. Apart from a carton of milk it was empty.

  She took Olivia by the arm. ‘Right you’re coming with me to the supermarket. Where’s your purse?’

  Olivia found her handbag and Vanessa marched her out of the flat leaving me behind. Unsure how far away the supermarket was I quickly searched the flat, but found nothing that could have been used as an accelerant.

  They returned half an hour later with a ravioli microwave meal. Vanessa stood over Olivia while she heated it and ate it. Then she put an orange in her hand. ‘Peel it and eat it.’

  Olivia obeyed.

  ‘Well?’ Vanessa asked when she had eaten the last segment.

  ‘Thanks. I do feel better.’

  ‘So in future you’ll eat properly, won’t you,’ I said deciding to add encouragement.

  She nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Vanessa. ‘So instead of buying cigarettes what are you going to buy?’

  ‘Food.’

  ‘Right. But it can’t be any sort of food like hamburgers, can it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And it would be cheaper and better if you prepared it yourself rather than buying meals you can just bung in the microwave.’

  Olivia nodded. ‘A chop and two vegetables, with an apple or some fruit for afters?’

  ‘Yes. And what are you going to drink?’

  ‘Coffee, tea, water and fruit juice.’

  Reminded of what one of my friends in London did when they were giving up smoking, I said, ‘And put what you spent on fags and booze in a jar, and at the end of the month count it and spend it on something special.’

  Olivia smiled and stood up. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

  ‘No, it’s okay, we have to get going,’ I said.

  Her dismayed expression made me realize that Olivia craved company.

  ‘We’ll stay for a quick coffee,’ said Vanessa.

  ‘What strikes me about this case,’ Vanessa said later, ‘is the number of people who used to be Phoebe’s friends and are now her enemies. Bridget, Olivia and George. It looks as if she can’t cope with them changing. And she is their enemy too.’

  ‘She and Margaret are still friends. Close friends.’

  ‘Yes, but – ’

  ‘Let’s take them one at a time,’ I said. ‘Olivia first, because they were friends at school. When they went to university Olivia started drinking, doing drugs and not bothering to study. Phoebe tried to help her, but was rejected. Strong reasons for the disintegration of their friendship.

  ‘With Bridget, they were work colleagues who became friends. The friendship ended because when Bridget got into a position of power she bullied her workmates. Bridget ended the friendship, because she wanted to get on. She had the choice of siding with her colleagues and being bullied by Elaine at best, and losing her job in the worst case scenario, or siding with Elaine and getting on. And she did get on. She grew up on a council estate, so did her husband, and they ended up owning a lovely house in a respectable area. Both were ambitious. Declan’s colleagues at the garage speak of his dedication and hard work. Their ambition paid off financially.’

  Vanessa nodded.

  ‘Now George. He’s the one that said they were friends. We’ve not got Phoebe’s side of things yet.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen they’re certainly enemies. He hates her.’

  ‘What’s her attitude to him?’

  Vanessa thought for a moment. ‘Hard. Unyielding. He was trying to get her sympathy – no that’s the wrong word – he was trying to get her to understand something – no that’s not it either. Soften. He was trying to get her to soften, but she wouldn’t.’

  That night I read the first chapter of Phoebe’s novel, searching for any reference to Bridget or Elaine or any clues to the murder. I couldn’t see any.

  When Vanessa and I called on Olivia a few nights later we hardly recognized her. The long bleached hair that had looked like straw, had been cut off. The remaining dark hair was very short and silky. Her skin looked clearer and the dark circles under her eyes had almost gone. Her eyes were no longer bloodshot. She was bubbling with excitement. Her flat had also undergone a transformation. It was tidy and smelt clean.

  ‘You look terrific,’ Vanessa said. ‘And so does the flat. Who cut your hair?’

  ‘I did. Phoebe, Margaret and I all used to cut our own hair. We helped each other to do the back. And I’ve done some more writing today.’ She thrust some pages at me. ‘Do you want to read it?’

  I did. I sat down and Vanessa sat beside me.

  Today I became a criminal. Or was I a criminal from when I planned all this? If I am, that makes my parents and my sister criminals too. It’s all gone well so far. But no one was looking for me then. They’ll start investigating now. But they’ll be looking for me in Sydney not in Melbourne. They’ll be looking for a Jonathan Grey, not a John Gray. And I’ve moved the month of my birth forward 3 months. I kept the right year of birth. 1945 was the year the war ended. It was a lucky year and I didn’t want to go against that luck.

  And if they look for my parents they won’t find them in Sydney either. I feel guilty that they’ve uprooted themselves and moved to Brisbane for me, but as my dad said, I’m doing this because of the way they brought me up.

  I’ve got a job. I live in the same block of flats as my sister. Her flat is my official address. She was the one who said if I was being followed, I needed a flat with an inside communal staircase. My parents’ letters for me are addressed to her in blue envelops. Hers
are in white ones. Between us we’ve got all the possibilities covered.

  From the outside the block of flats are bland, but in the three months I’ve been here I’ve managed to make mine look like a home. I’ve put dark green sheets over the horrible grey lounge suite and I’ve hung up matching curtains. I bought second-hand rugs for the floor. My parents gave me money to buy sheets, blankets and a bedspread.

  At first I was reluctant to make friends, but no one seems to suspect anything so I’ve relaxed. I’ve got a few friends at work and I’ve even got a girlfriend, something I always thought was too dangerous. But if everything goes the way I pray it will, after 1973 I won’t have to worry about anything.

  It’s six months since I started this diary. I knew it was all going too smoothly. A party. Who would have thought that an innocent party might wreck everything. And I didn’t even go to the party. My sister did. I’d considered all the things that could go wrong. I’d thought of every possibility except this.

  ‘You certainly know how to end something on a cliff-hanger,’ said Vanessa.

  Olivia looked at us anxiously. ‘Is it any good?’

  ‘More than good,’ I said. ‘It’s excellent.’

  ‘Can you guess what it’s about?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘It’s based on what happened to one of my uncles who went to Australia in the fifties with his parents. They were ten pound Poms. Conscription was compulsory, like it was here, except not everyone was called up – it depended on when your birthday was. My uncle and his parents were like the characters in this story. They did exactly what I’ve written about. Breaking the law was easier then – no computers and I don’t know about now, but in those days they didn’t have any National Insurance Numbers in Australia.’

  ‘What was the bit about 1973?’ I asked.

  ‘The general election. The Labour Party won and released draft evaders from jail unconditionally.’

  ‘Did your uncle get away with it?’ Vanessa asked.

  ‘Yes. But I started thinking about what if they hadn’t. And all the things that could have gone wrong. Sometimes things go wrong because we make the wrong decisions, but sometimes it’s just fate. Good fate or bad fate. Do you believe in fate, Robert?’

  Fate. Right decisions, wrong decisions. Olivia was right. Sometimes it’s just fate. I’d never thought about it till fate dealt me a crushing blow.

  Two months before Judith’s maternity leave came to an end, she agonized. To return to work meant leaving Hannah. She’d booked her into the hospital crèche, until being told that parents’ visits during the lunch times were discouraged because they unsettled the child. We talked about the alternatives. A live-in nanny was rejected. A non-live-in nanny would disrupt our work if she was late or unable to come because she was ill. My parents and Judith’s parents worked. My grandparents lived in Cornwall. Judith’s lived in Oxford. She wanted to continue her work as a paediatrician, but she wanted to spend as much time with Hannah as she could.

  ‘I could defer my career till she starts school,’ she mused. ‘but I want a consultancy. Am I being selfish?’

  ‘No,’ I assured her.

  Judith was respected and liked by her colleagues. Screaming babies calmed when she cuddled them. Fraught mothers listened to her advice, and praised her methods. I put Hannah’s easy childhood down to Judith. Her nursery was pink and white with lots of mobiles and pictures and a radio tuned to Classic FM. When she was a little older Judith put up diagrams of the skeleton and respiratory systems. The breakfast room had a diagram of the digestive system on the wall. Judith let Hannah ask the questions first. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s what we look like inside,’ said Judith. ‘It’s where our food goes after we swallow it.’

  The diagram of the skeleton fascinated her even more.

  By the time Hannah started school she could pronounce oesophagus and duodenum.

  Although a wonderful mother, Judith was hopelessly undomesticated. She hated cooking, cleaning, ironing and gardening. If she tried to paint a wall she got covered in paint. If she used a roller she’d drop it. If she used a paintbrush she’d drop that. Non-drip paint dripped when Judith applied it. While she had been on maternity leave the house was always untidy. She rarely finished anything. If she started to wash up she’d get bored and start to vacuum, but get fed up after doing one room. Nothing, apart from being in the car with me, made her more bad tempered.

  I came home one night to find her crying. ‘I’ve decided to have a career break. I can’t leave Hannah with strangers and I’ll miss her too much. If I could see her at lunch times it’d be okay . . . ’

  I put my arms around her. ‘What about leaving her with me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me taking a career break instead.’

  She gazed at me. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could you?’

  ‘Yes. I asked about it the other day.’ I looked around the chaotic dining-room and wondered how long it would take me to sort it out.

  Judith’s parents were ecstatic. My mother was amazed, but encouraging. I’m sure my father was disappointed, but he didn’t voice his opinion, just as he hadn’t tried to persuade me to join his law practice instead of being a policeman. Although the law interested me, I was passionate about languages. For a few years I had toyed with the idea of being an interpreter, but when I returned from Europe and began looking for a job in London the only ones were for multinational corporations and banks. I was fluent, but my lack of a formal degree in languages was a barrier. I became a tourist guide with a travel company, but frustrated by the petty complaints from people who should have been enjoying themselves, I only lasted one season. I did a stint with my father and it was then that I knew I didn’t want to defend or prosecute, I wanted to solve crimes.

  I enjoyed being a house-husband. I did things I hadn’t had time to do when I worked. I landscaped our small garden. I finished painting the rest of the house. My grandmothers gave me recipe books and I taught myself to make pastry, pizzas and lasagne. I couldn’t do anything elaborate, but I made sure we had plenty of variety. When it was cold I made fruit pies or crumbles for pudding and in summer we had strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, bananas or peaches with cream, yoghurt or ice cream.

  Hannah was a happy child who never had tantrums. Even teething hadn’t been much of a problem. She loved being bathed. She enjoyed going for walks and loved her playgroup and got on well with other children. Vanessa, who lived in the next street, visited most days. I took Hannah to the hospital three times a week to have lunch with Judith.

  ‘Why,’ I asked my feminist grandmother, ‘did women fight to give up all this for the drudge of an office job?’

  ‘This is only temporary for you, Robert. As soon as Hannah starts school you’ll go back to work full-time.’ She looked around the clean and tidy kitchen in wonder. ‘Are you good at housework because you like it, or do you like it because you’re good at it?’ Her smile was rueful. ‘I loathed it and hated being financially dependent on my husband. I was lonely. I missed talking to people. I talked to other mothers, but it was always about domestic things never about politics or world events. I can’t believe you actually like ironing.’

  ‘I don’t like it, but listening to CD’s or the radio makes it bearable. Doing Hannah’s stuff is the worst – it’s so fiddly.’

  Judith came home after work to, what she described as, domestic bliss. The house was always clean and tidy, the washing and ironing done, preparations for dinner underway and Hannah gurgled with glee when she saw her mummy. While I got on with the dinner, Judith played with Hannah, fed her and put her to bed. Our dinners were leisurely and we shared a bottle of wine three times a week. We talked about events in the news, told each other about our day and planned our weekends and holidays. While I did the washing up, Judith had a shower and checked her e-mails.

  Hannah went off to school on her first day with no fuss or tears. After s
chool she rushed out to meet me babbling with excitement. She was popular with the other children and the teachers. My return to work went smoothly. Vanessa collected Hannah from school and took her to our house where they played together until Judith and I got home.

  We employed a cleaner. We were happy. We were lucky. It’s not that I took anything for granted or thought I deserved it. When I read the papers, or when any of our friends or colleagues were having problems with their relationships, I’d thank God I was so fortunate.

  ‘You’re a lucky bastard, Trevelyan,’ one of my friends said in the middle of his acrimonious divorce. ‘How come you’ve been allocated such a good deal for so long?’

  Until then I’d never thought about happiness, misery or other fates in those terms.

  In 2005 my happiness allocation expired.

  Vanessa e-mailed me after the next meeting of the writers’ group.

  I called for Olivia early tonight and helped her choose what clothes to wear. We decided on jeans, a white shirt and a red jumper that she wore with desert boots. She found a locket that the boyfriend had given her for her birthday. It was heavy, looked Victorian, or even older, and was probably at least eighteen carat gold. The ruby in the middle looked real. She told me he’d taken it out of his mother’s jewellery case.

  You should have seen Phoebe’s face when she saw Olivia. She was astonished, but genuinely happy. So was Margaret. Ethel thought she was someone new, which was funny. Olivia told them that it was all thanks to me, and afterwards in the pub Phoebe thanked me and admitted that she and Margaret had failed to help Olivia when she needed it most.

  Now, although this is all good news on a personal front, it’s done nothing to help solve the crime. I really don’t think Olivia is capable of murder no matter how angry or aggrieved she felt. She’s more self-destructive and would harm herself rather than anyone else. And with George having been to Phoebe and Stuart’s house, it’s back to Bridget being the intended victim. The only thing I can think of is that George was drunk and got the wrong house. Shall we meet at Farrier Way tomorrow night say at about 11?