A Deep Deceit (39 page)

Mariette's mother's patience was definitely running out. I was able to pay for my keep now, of course, but I knew that she would like her front room back. In any case there was barely space for me in it along with all those pieces of brass, and even if Mrs Powell's cottage had been big enough to accommodate a lodger comfortably I would not have been a particularly attractive long-term proposition – I came with far too much mental baggage.

In the end I stayed with the Powells for another three weeks after returning from America, before finding myself a small flat to rent just off the Hale Road. It was at the top of the hill past the Porthminster Hotel, quite a steep climb up from the town, and there was no sea view, but it was clean and comfortable, and would do well enough until I had fulfilled my next aim. I wanted to buy a modest home of my own. I had just about enough cash as long as I could work – and Mariette solved that problem for me a couple of weeks later when she announced excitedly that the St Ives Archive Study Centre, housed upstairs at the library, was looking for a new researcher. The pay was a pittance but it was better than nothing and the work suited me absolutely. Carl had been right about one thing: I had no experience of being employed and I had indeed wondered what kind of a job I would ever be capable of holding down. But I'd got lucky and found something that was close to perfect for me. It meant burying my nose in books and old papers, which I had done for pleasure all my life, and although I had never used computers before, I could type, thanks to Gran, and I took to the computer age with surprising ease. I was really quite excited about the whole thing. If I failed it would not be for want of enthusiasm or effort.

Nonetheless I found my first week at work totally exhausting. I supposed I would get used to it and that nervous tension was the main part of the problem. The Centre was involved in a particularly demanding project concerning the history of the part of town where the Tate Gallery now stands and I was even asked to work on the Saturday morning. Mariette was also on duty in the library but at lunchtime I turned down her suggestion that we go for a beer and a sandwich. All I wanted to do was to get back to my flat, put my feet up and have an afternoon nap.

It was the third week in August. Almost exactly three months had passed since Carl had escaped from the court jail at Penzance, and even I was beginning to wonder if he really had gone for good and reinvented himself somewhere else.

I kept in touch with DS Perry, but she had nothing more to tell me, although she assured me that she remained in contact with the police in America and that if there was any news of Carl there she would know at once.

For once I wasn't thinking about Carl at all as I began to walk wearily home that sunny Saturday afternoon. My new job had not only proved to be both mentally and physically tiring, but had also given me plenty to occupy my mind, which was probably just what I needed. The walk was uphill all the way. There was a bit of a short cut, which I had so far avoided because it would take me straight past Rose Cottage, but I was so worn out that I decided only the fastest way home would do.

When I turned into the familiar alleyway for the first time in so long, I noticed a Dyno-Rod van on the corner and, as I walked past the cottage, out stepped Will Jones. I supposed I had realised that I would meet him sooner or later, although since returning to St Ives I had deliberately avoided anywhere close to his gallery and the two or three pubs that I knew to be his favourite haunts, but I was shocked to see him emerging from my own front door. I still thought of it that way, you see. Well, six and a half years in one little house is a long time.

I gasped. Will stepped smartly back. Then he smiled. I glowered.

‘Hi, Suzanne, I've been looking out for you,' he said. I could hardly believe my ears. Had the man no shame?

‘What do you mean, looking out for me?' I snapped. ‘Haven't you been following me? Isn't that what you normally do?'

He assumed a hangdog expression. ‘I'm sorry, I can't help caring for you.'

He made me sick, he really did. He had caused so much damage.

‘I've only ever wanted to look after you,' he said. His voice was a whine.

I wanted to slap his face. In any case the last thing in the world that I wanted was anyone ‘looking after' me ever again.

‘What are you doing in my house?' I asked coldly.

‘It's not your house any more,' he replied.

‘You know what I mean,' I said.

‘I'm renting it,' he told me.

I had suspected as much. The very thought gave me the creeps. Was I to be haunted by obsessions all my life? ‘I don't believe it!' I said. ‘How could you?'

He assumed an expression of studied innocence. ‘I have no idea what you mean. I just wanted a little place in the middle of St Ives, that's all.' He smiled, only it looked more like a leer.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The whole thing was absurd. Will Jones lived in a big modern clifftop bungalow off the Penzance road. The only possible interest he could have in Rose Cottage was me. I knew that. And so did he.

‘You're not actually living here, are you?' I enquired.

‘Of course.' He puffed up his chest a bit and stood up very straight, as if the full extent of his towering six foot five would automatically give him an advantage. Somehow he managed to look even more pathetic.

‘Will, you're not right in the head,' I said. ‘Why don't you go and get yourself committed.'

‘What, like your Carl should have done?'

I was not as short on courage as I had once been. I took a step forward and probably would have hit him but for the man from Dyno-Rod who emerged with perhaps fortuitous timing from Rose Cottage and, apparently oblivious to the conflict between Will and me, stepped between us and began to speak.

‘Damned if I knows where it's coming from, mate, I've checked the drains right through and I can't find ought wrong . . .'

‘That's all very well,' said Will, turning his attention abruptly away from me. ‘But you're going to have to keep looking because I just can't put up with the stink in there.'

The Dyno-Rod man retreated back into the cottage, shaking his head and scratching it at the same time.

Will turned back to face me. ‘Did you and Carl have any trouble with the drains?' he asked conversationally.

My anger welled up again. ‘Will, I don't give a fuck about your fucking drains,' I stormed. ‘But I'll tell you this.' I jabbed a finger firmly in his chest. ‘If you are following me around again, if I ever see you, if you ever come near me, then I'm warning you, I'm just not responsible for what I might do to you. I have had enough, do you hear me?'

I wasn't entirely certain, but I didn't believe I had ever used the word ‘fuck' in anger before. I thought I was being pretty menacing. Will appeared to think so too. He looked stunned rigid, which had indeed been my intention. In spite of my angry reaction when he had first told me he had been responsible for all the threats, he obviously still thought of me as meek and mild Suzanne. Maybe he had put that out of his mind. He was the sort of man who went in for selective memory. After all, it came hand in hand with obsession.

‘OK, OK,' he said, backing off with both hands held high in compliance. But I was so angry he didn't move quickly enough for me. I pushed him out of the way and he must have been off balance because he fell heavily on to one knee.

‘I'm sorry, you just don't understand,' he whimpered pathetically.

I brushed past him, only narrowly overcoming the urge to kick him in the teeth.

I spent Sunday reading and being lazy. The afternoon was gloriously sunny and, braving the holidaymakers who were out in force, I went for a short walk along the beach. The sun felt warm on my back. I took off my shoes and walked barefooted, the way I used to with Carl, relishing the feel of the gritty sand between my toes. The afternoon light was almost blindingly bright. It was a true St Ives day. By the time I got home and made myself some supper to eat in front of the TV I was enjoying quite a sense of well-being.

I must be getting tougher, I thought, because the confrontation with Will had not disturbed me nearly as much as it once would have done. I was more outraged than upset that he had chosen to move into the little cottage that had been my home with Carl.

I had no doubt his motivation was all part of his obsession with me and this was further indication that it was far from over. But I felt strangely confident that I could deal with it now. I had seen the shock with which he responded to my outburst and had a feeling he had realised that not only was I no longer a pushover but neither any more was I the Suzanne he claimed to have such strong feelings for. Maybe he would leave me alone. If he didn't then I would simply report him to DS Perry and insist that this time she took formal action. He had already been cautioned once, I had been informed, when I had first told DC Carter who had been persecuting Carl and me. The law was getting harder on stalkers and quite right too. I knew well enough the damage they could do.

Still tired, in spite of my lazy day, I went to bed early and felt much brighter and more alert when I woke on Monday morning. I made an instant decision that I would no longer take the long route to work. I would walk straight past Rose Cottage whenever it suited me. I certainly was not prepared to avoid anywhere in town in order not to meet up with Will Jones.

Feeling quite sprightly and rejuvenated, I began the walk down the hill to the archive centre almost light-heartedly. It was a lot easier going down than climbing back up, for one thing.

As I approached Rose Cottage I noticed there was a uniformed policeman standing outside. My first thought was that I hadn't even reported Will Jones yet. Then I became aware of quite a buzz of activity around the cottage. On the corner I could see DS Perry's car and beyond that a police squad car. As I approached, out through the front door stepped a man clad from head to toe in a white paper suit. And through the open door opened, I fancied I got a whiff of the bad drain smell Will Jones had complained of.

Suddenly it hit me – I knew. My legs started to move of their own volition and I practically threw myself past the sentry policeman into the front room of Rose Cottage. He made a desultory attempt to stop me but, propelled by the horror of my awful realisation, I was too quick for him.

I heard myself scream ‘Carl, Carl' as I headed for the little kitchen, which I could see was the centre of activity.

DS Perry was standing in the doorway. ‘Suzanne don't,' she cried, alarm in her eyes.

I pushed past her too. My desolation gave me both power and purpose.

I charged by another white-suited character. The flagstone trapdoor to the little cellar was cast aside as I had somehow known it would be. Just as I reached it somebody grabbed me in a kind of rugby tackle around the legs but I flung myself on to my belly, half taking whoever it was with me, so that I could see clearly down into the cellar. In fact, I allowed virtually the whole of my top half to drop through the trap. The rest of me would have followed were it not for the grip on my legs.

The cellar was brightly lit by police arc lamps. My face was just a couple of feet away from the alarmed upturned features of another paper suit, this time a woman. She was on her knees examining something spreadeagled on the floor. The stench was awful here. The something on the floor took form. It was a man. A man with virtually no face. The man with no face of my nightmares, except I knew with devastating clarity who this was. And it was not anyone who had ever wanted to hurt me, just to protect me. The decay of his flesh, the puffy black nothingness of him did not detract from my instant recognition.

‘Carl, Carl, Carl,' I screamed at the top of my voice. I was quite hysterical. Utterly beyond reason. Terrible grief, total horror overwhelmed me.

I felt myself being half pulled, half dragged up out of the hole in the ground away from the putrid remains of the only man I had ever loved. I was half carried into the dining room and helped into a chair. DS Perry was beside me making soothing noises. My eyes were blinded with tears. I brushed them aside as best I could with the back of my hand and tried to focus on her. All I could see, lurking behind her, white-faced, was Will Jones.

The madness came over me once more, and with it came the power and the purpose. I threw myself forward again, hurtling at him. ‘You murdering bastard,' I screamed. ‘You filthy, murdering scum. You killed him. You killed Carl.'

This time strong arms were quickly round me, restraining me, but not before I had managed to reach out with one hand and rake my fingernails down Will Jones's cheek. The blood spurted instantly from a row of slashes in his flesh. Will cowered away from me and let out a little whimper like an injured puppy dog.

DS Perry was on one side of me and DC Carter on the other. But I couldn't stop myself struggling. I wanted somebody to pay for Carl's death. And I was quite certain that Will Jones must have been responsible. He wanted me for himself, after all.

DS Perry began to talk to me very clearly and slowly, staring directly into my eyes, her hands cupping my face. ‘Look at me, Suzanne, and listen,' she said. ‘It wasn't him. It wasn't Will Jones. He didn't kill Carl.' She spoke quietly but with authority.

I tried to calm myself.

‘Just tell me,' I whispered hoarsely, my anger, all my energy, spent. ‘Tell me who did?'

Julie Perry continued to stare into my eyes. ‘Look, we've only just found him. We have a lot of checking to do. But, well, we don't think anybody killed him.'

I shook my head in an attempt to clear the fog that seemed to have engulfed it. I didn't say anything, merely looked at her enquiringly, more than that, pleadingly.