Almost a Crime (107 page)

capable of anything.

She had also, once, been her best friend. That had to

count for something.

‘We have to tell her,’ said Tom. ‘She has to know. I think — maybe I should go down there. Tell her that way. Not over the phone. What do you think?’

‘Yes. Possibly.’ Marianne sounded very upset.

‘Look, Marianne, you should get home. There’s nothing

more you can do.’ God, what an absurd thing to say. How

death produced cliches.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘Is your car there? At the hospital?’

‘No. I came in a cab. I’ll call one. Or maybe Marc or

Zoe could come and get me. I feel a bit shaky. I’ll call

home.’

‘I’ll do it for you. I know how hard it is in those places.

You need endless change. ‘Bye, Marianne. You’ve been so

wonderful today. Thank you for everything.’

Fifteen minutes later, as Marianne sat, shaking slightly now with shock and grief, Nico Cadogan walked into Reception. She was somehow not remotely surprised to see

him; his presence there seemed entirely natural, what she

would against all logic have expected. She needed him and

he was there; it was as simple as that.

‘Don’t say anything,’ he said, sitting down beside her,

putting his arm round her, ‘anything at all. I’ve come to get

you safely home. No more than that.’

‘Oh, Nico,’ said Marianne, burying her face against him,

trying and failing to blank out the picture of the shell that

had been Felix lying on the high bed, the machines about

him silent and still, his strength finally spent, his vitality lost

for ever. ‘Nico, you’ll never know how pleased I am to see

you.’

‘Maybe some day you’ll be able to tell me,’ he said,

kissing the top of her head. ‘Come along now. Let’s take

you home.’

Tom dialled Octavia’s mobile. It was switched off. Damn!

Why had she done that? Surely she couldn’t have gone to

sleep, surely. Must have been a mistake. Well, he could call

the hotel, get them to ring up to her room …

‘No reply from her room, Mr Fleming.’

‘Are you sure? Try again.’

Another long wait. ‘Sorry, no. She’s not answering.’ The

voice was beginning to sound bored.

‘Well - could someone go up? Maybe she’s asleep,

maybe she’s ill. She’s a very light sleeper, it’s unlike her …’

She wouldn’t, couldn’t - Christ - have taken an overdose, would she? She’d been so distraught, she always had sleeping pills with her, anything was possible. No. No,

she wouldn’t. That really would be out of character.

‘The room’s empty, sir. No one is there.’

‘Oh, God. But she has the key still?’

‘She hasn’t handed it in, sir.’

‘What about the dining room, or something. Could you

have her paged?’

‘The dining room is closed now, sir.’

‘I see. Well — is her car there?’

‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid.’

‘Why not? You must have a car park, go and bloody well

check. This is an emergency, for God’s sake. It’s a Ranger

Rover, N reg, N459 AGR.’

‘Very well, sir. If you’ll just wait while I find someone.’

Another interminable wait. Then, ‘No, the car has gone.

I’m sorry.’

Jesus! What had happened to her? Where had she gone?

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘please let me know if she comes

back.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

There it was; in spite of her mother having told her it was

still weatherproof, still there, that she had phoned Mr Briggs

a few months earlier to warn him she was thinking of selling

it, she had worried increasingly as she got nearer. Mr Briggs

might have been being economical with the truth, afraid of

losing his annual rent cheque. Quite a large cheque,

actually, she’d discovered, in return for what was after all a

very small piece of land indeed that nobody ever visited any

more. He must be quite an old man now, and these were

not exactly easy times for farmers. Anyway, it seemed to be

all right. Thank God. Parked in the comer at the bottom of

the field; looking as if it had put roots down into the

ground. Sunk on its haunches a bit, very rusty no doubt,

but still there, still with its roof. Hopefully it would be dry.

If only there was a bit more moonlight. Still, her torch was

very powerful. She could pick it out. Under the apple tree,

in the corner. Yes, it was fine. No cows in the field, just a few sheep. Well, that was all right, they wouldn’t make

much noise.

It was amazing how she’d remembered it all so vividly:

the other way to reach it, so she didn’t have to drive

through the farm, down the farm track even, so the dogs

didn’t bark. She remembered that even now; Mrs Briggs

asking her mother to go that way round. It was along a very

rutted track, and quite often when it had rained a lot, the

car got stuck in the mud. There wasn’t any mud now: it

was very dry.

She had parked the car in the gateway of the first field;

Minty was asleep. She wondered if she dared leave her

there while she did a quick recce; she’d have to. She locked

all the doors and climbed over the gate.

The field was blessedly dry; she made her way down

towards the corner where the caravan was. Below the field

were some woods, beyond them the sea. It was a beautiful

place; they’d only had a few holidays here, but she still

remembered them as being very special. It had all been so

exciting, like an Enid Blyton story, getting milk and eggs

from the farm, water from a tap in the corner of the field

that fed the sheep trough — that was very lucky, she

presumed it was still there - endless picnics, exploring

beaches and caves, scrambling up and down cliff paths.

The caravan wasn’t even that rusty: it looked remarkably

sturdy. She pulled the key out, put it in the lock. Please,

please let it work, don’t let it be rusted. There was a bit of

resistance, but it opened. She beamed her torch inside:

filthy, cobwebs everywhere, but it was dry. A neat pile of

sleeping bags, no doubt spider infested, on one of the

bunks, saucepans still on the stove, a few old postcards

jammed jauntily into the window frames, a vase set on the

table, a Cornish pixie toast rack on the side. Even the old

curtains hung still at the windows, and a battered travel cot

stood in the comer. That was wonderful: Minty was much

too big for a carrycot; she’d been worrying about it. And a

picture of the four of them, her mother, herself, Benjy and Dominic, all quite small, smiling over the farm gate, set in a fame on one of the shelves.

‘Oh, Mummy,’ she said aloud, a catch in her voice, ‘oh,

Mummy, I wish you’d come back.’

Well, she wouldn’t. She was gone. For ever. She had to

manage without her now. And she had to look after Minty.

She looked back at the car; probably best to take the stuff

in first, then Minty. She could make up the travel cot with

the bedclothes, put her in that while she sorted out another

bottle and a nappy and so on.

A wave of happiness swept over Louise. This was just as

she had imagined it. Possibly even better.

The best way was down the A30 from Exeter. It was a good

fast road and at this time of night there was no traffic on it.

Octavia turned on to it; she felt almost happy. She had

always loved night driving. God knows how she was going

to find the caravan. Or even Plenty Farm. But she would.

She could do anything now. Anything at all. She was going

to get Minty back.

‘Perhaps you should try Mr Trelawny,’ said Caroline to

Tom. ‘He might have heard from Octavia.’ She was very

subdued, very shaken.

‘Yes, maybe I should.’

‘I feel so bad,’ she said suddenly.

‘Caroline, for heaven’s sake why, why should you feel

bad?’

‘If I’d stayed behind, looked after Minty, this wouldn’t

have happened. I’m so sorry.’

‘Look,’ said Tom, ‘that really is absurd. I never heard

such nonsense. If it’s anyone’s fault, it was ours, not looking

after her properly. But yes, you’re right, I’ll ring Sandy

Trelawny. And Charles Madison, that wouldn’t be a bad

idea either.’

Sandy was clearly sitting by the phone; he snatched it up.

He said he’d heard nothing. ‘But I’ll ring you immediately,

if Ida’

‘Thanks,’ said Tom.

He phoned Rookston Manor. No answer for a long

time, then Charles Madison’s courteous voice, heavy with

anxiety.

‘Charles, it’s Tom. Tom Fleming.’

‘Tom! Is there any news?’

So — that was no good.

‘No. I just wondered if by any chance you’d heard from

Octavia.’

‘Octavia? No, I’m afraid not. Why?’

‘She’s disappeared,’ said Tom, ‘we have no idea where

she is. And — you see, I have to contact her. Her father’s

died.’

‘Her father? Oh, how dreadful. What was it?’

‘Heart attack,’ said Tom briefly.

‘I always liked him so much. He was so kind, coming to

Anna’s funeral.’

‘Yes. But you see, I do have to find Octavia. Apart from

anything else.’

‘Yes, of course. And I’ll tell Janet too in the morning.

She’s gone to bed.’

‘You couldn’t check now?’ said Tom hopefully.

‘Tom, it is quite late. She lives in a separate flat. Over the

stables. She would have told me if Octavia — or Louise for

that matter - had phoned. She really would.’

‘Yes, of course. Well - thank you, Charles, anyway.’

‘Not at all, not at all. I feel so dreadful myself. I feel - oh,

I don’t know.’ He sounded very tired, absolutely defeated.

‘Charles don’t feel that. No one could have helped all

this.’ Except me, he thought, me, by not starting the affair,

not damaging that fragile psyche further.

‘Have you told the police? About Octavia disappearing?’

‘No,’ said Tom, ‘no, not yet.’

He knew he should; but he kept putting it off. It made it

too official.

Minty was all right at first. She let Louise change her nappy

— God, where was she going to put these things? There were a lot of things, after all, she hadn’t thought of. She’d have to find somewhere tomorrow. Minty took a bottle

from her, a cold bottle, but then it was a hot night, even let

her wipe her face and hands with some baby wipes. She

couldn’t start stumbling about looking for the sheep trough

in the dark. It was when Louise tried to take her dress off

that she started. It was as if the dress was her connection

with familiarity, safety, places and people she knew. She

screamed and screamed, on and on. Loudly, relentlessly.

Louise was terrified; it was a very still night, someone

might hear her, would come down to see what was

happening. She had hidden the car as best she could,

halfway down the track; in the morning she’d have to move

it, park it somewhere in the village maybe, where it

wouldn’t attract any attention.

She rocked Minty, trying to soothe her, holding her

close: or trying to. Minty struggled and pushed at her; every

so often the crying stopped, turning to panicky hiccups,

then started again. Poor little girl: what a dreadful day she’d

had. Well, tomorrow would be quite different. She could

lie under the apple tree, while Louise cleared up, set up

house in the caravan; they could go for a walk, down to the

beach - she could remember it so well, a lovely scrambly

path, bordered by fields, leading to the brilliant sea, they

could play on the beach, she could even dangle Minty’s toes

in the water. She’d love that. Juliet had loved that, when

they’d taken her to the seaside. Screaming with delight,

kicking her little fat legs, her brown pudgy feet. Minty

would love it too.

But Juliet had stopped crying when she held her close

and talked to her. Minty wouldn’t let her hold her close and

was crying too loudly to hear anything she said. Louise

began to feel desperate. She was so tired; so very tired. She

only wanted to sleep.

She put Minty down in the travel cot; she promptly

stood up in it, shaking the sides, screaming on. Louise

turned all the torches out. Maybe in the darkness she’d

settle down. She would give her ten minutes, that was the

magic time. They always went to sleep after ten minutes Minty screamed on; lying down now, jammed into a coma

of the cot.

Maybe she was frightened of the dark; she’d brought

some nightlights. Maybe she should light a couple of them,

see if that helped.

Louise rummaged in her bag for the nightlights, set them

in saucers, lit them. The light was very gentle, casting soft

shadows in the caravan; the effect was magical. Minty lay

staring at the shadows fascinated, her screams slowly

quietening.

Thank God, thought Louise, thank God. At last she

could go to sleep …

Janet couldn’t sleep; she had a dreadful headache and she

felt terribly Worried — and something else. Not quite guilt,

but a sense of dreadful responsibility. The more she thought

about Octavia driving off in the middle of the night to find

Louise, the more she felt it was dangerous. Louise’s