Deep Water, Thin Ice (2 page)

She glanced down at the delicate, cordon bleu finger food on her plate, caught Ben’s eye watching her, his young forehead puckered into a frown, and forced herself to pick a rolled salmon canapé up and pop it in her mouth. She crinkled her eyes up into a smile for his benefit.

‘Just keep chewing and swallowing,’ Ben said. ‘Like I do with mum’s steak and kidney pie. It goes down in the end. Trust me.’ Alex tried to oblige but her mouth was dry and it took a while to swallow. ‘I’m thinking of becoming a vegetarian,’ he confided. ‘Lots of naturalists are vegetarian. It makes sense really.’

‘Oh?’ Alex looked at the remaining food on her plate. Under Ben’s watchful gaze she picked up a frighteningly orange-filled vol au vent. ‘Have you told your mum?’

‘I mentioned it. She said it wasn’t healthy while you’re still growing but then she doesn’t know anything about it. She’ll come round with time. I’ll work on her.’

Ben slipped away again and Alex replaced the vol au vent on her plate as another succession of people came up to pay their respects.

It was the back end of November and already more than four weeks since Simon had died. Alex had been in Vienna, doing a series of concerts at the Kursalon when Erica rang her late one afternoon to tell her that Simon had fallen under a tube train on the Victoria line in London. ‘He’s alive,’ Erica had said, ‘but badly hurt. You should come quickly Alex.’ She’d left Vienna on the first available flight.

But Simon had never regained consciousness and was dead long before she could get to the hospital. Then there’d been the official identification of the body and a brief interview with the police. It had been a few days later when the police had asked to see her again. There were ‘inconsistencies in the witness statements’ the Inspector said. They needed to ‘clarify a few things’.

‘Were you happy together Mrs Brook?’ was his opening gambit.

‘Of course.’ She frowned. ‘Why?’

He grunted and then glanced at his notes before raising questioning eyes to her face. ‘Or should I call you Miss Munroe?’

‘I use my maiden name for performing…well, for most things really. It’s easier.’

‘I see.’ He said everything as if it had some significance but she failed to see what it was. ‘You spent a lot of time apart I understand?’

‘It was the nature of our jobs. We have…did…occasionally work together – that’s how we met in the first place - but inevitably not that often. You have to go where the work is.’

‘I see. And you have no children?’

‘No. We were…no.’

He paused and lifted his eyes slowly to her face. ‘And there wasn’t anyone else involved?’

The question took her completely off guard.

‘No. No…of course not.’

He raised his eyebrows and sighed.

‘I’m afraid, Miss Munroe,’ he said in a gentler voice, ‘there’s reason to believe that your husband may have committed suicide.’

‘Suicide? I thought it was an accident?’

‘Some witnesses said it looked as if your husband stepped out purposely as the tube train came into the station. Of course the platform was very crowded and it was difficult to see but they said it seemed very sudden. Did your husband have any problems Mrs. Brook? Was there anything the matter in his work? Were there any money worries perhaps?’

Dazed, she shook her head. She and Simon were blessed with money, a nice home in Hampstead and a comfortable, albeit hectic, life.

‘You’ll forgive me for pressing the point,’ the Inspector persisted. ‘But in the circumstances I have to ask: you don’t have a lover? It isn’t possible your husband recently found out about it?’

‘No, for God’s sake, no.’

He nodded, slowly.

‘And you haven’t found a note?’

‘If I had, I’d have told you,’ she said crisply.

‘Good…Well, if you do, you will inform us, won’t you?’

She stood up to go, angry and upset, but he hadn’t quite finished.

‘And do you think your husband had any enemies, Miss Munroe?’

‘Enemies?’ Alex frowned, genuinely confused. ‘No. Not as far as I know. Why?’

‘There was one witness who said she thought he’d been pushed. I understand you were out of the country when it happened?’

‘Yes. I was in Vienna. Why? What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. But it’s important we check everything. I’m sure that’s what you would want us to do as well. Thank you for your co-operation. We’ll be able to reach you at this number in London I assume?’

Now, as she looked across the room and saw the last of the funeral guests speak to Erica before leaving, Alex found the policeman’s questions circulating in her head once more. She dismissed the idea that Simon might have any enemies who wished him dead as unthinkable. But what had taken him down to the station that day? He hated the underground. She was incessantly haunted by the implication, barely disguised in the policeman’s remarks, that she was responsible in some way for his death.

*

With the funeral reception over, Alex returned to Erica’s house in Ealing, reluctant to go home. She had stayed with Erica and Ben since her return from Vienna. Her own home was frighteningly quiet and empty on the inside while, by her gate, a crowd of journalists waited expectantly for news or comment. She couldn’t face them.

She stood inside the patio doors at the back of Erica’s terraced house and watched Ben pottering round his newly dug pond. The long strip of garden had been the deciding factor in Erica’s choice of the otherwise unremarkable property some two years before; Erica knew how much pleasure the garden would give Ben though it had pushed her to the upper limit of her budget. But, in an effort to satisfy Ben’s interest in wildlife, the pond was an even more generous move on her sister’s part. As a three year old child, Erica had fallen in a child-minder’s pond and nearly drowned. Alex, two and a half years older, had pulled her baby sister out covered in slime, insects and beetles. Alex had often attributed her own fastidiousness to that event. Certainly Erica’s fear of water could be blamed on it; she’d had nightmares about it for months afterwards.

‘It seemed to go well,’ said an impersonal voice behind her. ‘Very smooth.’ There was a pause. ‘Didn’t you think?’

Alex came out of her reverie and turned. Her mother, Victoria, was sitting on the sofa, legs elegantly crossed, hands resting in her lap. Like Erica, she tended to plump rather than slim; unlike Erica, it never seemed to bother her. As a successful barrister she had always worn smart, fitted suits which expressed, as did everything else about her, her determination to be business-like and get the job done. Recently retired, little had changed. Her energy had simply been diverted into writing and the support of a number of good causes. Her clothes still suggested her gritty determination to win whatever project she chose to espouse, however long it took and whatever the cost. A driven woman with a greater dedication to professional success than family life, she was looking at Alex with the expectant expression her daughter knew well. Alex had spent her whole life, she thought, failing to live up to that expectation.

‘I suppose so,’ said Alex. ‘Very smooth. I’ll go and see if Erica needs any help in the kitchen.’ And she left the living room, carefully closing the door behind her.

Erica was just pouring tea into china mugs. A plate of biscuits had already been put on a tray and she was half way through eating one, her short fair hair neatly styled into place.

‘Why did you invite her back here?’ muttered Alex, coming up beside her. ‘She hardly knew Simon and didn’t like him. I was amazed she even came to the crematorium.’

Erica finished pouring and put down the teapot with a thump on the stand.

‘I thought she quite liked Simon,’ she said, popping the rest of the biscuit in her mouth.

‘No, she didn’t. She
tolerated
him because he was successful. When she first found out he was a musician she thought he was a loser and a ‘bad prospect’, the same as all musicians. She didn’t want to know.’

‘Once bitten, twice shy,’ chanted Erica and then, with a glance towards the living room door, dropped her voice. ‘Well, whatever, I thought I ought to ask her. I thought she should be there. It’s about time the two of you buried the hatchet.’

‘It’s already buried. We just don’t talk much. We’ve nothing in common. Anyway she makes me feel so…’ Alex shrugged. ‘…inadequate. She always has.’

‘I know.’ Erica laid three mugs on the tray and looked at them doubtfully before raising her eyes to meet Alex’s. ‘She’ll think they ought to be china cups.’

‘Does it matter? Mugs are fine.’

‘I suppose. Anyway, try and be nice to her will you? I think she’s trying to be supportive. Well, you know, in her own way.’

Alex gave her sister a brittle smile.

‘You’re right. I know. You always did try to bring us together. I’ll try.’ The smile dwindled into nothing. ‘You’ve been great Ricky. Thanks for everything. What would I have done without you?’ Tears threatened and Alex gave her sister a quick, fierce hug.

‘Oh, I’m an absolute angel,’ said Erica dryly, accepting the hug rather stiffly. She picked up the tray. ‘Will you give Ben a shout before you come through and get him to come in? His drink’s on the side there. He’s got homework to do yet and he’ll stay out till it’s dark given half a chance. Anyway, mum’ll want to see him before she goes.’

Alex walked down the garden instead to speak to Ben and to look at the embryonic pond. When they got back to the house, she sent him upstairs to wash and then paused outside the living room door which stood slightly ajar.

‘I don’t know who he was,’ Erica was saying. ‘I’ve been through all the pew cards. There are no names that ring any bells.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t fill a card in,’ said Victoria. ‘Not everyone does.’

‘I suppose not. Strange though.’

Alex pushed the door open and walked in.

‘What’s strange?’

Erica hesitated.

‘
There
you are,’ she said. ‘Your tea’s going cold.’

‘Erica said she saw someone at the funeral who looked like Simon,’ replied Victoria, apparently oblivious to Erica’s preference to drop the conversation. ‘She was wondering if he was a relation. Were you expecting anyone?’

‘He hasn’t got any relations…alive,’ said Alex in a flat voice. ‘Not close ones. He’s…he was…an only child. You know that. He never mentioned anyone anyway.’

‘What was this man like?’ Victoria asked Erica.

Erica glanced at Alex before replying. Her sister’s face, usually so expressive, was blank.

‘I’m not sure exactly,’ she said. ‘I didn’t speak to him. I saw him the other side of the room. Like I said he looked a bit like Simon. He had fair, wavy hair, short though. But he was tallish and perhaps a little broader. But then I got talking to someone and when I looked back, he’d gone.’ She looked up at Alex again. ‘Obviously you didn’t see him?’

Alex shook her head and took her tea to the armchair on the other side and sat down. Even had she seen him it would have meant nothing. Over the last few weeks it had happened to her regularly. She would see Simon in the street or driving a car; she’d hear the phone and assume it would be him; she’d even sometimes see him on television, in programmes she watched just to distract her mind. She had regularly projected Simon’s features onto strangers who, on closer inspection, bore scant resemblance to him. She’d feel the familiar rise in her heart before she remembered what had happened and the cold pall of reality settled on her again.

Victoria’s gaze came to rest on Alex and she considered her, much as she might have viewed a stubborn defence witness.

‘I know your taste in clothes is…individual,’ she remarked, as her eyes flicked over the long red and purple vividly patterned dress her elder daughter wore, ‘but I was surprised you wore that outfit for the funeral.’

‘Simon liked this dress,’ Alex said quietly.

‘Yes…well. You know you mustn’t
dwell
Alex,’ Victoria said sternly. ‘Keep yourself busy; get back to work…’ She paused and Alex wondered if she was musing on whether singing actually qualified as work. ‘...Sitting around is the worst thing you can do.’

‘I know,’ said Alex grimly without looking up. ‘Work is the answer to everything.’

‘And Erica tells me you have no plan to bury the ashes. Is that wise? I mean, don’t you think burial would give you more closure?’

‘I’m not ready.’ Alex’s voice was small and tight. ‘I haven’t decided what I want to do with them yet.’

‘Well, keeping them seems rather macabre to me. It’s not healthy.’

There was the sound of running footsteps down the stairs and a minute later, having grabbed his drink from the kitchen, Ben came in to the room, looking excited.

‘There’s someone sitting in a car across the street,’ he said. ‘I think he’s watching the house.’

‘Oh God, it’s probably a reporter,’ groaned Erica, wandering to the window and gingerly pulling back the net curtain. ‘Where?’

Ben joined her and stared out.

‘He’s gone. He was over there.’ He pointed.

‘Thank God,’ said Alex gloomily. The adrenaline she’d needed to get her through the service and its aftermath was rapidly fading. She felt exhausted and indescribably bereft. Tears threatened again.