Telling Tales (17 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Emma wasn’t taken in by Keith Mantel. He was putting on a good show but she thought he was still desolate about Abigail’s murder. That was why he had turned away from her so quickly after talking about his daughter. He hadn’t wanted Emma to see how upset he still felt. And how had he known about Christopher? Abigail must have realized that Christopher was infatuated and mentioned it to her father. Emma hoped they hadn’t laughed at him. She had a horrible picture of Abigail sniggering, of father and daughter mocking Chris for being so soppy, sitting together on the fat, pink sofa where now an old lady was clutching a sweet sherry.

Throughout the evening, she found herself looking out for Dan Greenwood. It was what she had always done at these gatherings when most of the village were present. Even while she talked to James or exchanged horror stories with a young mum she’d met at antenatal classes, she was alert for his presence. Secretly watching and listening. Hoping he’d turn up. Then she’d be rewarded by the sound of his voice across the room, his bulky shape in the distance. And she’d try to catch his eye.

And still, tonight, she looked out for him. Because after all this time it was hard to stop. It had become a habit, like staring out of her bedroom window on windy nights when James was working. When she heard him exchange a few words with Mantel, she forced herself not to turn, but there was the same excitement. She tried immediately to damp it down. I’m not a teenager, she said to herself. I’m not fifteen any more. I was flattered by his response to me and even that was a mistake. But she couldn’t stop. The excitement was addictive.

Standing by the bar, though, she strained to listen. Mantel must have asked Dan about the case. Is there any news? Can you tell me what’s going on? He must have spoken quietly and discreetly. Certainly there had been no attempt to make a fuss. Emma hadn’t heard him speak, but she did make out Dan’s response.

“You know I can’t help you with that. I’m not on the case any more. I’m a civilian. I know no more than you.”

The words were bland, conciliatory even, but she was used to pulling meaning from what he said and it seemed to her suddenly that he disliked Keith Mantel. She had thought everyone in the village liked Abigail’s father, felt nothing but sympathy for him. First Vera had been dismissive. Now Dan’s response was a surprise and disconcerting.

: She wandered outside, passing so close to Dan Greenwood that she could smell the wax on his Barbour jacket. The sky had cleared overhead completely. There was a thin moon and sharp pinpricks of stars. It must still be misty out to sea, because below the voices she could hear the fog horn on the Point. A deep rumble like thunder. The evening had begun in a rather decorous and subdued way, but now there was a pile of empty beer cans in the corner by the barbecue and the lifeboat crew cooks were laughing and shouting.

The brief lull in sound was unexpected. The music had stopped for some reason and the loudest cook was scooping a sausage into a bun, concentrating, his fat tongue showing through the vice of his teeth. In the silence, falling into it, not realizing it was coming, someone said, “Bloody hell, there’s old Mike Long. I haven’t seen him for years.” Then the noise started again, but by then everyone had stared at the tall, thin man and at the woman who was walking beside him.

Emma recognized the name and then the man in the light of the flames which the frost seemed to have tinged blue. She wondered if Robert had noticed him, if there would be another scene. But Michael Long no longer seemed angry. He was moving hesitantly among the crowd, meeting old friends. If he recognized Robert he didn’t show it.

The woman with him was Vera Stanhope. She saw Emma looking and came up to her, waving a can of lager as greeting. She had changed from the usual shapeless dress into crumpled baggy trousers and a huge navy sweater with a roll neck. She was still wearing the sandals.

“What are you doing here?” Emma asked. It was illogical but she blamed Vera for interrupting her meal with James the night before. The image of the detective standing on the step, battering at the door had been so strong that she couldn’t lose it, even though it had been Christopher standing there.

“Everyone has a night off, pet.”

Oh no, not you. You pretend to be a clown, but you’re the most intelligent woman I’ve ever met.

“Besides, it’s a good cause, isn’t it?” Vera beamed. “Lifeboats and that. Saving folks.” She looked back to the house. The fire was reflected in the long chapel window. “So this is where you and Abigail spent that summer. Sharing your secrets. Best friends.”

Emma looked at her sharply wondering how the detective could have guessed that best friends hardly described the relationship they’d had. Because the tone of her voice echoed Christopher’s when he’d said the night before, “She was your only friend. I always thought you hated her.” Had it been hatred? Emma wondered. Abigail had been the mistress and she the paid companion, flattering, laughing at the jokes, sympathizing when Jeanie Long came along to spoil it all. There had been resentment, certainly. But hatred? Why had she stuck it out for so long? Because there had been moments of real affection. And because in the Mantel household there had been a glamour missing in the rest of her life.

Vera was looking at her as if she expected an answer.

“We’d not long moved here,” Emma said. “I was lonely and Abigail was the first person I met who was friendly. Yes, we spent most of that summer together.” . “She was a bonny lass.” Vera emptied the can, squashed it in her fist and threw it onto the pile by the cook house “I’ve seen photos. I can’t believe there weren’t any admirers.”

“There were lots of them.”

Lads who offered to do her homework and came into school clutching cassettes of the music they’d taped specially for her. Lads who turned blotchy and tongue-tied when she gave them any encouragement.

“But no one special?”

“Not that I know of. She said she wasn’t interested in kids.”

“Someone older then? A lad from college maybe. Home for the summer.”

“She didn’t mention anyone.”

“Would she have done?”

At one time Emma would have answered immediately. Sure. Of course. We told each other everything. Now she hesitated and chose her words carefully.

“I don’t know. Thinking about it again, recently, I probably didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. I mean, kids can be devious too, can’t they? And sometimes you don’t want to share your secrets with anyone. Not even your friend.”

Vera raised her caterpillar eyebrows and seemed about to speak, but then her attention was caught elsewhere. A woman was standing in front of the fire. She was side on, in silhouette, alone. She held a glass of red wine, which, with the fierce light behind it, looked black.

“Well, well, well…” Vera sounded pleased with herself. It was as if she’d been given an unexpected treat. “What’s she doing here, do you suppose?” Then to Emma, “You’ll recognize her, won’t you, pet? She’s not changed that much. Obviously kept in trim. The sort to go to the gym a couple of times a week, I’d say. And you can do a lot with make-up. Or so they tell me.”

The woman turned. She was slim, dark, well groomed. Her nails were the same colour as the wine.

“If I was a bitchy cow,” Vera said, “I’d have said she’d had a nose job. What do you think?”

Emma was about to say that she’d never seen the woman before in her life, then the way the sleek, black hair swung when she moved, reminded her. “It’s Caroline Fletcher, the detective in charge of the Mantel case the first time round.”

“Full marks for observation.”

“You’d have thought she’d want to keep a low profile,” Emma said. “After all that comment in the press.”

“From what I hear, our Caroline’s never done low profile in her life. But she’s got nerve. I’ll give her that. Rattling a few cages, I’d say. Putting on the pressure. They tell me she was a decent little detective in her time. She’ll not have lost the knack. Or it’ll be a fishing expedition, maybe. Everyone friendly and informal, more likely to gab. She’ll want to know which way the wind’s blowing.”

Vera was muttering almost to herself. If she’d bumped into her in town, Emma thought, she’d have put her down as a bag lady, one of those smelly women of indeterminate age, who sit on park benches talking to the trees. She looked around for James, thought he might be amused that this was the detective who had been sent to sort out the case, but he seemed to have disappeared.

“You must already have talked to Caroline about what happened back then,” Emma said.

“Must I? Na, pet. That’s not the way I work. I make up my own mind first. Look at the notes, talk to the people who count. And the police don’t count for much in most cases. I’ll talk to Caroline when I’m good and ready.”

“Perhaps that’s why she’s here. To talk to you.” “You think?” Vera gave a little laugh and walked away, helping herself to someone else’s lager as she went. When Emma saw her next she was still muttering, but now into Dan Greenwood’s ear. Dan had been a cop, Emma thought. And he seemed to count. When she looked for Caroline Fletcher, the dark woman had disappeared too.

The screaming started at about the same time as the fireworks, so for a short time Emma missed it, because it was hidden by the screech and wail of exploding rockets. She heard it first because she was standing furthest away from the fire. She didn’t like to admit it, but fireworks scared her. It was the breathless moment between their lighting and the rush of sound. In that beat of silence she felt her heart pound and she became faint. She would have liked James’s arm around her so they could cover the silence with conversation, but he was talking to Dan Greenwood and Robert. They were standing, all blokes together, laughing. A rocket shot into the darkness, exploded in a shower of gaudy stars and she heard screaming.

She walked around the side of the house towards the road because that was where the sound seemed to come from. The lane was lit with sparse street lights and the skinny moon. A woman was standing and screaming. It was like when she had found Abigail Mantel’s body, but in negative, a reverse image, a parallel universe. Because this time it was her mother who screamed and she who ran. And her mother pulled her arm and pointed into the ditch by the side of the road. And again there was a body.

But Abigail Mantel had looked ugly in death, much uglier than when she’d lived. Christopher, lying on his back in the ditch, was lit by the moon so his skin had a frosty blue sheen, which reminded her of the fabric of a bridesmaid’s dress she’d worn once to a cousin’s wedding. A densely woven satin with a matt finish and silver threads. All this was going through her mind as she took Mary into her arms and whispered the same reassurances she’d been given ten years before, “It’ll be all right. Everything’s going to be all right.” Not believing what she was saying, but feeling her mother’s sobs subside and her breathing grow calmer.

Then Vera Stanhope appeared, solid and brusque.

“Who’s this, then?”

“It’s my brother, Christopher.”

There was a horrified pause then, “Oh, pet,” she said, and briefly cupped Emma’s face in her huge hands, so for a moment, in her confusion, Emma thought she intended to kiss her. Instead she put her arm round each of the women’s shoulders and led them away from the scene. Then she stood in the middle of the road so no cars could pass and spoke urgently into her phone.

Part Two

Chapter Twenty

The eczema on Vera Stanhope’s legs distracted her. Her limbs felt alive, as if small burrowing animals had penetrated the surface, were living off the fat and the blood. She imagined she could sense the snuffling and digging. It was always the same when she wore trousers. She longed to let the air to the skin, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now. It wouldn’t be seemly for a senior investigating officer to drop her pants in front of the hoopla of a crime scene. Whatever would the pathologist, the examiners in their white paper suits and the local detectives make of it? If she was to be the senior investigating officer, which had still to be established.

Her doctor had said that stress made her skin condition worse, but it wasn’t stress she was experiencing now. It was exhilaration and guilt. She didn’t believe police officers who denied being excited by murder. Who would fail to be turned on by the drama, the costume and the show? Why else had they joined the service? It was different for the relatives, of course, and that was where the guilt came in. She had a responsibility. She’d been playing this slowly, nosing around like the mythical creatures under her skin, feeling her way into the complexities of the situation, picking up on hostilities and lies. She worried that if she’d adopted a more orthodox approach, this other death might not have occurred.

Aye, and you’d still be in the dark, pet. If you’d had them into the station, taken them through their original statements, word for word, you’d be none the wiser than the day you arrived. This way at least you understand the people. You have a feeling for what went on.

She’d never been lacking in confidence and usually didn’t see the point of regret.

They’d rigged up spotlights and a tent over the ditch. There was the rumble of a generator, four-wheel-drive vehicles reversing at the bottom of the narrow lane, earnest conversation. She thought there was nothing to be gained here now. She’d been liaising on the Mantel case with a local DI called Paul Holness. He was a middle-aged man, bluff and cheerful, and he’d joined the force from Lancashire since Abigail’s murder. Ambitious in theory, he was too idle on the ground to be any threat. No way would he want to be Senior Investigating Officer. Too much responsibility in this particular case. Too much shit flying around. He was talking to the pathologist in the gateway to the Old Chapel. She made her way to join them.

“Definitely murder,” Holness said. “You can’t see with him lying on his back, but his head’s bashed in.”

Any sign of the murder weapon?”

“Not yet, but they’ve not had a chance for a proper search. We’re organizing that now.” He stamped his feet and wrapped his arms across his chest. He was wearing sheepskin gloves but he still seemed to be feeling the cold. Vera thought they were a soft lot, these