The Beauty of the End (10 page)

19

T
he wave had broken, hurling me into seething, boiling depths in which I plummeted to the bottom. Indeterminate days passed, during which I wallowed, wanting to drown, imagining a release from misery. But I'd reached that lowest point from which I found myself slowly, unwillingly, inevitably drifting upward.

When I sobered up and confronted what I'd done to the house, I realized also, much as I hated admitting it, Will had been right—but about one thing only. I didn't know April as well as I thought. If I had, she wouldn't have gone.

I'd been aware of the shadow that followed her; but I'd been too happy, on the crest of my wave, hadn't questioned once,
Why?
But it was love that had done that to me. Love, its palette of warmth and color and light, painting rosy-tinted brushstrokes into every corner of my life; now it was buried under the ugly shade of bitterness. I'd made a mistake. I'd trusted April. It was a mistake I wouldn't make twice.

After cleaning up the house, remorselessly mopping up Will's blood from where it had congealed on the kitchen floor, I threw out the empty bottles, returned wedding gifts, and discovered how expensive canceling a wedding was. I made no attempt to contact Will. Bea came round once or twice—sweet Bea, who was always April's friend and oddly awkward now that she'd gone. But whatever Bea knew, she remained fiercely loyal to April and wouldn't be drawn.

“I know it probably doesn't feel like it, but perhaps it wasn't meant to be,” she said quietly, as we sipped tea from cups and saucers she'd found in the kitchen, which I didn't recognize. Maybe an unreturned wedding gift, something else I hadn't known about.

Even if she was right, it was too soon to hear her say that. “But I keep thinking of all those times, Bea. We broke up before, you know that, but somehow we always ended up together.”

I was still hanging on, desperate for her to offer even the smallest shred of hope.

“Oh, Noah. Darling . . .” Putting down her cup, Bea sighed. “I do know she loved you. Really loved you—in her way. For what it's worth.”

“She should have talked to me, Bea. We could have worked out whatever was troubling her. I know we could.”

Bea shook her head unhappily. “Do you know what I think? You loved each other. But sometimes, love isn't enough. Isn't that desperately sad?”

“No,” I said, stung. “You're wrong. Love, real love, like April and I had, can conquer anything.” Even now, I still believed that. Then I looked at her.

“Is that what she thought? She told you, didn't she, Bea?
Why
?”

She shook her head again. “Don't, Noah. She's my friend.”

“If she did, you have to tell me, Bea. Please.”

Hearing the note of desperation in my voice, and sensing my rising panic, she glanced at her watch. “Oh my, is that the time?”

Bea reached for her handbag. But as she got up to go, I was across the room, beside her, grasping her arms.

“Bea . . . I'm asking you . . . Begging you . . .
Please tell me.
. . .”

“Noah! Please. You're hurting me.” She pulled away from me, a look of fear crossing her face.

Ashamed, I released her, stepping back. “Sorry . . . Sorry, Bea. I don't know what came over me.”

But already pulling on her jacket, she headed for the door.

“Bea . . . Please. Wait . . . ,” I called after her.

Her hand on the latch, she paused, her voice shaky as she composed herself. “Let her go, Noah. Move on. Now I must go, darling, I'm so sorry.”

* * *

In the aftermath, I oscillated between reluctant acceptance and devastation, battling through long days at work, only to come home to a house that resounded with loneliness, where every mug and every cushion was a reminder of what I'd lost, where my escape was to drink. It was only time; long, lonely months that forced me to accept the truth I denied for so long. April wasn't coming back.

There were no letters or calls, no messages, inferred or otherwise to be delivered by Bea or Will or anyone else, not that either of them was speaking to me. Nor was there any sense in trying to find her. No one nearby had heard from her, and after the wedding was called off, mutual friends had drifted away on the tide of my embarrassment.

I was alone.

20

 

I
n the hospital, I watch April through the blinds, still caught in a past that lingers beside me, as heavy footsteps get louder then come to a stop, and I'm jolted back to the present.

“Excuse me, sir?”

It's a man's voice and I turn to look at him. He's stocky, in an ill-fitting suit and open-necked shirt. “Detective Sergeant Ryder.” He lifts his ID. “Could I have a word?”

I take an instant dislike to him. He's too loud, too substantial for this place of frail, damaged bodies and shattered lives.

I follow him anyway, back along the corridor and into a small room, where so many have sat before, where their desperation and hope still hang in the air, cling to the papered walls. Closing the door, he gestures to me to sit in one of the upright, plastic chairs, then gets straight to the point.

“I understand from one of the nurses that you're a friend of Ms. Rousseau's?”

“That's right.” I send silent thanks to the friendly, brown-haired nurse for not telling him I'm her lawyer. Until I find out where he's coming from; for leaving that pleasure to me, when I find out where he's coming from.

“In that case, sir, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Could I take your name?”

“Noah Calaway.”

He writes it down, as he does my home address and phone number, adding that of the B&B where I'm staying, before he goes on to ask about my occupation.

“Writer,” I tell him.

“You got anything published?” He stares, clearly curious.

“A couple of books.” I shrug.

“Should I have heard of you?” His gaze unflinching.

“Possibly.” I hold his gaze. “I write under my own name, Detective Sergeant. If you'd read one of my books, I'm sure a man of your ability would have remembered.”

A frown flickers briefly on his face; then, his interest short-lived, he goes on. “Have you had any contact with Ms. Rousseau in recent weeks?”

“To be honest, not for some time. A mutual acquaintance called me and told me what had happened. That's why I'm here.”

“Can I ask where you were the night of the murder, sir?”

“At home. Alone,” I tell him bluntly, because he'll ask.

Ryder pauses. “In Devon.”

“Yes.”

Frowning at me, he puts down his pen. “Long way to come, just to see an old friend you haven't seen—for how long?”

“About sixteen years.” I hold his gaze for a moment. “Our mutual acquaintance seems to think that she's the only suspect. That her phone was in the car, with presumably fibers from her gloves all over the murder weapon.”

I'm guessing, but I can see his discomfiture—that this writer of whom he hasn't heard has the balls not to be intimidated by him; even worse, stands his ground.

“Look.” He shuffles his pages slightly. “All I can say is that so far, with the evidence we have, we're not looking at anyone else.”

“So everyone tells me.” Because I already know this from Will. Folding my arms, heartened, because whatever he says it's not as conclusive as he wants it to be. Anyone can wear gloves. “But you must be considering the possibility?”

Ryder looks up sharply.

“Well, if you don't find anything, I guess the trial will be straightforward,” I add, not letting on that I know more about the legal process than he thinks.

Leaning back in his chair, Ryder actually smirks. “Assuming there is one.”

I know what he's saying.
Assuming she comes round.
I like him even less.

“What do you write?” Hostile words, because he's not asking out of pure interest.

“Crime.” I watch him digest this, the cynical curl of his lips, as if it explains everything.

“Right.” He smirks. “Fancy yourself a bit of an expert, I suppose.”

“I have my own opinion. That's not a crime, though, is it, Detective Sergeant?” Keeping my voice intentionally light, by now not caring if I rile him.

He pauses, before saying nastily, “It's horseshit.”

“Excuse me?” I stare at his narrowed eyes.

“What those nurses always tell you—you know, about how they can hear.” He says it coldly, and as he watches me for a response, I see his comment for what it is. The ugliest, clumsiest of tactics—Ryder's been in his job too long.

“Unless you know otherwise?” Casually, like an afterthought.

When he already knows I haven't been allowed into April's room. I've no time for this, nothing more to say to him. Getting to my feet, I speak through gritted teeth. “If you have everything you need from me, Detective Sergeant, I'll be on my way. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

“Care to tell me what you know?” He calls after me as I turn my back on him and walk out.

“We're all busy, Calaway. Don't waste everyone's time. . . .” His voice fades as the swing doors close behind me.

* * *

The dubious moral compass of creeps like Ryder, which influenced my departure from the legal world, strengthens my resolve to prove him wrong. It's Ryder I'm thinking about as I drive the couple of hours it takes to get to Musgrove. It's not hard to imagine his logic. A phone, April's glove, and the murder weapon hadn't got into that car on their own.

The next place I needed to call was the North Star, just reopening after the conclusion of the police investigation there. Where the price of information is alcohol. where it seems also I'm remembered. I push the familiar door open and wander over to the bar, catapulted back to my teenage years, until I see John Slater, the owner. That he has aged so markedly somehow shocks me.

“Well, I never . . . You youngsters don't half make me feel old,” he says, dimly recognizing me, but then people—and beer—have been John's trade for most of his life. “What are you having?”

“Hello, John. Beer.” I add, “I don't mind which,”, resisting the allure of the line of spirit bottles, as he nods toward the names I don't recognize.

Slowly he pulls me a pint, which seems to take immense effort, while I look around, taking in how little has changed.

“It's the same old place.” He grunts. “People are always telling me what fancy nonsense I should do with it. Can't see the point in changing it when it works just fine the way it is. Anyway, truth is, I won't be here much longer. I'm selling up.”

I thrust a ten-pound note at him but he waves it away.

“On the house. So what brings you here?”

“Work,” I tell him. “The murder the other night. I wanted to talk to you—about the victim.”

His face folds into wrinkles as he frowns at me. “Never had you down as a copper.”

“I'm not. I'm a writer—but I used to be a lawyer.”

He nods, as if somehow seeing that suits me better, pours himself a half, then nods toward a table in the corner. “Shall we?”

He's slow on his feet as we cross the room, where he pulls out a chair and, with a sigh, sinks into it.

“I'm trying to remember who your mates were. My memory isn't what it used to be.”

“There were a few of us, but usually I was with Will Farrington.” Nodding as I watch him place me, recognition dawning on his face.

“I always knew the pair of you were underage, you know.”

“You did?”

“Oh, everyone tried it in those days! Mind you, if you'd misbehaved, you'd have been out of here faster than you'd have liked. Done well, hasn't he? Your mate?”

“Will? I suppose he has.” I'm amazed that John remembers both Will and me, but in his next breath I discover why.

“No suppose about it.” John looks more serious. “Has a magic touch, that bloke. Happens he's a bit of an expert on this heart condition my young grandson has. If you ask me, it was him that single-handedly saved him.”

Will's presence seems to be everywhere I turn.

“To be honest, we're not in touch.”

John raises his eyebrows.

“We fell out. Years ago.” I add dismissively, “History.”

“Well, he did all this surgery,” John says. “Touch and go it was, for a while, but it's done the trick. My grandson's like any other lad now. He really is.”

“That's good news,” I say politely, imagining Will glorying in the adulation of the families he helps, all of them oblivious to his ruthless, selfish streak.

“He's a bloody miracle worker,” John says. A shadow crosses his face. “Not all the kids are so lucky. He comes in now and then—Mr. Farrington. Seems to work in hospitals all over the country.”

Since when did John call him
Mr. Farrington
? But I haven't come here to talk about Will.

“That night, John . . .” I pause. “Did you see—or hear—anything unusual?”

“Not particularly. Norton came in. He wasn't a regular, but he'd show up, from time to time. He sat over there.” Pointing to a table near the door. “He wasn't looking so good, but then he never did. Always thought there was something shifty about him. . . Anyway, then this woman came in—attractive, she was. Younger than him, with long red hair. They talked. Thought she looked upset at one point.” He frowns. “In fact, I nearly went over. He was a strange bloke. I didn't think any more of it until late that night when I was locking up. There was this car out there. I'm used to that, people leaving their cars when they drink too much.... Only the thing was, there was someone in it. Thought it was just a bloke sleeping it off, but when I got closer . . .” Slowly shaking his head, he grimaces. “Won't forget that in a hurry.”

He falls silent. I give him a minute to clear the image of Norton's bloodied body from his head.

“The red-haired woman—did you recognize her? She came in here, once or twice, with me and Will, but it was a long time ago.”

John frowns. “I thought I might have, but to be honest, I couldn't say for sure.” Then he adds, “I remember you two well enough, but back in those days, you were always in here, weren't you?”

I suppose, thinking back, we probably had been, though it hadn't seemed like that at the time. “Do you remember seeing either of them leave?”

“I remember her leaving. She looked terrible. After, he came over to the bar and had a couple more drinks. I remember seeing his keys on the bar and thinking he shouldn't be driving. But that was about it.”

“Any idea what the time was?”

He nods slowly. “Must have been tennish when she left, maybe a bit later. Norton was in here till closing.”

I frown. “Can you tell me anything about him?”

John looks blank. “Not really. Last I heard, he was living with a woman called Fiona Draper. Nice lady by all accounts. But then I can't say I really knew the bloke.”

. “What about security camera footage? I saw you had a camera outside.”

He shakes his head unhappily. “The police are looking at what there is. Only some young bugger cut the cables a couple of weeks back. One of those hoodlums from across town, I wouldn't mind betting. I had to throw a few of them out a while back. Their idea of revenge, I don't doubt. I hadn't got round to fixing it.”

* * *

I try to push John further, but apart from giving me an address for Fiona Draper, there's nothing he can tell me. After thanking him for the beer, I leave him my number, asking him to call me if he remembers anything else.

As I get in my car, I'm thinking about what John told me, which isn't as much as I'd hoped. I know that April and Norton were in the pub that night, at the same table, that she left before he did and whatever they talked about upset her. At the moment, much though I don't like it, the likelihood is their meeting was prearranged. Even to me, it would have to be some coincidence that brought her all the way from Kent the same night he was killed.

And there's the security camera. It's not impossible that whoever killed Norton disabled that, too, in advance—perhaps the only indication of premeditation, rather than an act in the heat of the moment.

* * *

But whatever Norton said to her, however upset she was, even though there's been a murder and an attempted suicide, linked by a phone and a single glove, I'm unable to picture April with a knife in her hand stabbing him.

As I drive away from the North Star, recognizing Will's old road, impulsively I turn into it, taking in the huge, elegantly proportioned houses, mostly Georgian, positioned at the end of smart drives and indicative of their owners' wealth. Then I pass the house his parents used to own—may still own, for all I know—for the first time acknowledging the difference in our backgrounds that was always there, that I'd never seen.

Was this where his arrogance and conceit had taken root? I hadn't seen it in his parents, just as I hadn't seen it in him, missing it, as I'd missed so much. Then curiosity takes me farther, across to April's side of town, which spreads untidily westward. Where it's shabby, the houses are smaller, uniformly reproduced in matching narrow streets, turning into Magnolia Way, now wearing the cheap, gaudy clothes of someone who's trying too hard. The new playground and incongruous flowerbeds, a too thin layer of gloss through which I glimpse the same surly mouths and lines of discontent.

* * *

Back at the B&B, I get out the file I took from April's cottage, pull out the list of clients I made yesterday, then reach for my phone to continue down it. The first three numbers I try go unanswered and a couple more result in people hanging up on me. I'm rapidly losing heart, until I come to Nina Hendry, who, fortunately, is prepared to talk.