The English Boys (5 page)

Murray headed north on Grosvenor Place toward Belgravia, to the tall white row house he called home. It had belonged to his Uncle Roger, who had left it to him twenty years earlier. As a young constable, he could never have afforded such a home without the bequest, but it suited him perfectly now. Inside, it was as neat and orderly as it had been when his wife was alive, and he had changed nothing about it from the furniture placement to the dishes in the cupboards.

When he discovered it had been left to him, it had been quite a shock. He and his wife had been living in a second-floor flat in Islington, surrounded by noisy neighbors with too many children, and had never expected to inherit anything, much less a house. Ingrid, a tall Swedish blonde he had met at university, was the sort of woman he'd never even looked at during his bachelor days. She was too beautiful, too perfect, for an ordinary man like him. Yet somehow, she had loved him. They had been married five years when they'd moved into this house, and though she'd kept all of his uncle's furniture, she had swept away the stuffiness of the house and filled it with a lightness he had never imagined.

They had spent years trying to get pregnant, and it was his greatest regret that he had not been able to have children with her. Then, four years ago, she had found a lump in her right breast, and six months later he was a widower.

When he arrived at the house, he parked the car in the street and went inside, observing his rituals: hanging his coat on a hook, sifting through the mail on the hall table, touching the surface of the buffet in the sitting room where the drinks tray was laid. Ingrid had painted that piece, as she had a few of the others, a Carl Larsson blue. It made him think of their last trip to Sweden and her parents' home in Katrineholm, where they'd gone shortly after her diagnosis. It had been summer, and they had eaten gravlax and dumplings and walked among the shops, sitting outside on the long summer nights as he listened to her talking about his life without her. He had found it unbearable to speak of such a thing, but living without her had been immeasurably worse.

Sighing, he picked up the telephone and ordered his usual Monday takeaway to be delivered, and then poured a glass of wine, a Bordeaux that was Ingrid's favorite, and waited in the sitting room. When the food arrived a half hour later, he took out a pen and paper and began to make notes while picking at his lamb tikka and bombay aloo.
Who killed Tamsyn Burke?
he wrote at the top of the page. Then he scribbled a name on the paper and circled it. It was process of elimination now, and one might as well start at the top.

Seven

Tamsyn Burke had come
into Daniel's life unexpectedly, and all because of an opportunity for him to work with Hugh in a film. Despite their close friendship, Daniel and Hugh had never been cast in any production together since their days at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Their interests, like their personalities, ran along dissimilar veins: Hugh preferred to act in historical pictures when the opportunity arose, while Daniel opted for contemporary films. From time to time, Hugh had mentioned the possibility of working together, but Daniel had privately thought himself far too competitive to star in any film opposite his best friend. He was surprised that Hugh would welcome it either.

As they were establishing themselves in the public eye, they were known to be friends, but until Sir John Hodges contacted them, no one else had approached them for the same project. Daniel supposed this was inevitable. Although there existed an incredible wealth of acting talent on their small island, theirs was a field where nepotism mattered almost as much as ability.

“Come down for the weekend, Daniel, so we can at least discuss the possibility,” Sir John had insisted when he rang. “Ashley-Hunt seems quite eager.”

Daniel had decided that a break from London after the long, wet month of June was in order, as long as Hugh was so keen to go. They'd taken an early train to Paris, where they rented a car and drove to the Hodges' home a few kilometers south of Lille. Daniel had been to France a number of times, most notably a couple of years earlier when he'd been involved with an attractive French chef from Perpignan. For one brief weekend he had considered settling down in the Pyrenees, where they would open a restaurant and raise enormous dogs. The relationship, while more serious than any previous one, eventually ran its course, and he smiled to himself when he remembered how he'd avoided the continent for a while after that. Regardless, it was good to be back. The landscape of northern France had awoken from the dormancy of winter and everything was in full bloom. Thick, verdant beech trees lined the road and wildflowers were scattered across the fields.

They arrived mid-afternoon, pulling up to a late-nineteenth-century house. It was pink stucco adorned with weather-beaten green shutters and ivy, a crumbling, timeworn French maison. Sir John and his wife were perfect hosts. The food was excellent, their rooms comfortable, and there was no talk about films. As a matter of fact, a very satisfactory day passed without any mention of it at all, and when at last the subject did arise, it was more tempting than Daniel had expected.

“I want to do
Under the Greenwood Tree
,” Sir John told them over a good Pinot Noir in his library.

“Hardy,” Hugh said. “A vicar and a farmer vying for the same girl. Is that right?”

“Yes, that's the one.”

“Who'll play the girl?”

“I haven't cast the girl yet, but we're looking at a number of suitable actresses. It would have to be someone well known, to balance things out with the two of you.”

“I don't believe we've accepted just yet,” Daniel said, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Oh, but you will. Think of it. It will make the film. Everyone will want to see you together.”

“I presume you'll film in Dorset?” Hugh asked.

“Yes. I've already found a location. We stayed there a few weeks ago and discovered a rather unspoiled village that would be perfect. I have people there now making arrangements.”

“I'm still not convinced it would be the best idea for us to be in the same film,” Daniel said.

“Why not?” Hugh asked. “We've talked about it before.”

“True, but I didn't really take it seriously. It would be rather like doing a movie with someone you're married to.”

“We could handle it. Besides, we'd each bring different strengths to the film.”

“You must do it,” Hodge's wife, Antonia, said as she entered the room. She was a tall, perfectly coiffed dyed blonde of a certain age who wore what Daniel considered dangerously high heels. She went over to the cabinet and poured herself a small sherry. “You're bookends, you see. Light and dark. Good and evil. I, for one, would kill to see you both in it. Do consider it.”

“I believe that makes you the evil one,” Hugh said to Daniel, laughing.

“It's a nice afternoon for a swim,” Sir John interrupted. “Why talk business when there's fun to be had?”

“Excellent,” Hugh said, rising from his chair. “Just the thing for a pleasant afternoon.”

The subject didn't come up again until they were about to leave the following day. Sir John followed them to the car and shook their hands.

“I'll have scripts sent round,” he said, as if they had come to an agreement.

Daniel was ready to protest when Hugh intervened. “That would be wonderful. Thank you for considering us.”

“Yes,” Daniel echoed as he opened the car door. “And thank you for the weekend, as well.”

Three hours later, they had deposited the car at the rental agency and were on the ferry to England, and Daniel, after some persuasion, had agreed to make the film. The mast flag flapped in the breeze, which, while not quite a gale, was nevertheless strong enough to encourage most people to go inside. Daniel stood alone at the rail, staring at the retreating coast of France and not really thinking of the Hodges or the film they were producing or of Hugh's enthusiasm for the project, but of the satisfaction of days like this. He liked the disconnected feeling he had just now, as if he were cut off from everything in the world. Even his mobile couldn't get reception in the middle of the Channel. No one, neither agent nor family nor friends, could bother him in any way. It felt majestic having the deck to himself, and he was very glad he hadn't let Hugh talk him into taking the Eurostar back to London.

“You're missing one of the best experiences a person can have,” he'd chided when his friend announced his intention to get a drink and brace himself from the elements, such as they were on a sunny day in July.

“God, no,” Hugh had replied. “I still say we should have taken the train. Give me champagne and hake with gruyere in first class any day over a stiff wind and a plastic molded seat.”

“You don't sit on a ferry, gobhead. You beat your chest and feel the wind in your face and, for this one hour, you own the Channel and everything you see.”

“You're a romantic of the worst kind. Never deny yourself the odd bit of luxury. Life can be so cruel.”

Daniel laughed. “Yes, I imagine it's been very hard for you. Best go find sustenance in the form of alcohol.”

“Thanks, I believe I shall.”

From the deck, Daniel took a last look at the pier and lighthouse growing smaller in the afternoon sun and then turned to face north. With only a thin band of clouds hovering high in the sky, the white cliffs of Dover were visible, even at this distance. Studying them, he felt an unexpected rush of pleasure. He didn't think of himself as a nationalist, but certain images, these cliffs among them, gave him a strong sense of pride. The day was beautiful, and he was fortunate after a weekend's freeloading to be here experiencing it instead of trapped in some office or even on location for a film. It would be an agreeable hour contemplating the gulls and watching the water ripple where the cod and plaice nipped up to the surface, the sort of thing that he would think about on rainy autumn days to take his mind off the bone-numbing chill.

He didn't notice the girl at first. She sat on a bench several feet away from him, a small thing wearing a sundress and sandals with an enormously wide-brimmed hat on her head. She hardly moved. In fact, it was almost as if she were asleep behind the dark sunglasses she wore. Yet, even though she sat so still, something about her arrested his attention. When she suddenly moved to look at him, he realized he'd been staring.

“Why aren't you inside, like everyone else?” she asked.

Daniel made an expansive gesture and smiled. “I'm taking this all in, of course. It's far too nice a day to spend it indoors.”

“That's what I think, too.” She removed her sunglasses and placed them on her lap. “What were you doing in France?”

He was surprised at her directness, almost as much as he was by the enormity of her deep brown eyes. “Business,” he said, shrugging. He didn't get personal with people he didn't know.

“I was day-tripping. That's a fun word, day-tripping, isn't it? I went shopping and treated myself to lunch.”

“Alone?” he couldn't help but ask.

“Yes,” she admitted as she stood and walked over to stand by him at the rail. “I had a look around Calais. It was my first trip to France.”

She could do a good job better than Calais, he thought, although his answer was more civil. “There are a lot of nice things to see in France.”

“Oh, I'm sure there are. Maybe one day you'll show me.”

In spite of himself, Daniel smiled. “We're to become great friends, are we?”

“Of course. And it's not because you're a film star that I'm adding you to my list.”

“Your list?” he asked, uncomfortable now that she had recognized him.

“Yes, my list. I'm putting you on because you have a nice face.”

“As do you,” he replied, wondering if he could make a graceful escape. He didn't chat up strangers. One never knew what they might want. Suddenly a Pimms with Hugh and a molded plastic seat sounded almost appealing.

“I'm Tamsyn,” she said, adjusting her hat. “Tamsyn Burke.”

“That's a good name,” he said. “Not the sort someone could forget.”

Her face, with its large eyes and Cupid's bow lips, was not forgettable either. There was something about her. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to talk to her a little bit longer. After all, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Nothing was more wretched than taking a day trip to Calais on one's own.

“So, did you see the sights?” he asked. “The Hotel de Ville is very nice. A classic example of Flemish Renaissance architecture, if I'm correct.”

“You're bound to be,” she said. “But I'm afraid I was more interested in flower stalls and poky little junk shops. And there was a café, facing the Channel, with the wind ruffling the edges of the umbrellas and the smell of the fishing boats coming in from the sea.”

“And most people just think Calais is a good place to score cheap booze. It's nice to see someone who can appreciate it for its intrinsic value.”

“You're laughing at me,” she said, in such a way that he wondered if she were laughing at him. “So, what shall we see in Paris when we go?”

“Oh, Paris,” he mimicked, trying to imagine an adventure with this improbable girl. “That depends on your personality. You see, if you're the serious type, we'd walk through the P
è
re Lachaise looking for
É
dith Piaf's grave, or spend interminable hours in the Louvre uncovering the mystery of why there are so many portraits of Josephine Bonaparte. Or perhaps we would sit at Les Deux Magots drinking bad coffee and reading Sartre or Hemingway and pretending they make sense.”

“But I'm not like that, of course.”

“Oh, you're not like that at all. You're a free spirit. You know: the sort to lean over the deck of a bateaux mouche to see if you can see your reflection in the Seine. Or eating melting ice cream on the Île Saint-Louis. Anything but ordinary.”

“You know, I thought you'd be a pompous arse. Actors generally are.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I should know. I'm an actor, too.”

He gave her a skeptical look while trying to keep a straight face.

“Oh, I'm not in the Jane Austen set like your lot,” she explained unselfconsciously. “I do the odd science fiction television program. You know, dinosaurs taking over the earth and mummies coming to life in the British Museum, that sort of thing.”

“Is that what you meant to do when you were at school?”

“I've changed my mind. You are a pompous arse.”

“At least we have that sorted. Would you like a drink?”

Tamsyn pulled off her hat and rested it on the railing. “I'd love one.”

He left her to purchase two lemonades from the mini café inside, pausing to exchange a smile with Hugh, who was observing his t
ê
te-
à
-t
ê
te with the girl. Hugh raised his glass in a mock toast, and Daniel shook his head. She wasn't the sort of girl one chats up and takes to bed two hours later. He knew better than that. She was the sort you leave almost immediately after meeting and then wonder why the hell you can't get her out of your mind.