The House on the Cliff (24 page)

There was a silence as he waited for my response.

I was courteous, but firm.

“Well, thank you for calling. . . .”

“We must meet and talk. It’s for your own good. You’ll regret it if you don’t. . . .”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No.” The voice on the other end of the line remained low and steady. He didn’t sound like the kind of a man who would go out with a can of spray paint and vandalize a car. “I’m just warning you, you’re going to make a fool of yourself if you take the witness stand. Ruin your reputation. You mustn’t be taken in.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan, but—”

He didn’t let me finish.

“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be in the Smuggler’s Rest, Penarth Marina, from eight o’clock. I’ll wait for you in the bar.”

“Good-bye.” I said, and put the phone down. Rage bubbled up in me again, fury that Bob was once more meddling in my affairs, trying to stop me helping an ex-client.

To clear my head, I got up, went over and looked out of the window. But the street was empty, nothing to see but a blank gray sky, and a few dead leaves sailing slowly down from the tree outside to join the ones scattered on the pavement below.

I didn’t get to the Smuggler’s Rest until nine o’clock that evening. Bob was away on a business trip, and I’d had a lot of cooking, taxi-servicing, and helping with homework duties to cope with. Besides, I didn’t want to appear too eager.

Strange, how quickly one’s resolve can weaken. My instinct, when Evan Morgan had called that morning, had been to avoid having anything to do with him; and during the rest of the day I’d been too busy with my clients to give the matter any further thought. But at the end of the day, before I went home, I’d begun to think about what he’d said. So I’d called him back and told him I’d meet him later that evening.

I didn’t believe that Arianrhod and Gwydion were lying about what had happened on the yacht, but I still had a nagging sense that I wasn’t getting the whole picture. And I was acutely aware that in a few days’ time, if Bob backed down and I went ahead, I’d be making my formal statement to the police. Surely, I thought, it would be wrong to do so without first hearing Evan Morgan’s version of events. The other reason I changed my mind, I have to admit, was curiosity. As DS Lauren Bonetti had pointed out, psychotherapists, like police inspectors, are by nature inquisitive people; it goes with the territory. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of; if you weren’t a nosy parker, you wouldn’t be able to do your job properly.

Yet as I drew up outside the pub, I began to feel nervous. I was about to meet a man who’d been accused of murder. A man who might very well take a dislike to me, who might want to stop me making my statement to the police, or persuade me to change what I had to say. Of course, it was highly unlikely that Evan Morgan would harm me in any way—abducting me at this stage of the game would hardly help his cause—but even so, I couldn’t help being a little afraid.

The Smuggler’s Rest isn’t the kind of place where you’d be likely to bump into any of your friends, which is probably why Evan Morgan had chosen it. It’s not that it’s a dive; far from it. It’s one of those modern pubs that proudly displays its gleaming olde-worlde tropes everywhere you look. There’s an unconvincing ship’s wheel over the bar, and festoons of fishing nets hang from the ceiling, hosting an alarming array of lobster pots, starfish, and colored glass bottles. A generic, wipe-clean menu, offering generic, child-friendly food, graces each highly varnished table. It’s the kind of place where you don’t feel comfortable. It’s too clean, too modern, and pretending too hard not to be.

The room was fairly empty as I walked in, with only one or two people at the bar, and a few small groups sitting at the tables. I saw Evan Morgan at the bar with a drink. His back was bent, and his chin was propped up on his hand. I couldn’t help registering that he was a startlingly handsome man. Not just for his age, either. One of those rare beings who seem to acquire gravitas with their graying hair, and an authoritative presence, rather than fading slowly into insignificance, as most of us do.

He didn’t see me as I approached, but then he looked up, and his expression changed.

“Dr. Mayhew. Thank you for coming.” He smiled, put out his hand, and I shook it briefly.

“Not at all.” I didn’t apologize for being late.

“What can I get you?”

“A whisky, please. Just a small one.” I felt in need of something strong, to steady my nerves. But I told myself I’d stick to one drink only, because I was driving.

“Ice?”

“No, thank you.”

He waved at a table by the window. “Let’s go and sit over there, shall we? We’ll be more comfortable.”

“Fine.”

I walked over to the table, sat down, and looked out of the window. The pub overlooked the marina. Outside there were yachts lined up on the dockside. Of course, that’s why he’d selected this place. I could just hear their masts clinking in the wind over the low canned music of the pub.

Evan came over with the drinks, put them on the table, and sat down opposite.

“I won’t keep you long. I know you’re a busy woman.” He took a sip of his drink, which looked like a gin and tonic.

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” I took a sip of mine. It was a good-quality whisky, smooth and warming, and a rather larger shot than I’d ordered.

“I’ll come directly to the point then.”

He paused and glanced quickly around him. There was no one nearby, except for a couple of middle-aged women talking animatedly to each other as they ate their fish supper.

“To be quite frank,” Evan continued, “I’m not blameless in this story.” He frowned, as though mulling over how best to begin. “But one thing is certain. I didn’t kill Elsa Lindberg. That is a complete fabrication, on the part of my wife.” He hesitated. “And son.”

I thought I detected genuine emotion in that moment of hesitation, almost as if he couldn’t bear the thought that his son had turned against him; but then I remembered that Evan had been an actor, as well as a theater director. It was his job to make me believe in the tale he was telling me, and he was evidently pretty good at it.

“I did take Elsa out that day on the yacht,” he went on. “She was Gwydion’s nanny, she went with him everywhere, so that was normal enough. But—I won’t lie—I also wanted her to come because I found her very attractive. And . . . at the time, things weren’t going well between me and Arianrhod.” He hesitated again, but this time there seemed to be no regret, no sadness in his face.

I nodded, then checked myself. I wasn’t on duty now. This wasn’t a therapy session, though it was beginning to sound like one.

“Anyway,” he continued, “it was a beautiful day. Bright sunshine, sea as calm as a millpond. No real sailing to do, so I was drinking. Quite heavily.” He paused and looked up at me. Those eyes, I thought. The irises were just as deep, as green, as Gwydion’s, though the whites had colored with age. “I’m an alcoholic, you know that, of course. Recovering now.” He gave a wry smile. “If you ever recover.”

I didn’t smile back.

“Elsa was drinking, too. Not much, she was a sensible girl. Just to keep me company.” He sighed. “I got on well with her. She was so bright, such fun.” The sadness came into his voice again. “We talked about Strindberg, I remember. She was studying him at university. Then . . . I don’t know . . . one thing led to another . . .” Once again, he looked me in the eye. “I don’t deny it. She was a beautiful girl, and I wanted her. She wanted me, too. That was very clear.” He looked away.

“Where was Gwydion while all this was going on?” I tried not to sound judgmental as I spoke.

“Oh, he didn’t see anything. He was in the cabin below, lying down. He always got seasick on the yacht. I was trying to train him out of it, help him find his sea legs.”

“Not the best way to do it,” I ventured. “Seducing the au pair while you were out on the trip.”

“What can I say?” Evan shrugged. “I was very self-involved at the time. Still am. I was in an unhappy marriage, and I took my pleasures where I could find them. Gave them, too, I might add. No, I don’t regret any of that, not one bit.” He paused.

There was a short silence.

“So why did Elsa jump off the boat? Why would she do that?” I asked.

“Well, as I said, the sea was very calm that day. We weren’t far out, and Elsa decided to swim back into the bay on her own. She was an exceptional swimmer, so it seemed completely safe. I watched her swim away. She moved beautifully in the water, like a seal . . .” He broke off. “Anyway, I certainly didn’t fight with her, push her overboard or anything like that. She jumped off the side of that boat of her own accord. It was entirely her decision. And it was so calm, such a lovely day, that I decided to sail on for a little while before coming in behind her. The weather was glorious. That’s why I couldn’t believe . . . I simply couldn’t believe . . .”

He shook his head. He seemed genuinely distressed at the memory. “I really just can’t explain how she drowned. When she didn’t come back, I was panic-stricken. We searched everywhere. I wanted to go to the police. But Arianrhod . . .”

I waited. This was the side of the story that I’d come to hear.

“To my eternal shame, Arianrhod persuaded me not to. Said my reputation would be ruined. That I’d be accused of murdering Elsa in a drunken rage, or some such nonsense. I was scared. . . .”

For a moment I saw the fear in his eyes that I’d seen so often in Gwydion’s, and I realized that, under the gravitas, his air of being a man of the world, there was a part of him that was as insecure as his son.

“And she can be a very dominating woman. . . .”

That didn’t tally with my impression of Arianrhod, but I let it pass.

“So I did as she ordered. Tried to cover the whole thing up. Lied to the police. Even lied to Elsa’s mother when she came over.” He frowned. “That was strange. She looked so like her daughter. It was uncanny.”

I had an impulse to confront him about his attempt to seduce Solveig, too, but thought better of it.

Evan picked up his drink and took a large swig. There wasn’t the faintest whiff of alcohol coming off it, and I realized that it was just fizzy water.

“Of course, it all had to come out sooner or later. And in a way I’m glad it has. It’s been on my conscience all these years, covering up the truth like that.” He gave a deep sigh, then looked me straight in the eye again. “But I’m not a murderer. Gwydion is lying—I didn’t fight with Elsa, or push her over the side of the boat.”

“Why on earth would he lie about it then?” I took a sip of my drink. “To me? To the police?”

“I can tell you exactly why. His mother’s putting him up to this. It’s as simple as that.”

“But why would she make a false charge against you? If you’re found guilty, she stands to lose a lot too, doesn’t she?”

For a moment, I thought I could detect a flicker of guilt steal over his face, but if I did, it was soon gone.

“Because she hates me. My wife absolutely loathes me. Wants to see me go down.”

“Why, though?”

“It’s obvious. Hell hath no fury, et cetera.”

I took another sip of my drink. I wasn’t sure what to make of Evan’s tale. At certain moments, I was convinced that he was lying; at others, his words rang true. And it wasn’t just his words. I’ve become pretty adept at studying my clients’ body language, their gestures, their expressions, noticing the gap between what they say and how they behave. Evan’s gave me the feeling that he was, for the most part, genuine; but there were also moments when it seemed he might still be hiding the truth. It was unlikely that he’d spray-painted my car, I reflected; but perhaps not altogether impossible.

“Well, Mr. Morgan . . .”

“Call me Evan.”

I nodded, but I didn’t take him up on his offer. “Thank you for filling me in.” I glanced at my watch. “But I think I’d better be heading off now.”

He looked taken aback. “Don’t you have anything to say about all this?”

“I’m not in a position to comment.” I looked out of the window at the yachts. “But I’ll certainly think about what you’ve told me. Take it into account.”

Evan followed my gaze. “That’s mine out there. The one with the pale yellow hull.
Miss Julie.
”

“Is it the one . . . the same one?”

“The one I took Elsa out on? Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Would you like me to show you round it?”

“Sorry, I’m a bit pushed for time.” I finished my drink and put the empty glass down on the table.

Evan looked downcast. “Well, look, if you feel like coming back, I’m free tomorrow. . . .” There was an air of quiet desperation in his tone, but he did his best to hide it. “I’m living on the yacht at the moment, just for the time being, until . . .” His voice faded away mid-sentence, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was soon to be tried in court for murder.

“Thank you.” I was polite enough, but I hoped to convey that I had no intention whatsoever of visiting him again.

“And you’ve got my number, haven’t you, if you need it?” The desperation rose to the surface. “On your office phone.”

“That’s right.” I picked up my bag, which was open on the chair beside me. As I did so, Evan glanced at it and noticed the paperback poking out of the top.

“Oh,” he said, leaning forward to read the title. His tone of voice changed. “The Jones biography of Freud. Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes.” I wondered whether he was trying to ingratiate himself to me, but there seemed to be genuine interest in his inquiry. “Very much, on the whole. The schisms later on get a bit tedious.”

“If you think that’s bad, try the three-volume version.” He paused. “But what an incredibly gifted man Jones was.” He spoke with enthusiasm. “As a writer, a thinker . . . quite apart from his brilliance as a doctor.”

I couldn’t help catching his enthusiasm. “All those languages, too . . .”

“Introduced psychoanalysis to the English-speaking world. Wrote books on all kinds of subjects, from nightmares to vampires to figure-skating. Saved Freud from the Nazis.” He paused. “Not bad for a colliery boy from Swansea.”

I nodded. “It’s surprising he’s not more famous.”