The Touch of Innocents (12 page)

It was her fault, of course, and somehow when the phone rang he knew it was she.

‘Joe. How are you?’

He offered little beyond an indecipherable grunt.

‘We have to talk, Joe.’

‘I’m listening. But I’m busy,’ he barked, commencing another attack with his chopsticks. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s about Bella. There may have been a mistake, I think she may not be dead.’

There was nothing but silence, a crushing silence of incredulity and anger. She felt her confidence draining away.

‘Benjy says she’s not dead, Joe, that she was taken away by some woman. I know it sounds far-fetched but … The post-mortem. It was wrong. The hair colour. But we can’t check because they’ve locked away the file and … Oh, Joe, I’m so confused.’ She was losing control; it was so unlike Izzy. ‘I need your help,’ she added. That was unlike Izzy, too.

‘How?’

She wanted to say that she needed his love and comfort because she felt hurt and so very much alone, and he wanted to hear it, but they both knew there was no point.

‘Money. Send some money, Joe. Right away. I need to buy clothes, to look after Benjy, until I can get my credit cards and everything else sorted out. I need time, to find out what the hell is going on.’

If hearing her voice had made him smoulder, her demands turned him to incandescence. Savagely he pushed away the stir-fry. ‘The only thing you’ll get from me is the price of a one-way ticket back to the
States so I can be sure you stop dragging that poor damned kid of ours around. He needs to be back home, not dumped in some foreign backwater.’

‘But Joe, there’s something wrong. I know it, I can feel it. I can’t leave here just yet, not until I know.’

‘Then send Benjy back.’

‘To you? And you’ll let me have him back when I return.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘Joe, let’s try and be reasonable about this. Put the divorce and everything to one side, just for the moment. Bella may not be dead.’

Her words were tearing at him. He ached for certainty, for the simplicity of bereavement. He could handle that, through his anger, but not this. Alive. Dead. Despair. Doubt. Hope. She was toying with him.

‘What in God’s name are you trying to do with me?’ he responded plaintively, his anger for the moment blunted by confusion.

She told him what she knew. What very little she knew. And felt. As she spoke she realized how inadequate it still all seemed and how unconvinced he remained, like Pomfritt. And, yes, she had raised it with the doctors.

‘What did they suggest?’

‘Tranquillizers.’

That he believed. He sighed. ‘Why don’t you come home, Izzy?’

‘I can’t. Not until I know. I’m staying here.’ Resisting him. As ever, stubborn.

‘And where is here?’

She told him, and the name seemed to grow until it had filled all his emptiness inside. Paul Devereux’s.
The
Paul Devereux’s.

An image came into Michelini’s mind. Of a plane.
In flames. Crashing. A plume of smoke and debris. Dust.

She had destroyed his family, of that he was sure; now, through her interference and neurotic behaviour, she could end up doing the same damned thing to his career.

‘We have to find out the truth,’ she was saying.

‘The truth, Izzy, is staring you in the eyes. It’s simply that you refuse to face up to it. Bella is dead. You killed her in a car smash, and now you’re trying to concoct some unmitigated crap to explain away your guilt.’

‘But they may have made a mistake …’

‘For Chrissake! People like that don’t make mistakes.’

‘Benjy says …’

‘Benjy’s not even three years old. The poor kid might say anything after what you put him through. And mixing up bodies in a morgue – neurotic nonsense!’ He snorted in contempt. ‘Think, woman. Stop trying to fool yourself. Accept the fact. It was your damn fault!’

‘Be reasonable.’

‘You be reasonable. Put Benjy on a plane back home.’

‘No.’

‘Send him back.’

‘Never!’

‘Then I’ll see you in court.’

And the phone went dead.

She sat alone in the night, her world wrapped in darkness, bewitched by her sense of guilt, her need for an excuse – any excuse, other than the obvious. A torrent of uncertainties emerged like demons from the mists of her overwrought mind: could they all be wrong? The psychologist? The mortuary technician?
Weatherup? The Consular Officer? Grubb? And Joe? How much more likely that they were right, that she was being absurdly emotional, distracted, deceiving no one but herself? Made distraught by grief and guilt?

Yet there remained one fragment of certainty that no one could refute. In the morning, when the first rays of sunlight and sense came to chase away the demons of the night, she would be there, alone. Without Bella. That certainty set against their doubts.

She tore herself away from the study and its morbid perspectives and began slowly to walk around the house, running her hands over the furniture, touching, feeling the need to stay in contact with what was solid and undeniably real. In the corner of the great hall stood a grand piano and she sat down on the stool, laying her fingers on the keys. She’d always loved the piano, yearned to play, yet suddenly she had no memory of whether she could. Had desire ever made contact with reality? Bizarre. She couldn’t remember. That part of the brain which held those memories was still fumbling, dropping the pieces, creating confusion. She might not recall whether she could play, but surely she could never forget the art of playing?

She emptied her mind, allowing instinct to take over. She raised her hands high above the keyboard, prepared herself, let herself go, allowing her fingers to fall where they would.

The result was a discord of jumbled notes and noise.

For the first time since the accident she began to laugh. Of course she hadn’t learned to play, never had the time. Bloody ridiculous. She was deluding herself. About the piano. About Bella.

And the laughter took hold and gripped her, and turned to tears. Of loss. Of guilt. Of pain and the anguish of bereavement. The tears turned to a flood of weeping as at last she began to submit to her misery and shame, to release her despairing grip on the false hopes and fanciful explanations, to come to terms with her folly.

She had lost.

It was many minutes before she could begin to compose herself, to dry the tears, trying to find comfort in the feeling that at last she had unshackled herself from the evil spirits of doubt that had so plagued her. As the mists in front of her eyes cleared, she began to see the real world again; her fumbling fingers, the keys, the piano in its dutifully polished walnut case and, on it, the decorative silver frames with their melody of family images.

A wedding scene with a younger Devereux and a statuesque but somehow vulnerable bride.

A baby wrapped in christening clothes.

A man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Devereux shaking hands outside Number Ten Downing Street with Harold Macmillan.

Devereux in court clothes bowing before his Queen.

And the photograph of a man and a teenage girl on a tropical beach, posing as any father and gangling daughter would in swimsuits and sun hats, looking overly pink and uncomfortably English.

It took her paralysed mind what seemed an age for the memories to stop passing by on the other side, to reach out and make the connection. The man, of course, was Devereux, ten years younger but the unmistakable lean frame and self-confident air. And beneath the shoulder of the doting father nestled the fledgling, soon to be of an age to fly the
parental nest, the form beginning to fill and grow more feminine, the figure already setting aside the ungainly architecture of youth for the statuesque heights of early adulthood.

And, beneath the straw boater with pink ribbon, a cascade of shoulder-length hair glistened blonde in the sun and fell around a face that, though not yet flawed and drained, was nonetheless
that
face. The face infecting her dreams.

The skin, youthfully fragile, that would turn to dried parchment. The eyes, bashful before the camera lens, not yet tinged with fear. The lips, dried in the sun, that would one day grow thin and cracked and come to sneer at Izzy as she lay in her hospital bed. The long, thin fingers that would snatch at Bella.

Her nightmare had returned, and now she could almost touch it.

Friday. Devereux was delivered home late that night by his Ministerial car and its Special Branch driver. Izzy had retired but was not yet asleep – how could she sleep? From a biographical dictionary taken from the shelves in his study she had identified many of the new pieces, for there are few private pieces in a public life.

Outside Downing Street, the father:
‘Rt Hon Sir Francis Nugent Devereux, Kt, PC, MP; MC; b 1914, d 1966; o s of Patrick Nugent Devereux, qv; Educ: Eton; Jesus Coll. Oxford … Minister of Education (1955–57); Pensions (1957–60); President, Board of Trade (1960–62); Minister of Defence (Apr – July 1962).’

After July 1962 there was nothing but his death. A beginning steeped in both privilege and prospects which had led to an end as sudden and complete as the progress had been glittering. Illness, perhaps.

There was a mother, too, bride of Francis Nugent, who had died young, with Paul no older than ten.

And under Paul Devereux’s own listing a wife:
‘m 1970, Arlene Fitch-Little (d 1980)…’

Tragedy and early death seemed to run in the family, at least through the women. And he had never remarried. Only one child, a dau.
‘Paulette, b 1974.’
It didn’t state that she had blonde hair or large, frightened eyes and was last seen holding a baby, it didn’t have to. She was the right age, early twenties, from the right family. A daughter named
after himself, in his own likeness, the child an extension of the father. She wondered just how alike they might be.

Yet again she told herself that she was submerged in self-delusion, the daughter was no more than an image in a dream. But the dream was a nightmare, inextricably intertwined with her other nightmare centred upon Bella’s death. Or disappearance. Somewhere, deep within the jumbled recesses of her mind, a connection was being made which she did not yet understand but whose message was unmistakable. Find his daughter; find her own.

Yet, if the Devereuxs were involved, why, for God’s sake why, had he invited her into his home?

It was easier to believe in concealment than coincidence, but concealment of what? Shame? Guilt? His daughter? There were secrets in this family which hid the truth not only about themselves but also about Bella.

Yet what was she to do? To confront? To run? She had nothing to confront him with and, if he were concealing something, she had much more chance of revealing it by staying close than by leaving. So long as he did not know she suspected. Anyway, where could she run?

And perhaps he, too, was merely a victim of circumstance, a player trapped as innocently as she within a web that seemed to be enmeshing their two families. It was not a time for rushing to judgement.

She slept fitfully, uncertain whether she had accepted his hospitality or entrapment, whether his hand was extended in charity or restraint, and it was the following evening before she had an opportunity even to talk to him. Saturday was no day of rest for a politician; he had left the house early and was clearly wearied by the time he returned.

He disappeared into his study accompanied by a tumbler full of whisky, not reappearing for a full twenty minutes. When he did so, he seemed more relaxed, the tension gone from his shoulders, as though he had undergone some form of therapeutic treatment. Cleansed, almost. He noticed her inquisitive expression.

‘My diary. I keep a political diary. Wonderfully invigorating. Like war. Loading the ammunition, aiming the guns at targets which don’t even know they’re in the firing line, waiting to blast them out of the water – when the time is right.’ He adopted an expression of well-rehearsed theatrical gravity. ‘In reality political diaries are a pathetic attempt by their authors to secure immortality, to record the lies they wish they had told at the time rather than the lies they actually told, to claim the triumphs of others for themselves and to distribute the fruits of failure as widely as possible amongst their colleagues.’ His blue eyes lit with amusement. ‘Helps keep me sane.’

The eyes lingered on her, longer than was necessary for the appreciation of the joke, still amused, challenging.

‘How about I take you to dinner – unless you’ve made other arrangements, of course?’

He knew she hadn’t.

‘Sally will keep an eye on the sprog,’ he offered.

She was exhausted, had no appetite, but Benjy was sleeping soundly and she did not hesitate.

Le Petit Canard was a small French-Canadian restaurant, an oddity in the back lanes of Wessex, situated in an old coaching inn at the ancient crossroads which bisected the village of Maiden Newton. She wondered who had been the Maiden Newton, and why they had named an entire village after her.

The plaster was old and crumbly, the beams low and the cedar wood fire filled the air with a musky fragrance. The cuisine was exceptional, a mixture of Pacific-rim creations, reflecting the chef’s extended and adventurous youth spent dressing poultry and impressing waitresses in a dozen different ports.

The chef’s wife, who was in charge of the liquid side of affairs, proffered a wine list, but Izzy declined. A fine vintage could achieve many wonders; repairing brain damage and unscrambling the mind were scarcely amongst them. So Devereux had agreed to split the bottle with the chef’s wife, with whom he spent several animated moments discussing the merits of an ’85 Vosne-Romanée, Suchots – ‘lovely legs, lots of flesh, goes a long way’, as the tasting notes pointed out – and an ’86 Cabernet Sauvignon from the Californian Napa Valley – ‘Nosegasm’. He chose the American wine.

‘In your honour,’ he revealed to Izzy. ‘Oh, and a bottle of Dorset sparkling water,’ he insisted. ‘Has to be home grown, one of the Prime Minister’s great passions. Water. Though on reflection, perhaps nowadays it’s his only great passion,’ he added in a tone that she took as almost contemptuous dismissal of his leader. He was confiding in her, sharing secrets, drawing her in. As the great cedar fire had diminished, he had grown mellow. And perhaps a little vulnerable.

In another corner sat a couple, he with wedding ring, she without, all eyes and ovaries. For a wistful moment Izzy reflected on how long it had been since she had been part of that chase, out to impress, to kill, to make herself irresistible. Too long. Quickly she thrust the thought out of her mind.

‘Your new job must be exhausting,’ she offered weakly.

‘Exhilarating. More exhilarating than exhausting.’ He poured another glass of wine, well over his fair share of the bottle, relaxing. ‘And I’ve many family reasons for wanting this in particular. My father once held this same position, more than thirty years ago, and I feel as if I have to …’ He was about to say ‘bury a few ghosts’ but instead chose to mutter some homily about finishing his father’s work.

‘How’s the Duster?’

‘Ah, at work, are we?’ He raised a disapproving brow. The wine was getting to him, lending an exaggerated edge to his character.

‘No, not at all. But more than idle curiosity. I, too, have family connections. My husband is deeply involved in the project.’

‘Mmmm,’ he considered. ‘And tell me. Are you very deeply involved in your husband?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Or is that too rude a question?’

‘Not particularly. And probably. In that order.’

‘Small world,’ he said reflectively. ‘That your family and mine should cross paths so … A very small world.’ He swirled the dark red liquid around his glass, lingering on its aroma before drinking deep. ‘So, the Duster. To you professionally, Miss Dean, I offer an absolutely frank and forthright “No comment”. But to you privately, Izzy …? We’re making progress. Nothing more, but certainly no less. It’s now down to the politics of it rather than the finances, and since political positions come cheap, I’m confident the deal will be done. Your husband should be content.’

He had flattered her with a confidence, but Izzy struck him as being remarkably underwhelmed by the news. Her mind seemed elsewhere.

‘Talking of family,’ she asked, ‘was that your father? Amongst the photographs on your piano?’

He nodded.

‘And your wife, I assume.’

‘My wife died. Many years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

His mood had grown sombre; she felt she was intruding. But she could not stop.

‘And your daughter?’

He became more animated, wanting to say more, seemingly unable to find the appropriate words. ‘My daughter … lives away from home.’ And no more until: ‘Families can be a rock, Izzy, on which you build your life. Or on which your whole life is dashed.’ There was a heaviness in his reply which discouraged further questioning, as though a great weight were about to topple and crush him. She did not doubt that his pain was genuine.

‘You must be very lonely at times.’ She didn’t mean it to sound like a come-on, but she hadn’t intended to feel sympathy for him, either.

‘There are … compensations. My job, for one.’ He made a conscious effort to lift his mood. ‘And distractions. I’m well connected. A widower. My own house. Nice car.’ He was mocking himself. ‘Some women seem to find that …’

‘Intriguing?’ she suggested.

The blue eyes were looking directly at her now, searching, challenging; he was delighted when she returned his stare. She wasn’t going to back down, run away. The point had been made, his interests registered; he changed the subject.

‘Tell me, why did you choose your career? Unusual job for a woman.’

What a question. How could she tell him? She wasn’t sure herself. A fascination with Man’s folly? Admiration at his ambitions and achievements? Folly, it was more the folly, the soaring heights
which leaders and nations coveted and the pride, the hubris which always brought them low. And her conviction that the world needed to know about it all, whether the world gave a damn or not. Usually not.

But it was more than that. She remembered it clearly. The day shortly before Christmas, 1968.

It was a time when America was preparing to set foot on the Moon and was about to reach its nadir in Vietnam. Richard Nixon had just been elected President, a man who would reach for unprecedented heights around the world, breaking down the doors of Communism, yet whose folly and false pride would bring him wretchedly low. A time of inspiration and involvement, of earthquakes which brought down political mountains around the globe.

But that was not what she remembered. Izzy was little more than ten, a schoolgirl living a comfortable but undistinguished life in an undistinguished suburb of Respectability, Mid-America.

It had been a quiet day. Too quiet. Izzy had known something was amiss, her normally tranquil mother was increasingly enveloped in agitation, but her gentle enquiries had been rebuffed and Izzy herself increasingly ignored, until shortly before the lunch hour. Izzy remembered being borne along, unnoticed, in the turbulent wake as her mother moved from the kitchen towards the dental surgery that Izzy’s father had built on the side of their undistinguished clapboard house. Her mother had swept past the empty desk where the recently hired receptionist should have been, where files and dental charts lay abandoned, and through the door that led to the surgical inner sanctum – the mother, agitated, unaware that the child was following; Izzy, unsighted, having difficulty in seeing around the back of the large dental
chair, able only to glimpse her father’s bald head protruding above it, ruddy and flushed, his legs astride. The child had barely enough time to wonder why those legs wore only socks and suspenders. She was quite unable to comprehend why a separate pair of naked legs appeared to be hooked over her father’s shoulders.

All that Christmas they had sat in silence, watching the tree and the marriage dying. By New Year it was separate bedrooms.

Izzy had adored her father, his smile, his laughing eyes, the enchanting and extravagant tales he told while seated on the end of her bed, weaving pictures of another world that lay beyond mundane Respectability. And she had never again trusted a man in authority.

‘Jules Verne,’ Izzy addressed Devereux. ‘It was bloody Jules Verne who made me become a foreign correspondent. Loved his books. Read them all. Hated him because the only role he gave to women was to wave their hankies and wait patiently at home while the menfolk went off round the world in search of adventure.’

‘He was a Frenchman,’ Devereux responded, as if that explained all shortcomings.

‘Are Englishmen any different?’

‘Some are,’ he mused. ‘How many have you known?’

‘My grandfather,’ she replied, deflecting his innuendo. ‘He was English. From this part of the country. That’s why I came here. I think. Something about going back to my roots, trying to find out who I really am, and what matters most to me.’

‘Perceptive of you. We can’t escape our roots. Links in a long, unending chain, you know, one generation to the next. We can twist ourselves, change
the shape a little, but in the end so much of us is what we were born. That’s why we blame our parents; why we bear so much responsibility for our own children. They are what we have made them.’

His voice had grown very subdued, his eyes more watery and distant. For the first time, Izzy sensed he was revealing a little of his inner self. He carried his family obligations like a great load that had bent his back and, at times, brought him low. She had sympathized with him, now she could identify with him.

‘You sound … almost as if you have lost your children.’