A Question of Identity (17 page)

‘Is he? Surprising number of people drive about at night and we’ve no idea what sort of vehicle we’re looking for. But I’ll ask for the usual info at the press conf. He isn’t going to be driving anything that would draw attention to himself of course – no home-sprayed fuchsia-pink Mini Cooper, it’ll be a carefully maintained two-a-penny Focus in silver grey without any “I’ve been to the Safari Park” stickers or other paraphernalia. He wants to blend in, look anonymous. I repeat, he’s clever and careful and his attention to detail will be second to none. Don’t underestimate him. Right, off you go – and take another close look at that photo as you leave. Elinor Sanders. She’s why we’re doing this job. We owe her.’

THE ST MICHAEL’S
Singers were rehearsing Bach’s
St John Passion
for Easter and Cat had come in late, slipping into her place to a glare from the conductor. She had then come in late twice when singing, to a sharp nudge from her neighbouring soprano.

‘Stressed?’ Mel McAllister asked as they nudged their way through the throng to the bar of the Cross Keys later.

‘Sorry, sorry . . . I should have been up to speed and I wasn’t. I need an evening with the score and a CD.’

‘Thought your days were calmer now you’re not a GP. Dry white wine?’

‘Small one, yes please – but it’s my turn.’

‘Oh, turn, schturn. You grab a table . . .’

Cat did, the last one, in the far corner near the toilet door, with the wobbly chair leg. She pretended not to see the choirmaster waving to summon her over.

‘End of a bad week?’ Mel set down their drinks.

‘And it’s only Thursday. I was called in to a finance committee meeting this morning. The moment I walked in I knew. When Sir John was chair he always tried to give you the good news first, put a brave face on . . . not Gerald Hanbury. Face like a hangman.’

‘That would figure.’

Gerald Hanbury had taken over as chair of the Imogen House Board of Trustees the previous autumn, when he had retired as a High Court judge, but as he was not a man who understood
the meaning of the word ‘retire’ he had filled a number of high-profile public and charitable roles within weeks. He was a steady pair of hands, sharp, focused and dedicated, but he was also a man at ease with bad news and there had been a look on his face that Cat had thought almost greedy when she had walked into the room.

She had walked out of it forty minutes later not only shocked and distressed but angry – angry that she had been kept out of the loop until matters were decided, sidelined as if she were the man who delivered the supplies twice a week.

John Lowther would never have behaved in that way. He would have consulted, discussed, asked for advice, counselled – even if the decision had been the same in the end.

During the last year of his chairmanship the financial position of the hospice had become so bad that a four-bedded ward had been closed and, a few months later, two further beds had gone. Things had apparently improved, and the day centre had taken up at least some of the slack. But although the centre cost less to run than the beds and although they had a loyal and active body of friends and supporters, the whole place drained money and the recession had hit hard.

The decision had been taken, apparently irrevocably, to turn Imogen House into a day-care hospice only. The remaining wards would be closed within the next three months and the area absorbed into treatment and consultation rooms for people to attend as outpatients.

‘But my aunt went to a day-care-only hospice for almost a year and it was great, she saw the doctors, got treatment, and there was a social life to it as well – had her hair done every week right to the end and that did her a power of good. It isn’t all bad, surely? Not as if they’re closing it altogether.’

‘I know. I’m in a bit of a minority on the subject of day-care-only.’ Cat finished half her wine at once. ‘Pros and cons, but my view is that we need both. There really is no substitute for inpatient care for a lot of people. The latest thing is hospice at home – it’s being bigged up as great for the patients but the real reason is financial. As ever. I know a lot of professionals disagree with me so maybe my feelings are based on resentment at being kept
out of the decision until it was made. I always liked doing home visits and I’d get some of that back of course.’

‘And you’ll still be the boss, won’t you?’

‘In theory, but it will mean far fewer hours. It’s a downgrade, whatever good spin they put on it – which they will.’

‘So – what will you do?’

Cat shook her head. ‘Too soon to know. Lots of thinking.’

‘Another drink?’

‘No, thanks, I’ve got to get home. Hannah was due to hear about this film part today but they’ve delayed. No text from her, so I suppose that means more waiting. Poor child needs it to be resolved one way or the other. By the way, did you hear the rumour about what we’re singing after Easter?’

‘I hope it isn’t Bach again – not that I don’t love Bach . . .’

‘No, Hans Werner Henze.’ Cat pulled her scarf round her neck and smiled sweetly. ‘But as I said – it could be just a rumour.’

As usual, she had parked outside Simon’s building in Cathedral Close. His car was not there – she knew he was heading up the murder inquiry and likely to be working round the clock so she sent him a quick cheering text. Her phone beeped almost at once, so she’d hit him at a lucky moment. But the text was from Judith who was in charge at the farmhouse, as usual on Cat’s choir night.

Are you on your way?

Cat rang her at once. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I thought I’d better prepare you. Hannah didn’t get the part – they rang half an hour ago. Unfortunately she was still up, so things are a bit fraught.’

‘Oh Lord, poor Hanny. I’m just leaving now.’

‘That isn’t quite all, but I’ll fill you in when you get home. Hannah doesn’t know.’

‘Know what? Honestly, I don’t want any more bad news this week.’

‘The trouble is, in one way this is great news.’

‘But?’

‘There’s Felix, I’d better go. See you soon, darling, drive safely.’

She started the car just as her phone rang again.

‘Si? How’s it going?’

‘Grim. You?’

‘Don’t ask. Nightmare week and it’s not over yet. Lunch on Sunday?’

Simon groaned. ‘Love to – can you just expect me if you see me? It may have gone quieter by then, we’re in the middle of all the immediate stuff, but if I know this sort of case we’ll be into needles and haystacks pretty soon.’

‘No ideas then?’

‘Plenty of those. It’s suspects I need . . . Gotta go . . . love to the rabble. By the way, has Judith said anything to you about her and Dad?’

‘No, but then I’ve hardly seen her. She’s staying over tonight so maybe . . . You?’

‘No idea, but something’s up.’

Cat opened the front door onto total silence. Wookie rushed to her giving tiny yelps of pleasure, but then returned to the sofa and his place curled up beside the cat Mephisto, from whom he was now inseparable. Cat found no one else downstairs, but heard a faint murmur from Felix’s room. She went up very quietly.

‘“. . . in case the Tiger should come to tea another day,”’ Judith’s low, slow, gentle reading-you-to-sleep voice said. ‘“But he never did.”’

Deep silence. Cat pushed the door. Judith was lying on Felix’s bed, the book she had just finished reading beside her, the little boy tucked into the crook of her arm, but then he stirred, flopped over onto his side and gave a deep sigh.

‘That’s unusual,’ Cat said in the kitchen.

‘Yes, but there’s been a certain amount of upset and he woke up, came down, wouldn’t go back, then couldn’t sleep . . . it’s taken four readings of
The Tiger Who Came to Tea
. I tried a move to
The Gruffalo
but for some reason that’s out of favour. Right – lasagne in the bottom oven, and salad in the fridge. Hannah wouldn’t eat anything, Sam had a bit. I thought I’d wait for you.’

‘Can you open this bottle of red? I’d better go up to Hannah.’

‘She’s asleep . . . the sort of deep sleep into which you escape when life has become unbearable. Not getting the part was bad but then Sam came home.’ Judith sat down at the kitchen table and closed her eyes.

‘You look exhausted. Here, drink this, and tell me.’

Judith reached for the glass. ‘Sam came home. The film people had been into his school, a few weeks ago –’

‘He didn’t say anything.’

‘No. They didn’t do any auditions or see anyone in particular. He said they just “hung about the place watching”. They went onto the sports field, into the recreation ground, some classes . . . nobody was told much about who they were or why they were there so Sam said everyone thought they were school inspectors. One of his friends said he’d been told they were there to assess the teachers not the pupils.’

Cat had put the food into the top oven. Now, she sat down with her own wine.

‘But they were film people?’

‘Film spies, as Sam put it. By the way, the other girl didn’t get the
Christmas Carol
role either. Apparently they’re starting again. Meanwhile, they want about twenty boys for
Lord of the Flies
and they found a good few of them at St Michael’s.’

‘Including Sam? Really? He’s not a natural actor. Still, being in a crowd isn’t exactly acting. How does he feel about it?’

‘Cock-a-hoop. And he isn’t one in the crowd, he would be one of the leads and the Head told Sam today they hope to talk to you this week.’

‘Sam? In a film? They’re taking the piss.’

‘Apparently not.’

Cat took a long drink. ‘And he came home crowing that he was going to be the lead, while Hannah came home . . .’

‘Precisely.’

‘Wonderful. God, I should have been here, I shouldn’t have gone to choir.’

‘How do you work that one out? You’re hardly out every night and I think I‘m perfectly able to hold the coats by now. But poor Hannah really does mind very much.’

‘While Sam won’t give a toss.’

‘He’s not playing it like that. In fact, I gave him an earful and sent him up to bed early, he was winding her up so much. And I don’t think I have ever had to do that before.’

‘Forget everything.’ That’s what they said. ‘Forget everything.’

So I did.

Almost.

But I didn’t forget how it feels. All these years, I remembered. But then again, I thought maybe I didn’t. Not actually remember. Not really.

I remembered all right.

Remembered pretty well.

Know that now.

Still, I’ve got my little reminders. Just in case.

They never knew about those. Nobody’s ever known.

My little reminders.

And now there’s another one.

Happy with that.

Happy.

‘I’VE BOOKED.’

‘Simon . . .’

‘It’s an anniversary. I’m no good at them but this is different . . . Rachel?’

He knew what the silence was about and it was not because she didn’t want to have the dinner, didn’t want to be with him, didn’t want to remember. It was Kenneth. Always.

‘He had an awful attack last night – I had to give him oxygen, he was in such a panic.’

‘How is he today?’

‘Better. He’s slept a lot. And much better this aftenoon – he’s had something to eat and he’s watching the Test match. God bless satellite television or he wouldn’t have half the pleasure he can still get.’

‘And we’re winning.’

‘Are we? Oh yes, he said something about that.’

‘Perhaps you can get the carer who likes cricket to come and sit with him.’

‘Tim. I can try.’

‘Otherwise, when do we see each other, how do we see each other?’

‘How’s the inquiry?’

‘A long progression of detail, most of which will turn out to be insignificant and irrelevant and one iota of which will be vital.’

‘So can you get away for an evening?’

‘Yup. I’m always on the phone, but you know . . . I’m not worried. I wouldn’t risk it if I was.’

‘Our anniversary . . . I remember sitting on that sofa and shaking so much the ice in my glass chinked.’

‘Green sofa.’

‘Yes.’

Green velvet sofa. The picture of it, of Rachel sitting there, of her face as she turned towards him. It wasn’t a question of remembering, because he never forgot.

He had never been in love with any woman for this length of time, though he had been linked to Diana for longer. But linked was not love. Even Freya Graffham . . .

He stopped himself. About Freya he would never know.

‘Shall I pick you up?’

‘Of course not. Simon, I have to see if I can organise this first.’

‘But you want to?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

Simon felt wretched after he had put down the phone. Why couldn’t anything be straightforward? Why had he never met someone, fallen in love with them, married, settled down, had a family, in the usual uncomplicated way? He walked along the corridor to the CID room feeling sorry for himself.

It was late. The team were at computers, trawling through data, trying to find matches for this, links with that, to marry the forensic detail of X with Y. It was thankless and they all knew there would be days, weeks of it. But he was confident. The murder had been some sort of signal, sent out by a man with a grudge, almost certainly not a personal one, against elderly women. This was not an opportunist. This was a psychopath. A sicko, as they all said. He had left no prints, not the tiniest fragment of his clothing or cell of his person. He knew the score. Knew just how careful he had to be.

And, somewhere, he was now gloating, going over the night in his mind, loving every detail, squeezing the last pip of satisfaction out of what he remembered seeing, hearing, touching.

It was the hardest sort of murderer to pin down, the sort with
whom Serrailler had always felt an odd personal connection, as if this was between the two of them.

‘Nobody work beyond midnight. This is going to be slow and relentless so don’t blow all your energy now. Go home, switch off, eat, play Scrabble.’