she knew they lived in the roof. Lucilla Sanderson, a
resident at Bartles House, said the discovery and subsequent
decision struck a blow for sanity, and for the preservation of
the fast-disappearing beauty of England.”’
‘That’s a good phase,’ said Octavia.
‘Yes. Then it says that it was successful Gloucestershire
businessman, Sandy Trelawny, who first alerted the protesters
to the importance of the discovery about the bats and well,
that’s about it.’
‘That’s all that’s necessary,’ said Octavia. ‘Well done,
Megan. I think you should open a bottle of champagne.’
The good news had lifted her mood from the inevitable
low induced by the funeral. She was making lunch in the kitchen, feeling quite cheerful, when Caroline came in.
‘Octavia, I’m a bit worried about Minty. She’s running a
slight temperature. I think it’s only a tooth, but she’s very
unhappy.’
‘I’ll come and see her. Is she in her cot?’
‘Yes. She’s just had her sleep, but it hasn’t done much
good.’
Minty was feverish and fretful; her right cheek burning.
‘It’s her tooth, by the look of her. Poor little thing. Well,
if she’s no better tomorrow, she can’t come. Oh, God.’ Her
mind zoomed over the complex repercussions of that.
‘Caroline could you — could you possibly stay with her? I
know we said take the day off, but—’
‘Octavia, I have arranged a day out with friends.’
‘I know, but it is such an important day for me.’
‘It’s an important day for me, too, Octavia. My oldest
friend’s birthday. I really do have to go.’
‘Oh, dear. Yes, I see.’ She managed to smile at Caroline.
‘Well, maybe it won’t happen. Maybe she’ll be all right.’
‘Couldn’t Tom stay with her?’
‘No, I don’t think he can. It’s an important day for him,
too. Let’s see how she is later. I don’t think we can leave it
till the morning to decide. Too late.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Louise, darling, you’re all right, are you? You look quite
flushed.’
‘Daddy, I’m fine, thank you. Feeling much better
already. Urn - I might go for a little drive. If that’s all right.
Could I take Mummy’s car?’
‘Of course you can. I was actually going to ask you
if you’d like to have it. Such a waste, sitting there,
unused.’
‘Oh, Daddy, that would be marvellous! I’d love it. I’ve
never said anything to Sandy, but having only one car and
him always needing it is awfully — well, it doesn’t make my
life any easier.’
‘Of course it doesn’t. No, I’d love you to have it.’
The car was a sprightly little Renault Five. As she drove off down the lane she felt quite different suddenly, free,
excited. And — yes, a little feverish. She was nearly there
now; the start at least was in sight.
The car was very low in petrol: she stopped at the garage,
filled it up. It was one of the reasons she’d wanted to take it
now: she didn’t want anything to delay her in the morning.
She was going to have to leave early enough as it was. She’d
told her father she was going to see some friends. She did
hope she’d be able to sleep tonight; she had a lot of driving
ahead of her next day. Right across to Kent, then all the
way down to Cornwall. She’d be terribly tired. And when
she got there, it would be difficult, too. Sorting everything
out in the dark. The other thing she had to do, why she
needed the car, was to stow all the things away in it. She’d
been squirrelling them away for days. Food, drinks, nappies,
baby food. She’d dug out some cot sheets and blankets and
it had all gone into her suitcase when Sandy had brought
her over. She was afraid he might ask her why she was
taking such a big case, but he hadn’t. He was speaking to
her as little as possible anyway, and especially since the fight
over the David woman. There was a carrycot at Rookston,
she could fit that in the boot — just. And the baby seat that
her mother had got for Dickon, that had still been in the
garage. She must fix that in the car, once it was dark. She’d
been such a good granny, her mother had; so loving and
involved and enthusiastic. She felt the tears rising in her eyes again, wiped them impatiently away. She couldn’t Gifford any more crying, any more grieving. From now on, he had to have her wits about her.
She had studied the map, the route she would take to Brands Hatch: very simple really, just up the M4 then down 311 to the M25. She knew where it was, she’d been there
once before. Once there, of course, it wasn’t going to be
easy. She might fail altogether, she was prepared for that.
But she didn’t think she would. She had checked out her
disguise, the dark glasses, the short wig she’d worn for modelling in the ‘sixties, the tacky Crimplene trousers and tunic she’d got from a catalogue. The last things anyone
would expect her to wear. She had gone into the corner
shop wearing it all: none of them had recognised her and
they knew her very well. She’d been worried about Sandy
and Dickon spotting her, but Sandy wasn’t going now, and
Dickon would be so excited, haring about with the twins.
He had no idea she was going, he wouldn’t be expecting
her, and in her disguise … And in a crowd, it was so easy
to hide. She’d once followed a boyfriend about all day, one
she’d been suspicious of, thought he was seeing someone
else; he’d never known she was there. Of course it would
be terribly difficult; she would just have to follow them
everywhere, waiting for a moment when she could grab
Minty. It was bound to happen, there would be a moment
when everyone would be distracted, and it wouldn’t take a
second. No one would be on their guard. no one would be
being specially watchful of her. She could do it; she knew
she could. It was just a question of persistence and keeping
her nerve. It might take hours, might take nearly all day,
but she knew she could do it. And then she’d have a baby
again. A baby almost exactly the age Juliet was when she
died. A baby to love and take care of and hold and tuck into
a cot at night. And Tom and Octavia would know what it
was like to lose one.
had promised to see that Oliver Nichols’ wife met the New Zealand racing driver…
They had a pizza with the children then put the twins
bed. Minty was sleeping peacefully, but only with
generous dose of Calpol.
‘Don’t fuss,’ Tom had said, finding her leaning over tin]
cot, ‘she’s fine. And she’ll be fine with Zoe.’
‘Well — yes, I suppose so. But if she’s really better in the
morning, I still want to take her.’
‘Of course.’
‘But then — she’ll still be a worry.’
‘Yes, she will. And you’ll have enough on your plate.
Look, why don’t we make a decision now, to leave her. It!
be one less thing to worry about in the morning.’
Octavia hesitated, then she said, ‘Yes. Yes, all right. I
think it would be better. I don’t want to but — yes, I’ll go
and call Zoe now.’
Felix Miller went to bed early. He felt terribly tired, and hi
arm was still painful. He had listened to a concert on Radio
Three, eaten (surprisingly hungry) the lasagne Mrs Harrington
had made for him, and then two helpings of chocolate
mousse, had drunk a couple of large brandies, and then
feeling sleep might still elude him, as it had for most of the
week, he took a sleeping pill. He had a lot of work to do
next day, and there was a meeting of the Music for
Children in Hospital committee in the evening. Marianne
would have been there, she was Secretary to his Chair
perhaps she still would be, perhaps — Felix felt his painful
arm stab once more before the Nitrazepam carried him
effectively away …
Louise could hardly eat her supper, she was so excited. She
felt as she had as a child, when a long-awaited treat was
about to happen. Tomorrow! Only one more night. She
was as ready as she could be, the car was full of petrol, the
boot loaded up. She had drawn lots of cash out — she didn’t want to leave a trail of credit card receipts — transferred all her things, make-up, wallet, hairbrush and, of course, the
precious key — how many times had she checked that was
there - into an old bag of her mother’s. A large,
anonymous-looking, black leather bag. Not her own
distinctive Mulberry one. She really did believe she’d
thought of everything. She thought of Tom and Octavia,
eating their supper, with no idea of what was going to
happen to them next day; just planning their stupid event.
And then she thought of Minty, sleeping peacefully in her
cot, with no idea either. Just for a moment, guilt stabbed
Louise; guilt at alarming Minty, disturbing her, taking her
away from everyone she knew.
Then she righted herself. She would soon settle down.
She was very young. She’d always seemed to like her, and
she was a sweet, placid little thing. And it might not even
be for that long. She’d be all right. Of course she would.
Tom went into his study while Octavia was fetching the
collection tins from Melanie, to make notes for a speech he
was giving on Tuesday night. He felt rather cheerful. It had
been a good week. What with the new account — Oliver
Nichols seemed to be an ideal client, enthusiastic, responsive,
accessible — the taming of Felix Miller and the
gratitude of Nico Cadogan, he seemed to be able to walk
on water. Again. And — he didn’t want to be overoptimistic,
but he was at least hopeful that things would
work out between him and Octavia. She was, quite apart
from her extraordinary performance in bed on Friday night,
distinctly less hostile. She was wary of him, which was
inevitable; he was not so naive as to think she was going to
forgive, let alone forget, for a very long time. But she
seemed to be prepared to draw closer to him again. She had
said nothing more about wanting a divorce, or even about
him moving out of the house. And the holiday with
Bingham had clearly not been a success — she hadn’t
admitted it, but he knew her so well, knew what a vague,
slightly defensive attitude meant. He was pretty sure she
hadn’t seen Bingham since; and it had been the very evening of her return that she had first responded to him,
sexually, had - almost - returned his kiss, and then rushed
upstairs away from him. That had not the behaviour of a
woman in the throes of a satisfactory love affair.
God, he hoped he was right. He missed her, in every
possible way, more dreadfully than he would have believed.
It had been a very odd day: pooling their knowledge,
their instincts, their skills again. Watching her mind work,
seeing the odd blend of confidence and nerviness that made
her so successful. She was very clever, and not just clever,
skilful. He found that skilfulness, that deployment of her
own talent and of those who worked for her, intriguing,
charming, attractive. It was one of the things that had
always attracted him to her: that made her desirable. It was
odd the way their relationship had always been so acutely workbased. He could not imagine finding her as sexy if she was simply a housewife, however fervently he wished it at
times. He had never thought — until Louise — that he would
find any woman without a career properly attractive, that it
would be possible for her to engage his mind and his
professional admiration as well as his emotions. Louise had
broken all the rules: in every way. Please God they were
safe from her.
He decided he needed a quotation for his speech, and
looked for his dictionary of quotations; it was missing.
Octavia would have taken it; she was always doing that,
borrowing his books, not putting them back. He went
downstairs and into her study; yes, there it was, sitting on
her desk. Six months earlier, he would have berated her for
it; now he knew he could not.
He smiled, looking round the small room; everything
pin-neat, none of the messy piles of bills and unanswered
letters that lay on his own desk. Even on the memory
board, everything was perfectly squared up. It spoke so
clearly of the real Octavia, that room: not just her efficiency
and her neatness, but her fierce pride in her work and her
success - the odd award, her degree, a personal letter of congratulation from Lord Denning over some legal charity she had worked for - all carefully framed, alongside endless
pictures of the children, the children’s works of art — and
pictures of her father. Several of them: Tom stood looking
at them. Old bugger; God, he’d worked hard to break up
their marriage. If it didn’t survive, it would be as much
down to Felix’s machinations as his own.
Well, it was going to survive: he was determined.
Determined and beginning to be confident.
The top drawer of Octavia’s desk was slightly open, a
piece of paper protruding from it. He smiled, went to close
it; it was an outrage in this shrine of neatness. The drawer
was slightly stuck: he had to tug it out before closing it