Apportionment of Blame (27 page)

He threw the remains of his drink into his mouth before turning round again.

“And where does it all leave us? Still broke and without a daughter. Bloody Hitler!”

There was nothing anyone could say to that.

Joyce's mother got up and went to Oliver.

“Oliver, we can get through this. I know what you said is true, but we have to look ahead. We still have Joyce, and now we have Greg as well.”

Joyce and I exchanged looks and smiled.

“Hey,” she said suddenly. “We're supposed to be celebrating.”

“I shall feel more like celebrating when that thug is behind bars,” Oliver said.

“Come on, Dad,” she cajoled. “Do this for me. Greg will sort it all, won't you, Greg?”

“I hope so,” I said. “I certainly hope so.

The meal was excellent and over coffee we listened to Joyce's mother read more extracts from Annie's journal.

“What a sad life she had,” Joyce said, her voice beginning to blur after all the wine.

“I know,” her mother said. “Found love and lost love, never being able to tell Alan anything, or us for that matter. Sons who never got on. She blamed herself for that, you know. But I think Alan blamed himself as well. That's no basis for a happy marriage.

“Then she lost them both together and then her husband. She must have been delighted when her daughter managed to trace her.”

She turned more pages in the journal.

“Listen to this.”

‘13th February 2003

Ilse came to see me today. I stood on the platform at Ipswich station, staring at the tunnel where her train would eventually appear. It seemed strangely symbolic, as if she was somehow being born again.'

“Isn't that amazing? It must have been so moving.”

“Then I had to check myself and my excitement, ready for potential disappointment.”

“How strange it must feel,” Joyce said, “to meet someone you have not seen since they were born, over fifty years before.”

“You know,” Joyce's mother said. “I'm beginning to feel as sorry for Ilse as I was for Annie. What an awful life she had, and none of it was her fault. And to have a brother who could do such a thing.”

“That is still only a possibility,” I reminded her, “although I think it's likely.”

“The sooner you prove it, the better,” Oliver said.

“Do you remember,” I asked Joyce's mother, “telling me that Annie had looked younger during the last year or so of her life? That would be because she'd met Ilse. She had a new interest in her life. She'd found the daughter she thought she'd lost, and she must have felt awful having to give her up for adoption.”

The conversation went on, interspersed by extracts from the journal, until we realised we were all falling asleep.

“Look,” I said eventually. “There's no way I could drive in this state. Would it be OK to doss down on your sofa for tonight?”

“Of course. It is late, isn't it. It's time we all turned in. It's been a good evening.”

I would have drunk to that, but I couldn't possibly drink anymore.

Joyce came across to the sofa to join me, while her parents began to clear up.

“You don't have to sleep down here, you know.”

“I might as well. You wouldn't want our first night together to be in a drunken stupor.”

“Well, if you put it that way.”

She smiled and I pulled her towards me into a kiss.

“I probably don't even taste very good. I certainly don't to me.”

Joyce got up and began untying my shoe laces. Then she lifted my legs onto the sofa.

“I'll get you a blanket,” she said.

“Don't look after me too well. I might start to get used to it.”

And that's all I can remember of the evening. I certainly don't recall the blanket arriving.

There are some nights when I don't dream at all, and others when I find myself involved in the most complex of situations. No doubt some therapists would put this down to my state of mind at the time, or a deep subconscious condition of some sort. It seems to me that alcohol can also play a not unimportant part in the process.

I was alone in a country lane and vehicles kept whizzing past. All I could see of their occupants was a passing glance each time. Doug in his truck, then someone on a motorbike, then Gemma in a car, then Stuart on a tube train, then someone in a taxi, perhaps it was Annie, then two more guys on a motorbike, and then I was left wondering where they'd all gone.

In the dream Joyce came up and took my hand.

“I can't find it,” I said to her.

“You will,” she said, “Just keep looking.”

“But where?”

I was turning my head from side to side, but I couldn't see anywhere to look.

“Bloody Germans!” Oliver shouted suddenly.

“Yeah! Too right!” Doug joined in. “Look what they did.”

“But I couldn't help it,” Ilse whined in the voice of a pathetic little child.”

“You should have been more careful,” said a voice. Whose voice, I couldn't tell, but it sounded familiar.

“It was her fault.” Another voice. I looked around, but couldn't see anyone.

“It wasn't my fault. All I wanted was to love her.”

I sat up, suddenly wide awake. I knew whose voice it was.

The room was pitch black, but when I looked at my watch I discovered it was seven thirty. More sleep than I had expected. I had to move and go somewhere. I knew now how Helen had died.

I went up to the bathroom, splashed some cold water over my face and used some of the mouthwash behind the wash basin.

The flushing of the loo must have woken Joyce, because when I left the bathroom she was standing on the landing waiting for me.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. And I think I know what happened. I have to go. Things to do.”

I kissed her and made my way down the stairs with her following right behind me.

“Tell me,” she said by the front door.

“I can't, till I am sure. I'll call you.”

The crunching pebbles in front of the house sounded like gunfire as I made my way to the car. I didn't care who I woke now. I knew what to do and drove home.

Thank goodness I'd done some shopping. I came down from the shower dripping wet and poured a glass of orange juice while I waited for the kettle to boil.

I put the television on to pass the time till nine o'clock, but the programme was so boring, I soon turned it off again.

It was important to get this morning right, or I might lose any chance of proving what happened to Helen.

Chapter 15

W
hen
I arrived at Colbox it was barely light. Another of those days when the sun had apparently given up the struggle without really trying.

There were few cars in the parking area and I pulled in, as I often did, with a vacant space on either side of me. This was a habit begun on a very windy day when I opened my car door to have it snatched from my hand and into the wing mirror of the car alongside. Needless to say the other car was bigger than mine and remained unmarked, while mine still carried the scar of impact.

Today however it was calm, but still cold. I fumbled for my gloves and got out of the car, wrapping my scarf tightly round my neck.

Sarah greeted me with the same smile.

“I wonder if Mr J. is free,” I said, unwrapping my scarf and opening my coat. “I came early in the hope that he would not be busy.”

“He's not here yet,” she told me. “Is it about,” she paused, “you know who?” and she looked cautiously over her shoulder.

“Yes, and I am not going to see ‘you know who' again without Mr J. being here to say he doesn't mind.”

“Well you won't have to wait long. He's coming in now.”

I turned and saw someone not in shirtsleeves this time, but encased in a long, woollen overcoat with an Astrakhan hat on his head.

“Mr Jordan.”

“Hello. Greg, isn't it? You're bright and early.”

“Yes. I should have made an appointment, but something occurred to me, and I was hoping you might be free for a few minutes.”

“Certainly. Sarah, two coffees, please.”

I followed him to his office and waited while he removed his winter cocoon. I left mine on. It took me a long time to get warm.

Sarah brought in the drinks, put them on the desk and left again. Frank went to take his usual chair.

“Now,” he said.

“This is a little difficult, and I need to say at the outset that I'm only working on a theory.”

“All right,” he said cautiously.

“I understand that Helen was not as unknown to Gemma as Gemma would like us to think.”

He shuffled in his chair.

“How do you mean?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, I am told that Gemma had her eye on Helen, but Helen wasn't interested.”

“You mean she's.?” He stopped.

“Yes. Apparently she colours outside the lines.”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry. It's an expression I heard. She prefers other girls.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm going on what I've been told. Is this a problem for you, discovering that one of your employees is gay?”

“I hadn't ever thought about it. I suppose it can't be a problem, can it? We're an equal opportunity employer. Any race, any colour, any religion, any preference.”

“Right.”

Frank appeared to be having difficulty taking in the implications of what I had said, so I waited a minute.

“Would you mind if I talk to Gemma again?” I said. “And could I have someone else in the room with us, to be on the safe side?”

“Someone like?”

“Well, you, if you like, but perhaps Sarah as well, so both sexes are on an equal footing, so to speak. And would it be possible before we speak to Gemma to pull her file and look up her address. Then perhaps check if she was at work on the afternoon in question. She didn't seem sure before.”

He continued to look at me while he depressed his intercom.

“Sarah. Could you come in please? And could you bring Gemma's file with you?”

“Are you sure of all this?” Frank asked me. “If you start making allegations which are unfounded, Gemma could cause a problem for you.”

“I know. I'll be careful.”

“And if you think Gemma is involved in Helen's death, shouldn't the police be involved?”

“I shall tell the police what I know when I'm certain about it. As far as I know they still think it was either an accident or suicide.”

There was a knock at the door and Sarah came in with a file in her hand.

“Is the coffee all right?”

That's when we both realised we hadn't touched our cups yet, and I jumped from my chair to retrieve mine, swallowing a large mouthful rather too quickly.

“Yes, it's good, thanks.” I said.

Sarah placed the file in front of Frank and then went to stand in the middle of the office, looking backwards and forwards between Frank and me.

“Do you want to ask her, or should I?” Frank said.

“You are the one with authority here. Perhaps it better be you.”

“OK. Sarah, Greg here has the idea that our Gemma is a lesbian and had her eye on Helen.”

Sarah spun round to stare at me.

“Who told you that?”

“Who told me doesn't matter.”

Sarah's expression softened when I said that.

“But it does open a possibility,” I went on, “and the more I think of the possibility the more likely it feels.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I need to speak to Gemma again, and it would be helpful if you could be here when I do. I don't want to be accused of something I have not done or said.”

“I shall stay too,” Frank said. “I have a vested interest in knowing if one of my employees has done something stupid.”

Sarah looked back at me and then at Frank.

“All right,” she said.

“Good,” said Frank. “Pull another chair over and I'll send for Gemma after I've looked in this file. What was it you wanted to know, Greg?”

“Her address for a start,” I said.

He looked at the paper in front of him.

“Barn Lane, Monks Colne.”

So it could have been her in the car I saw. She couldn't live far from where Helen died. My thoughts began to race, and I tried hard to keep my expression unchanged as I felt a surge of excitement at hearing this unexpected news.