Fault Line - Retail (12 page)

I considered phoning Nanstrassoe House, then decided it was time I grasped the nettle and called there in person. I hurried off.

There was no sign of the Jag at Nanstrassoe either. But the garage was big enough to accommodate several cars. I glanced up at the first-floor windows of the house as I approached, half expecting to see Vivien watching me from one of them.

She wasn’t, of course. But to my surprise someone else was. Adam Lashley, who must have been standing on a chair to reach the windowsill, was peering down at me, frowning as concentratedly as only a small child can.

I raised my hand and waved to him, smiling as I did so. To which he responded by sticking his tongue out and ducking down out of sight.

The door was answered by Maria, who seemed bewildered to see me and undecided whether to invite me in. ‘Zere is … a lot trouble,’ she said.

Then Harriet Wren appeared in the hall behind her. ‘It’s Jonathan, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’ As I stepped through the doorway, she went on: ‘See what Adam’s up to, would you, Maria? I heard a loud thump just now.’

Maria hurried off up the stairs, leaving me to follow Harriet into the drawing-room. She closed the double doors carefully behind us.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked. ‘I had an appointment at the office with Mr Lashley. He wasn’t there.’

‘He was called away, Jonathan,’ she said, gazing at me studiously through her round silver-framed glasses.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Vivien … took an overdose of sleeping pills.’

‘
What?
’

‘She’s at the hospital. Muriel’s with her. I expect Greville is as well by now.’

‘Are you saying …’

‘No, no. Muriel found her in good time. She’s going to be fine, I’m sure. Physically, that is. As for her mental state …’

‘Why would she do such a thing?’

‘She’s spent her entire adolescence trying to protect Oliver. His death has been a dreadful blow for all of us. But for Vivien …’

‘I must go and see how she is,’ I said, turning towards the door.

‘Before you do …’

I looked back at her. ‘What is it?’

‘You won’t get a very good reception, Jonathan. Muriel thinks you’re partly to blame for what’s happened.’

‘Perhaps I am.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, I’m going anyway.’

‘So I see.’ She smiled, approvingly, it seemed to me. ‘Good luck.’

I had no doubt Harriet’s warning was amply justified, but it was actually a relief to trust my own instincts rather than other people’s. I had to see Vivien, now more than ever. Her mother’s opinion of me was simply irrelevant.

Vivien’s was the only occupied bed in a small side-ward. My first thought was how pale she was. I hadn’t been prepared for that. It reminded me of Oliver, when we’d pulled him from the lake.

She was lying propped up on several pillows, with a drip attached to one arm. Muriel Lashley was sitting beside the bed, holding her daughter’s hand and talking in an undertone. Greville Lashley was standing next to her, staring into space, with a faintly pained expression on his face.

Vivien was in fact the first to see me. There was something abject in her soulful, wide-eyed gaze. She shook her head, as if to tell me I shouldn’t have come – I really shouldn’t.

Muriel noticed me an instant later. ‘What’s he doing here?’ I heard her say. And Lashley swung into action.

‘Let’s step outside for a moment, Jonathan,’ he said, striding forward to meet me and extending an ushering arm around my shoulder. ‘There are one or two things I need to explain.’

‘I’d really like to talk to Vivien,’ I protested as he virtually propelled me along the corridor.

‘I fully understand, but she’s not up to it yet. They’ve washed out her stomach and she’s feeling very weak. We need to take things gently. The doctor’s told us she mustn’t be put under any stress.’

‘I’m not going to put her under stress.’

‘Not intentionally, of course. But it’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid.’

By now we were passing through the reception area and heading for the exit. ‘Mr Lashley,’ I protested, ‘I just want to—’

‘I know, I know. But it’s going to have to wait.’

Then we were out in the clear evening air. Lashley released me and instantly produced his cigarette case.

‘Smoke?’

‘All right,’ I said warily. ‘Thanks.’

The short ritual of cigarette lighting felt as if it was also a declaration of his confidence in me. This was how men of the world behaved: a restrained conferral over expensive Virginia tobacco, while the womenfolk indulged their frailties indoors.

‘How is she?’ I ventured.

‘Not too hot. I’d no idea she was so distraught she might try to kill herself. It’s beginning to look like an hereditary weakness, isn’t it? I can’t imagine how Muriel would cope if she’d succeeded. It simply doesn’t bear thinking about. Anyway, as I’m sure you can imagine, my wife is
very
worried about Vivien, as well as grieving for Oliver.’

‘Of course. But—’

‘Listen to me, Jonathan. Vivien’s welfare has to be our prime concern. They’ll discharge her tomorrow – there’s nothing physically wrong with her now they’ve flushed the pills out of her – and we’ll take her home. But she’s in a very fragile state. That’s clear. I’m sure she’ll want to see you at some point. Probably not for a few days, though. Until we’ve got her over the worst of her reaction to Oliver’s death and are satisfied there isn’t likely to be any repetition of this … suicidal impulse … I must ask you to be patient.’

It was difficult to frame an objection to his request without sounding selfish. He must have known I was bound to agree to whatever was in Vivien’s best interests. ‘I don’t want to do anything that would upset her.’

‘Of course you don’t.’ He squeezed my shoulder. ‘We’re all on the same side in this. That’s fully understood.’

‘So …’

‘We’ll be in touch. Or Vivien will. Just give her a little time. They say it’s the best healer.’

‘I should tell you that I couldn’t find the knapsack. I searched high and low. Nothing.’

‘Thanks for trying, anyway. I’m not altogether surprised. Information I received from the police this afternoon suggests Oliver was playing some kind of elaborate game with all of us. It appears
he
paid Strake to follow him.’

‘I know. Strake told me.’

‘You confronted the fellow, then?’

‘Not exactly. I—’

‘You’re a spirited and determined young man, Jonathan. Resourceful and resilient. I like that. So, don’t think I take any pleasure in what I’m about to say. The fact is that I have to terminate your employment at Wren’s. With immediate effect.’

I was taken aback. Nothing had prepared me for this. ‘But … why?’

‘Muriel insists. She blames you for helping Oliver carry out his suicide plan. Officially it may be concluded that he drowned accidentally. But we know better, don’t we? We also know you couldn’t have anticipated what he was intending to do. My wife doesn’t see it that way, though. She regards it as intolerable that you should remain a Wren’s employee. And in the circumstances I don’t feel inclined to argue with her about it.’

That at least I could understand. ‘I see.’

‘I’m sorry. But there it is. However,’ he dropped his voice confidentially, ‘I could fix you up with something at Cornish China Clays, if you like. They’re always in need of holiday cover. Muriel couldn’t object to that. And you have a chemistry A level, don’t you, so they’re bound to be able to make good use of you.’

It was surprising in its way, even flattering, that Lashley was willing to go to such lengths to help me. Laying off one student worker wasn’t a big deal, after all. But apparently he really did like me. ‘Well … that’s kind. I …’

‘Call Ted Hammett at CCC Monday afternoon. I’ll have spoken to him by then. He’ll fit you in.’

I shrugged. ‘Thanks.’

‘I could be doing you a bigger favour than you think. CCC is going places. I intend to make sure of that.’

On my way home, I passed the Capitol, where people were going in for the 7.45 showing of
Thoroughly Modern Millie
, the very showing Vivien and I had arranged to go to. Vivien’s world had been knocked off its axis since then – and mine with it. What the future held for us I couldn’t have begun to guess.

It promised to be a miserable weekend. And the reality lived up to the promise. I mooched around on Saturday and in the evening went to a party I’d intended to cut, hoping, of course, to have fixed something up with Vivien. I soon wished I’d stayed at home. I left early.

I went for a long and exhausting walk down the coast to Mevagissey on Sunday. Holidaymakers were out in the sun. Well, bully for them. I was well on the way to convincing myself I’d never again be capable of such a simple thing.

When I finally arrived home late that afternoon, I vaguely registered the gleaming condition of the car as evidence that Dad had given it its weekly wash. This further proof that the banal routines of everyday life went on being observed without regard to individual tragedies only deepened my depression.

Dad was oblivious to this and seemed determined to twist the knife by actually describing the cleaning of the car to me.

‘The turtle wax gives it a really nice sheen, doesn’t it?’ he asked, to which I couldn’t summon a response. ‘I vacuumed the interior out as well, you know.’

I managed a glum nod at that.

‘Came across this in the glove compartment. Know anything about it?’

I belatedly realized he was holding something in his hand: a smooth, creamy white, roughly hexagonal stone – or rather, I saw as I looked closer, a pentagon and hexagon superimposed, fused together, as it were. It was several inches across and I knew at once
what
it was: a feldspar phenocryst – a fine example of a pig’s egg. And I also knew how it had found its way into the glove compartment of the car. I knew that with utter certainty.

I told Dad I’d got the pig’s egg from someone at work and had intended to show it to Oliver, but had forgotten. A direct connection to Oliver might have prompted him to insist I report it to the police and, for some reason I couldn’t properly have explained, I didn’t want to do that. It was clear to me the pig’s egg was some kind of parting gift: my gift, no one else’s.

When I examined it more closely, I noticed that the letter Z had been etched in one corner, too sharply and precisely to be mistaken for any kind of natural marking. There was nothing else unusual about the stone. Typically of Oliver’s communications, it was as intriguing as it was impenetrable.

My first impulse was to tell Vivien about its discovery. But the only person I wanted to confide in was the one person I wasn’t allowed to confide in, at least for the moment. I’d have to wait for her to contact me. And the waiting would be agony.

I rang Ted Hammett at Cornish China Clays on Monday afternoon, as Lashley had advised me to, and was instantly hired to do a few weeks in their research department as some unspecified form of dogsbody. The whole point of working at Wren’s had been that it wasn’t Cornish China Clays, of course, so there was more than a little irony attached to this. But it was only for a few weeks.
And
they paid ten shillings more than Wren’s.

I started on Wednesday and pushed my luck by immediately requesting Friday afternoon off. There was no objection. It was probably more generally known than I was aware that Oliver Foster had been a friend of mine. And Friday was the day Oliver’s funeral was set to take place at Holy Trinity Church at three o’clock.

I was beginning to wonder if I’d hear from Vivien before then. I didn’t want our next meeting to be at her brother’s funeral, surrounded by friends and relations. But there wasn’t much I could
do
about it. I’d agreed to give her as much time as she needed. And how much that was I had no way of judging.

The answer was waiting for me in the car park when I left CCC that Wednesday, however. Vivien tooted the horn of her Mini and waved me over.

She was wearing her white safari-suit and looked outwardly every bit as carefree and glamorous as the first day I’d set eyes on her. Only the shadow behind her gaze and the nervous tremor I felt as we exchanged a brief, uncertain kiss suggested otherwise.

‘Can we go somewhere and talk, Jonathan?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

‘I know … you’ve been wanting to talk to me ever since …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry … so sorry I couldn’t …’

‘It’s all right.’ I touched her hand. ‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘I think so.’

We headed for Porthpean, the nearest beach to St Austell. On the way Vivien asked me about my first day at CCC. I heard myself faithfully describing the many contrasts with working practices at Wren’s, as if she might really be interested – or as if any of it mattered at all.

There was a shared sense that we couldn’t really communicate until we’d reached Porthpean and walked out on to the beach and faced the cleansing sea air. The evening was cool and grey. There weren’t many people about. We lit cigarettes and wandered out towards the gentle surf.

‘I’m on probation, you know,’ said Vivien. ‘This is my first trip out alone since …’

‘I’m sorry, Vivien. So sorry I didn’t …’

‘You’ve nothing to apologize for. It wasn’t your fault that Oliver … did what he did.’ She sighed. ‘Or that I fell apart.’

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Delicate. Isn’t that what they say? Yes. Delicate. That’s exactly how I feel.’

Several waves slowly broke while I sought the right words in vain.

Then, as if taking pity on me, Vivien said, ‘I think I’ve feared Oliver might kill himself ever since Father died. I tried so hard to stop it happening, but in the end … there was nothing I could do. And confronting my failure was like staring into a pit. A black, bottomless pit. That’s why … if there is a why …’ She shuddered and l longed to put my arm round her. But something held me back. ‘The truth is a painful thing, Jonathan. And the truth about Oliver is this. He wanted there to be some deep, dark secret that would explain what Father did. He wanted there to be people who’d driven him to it that could be exposed and punished. He wanted that so badly that when he realized there was no secret beyond Father’s own depressive temperament he decided to … manufacture one. The information he found in Wren’s records; the missing knapsack; the man following him: all designed to suggest a mystery … where there was actually only a sad, mixed-up boy.’