The kitchen was an elegant affair of pale oak and black granite with a curved glass cooker hood, which neatly dated its last makeover to three years ago. Nothing changed as quickly as fashions in kitchen fittings. Trish sat at a beautiful old gate-legged table in the middle of the room, admiring it as much as the amazing burgundy she was drinking.
Her first reassurance about Will’s physical state had let loose an outpouring about how difficult it was to help him when he resisted everything you tried to do for him. She waited until Susannah had got it all off her chest, then said, ‘What about his girlfriend? Can’t she help?’
Susannah turned round from her pans on the Aga, a wooden spoon in her hand dripping tomato sauce on the white floor, like great drops of blood.
‘What girlfriend?’
‘Hasn’t there been one? A woman who lives somewhere in Kent?’
‘Ah,’ Susannah said on a sigh of understanding. She dropped the spoon back in the pan and fetched a cloth to mop the floor. ‘So that is why he wanted to borrow the car. I knew he was getting a bit of nooky, but I’d rather assumed it was you.’
Trish shook her head. ‘I’m just the wig freak who may or may not help get him his damages from Furbishers.’
‘I think there’s a bit more to it than that.’ Susannah smiled.
‘He can’t stop talking about you, and he grins like an idiot whenever he hears your name. It didn’t occur to me you could have a rival.’
‘What was it that made you think he could be … what was it you said? Getting some nooky?’
‘Sorry. It was my father’s expression. A whole lot of things. He looked sleeker.’ Susannah turned back to her pots. ‘And he was much less use about the house.’
‘What?’
Susannah looked at Trish over her shoulder again. Mischievous amusement had driven out some of the anxiety from her expression.
‘Haven’t you noticed? When men are feeling a bit too beaten for sex, they turn all useful and caring. Then when things are going better, and the testosterone’s rising, they start dropping their dirty clothes on the floor again and waiting for you to pick them up. It’s a bloke thing.’
I suppose it is, Trish thought, glad that the eccentric regime she and George had devised for themselves avoided all such tactics.
Susannah tasted the contents of one pan, reached for the salt, added a bit, stirred and tasted again.
‘Good. That’s done. Rupert?’ She raised her voice. ‘Rupert! Could you get them to wash? Supper’s ready.’ She put the pan on a trivet beside the Aga. ‘You’re about to witness the hordes feeding. Do you mind if I lay the table round you?’
‘Give me the cutlery and I’ll do it.’ Trish tried to fit Susannah’s theory into what she knew of Will’s activities. She hoped with a passion that surprised her that whoever had given Will his new sleekness, she wasn’t the woman lying in some Kentish mortuary awaiting a forensic pathologist’s saws and scalpel.
‘Great.’ Susannah produced a big bunch of knives and forks with bright-blue plastic handles. ‘You still haven’t said what’s happened to Will to put him in hospital.’
Trish told her about the fight and the police, but not about the dead woman, and watched the tears edge out of the corners of Susannah’s eyes.
‘Oh, God. Not more trouble for him. It’s so unfair. I can’t bear it.’
‘We’re doing our best,’ Trish said aloud, even as she thought, if he did kill that woman, nothing any of us can do will make a difference.
‘I know. But …’ Susannah grabbed Trish’s arm and propelled her towards a large oil painting that hung on the far wall. ‘That’s what he lost when Furbishers ruined him.’
There was nothing grand about the painting, or about the building it portrayed. It was just an ordinary farmhouse, familiar from every county in England. Long and low, it was arranged as usual at one side of a big square yard, with barns and stables taking up most of the other three. The yard itself was filled with pale-brown Jersey cows waiting to be milked. They looked warm against the greyish stone.
More buildings could be seen in the distance with trees behind them, and in the foreground a flowery meadow sloped gently towards a narrow river. Below that, in the centre of the frame, a scrolled gilt cartouche announced the unpretentious name of the place: Manor Farm. Trish had never heard of the painter, and assumed he had been an amateur, probably working at the beginning of the twentieth century.
‘Those are thought to be the original apple trees,’ Susannah said, sniffing. ‘Even though they have to be the reason we got our name, I didn’t mind when Will sold them and the land. But it was different when the house went. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that. It was … well, home really. In a way that this never will be. Or anywhere else.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Susannah produced a watery smile. ‘It’s much worse for him because he feels so guilty. All the time. I can see it in everything
he does. That’s why I was chuffed when I thought he was in love, even though it drove me mad when he ran the car dry of petrol and put bleach in the dishwasher instead of Rinseaid. I thought something was going right for him at last. Now this!’
‘Mum, Mum. What are we having?’
Susannah stared at Trish for a moment, then scrubbed her eyes on the bottom of her apron, braced herself and turned to say brightly, ‘Spaghetti, darling.’
‘I’d better leave you to it,’ Trish said, watching four small children clambering up on to the oak chairs. They looked so much the same age that she couldn’t believe they all belonged to Susannah. Rosy with health and noisy with excitement, all four had the kind of confidence that comes only from a settled existence with contented parents, the kind of experience Kim Bowlby would never have.
‘You will tell me as soon as you hear anything, won’t you?’ Susannah said, jerking Trish back into the present.
‘Of course,’ she said, trying to forget Kim.
‘And could you explain it all to Rupert on the way out? I can’t with all this lot earwigging.’
Susannah’s husband walked Trish to the door and didn’t comment until he’d heard everything she was prepared to say.
‘Stupid- bugger,’ he said casually. ‘I hope he was the victim this time. Susannah can’t take much more. It seems to have been going on ever since the old man died and Will inherited the farm. One damn thing after another. But thanks for warning us about this one.’
‘Before I go,’ Trish said, ‘could you tell me something?’
‘If I can, of course. What d’you want to know?’
‘How much of a friend to Will was Jamie Maxden?’
‘Who?’
‘A journalist. Will talks about him as a great friend. Didn’t you know?’
‘Never heard of him.’ He twisted his head to call down to the
passage to the kitchen, ‘Sannah? You ever hear of a friend of Will’s called Jamie Maxden?’
Trish heard her tell the children to eat tidily, then saw her emerging from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Of course. I haven’t heard anything about Jamie for years,’ she said, looking a little self-conscious. ‘But he was OK, you know. A good bloke. At one time they were great mates.’
‘How did they meet?’ Trish asked.
Susannah frowned up at the ceiling, as though trying to bring back the memory. The children were shrieking with delight behind her. And there were splashing sounds, as though one of them was playing with his food or even throwing it.
‘The Young Farmers’ Ball, I think. It was donkeys’ years ago. Has he popped up again?’
‘No. He’s dead.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ Susannah leaned against the wall. ‘You’re not going to tell me he was in this fight with Will, are you? I don’t believe it. They were really close at one time.’
Trish was shaking her head before Susannah was halfway through her question. A crash followed by a scream made them all turn towards the kitchen. Susannah looked back at Trish. More screams made her say, ‘Rupe, could you sort it? I’ll tell Trish what she needs to know.’
‘OK,’ he said, but he looked puzzled.
Susannah scooped up a bunch of keys from a wooden bowl on the radiator shelf.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you to your car.’
Outside, the air felt even warmer than it had indoors, and very dusty. Trish longed for rain to freshen it.
‘How did he die?’
‘There’s a question over that,’ Trish said, itching to know what was behind Susannah’s odd intensity. ‘But the inquest called it suicide. Why?’
She turned her neat face up to Trish, who saw that her eyes
were damp. ‘Because they did have a fight once. But not nearly as bad as this one sounds.’
‘Will and Jamie?’
‘Yes. It was over me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Jamie and I had a bit of a fling, years and years ago. It kind of drifted into nothing, but we stayed friends. And when I was first married to Rupe, when things were really tough, I kind of … well, turned to Jamie. You see, Rupe had only just moved to the bank and later on I realized he’d been terrified of failing and being sacked. At the time, all I knew was that he spent about twenty hours a day there. I felt rejected.’
‘That must have been hard.’
‘It was agony. I can understand it now, but sometimes things bring it back – like the night you phoned and I bit your head off.’
Trish sympathized, but she had other things on her mind than Susannah’s marital history.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Trish said. ‘I didn’t take it personally. What happened with Jamie?’
‘I just wanted you to understand. I was very vulnerable because of the way things were with Rupe, and because Dad had just died. And Jamie was lovely.’
‘You mean you had an affair?’
‘Not really. But we did go to bed once or twice. And Will dropped in one evening, just as Jamie was dressing. Will had keys to the flat Rupe and I lived in then because sometimes he had to be in London overnight, seeing the lawyers about Dad’s estate, and he used to stay. Anyway, he let himself in and saw us, not exactly fully clothed.’
‘And Will let fly at Jamie? That doesn’t sound like him.’ They had reached Trish’s car, but she didn’t want to interrupt the flow so kept on walking beside Susannah further up Munster Road.
‘He stared at him and said something like: “I’d thought I could trust you. How could you do it?” And Jamie just zipped up his trousers and said: “What’re you talking about?” And Will hit him. Then Jamie hit him back. And for a minute I thought they were going to kill each other.’
‘How did you stop it?’
‘I screamed. I was terrified. It stopped them. Jamie stood there, staring at Will and said, “You should have trusted me.” Then he took my chin in his hand and kissed me. He tasted of blood, so his lip must have been split, and he said, “Don’t worry about this Suze. It’s nothing.” See you.’
‘And did you? See him, I mean.’
‘I never saw him again. And now he’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Susannah looked as though she’d just surfaced from a dive. She smiled politely. But her eyes were blank. ‘I ought to get back. The children, you know. Will you be able to find your car?’
‘Sure. Thank you.’
Susannah ran back down the road, then paused. Over her shoulder, she called, ‘When you see Will, tell him to phone me if he needs anything. Anything. And get me a phone number so I can talk to him. It’s important.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
When Trish got home at half past seven, the red light was flickering on her answering machine. She pressed Play and heard Petra Knighton’s voice.
‘I promised to let you know how things were going. It’s not looking good for Applewood. As I told you, the other man is in a much worse way than he is, which makes the police highly suspicious of Applewood’s story. Until they get the scientific tests back, they won’t have a clue which of the two beat the woman to death. Even then the test results may not be conclusive. He sends his love, by the way.’
‘Oh, shit!’ Trish said aloud to relieve her feelings.
‘The story he’s told them, for what it’s worth, is that he’d been in bed with the woman all day until she sent him out to buy bread before the shops shut. There’ll presumably be witnesses who saw him in the baker’s. When he came back, he claims she was already being beaten up. He launched himself at the man doing the beating and fought on until he managed to subdue him.
‘Meantime, a neighbour had called the police. They’re highly sceptical and think it’s more likely that Applewood went berserk when he came back from the shops to find the other man on his patch and tried to kill them both.’
I don’t believe it, Trish thought, pressing the button to save the message. Not Will. Not in a million years.
Now where did that come from? she asked herself, feeling as though the floor had turned to jelly.
She’d screwed up once before when she’d allowed herself to believe her father had murdered his lover. She couldn’t bear to make the same mistake again.
It’s still between us now, she thought. That’s why Paddy hardly ever comes here. Maybe he’s right to hate me for what I thought he’d done. What can it be like to know your own daughter believes you capable of killing another human being?
You had your reasons, she reminded herself.
There’d been plenty of those, including the violence she’d witnessed as a child. For years, she’d told herself that her father had simply abandoned her and her mother. But, since her mother had admitted that he had hit her, Trish had been allowing the memories to come back bit by bit.
Pacing around the empty flat as though it were a small cave in which she’d been trapped for weeks, she let the worst bubble up like hot lava through a crack in the earth’s crust.
She must have been three or four, less than Kim’s age, wearing striped pyjamas and a cherry-red dressing gown. Both
her parents had been with her in the kitchen, and she had been furious about something. There wasn’t anything odd about that: she’d always been an angry child. Whatever it was she’d wanted so urgently had driven her to tank on and on until she’d ignited a row between her parents.