Person or Persons Unknown (19 page)

Zara listened avidly, asking a string of questions. ‘I'd love to meet her,' she said, when Rona came to an end. ‘Do you think she'd agree?'

‘She might. She asked a lot about you, too.' Rona glanced at her watch and rose to her feet. ‘I must be going. Are you sure you'll be all right now?' It was too bad Tony Crane wouldn't be back that night.

‘I'll be fine,' Zara assured her. ‘Thanks for staying a while, and for all you're doing.'

‘You're not sorry you embarked on this? There might be worse to come.'

Zara wrinkled her nose. ‘Impossible!' she declared, and they both laughed. ‘Yes, of course I want you to continue.' She paused. ‘Will you write all that up?'

Rona shook her head. ‘It's the father search that's my main priority,' she said. ‘It's not as though you found Gemma herself.'

‘Only her ghost,' Zara said sadly.

For a reason she couldn't explain, Lindsey always drew the bedroom curtains, shading the room from the full light of midday and affording a nebulous sense of privacy. Not that anyone could have seen inside, the flat being on the first floor, but it seemed more appropriate, somehow.

The first time, Jonathan had laughed at her. ‘Such prudery!' he'd teased.

‘It's just that love in the afternoon seems a bit … decadent.'

‘So much the better!' he'd retorted.

The arrangement had started a month ago, largely unpremeditated. On hearing that Lindsey would be working from home the next day, he'd suggested going over during his lunch hour, and they had enjoyed their most relaxed and pleasurable love-making to date.

‘Why didn't we think of this before?' he'd demanded, as he lay beside her in the aftermath of passion. ‘A
bed
, forsooth! Such luxury!' Until then, their hurried comings together had taken place either in his car or in some distant field, always on the alert for intruders.

Lindsey had taken to making smoked salmon sandwiches, which they shared, accompanied by a bottle of wine, before Jonathan showered, dressed, and returned to the office. The snack meal, in place of the lunch he'd forfeited, took on the ambience of a picnic and had become an enjoyable part of the routine.

That Tuesday was the first time they'd exchanged more than a quick comment since Jonathan's meeting with Rona, and as they sat in bed partaking of their sandwiches, he remarked, ‘You're very alike, aren't you, you and your sister? What was it you said she did?'

‘Basically, she's a writer. She's published several biographies and she also does articles for magazines. Do you read
Chiltern Life
?'

‘Only at the dentist.'

‘Well, they're running her series on Buckford at the moment – part of the build-up to the octocentenary.'

‘So that's what she's working on at present?'

‘No, she's just finished, I think. She's now involved with some girl who was adopted and wants to trace her birth parents. And as you might know when Rona's involved, her mother was murdered.'

Jonathan gave a short laugh. ‘You mean she's come across murder before?'

Lindsey sipped her wine. ‘Twice.'

‘Ye gods! So who
was
this girl's mother?'

‘Gemma someone. She was murdered in Stokely when the girl was a baby.' She was reaching for a sandwich, and didn't notice Jonathan's sudden stillness.

After a moment he asked levelly, ‘And is she making any progress? Your sister, I mean?'

‘I don't know; we haven't discussed it recently.'

‘I hope—'

But what he hoped, Lindsey was never to know, for at that moment, to her incredulous horror, the doorbell sounded. They both froze, turning to each other with widening eyes.

‘Ignore it,' Jonathan advised after a minute.

‘I'll have to! There's no way I can answer the door in my present state!'

They waited, unmoving, for the bell to sound again, yet still jumped when it did. Lindsey slid out of bed and padded to the window, cautiously peering outside.

‘Oh, my God!' she exclaimed, recognizing the car in the drive. ‘It's my mother!'

In confirmation, the letterbox rattled and a voice called through it, ‘Lindsey! Are you there? It's Mum!'

She gazed at Jonathan, stricken. ‘What shall I do?' she whispered in panic.

‘I told you, ignore it. She'll go away.'

‘But I can't – she must know I'm working from home, or she wouldn't have come. I'll have to let her in. Stay where you are – she won't come in here.'

‘For God's sake, Lindsey, get rid of her! Time's getting on! I've an appointment in forty minutes!'

Ignoring him, she ran naked on to the landing and leaned over the banisters. ‘Sorry, Mum!' she called down. ‘I'm washing my hair. Hang on – I'll be down in a minute.'

She seized her dressing gown from the back of the door, ran into the bathroom and, bending over the bath, briefly switched on the shower. As she wound a towel round her dripping hair, she caught a glimpse of her reflection, cheeks flushed and eyes still bright from love-making.

Without glancing at Jonathan, still on the bed with a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, she pulled the door shut, ran breathlessly down the stairs and pulled open the door. Avril stood smiling on the doorstep.

‘So this is how you “work at home”!' she said. And then, as Lindsey pulled the sash on her gown closer, ‘Aren't you going to ask me in?'

‘Yes, of course, but I'm afraid I can only spare a minute.'

She stood aside for her mother to precede her up the stairs, praying that Jonathan hadn't left anything in the sitting room. ‘I had an urgent case to prepare,' she explained belatedly, ‘which is why I postponed my shower till lunch time.' True as far as it went, though the shower had been taken before Jonathan's arrival. ‘Also, I'm expecting an important call at –' her eyes flicked to the clock – ‘a quarter to two, and I've not finished preparing for it.'

Looking at her mother properly for the first time, and primed by her expectant expression, she suddenly registered the new hairstyle.

‘Oh, Mum – you've had your hair cut! It looks super!'

‘I wanted you to be the first to see it,' Avril said. ‘I went straight to the office from the hairdresser's, but they said you were working at home, so I came on here. You really do like it?'

‘It's great!' Lindsey assured her sincerely, studying the style as Avril slowly rotated for her. ‘You look about ten years younger – really with it!'

Avril laughed in pleased embarrassment. ‘I'm glad you approve.'

‘It'll certainly stop Pops in his tracks!'

Avril's smile faded. ‘I did it for my own satisfaction, not your father's,' she said, and Lindsey's heart sank. Desperately she glanced at the clock again. Jonathan would be getting increasingly restive, and there was no way he could shower while Avril was there – the running water would be a giveaway. As the thought formed, the phone rang suddenly, startling her.

‘Lindsey Parish,' she said into it.

‘Get her the hell out! Now!' said a low voice in her ear. Jonathan, on his mobile.

‘Yes, yes of course,' Lindsey murmured, heart pounding. She turned pleadingly to her mother. ‘Sorry, Mum,' she whispered, her hand over the receiver. ‘He's a few minutes early.'

‘I'll let myself out,' Avril whispered back, and, with a small wave, she ran down the stairs and pulled the front door shut behind her. Immediately the shower sounded in the en suite.

Shakily Lindsey replaced the phone, went through to the bedroom, and tidied the bed. When Jonathan emerged from the bathroom, she was drying her hair.

‘Narrow squeak, or what?' she said.

‘Too narrow by half. Does she make a habit of that?'

‘Believe it or not, it's the first time ever.'

‘Just my luck.' He dressed quickly, standing at the mirror to tie his tie.

‘She only delayed you by five minutes,' Lindsey said in mitigation.

He glanced at his watch and nodded. ‘No big deal, fortunately.' He kissed her quickly. ‘See you,' he said, and was gone.

I
n the days following the newspaper insertion, Rona had received about a dozen calls on her mobile, equally divided between people claiming to have known Gemma, and those recalling families who had emigrated. All of them, to Rona's relief, could be dealt with over the phone.

The ones regarding Gemma described her variously as ‘pretty', ‘moody', ‘good fun' and ‘difficult', depending on the perception of the caller, but nothing significantly new emerged. On the emigrating families, four names came up, two of them more than once, and included several young men who were confidently asserted to be the father of her baby. However, since the rider: ‘as I told the police at the time' was invariably added, it was clear Rona could discount them. As to the departing families, their destinations varied and emigration dates were vague – ‘It must have been either '78 or '79' being the closest they came. She'd follow them up as a matter of course, but she was not hopeful.

And that seemed to be that, she thought, discouraged; the newspaper hadn't been much help after all. Admittedly she still had pointers to Jonathan Hurst and Philip Yarborough, neither of whom she was anxious to pursue. An added worry was how could she alert Lindsey to Jonathan's connection without arousing her antipathy.

On impulse, she phoned her. ‘We mentioned a foursome,' she began. ‘Any chance of it coming off?'

‘Could be tricky,' Lindsey replied. ‘Incidentally, Mamma nearly caught us
in flagrante
yesterday! She called at the flat while Jonathan was on one of his lunch-time visits.'

‘I didn't know he made lunch-time visits,' Rona said mildly.

‘He does when I'm working from home. Anyway, Mum has a new hair-do to go with her altered image, and she called round for my approval.'

‘What's it like?'

‘Very chic, actually, but she bit my head off when I said Pops would approve, insisting she'd done it for her own benefit.'

‘Sounds as though things are no better, then. But about Jonathan – what do you think?'

‘Well, weekends are out, naturally. Whether or not he could swing a ‘business dinner' on Friday, I don't know.'

‘Like to ask him?'

‘Yes, I will. Thanks, Ro. Are you free for lunch, by the way?'

‘Sorry, I'm off to Hester Latymer's in an hour or so.'

‘Name-dropper!' Lindsey retorted. ‘Enjoy yourself, and I'll get back to you about the meal.'

As Rona replaced the receiver, she thought back to the family group in the park, the children running happily ahead, the parents strolling after them. They'd not looked like a couple in the process of divorcing, she reflected uneasily, and yet again found herself fearing for her sister's happiness.

Tom sat at his desk, restlessly tapping his pen. This week, there'd been another notch-up in Avril's self-improvement programme. He admitted to himself that he'd not expected it to last, and by the end of the previous week it had seemed he was right. Now, though, with her ultra-modern haircut, she looked like an executive of a multinational.

Her manner was different, too. Last week she'd seemed uncertain and vulnerable, anxious for his approval. Yesterday, there'd been a take-it-or-leave-it air about her, and when – since he could scarcely ignore it – he'd complimented her on the new style, she'd merely shrugged and turned aside with a careless, ‘Glad you like it', as though his opinion were of no consequence.

Irritably, he wished she'd at least be consistent. For years now her drab appearance had gone hand in hand with constant sniping at himself and, to a lesser degree, the girls. Consequently, her sudden smartening up had startled him, as had her palpable effort to be pleasant. Admittedly this latter was of short duration – possibly, he thought uncomfortably, because he'd not met her halfway – but instead of reverting to type, she'd changed again, acquiring a hard gloss that, intentionally or not, seemed to exclude him. And after briefly relapsing to supper on trays, they were again eating in the dining room. He no longer knew what to make of her, and the fact annoyed him. Whether or not her metamorphosis would make easier the parting he'd decided on remained to be seen.

The Latymers' constituency home was in Park Rise, a leafy avenue of substantial houses at the upper end of Furze Hill Park, much sought after for its high position and views over the town. Its paintwork, like that of its neighbours, was a dazzling white against the rose brick, but its exaggerated Dutch gables gave it a character of its own, emphasized by the nameplate,
Holland House
,
attached to the gatepost.

The gates themselves stood open, but since the circular drive was already clogged with cars, Rona parked outside. Easier for a quick getaway, she thought guiltily.

She was admitted by a uniformed maid and shown into a large, airy room seemingly full of well-dressed women. Hester materialized beside her and handed her a glass of champagne.

‘Rona – I hope I may call you that? – I'm so glad you could come. We'll all introduce ourselves shortly – I find it breaks the ice at these little gatherings – but in the meantime, come and meet one of James's colleagues, Lydia Playfair.'

The MP for Stokely, Rona remembered; she'd seen a by-election poster on her last visit. The woman turned at the sound of her name, holding out her hand with a smile.

‘Lydia, this is Rona Parish,' Hester said, and immediately excused herself to greet the latest arrival.

‘Is this your first attendance?' Lydia Playfair enquired lazily, surveying Rona over a pair of large tortoiseshell glasses.

‘Attendance?'

‘At a Professional Women's Luncheon. Hester holds three or four a year.'