Person or Persons Unknown (2 page)

‘Why, what have I done?' Magda asked with scant interest, sliding the pastries from the oven tray on to a plate.

‘Divulged my marital arrangements, apparently, to total strangers.'

Magda turned to stare at her. ‘What on earth are you talking about?'

‘A young couple through there, who were at Gavin's office do.'

‘Oh.' Her face cleared. ‘We were discussing your articles and they seemed interested in you, for some reason, and asked a few questions. I didn't betray any secrets, though; everything I told them was common knowledge.'

‘That Max and I don't live together?' Rona challenged her.

‘I'm sure I didn't put it like that, but you don't, do you,
all
the time?'

Rona didn't argue the point. ‘Anyway,' she said, leaning against the counter and sipping her water, ‘do you know anything about them?'

‘The Cranes? Nothing. I've only met them the once, at Palmer & Faraday's silver jubilee. Gavin says the man, whatever-his-name-is, is quite promising, and since he'd invited the rest of his team, he didn't want this guy to feel left out. What did they want with you, anyway?'

‘From what I gathered, they'd like me to undertake some investigation or other. I declined, but the girl – Zara – still wants us to meet, to discuss whatever it is.'

Gavin put his head round the door. ‘Sorry to break up the tête-à-tête, but I thought you were bringing the sausage rolls?'

Magda picked up the plate. ‘Just coming,' she said.

‘So, what's the verdict?' Rona asked Max as they drove home.

‘Not bad as these things go; but give me a dinner party any day, where you can sit down in comfort instead of standing around all night like a spare part. Not to mention having to cope with a glass while balancing food on those flimsy plates.'

‘Nevertheless, you seemed to be enjoying yourself,' she said drily. ‘Did you by any chance speak to that young couple?'

‘No, I didn't come across them. Why?'

‘They want me to look into something for them. I was pretty discouraging, though; with luck, I shan't hear from them again. Incidentally, Magda told them we don't live together.'

He gave a short laugh. ‘There's friendship for you! Did you disabuse them?'

‘No; I didn't see why I should explain myself to strangers. Anyway, as Magda pointed out when I tackled her, it's partially true. You
do
sleep at Farthings three nights a week, after your classes.'

‘Because when I didn't, you'd either gone to bed by the time I came home or were burning the midnight oil meeting deadlines.'

‘
I
know that, and
you
know that, and so does everyone else that matters.' And, Rona reflected privately, the space given by the arrangement made their marriage all the stronger.

Max grunted and drew in to the kerb, thankful to find a space almost opposite the gate. The tall Georgian houses in Lightbourne Avenue were not blessed with garages, and Rona's car was kept in one of a custom-built row in an adjacent street. Being so near the centre of town, she seldom used it anyway.

Although the day had been warm, the night air felt chill as they walked together up the short path to the door. Gus, their long-haired retriever, was awaiting them in the hall, and Max resignedly took down his lead.

‘I won't be more than ten minutes,' he said, and went back down the steps, the dancing dog at his side.

Rona went down to the basement kitchen and laid the table for breakfast. The clock on the wall showed eleven thirty but she felt wide awake. Beyond the glass door the patio garden lay hidden beneath the reflection of the kitchen, its bright yellow walls giving the impression of sunlight.

She leaned her head on the glass, watching her doppelganger copy her. Discussion of the Buckford articles, together with a return to Barrington Road, had brought Catherine Bishop sharply to mind, and instead of banishing the thought of her, as she usually did, she let her mind drift back.

It had been the vicar, Gordon Breen, who, on Rona and Max's first visit to Buckford, had mentioned Mrs Bishop as someone who might be of help, since she'd researched the history of several local schools. She'd been headmistress of one of them, but had since retired to Marsborough, Rona's home town, and was, it later transpired, a customer at her father's bank.

‘What's she like?' she had asked him eagerly.

‘I've hardly spoken to her,' her father replied, ‘but she seemed quiet and unassuming.'

It was a sentence Rona had mentally replayed many times over the last couple of months.

Considering how large Mrs Bishop loomed in her mind, it was hard to realize that they'd met only once, when, at her invitation, Rona had called at her bungalow. And she'd liked her so much, Rona reflected bitterly. Though not conventionally attractive, the older woman had an air of stillness, of being at home in her skin, that was both charming and reassuring. Rona had felt relaxed with her, and looked forward to a continuing acquaintance. Seeing her with Pops had put paid to that.

I've hardly spoken to her
, he had said. How could it be, then, that barely three weeks later, she had seen them strolling together near the bungalow, obviously enjoying each other's company?

Perhaps, she thought now, she should have brought up the matter the next time she saw him. If he realized she'd seen them, he would have been expecting her to comment. For that matter, even if he'd not noticed her car, surely the natural thing, in view of Rona's interest, would have been to mention having seen Mrs Bishop? The fact that neither of them had referred to it had lent the incident added – and probably unwarranted – importance.

It was for that reason that Rona'd made no move to see her again, even to return the scrapbooks containing the schools' histories that Mrs Bishop had so generously loaned her. Admittedly, she had permission to keep them indefinitely, and she'd postponed writing the article on educational development partly for that reason and partly because of the memories it evoked of her own research on the subject.
Magda said you'd solved a murder, and the killer was someone she knew
.

An added problem, Rona thought, staring across the dark garden, was that she'd mentioned none of this to Max. At first, it had been out of loyalty to Pops – though why that phrase had come to mind she couldn't explain. Then, as time went by, it became increasingly difficult to broach the subject, especially since Max gave no sign of noticing any reserve between her father and herself. So it was only with Lindsey, from whom she had no secrets, that she was able to discuss the matter, and endless talk about it had profited them nothing.

On the floor above, she heard the front door close, and a minute later Gus's feet came skittering down the stairs, followed by Max's heavier tread.

‘I thought you'd have gone up to bed,' he commented, coming up behind her and kissing the back of her neck.

‘I've been thinking over the evening,' she said, only half truthfully.

‘Wasn't it enough to go through it once?'

She laughed and turned to kiss him. ‘You're right,' she said. ‘Let's go to bed.'

Sunday morning, and the traditional lazy breakfast in their dressing gowns, with the newspapers divided between them.

Rona said, ‘You've not forgotten we're due at the parents' for lunch?'

‘Oh God!' said Max tonelessly, without looking up. ‘Lindsey too?'

‘Lindsey too; now Hugh's not on the scene, she's no excuse.' Even as she said it, Rona felt a twinge of guilt. But for months their mother's attitude had made visits home difficult, and now that there was tension, whether real or imagined, with her father, they'd become almost unbearable.

Hugh, from whom Lindsey was divorced, had briefly made a comeback in her affections, on the strength of which he'd transferred back to the Marsborough office: only to find that his ex-wife, while enjoying his love-making – always the strongest link between them – on weekend visits, had no intention of letting him move in on a permanent basis.

‘Presumably he's still around, though?' Max asked, smoothing out his paper.

‘Still in Marsborough, yes. At first, Linz expected him to be everywhere she went, but she hasn't seen hide nor hair of him since that time in Sainsbury's. Actually,' she added slowly, ‘I think there's a new man in her life. Someone from the office.'

Max made an indeterminate sound, indicative of his opinion of Lindsey's romantic liaisons. They'd landed her in trouble in the past.

Rona said defensively, ‘She really does seem to need a man around. Someone to take her out to dinner or the theatre.'

‘Or bed,' said Max baldly.

Rona flushed and did not reply.

Tom Parish stood at his dining-room window, staring unseeingly at the street. His daughters were coming to lunch, and he couldn't believe that he was dreading it. The increasingly infrequent times when they all gathered round the table had always been a source of delight to him, a highlight in the depressing life he led with Avril. Now, he knew sickly, he must pretend not to notice Lindsey's accusing eyes or Rona's averted ones.

She'd seen them, of course; she must have done. What's more, she'd told Lindsey – and possibly Max, too, though there'd been no appreciable difference in his manner. What did they all make of it – of him? And – oh God! – what did he make of it himself?

He wiped a hand over his face. It had been pure chance – either good or bad, depending on how you looked at it – that his meeting with Catherine should have occurred just when he was finally accepting that his marriage was, to all intents, over. For months he'd been dreading his retirement, urged on him by the bank following his heart attack that spring. True, he still tired easily, but that was infinitely preferable to being thrown more and more into his wife's company, without the escape route to the bank when she drove him to the point of distraction. That, he told himself grimly, was far more of a health hazard than the day-to-day routine at the bank.

Yet God knew he'd tried to keep his marriage alive, tried to rekindle what they'd undoubtedly once had. When had Avril become so irritable, so critical of the girls and himself, so constantly complaining? When, for that matter, had she last taken an interest in her appearance? Make-up was now a rarity, leaving her pale face with its colourless brows and lashes curiously undefined. As for clothes, she seemed simply to reach for what was nearest each morning, invariably an old jumper and skirt. Heaven help him, he was almost ashamed to be seen with her. Comparisons might be odious, but between Avril and Catherine, always so well groomed, they were startling.

On the day Rona had seen them together – if, indeed, she had – he'd had his first ever row with Avril. That's to say that instead of shrugging off her barbs, as he'd been doing for years, he had, to the astonishment of them both, lost his temper and lashed back at her. The row had simmered in his mind all day, and after work – knowing she'd be awaiting the apology he was incapable of making – he had driven almost without thought to Catherine's bungalow, where he sat miserably in the car, trying to work out the least damaging course of action.

There, Catherine had found him and, sensing his distress, suggested a walk to clear his head. And it was when she urged him to talk to Avril in an attempt to sort things out, that he'd realized, with a sense of shock, it was not that outcome for which he was hoping.

That had been over two months ago, and though he'd seen Catherine several times since, he'd still not so much as touched her hand. Nevertheless, there was no denying she filled his mind night and day, and he wasn't sure how long he could maintain the status quo. How, in God's name, could he attempt to explain this to his daughters?

‘Are you going to lay that table, or stand gawping out of the window all day?' enquired an acid voice from the doorway, and, suppressing a sigh, Tom turned and belatedly applied himself to his task.

The Parishes lived on the western fringes of the town, in a residential district known as Belmont. It consisted chiefly of solid detached houses, 1930s in style, with gabled fronts and pebble-dash facades, though post-war development had extended its boundaries to incorporate, among other things, an estate of mock-Georgian town houses and an enlarged shopping parade. Rona and Lindsey had attended the neighbourhood primary school and been baptized and married in the local church.

Maple Drive was a twenty-minute car ride from Lightbourne Avenue, and Rona and Max passed most of it in silence. Since Avril didn't care for dogs, Gus had, as usual, been left at home.

As they drew up behind Lindsey's red sports car, Rona commented wryly, ‘I hope you've got a series of topics lined up, in case of awkward silences.'

‘Oh, your father will keep things going,' Max replied. ‘He always does.'

Rona bit her lip and got out of the car.

Tom opened the door as they reached it, and she felt a rush of love for him. At first sight he looked the same as always – tall, tanned, iron-grey hair and slightly lined forehead. But the brown eyes that were so like her own had a guarded look, and when he spoke there was a false heartiness in his voice that tugged at her heart.

‘Greetings, you two!' he exclaimed. ‘Good to see you!'

She smiled, allowed him to kiss her cheek, and went ahead of him into the sitting room. Her mother was perched on an upright chair, an apron round her waist, and Rona dutifully kissed her before turning to her twin, reclining at her ease on the sofa.

‘Hi, sis.'

‘Hi yourself.'

Max, following his wife into the room, marvelled as he always did that the twins could be so alike and yet so different. They had the same dark hair – though Rona's flicked up on a level with her chin, while Lindsey's fell to beneath her shoulders – the same oval faces, the same straight noses and large brown eyes, albeit with differing expressions in them. Yet for all their similarity, while Rona was like a part of himself, his hackles invariably rose in Lindsey's presence. A state of armed neutrality existed between them, which all Rona's efforts had been unable to dispel.