Person or Persons Unknown (24 page)

Lindsey waited till the pre-ordered coffee had been brought and poured. Then she looked up and met his eyes, trying to ignore the insistent pounding of her blood. Damn him, why did he always affect her like this?

‘I want to know why you asked after my parents.'

He reddened. ‘Oh God, I hoped you'd forgotten that.'

She leant forward. ‘So there
was
something! I knew it!'

‘Look, Lindsey, it's none of my business and I don't want to be the bearer of tales. If your parents are well, as you said, then fine. Let's leave it at that.'

‘Not good enough, I'm afraid.'

He said, ‘That was Jonathan Hurst you were with, wasn't it?'

Her heart missed a beat. ‘You know him?'

‘By sight. We've attended some of the same dinners. You two an item?'

‘No,' she answered with deliberation, ‘we work together.'

He smiled, and she said angrily, ‘You're changing the subject! What do you mean, the bearer of tales?'

He drank his coffee without replying.

‘Hugh!'

‘I've missed you, Lindsey,' he said.

She caught her breath. ‘There wasn't much sign of it, the last time I saw you.'

He looked puzzled. ‘Yesterday?'

‘No, in Sainsbury's.'

After a minute his face cleared. ‘Oh, that was Sally Armitage, the wife of the chap I was staying with while I flat-hunted.' He paused, and added in partial explanation, ‘I was still angry with you at the time.'

All that jealousy for nothing! Ignoring his last sentence, she said more calmly, ‘Presumably you found one? A flat?'

‘Yes, in Talbot Road. Quite pleasant, and handy for the office.'

Lindsey set down her cup. ‘Hugh, we've fenced round this long enough, and we haven't much time. Tell me what you know about my parents.'

He sighed. ‘You might regret hearing it.'

‘Let me be the judge.'

‘I wouldn't normally have mentioned it, but I was thrown at seeing you, and casting around for something to say.'

‘I'm waiting.'

‘Look, I like your father. I wouldn't—'

‘What about my father?'

Hugh looked down at the table. ‘All right, but don't shoot the messenger, OK? I saw him one weekend, at Penbury Court.'

‘So?'

‘With – someone who wasn't your mother.'

Lindsey stared at him, and something in her expression caused him to lay a hand quickly over hers. She snatched it away.

‘Who was it?'

‘God, I don't know! His accountant, perhaps – a long-lost cousin?'

Lindsey swallowed. ‘What were they doing?'

‘Walking along by the lake.' He paused, met her eyes and looked away again. ‘Arm in arm.'

‘Catherine Bishop,' Lindsey said under her breath.

‘You
know
about her? All this twisting my arm, and you knew all along?'

‘Suspected, not knew. Rona saw them once.'

‘But – everything's all right at home?'

‘Not so that you'd notice,' she said grimly.

‘God, I am sorry.'

‘Well, it wouldn't be the first broken marriage in the family.'

He said steadily, ‘Nothing is broken beyond repair.'

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Stop it, Hugh.'

‘I still love you.'

‘
Stop
it!' She drank her coffee quickly, burning her tongue. ‘I must be going,' she said hurriedly, pushing back her chair.

‘Leaving me to pick up the tab as usual?'

She looked at him quickly, saw he was smiling. ‘Thanks for agreeing to come.'

‘Any excuse, Lindsey. You know that.'

She picked up her handbag and fled.

Out on the pavement, she attempted to clear her head. She hadn't time, now, to ponder the subtext of Hugh; it was her father who loomed, large and suddenly threatening, in her thoughts. How
could
he? she thought chokingly. Mum had made an effort – she really had – and all the time … It struck her that she'd not asked Hugh
when
he'd seen them, but thinking back, it must have been that Saturday Mum was off playing bridge. Before their shopping trip, then; perhaps her new image had made him think again?

She must get back to the office, but she'd phone Rona later, see what she thought. Still turning over possibilities, Lindsey hurried to keep her appointment.

Since she'd stopped on the way back to let Gus have a run, it was one thirty before Rona reached home. She carried the shoe box downstairs and put it on the kitchen table while she took out biscuits, cheese, and a bottle of mineral water for her lunch. Then, with a feeling of anticipation, she sat down and removed the lid.

Her first impression was that what lay inside resembled the contents of a drawer that had been tipped unceremoniously into the box. Which, quite likely, was precisely what it was. There were bottles of congealed nail polish in various colours; a couple of lipsticks, a crumpled bus ticket, an appointment card from the baby clinic. And, as Selina had told her, several airmail letters from Joyce Cowley – or Joyce Grant, as she had then been. Rona hesitated, uncomfortable about reading them, but it was possible she'd find something Selina had missed.

Her guilt was short-lived; there was nothing personal in these letters, and though they all began ‘Dear Gemma' and ended ‘Affectionately, Mother', little enough affection was shown in them. Indeed, they could have passed as official accounts of life in South Africa – fauna, flora, politics, climate, and a series of social engagements. Nonetheless, though according to Joyce she'd never received a reply, each one had been read over and over; the ink was smudged, and the thin paper had come apart along the creases. Rona wondered uneasily how Zara would react to this stilted, one-sided correspondence.

Only the last letter showed any maternal concern:

It was good to speak to you the other evening, and to know you and the baby are well. I'm only sorry you didn't tell me you were expecting her. I must urge you, though, to try to contact the father. He has a duty to contribute to her upkeep. In the meantime, please let me know if there's anything you need.

Thoughtfully Rona spread cheese on a biscuit. That final letter was dated 17
^th
December 1978; Joyce must have phoned immediately she received the Christmas card announcing Amanda's birth. She thought of the tanned, muscular woman bracing herself to meet them, and felt the first stirring of pity. Despite her new husband and opulent lifestyle, she would always be haunted by her daughter's death – and perhaps by that daughter's loss, long before she died.

It wasn't until Rona went to the fruit bowl in search of dessert that she noticed the answerphone was registering two messages. She'd been so absorbed when she came in that, unusually, she hadn't checked. She pressed the button and Lindsey's indignant voice filled the room.

‘Rona, where the hell
are
you? Your mobile's switched off; I left a message on it – haven't you checked? I need to speak to you urgently – about Pops. Please ring me as soon as you get this.'

The second message, timed fifteen minutes later, at twelve twenty, was more brief. ‘I can't wait any longer. I'm going to see him.'

Rona frowned and dialled Chase Mortimer. Miss Parish, she was told, was still at lunch. And, possibly in a fit of tit-for-tat, her mobile, too, was switched off.

Rona stood uneasily at the counter. What was that all about?
I'm going to see him
. Pops, presumably. Had he been taken ill? What had happened?

Normally, she'd have gone straight round to the bank to ensure all was well; but for some time now there'd no longer been that easy relationship between them and she'd have felt awkward, as though she were checking up on him. Instead, she lifted the phone and rang through, only to learn that Mr Parish was in a meeting. Yes, she was told in answer to her diffident query, he was perfectly well.

Slightly reassured, Rona replaced the phone. No doubt she'd learn in due course what had upset Lindsey. She glanced at the box on the table. There were still the cassettes and a few cards lying at the bottom of it, but she no longer felt like going through them. Instead, she decided to go up to the study; there were some personal items to deal with – bank statements to check, an insurance policy to renew. Just for the moment, she'd had enough of Gemma Grant.

She made herself some coffee and took it up with her, put the mug on her desk, and switched on the computer to check her emails. There were a couple from friends, one from her editor with the reminder that a new biography was overdue, and—

Rona sat staring at the message on the screen, aware of spreading coldness. The sender was identified by numbers rather than a name, the addressee was shown, correctly, as Rona's own anonymous byline, and the subject, in capital letters, read GEMMA GRANT.

Mesmerized, Rona's eyes read and reread the brief message below:
Let sleeping dogs lie, or they may wake up and bite
.

Tom sat at his desk, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't be disturbed. Mavis had been instructed to tell all callers he was unavailable – he didn't care how she did it.
Oh my God
, he kept saying to himself,
Oh my God!

There had been the briefest of warnings: ‘Your daughter would like a word, Mr Parish,' followed immediately by Lindsey's precipitous entrance. And the door had barely closed behind her before she'd started lashing into him – there was no other way to describe it – furious, tearful, above all accusatory. ‘How could you do it?' she kept crying, ‘Oh Pops, how
could
you?'

It was some time before he'd calmed her enough to discover what she was talking about, but then all his worst fears consolidated. He and Catherine had been seen – by Hugh, of all people. Despite their almost paranoid discretion, their secret was now exposed, and all the people he loved most would be wounded by it. He put his head in his hands. God, if only this could have waited till after his retirement, he thought, and was immediately ashamed of his selfishness. Though a delay would have benefited him, it wouldn't have lessened the pain caused to others.

Rona! he thought suddenly. Surprisingly, Lindsey hadn't mentioned her, and in the midst of trauma he'd not thought to ask. Why hadn't she come? Had she washed her hands of him completely? As for Lindsey, she wouldn't be silenced until he suggested meeting them both in the bar of the Clarendon at six o'clock, when, he promised, they'd be given a full explanation. In the meantime, he had to go home and tell Avril.

A kind of paralysis had hold of him, slowing down both brain and body, but, mastering it with an effort, he dialled Catherine's number. It was a part of this nightmare that he reached only her answering machine.

‘We were seen at Penbury,' he said flatly into it. ‘I'm meeting the girls later to explain the position, and am now going home to tell Avril. I'll be in touch later.' He paused. In films, they ended phone calls by saying ‘I love you', which he'd always thought inappropriate and somehow un-English.

‘I love you,' he said.

He put both hands on his desk, levered himself to his feet, and made his way to the banking hall. Mavis half-rose on seeing him, and he went over to her. ‘I shan't be back today,' he said. ‘Would you cancel my three o'clock appointment, with apologies, and reschedule it?'

‘Are you all right, Mr Parish?' Her plain, kindly face was concerned, and he wondered a little hysterically what he looked like.

‘Yes, thank you. I'll see you in the morning,' he said.

Jonathan came quickly into Lindsey's office, closing the door behind him.

‘For God's sake,' he burst out, ‘what's the matter?'

She bit her lip. ‘Nothing. Why?'

‘Don't give me that. You've been crying, haven't you? Is it your ex? Does he know about me?'

Lindsey raised her head and regarded him blankly. ‘It might surprise you to know,' she said slowly, ‘that my entire world doesn't revolve round you. I have other interests and other concerns.'

‘There's no need to take that attitude. I want to know if I'm to be on my guard, that's all.'

‘
Be
on your guard, then, if it makes you feel better.'

He leant towards her, his hands on her desk. ‘What's the
matter
with you? If people see you in that state, they'll start wondering.'

‘And
what
they'll wonder is, why you've come hot-foot to my office.'

He stared at her.

‘Jonathan, believe me, it's nothing to do with you. I've had some – rather distressing family news, that's all.'

‘Oh.' His relief was evident. ‘Right – well, I'm sorry. I'll call you later, then.' And he hurriedly left the room.

Back in his own office, Jonathan took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face.
Get a grip!
he told himself. Otherwise, as he'd warned Lindsey, people
would
start wondering, but about something else altogether. The truth was he'd been jittery ever since that infernal dinner with her family. Gemma Grant, for God's sake, after twenty-five years! Surely it wasn't going to come out after all this time?

Lindsey, having instantly dismissed him from her mind, was on the phone to Rona, who this time had answered on the first ring.

‘Lindsey! What's happened? I phoned the bank, and they said Pops is OK.'

‘Oh yes,' Lindsey said dully, ‘Pops is just dandy!'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Hugh saw him with the Bishop woman.'

There was a splintered silence. Rona said, ‘When, and where?'

‘At Penbury, when Mum went to the bridge tournament.'

‘Linz – you didn't …? Oh God, what have you done?'

‘
Me
?'