Person or Persons Unknown (27 page)

She reached the dental surgery with fifteen minutes to spare. Although it was in a largely residential area, several of the front doors had brass plates alongside. The practice itself occupied a corner site, and, with time in hand, Rona went to inspect the adjacent side street. As she'd hoped, there was a small car park behind the building, with a notice reading, ‘Dental staff only' to fend off trespassers. Five cars were parked there; presumably the dental nurses and the receptionist also used the facility. The back door of the building gave on to the car park, so it would be from there that her quarry would emerge.

She regained the front entrance in time to see a woman coming down the path.

‘Is Dr Morris still there?' she asked quickly.

The woman smiled at her. ‘Yes, he's running a bit late; his last patient's just gone in.'

‘Thank you; I was afraid I'd missed him.'

The woman laughed. ‘That would take a bit of doing!' she said, and set off along the pavement.

Rona looked after her, puzzled. Then, feeling conspicuous, she began slowly walking up and down the pavement, hands in pockets against the cold and hoping fervently that the last patient had only a fifteen-minute appointment.

Her wish was granted; at five-fifteen precisely the front door opened and a man came hurrying down the path and anxiously peered at the nearest parking meter. Whatever it showed, there was no notice stuck on his windscreen, and he thankfully let himself into the car and drove away. Rona rounded the corner again and positioned herself by the gateway to the car park. Almost at once, two women came out together, talking and laughing. They got into separate cars and Rona strolled on to the next gateway as they emerged on to the road. She'd just regained her position when she saw him come hurrying out – and at once knew what his patient had meant. Peter Morris was, at a guess, six foot six in height, and would indeed be hard to miss.

‘Doctor Morris?' she said hesitantly, walking forward. He had reached his car, and turned impatiently, his unfastened tweed coat flapping round his legs.

‘I wonder if I could have a word with you?'

‘I'm sorry, surgery's over for today. If you'd like to make an appointment—'

‘It's on a – personal matter.'

In the rapidly thickening dusk, she saw him frown and peer at her more closely. ‘I don't know you, do I?' He had a very faint Australian accent.

‘No, but I need to speak to you about someone you did know, some time ago.'

‘
Need
, Miss …?'

‘Parish,' she supplied. ‘Yes, need, Dr Morris. I—'

‘Look,' he broke in, ‘I've no wish to be rude, but I'm already late and I'm supposed to be meeting my brother. Couldn't—'

‘Your brother?' she broke in. ‘I was hoping to see him, too.'

‘Then I suggest you make some mutually convenient appointment—'

‘Dr Morris, I'm only here for the day. I've come specially to meet you both.'

He stared at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘You've—?'

‘Please, I really must speak to you. It's important.'

A cold gust of wind swept into the car park, blowing Rona's hair across her face, and she shivered.

He said brusquely, ‘Well, if it's that important, and you want to see David too, you'd better come along. You can follow me; presumably your car's at the front?'

‘No, I came by train. To Exeter, that is.'

He sighed resignedly and opened the passenger door. ‘Get in, then.'

Rona had a brief vision of Max's reaction to her getting into a car with a man she'd just met, who might be harbouring any number of guilty secrets. But she wouldn't get anywhere if she didn't take risks, and this tall, abrupt dentist surely posed no threat.

The car felt blessedly warm after her long wait on the street. ‘I thought he didn't finish till seven,' she said, as Morris switched on the engine. His head swivelled towards her. ‘My God, you
have
been doing your homework. As it happens, though, he's not on duty this evening.'

So she'd have wasted her time in going there, Rona reflected.

They didn't speak again as he drove competently down the darkening road towards the city centre. After a few minutes, he turned into the car park of a large hotel.

‘We're meeting in the bar,' he said briefly, and she followed him into the warm, lighted building. Barely waiting for her, he strode through the foyer, turned into the bar, and made for the table where his brother was waiting.

‘Sorry I'm late, Dave – I overran,' he said tersely. ‘Then, in the car park, I came across this young lady, who tells me she's travelled from God knows where especially to meet us.'

‘To meet
us
?' David Morris repeated in bewilderment, staring uncomprehendingly at Rona.

‘We saved the explanations till we got here, to avoid going through them twice.' Peter paused, also glancing at Rona. ‘I suppose I should introduce you, but I don't know you either. Miss Parsons, did you say?'

‘Parish – Rona Parish. And I really am grateful for your time.'

His eyes flicked to her wedding ring. ‘What are you drinking, Mrs Parish?'

‘Vodka with Russchian if they have it. Otherwise, bitter lemon would be fine.'

He lifted an eyebrow and made his way to the bar. Rona turned to David Morris, who was staring at her appraisingly, and gave him a tentative smile. Her first impression was that both were older than she'd expected – foolish, now that she thought of it. But Mrs Powell had spoken of ‘the boys', and that was how she'd continued to think of them, forgetting that they'd been boys – or young men – more than twenty years ago. The word ‘rugged' applied to them both, she thought, and there was a decided family resemblance, both having thick fair hair and pale lashes over light-blue eyes. She guessed that David was the younger.

Peter reappeared, set glasses on the table, and seated himself. ‘You were in luck,' he said shortly, ‘they had Russchian. Now, what the hell is this all about?'

Rona took a quick sip of her vodka, aware of two pairs of eyes intent on her face.

‘It's about Gemma Grant,' she said.

She looked quickly from one to the other, but if she'd been hoping for some reaction she was disappointed.

‘Who?' they demanded in unison.

‘Gemma Grant,' she repeated, less certainly. ‘From Stokely.'

‘
Stokely?
' David exclaimed. ‘My God, you're going back a bit, aren't you? We left there twenty-five years ago.'

‘To go to Australia. Yes, I know.'

Peter's eyes narrowed. ‘You seem to know a hell of a lot about us, young lady, without volunteering any information on yourself. And who the devil is Gemma Grant?'

Oh God, Rona thought. Right – they'd asked, so she'd give them a straight answer. ‘She was murdered,' she said, adding above their involuntary exclamations, ‘twenty-five years ago.'

There was a pause. Then David said, ‘Let me get this clear: are you trying to imply there was some link between us?'

‘Surely you knew her?' Rona asked with a touch of desperation. ‘At the tennis club, perhaps?'

‘Our game was cricket,' Peter replied. ‘You say she was murdered: how, why, and by whom?'

‘I can only answer the first question: she was strangled in her bath.' Rona braced herself, and added, ‘Her baby was in the next room.'

The baby's existence wasn't commented on. ‘You're saying they never found who did it?'

‘No; she wasn't married, and the baby's father would have been the obvious suspect, except that—'

She broke off. This was harder than she'd anticipated.

‘Except?' prompted David.

She took a deep breath. ‘Except that she said he'd emigrated to Australia without knowing she was pregnant.'

There was a deep, unfathomable silence, untouched by the noises of the room about them.

‘She told people it was one of us?' Peter demanded incredulously.

‘No, she refused to name him.'

‘Well, it sure as hell wasn't us,' David said explosively. ‘We've never even heard of the girl. Anyway, this is ancient history. Why start digging it up now?'

‘Because her daughter – the baby who was in the flat at the time – is expecting her own baby, and wants to trace her father.'

‘Fair enough, but what in the name of charity put you on to us?'

‘I placed an ad in the local paper, asking about families who'd emigrated in '78, and your name came up.'

‘And that's all you've got to go on? On the strength of that, you come charging down here, accusing us of God knows what—'

‘I'm not accusing you of anything, Dr Morris. I just wanted to know what you remembered of Gemma, that's all.'

‘And for that you came all the way from Stokely?'

‘Marsborough, actually, but yes.'

‘So what are you, a professional people-finder?'

‘No, I'm a writer. And don't ask me why I got involved; I've been asking myself that, but it was through the offices of a mutual friend.'
Thanks again, Magda
.

There was another silence, while the brothers exchanged glances and David helplessly lifted his shoulders. Then he said, ‘So tell us about this Gemma. What did she do, apart from play tennis?'

‘Actually, she didn't even do that. She worked for local radio – a junior reporter. She was only twenty.'

‘Just a minute,' Peter interrupted, putting a hand to his head. ‘Something's beginning to come back to me.' He turned to his brother. ‘Didn't we give an interview to some reporter or other who came to the house? About why we were emigrating and what we were proposing to do in Oz?'

‘God, yes,' David said slowly. ‘She turned out to be a patient of the old man's. Rather pretty, as I recall.'

Rona's mouth was dry. ‘That sounds like Gemma.'

‘Well, I'm sorry you've had a wasted journey.
If
that was her, we met her for an hour at most, and by “we” I mean the whole family. There was neither time nor opportunity, even if we'd had the inclination, for either of us to impregnate the girl.'

Another blind alley. Ridiculously, Rona felt close to tears. ‘Then I'm sorry to have troubled you.' She started to rise, but Peter reached out and gently pushed her back on her chair. ‘Finish your drink, then I'll run you back to where you're staying.'

‘Really, there's no need; I've already taken up too much of your time.'

‘No argument.' He grinned, looking suddenly younger. ‘Wait till I tell Chrissie I was suspected of fathering a love child!'

Rona felt herself flush. ‘I do apologize, but by this stage I'm clutching at straws.'

She hastily finished her drink, and despite her protestations Peter Morris, telling his brother he'd be back in five minutes, drove her to her hotel – as it happened, only a couple of streets away.

‘I'm so sorry to have caused this upset,' she said again, as he dropped her off. ‘Thanks for being so understanding.'

‘Don't worry, I'll be dining off this for years!' He sobered. ‘Which doesn't mean I'm not sorry about the girl; of course I am. It's a ghastly thing to have happened. Good luck in your hunt.'

Back in her room, Rona phoned Max, who was preparing for his class. ‘It was a fiasco,' she ended flatly. ‘Still, I suppose it's another possibility ticked off.'

‘A long way to go for a tick!' Max responded. ‘You sound tired, love. Just relax now, have a good night's sleep, and I'll see you tomorrow.'

Yes, Rona thought, kicking off her shoes, she
was
tired. She could not, she realized, be bothered to wash and change and go down to sit in solitary state in the restaurant. Instead, she'd order room service, and unwind with television.

First, though, for the record, she wrote up the interview with the Morrises while it was fresh in her mind. She hadn't dared suggest recording it.

The evening passed lazily. She enjoyed her meal, and a little later had a leisurely bath. She'd left the television on, and came back into the bedroom as the ten o'clock news was starting. She decided to watch it, and then go to bed.

Half-listening to reports from around the world, she stacked her supper things on the tray and put it, as requested, outside her door. As she closed and locked it behind her, there was a subtle change in the announcer's voice.

‘The television interviewer Selina O'Toole is fighting for her life tonight after falling under a bus in Oxford Circus during the rush hour. The kerb was crowded with commuters at the time, and witnesses say she appeared to stumble and fall forward as the bus approached. There has been no official bulletin, but we understand her condition is critical.

‘Selina O'Toole began her career—'

Rona heard no more. Stumbling across the room, she half fell on to the bed and stared disbelievingly at the photograph filling the screen, of a Selina vividly, vibrantly, alive. No, she thought, unconsciously shaking her head from side to side, no – there must be some mistake. She hadn't caught the name of the hospital, but it would in any case be useless to phone. For one thing it was too soon, and for another, information is never passed to outsiders.

Carefully, as though it were she herself who'd been injured, Rona lay back against the pillows and pulled the turned-down sheet over her. She lay unmoving until the news finished, but although the incident was repeated in the closing headlines, there was no further information. Automatically, she reached first for the remote control and then for the light switch. If only, she thought as the room plunged into darkness, she could switch off her thoughts as easily.

I
t was after midnight before Rona fell asleep, and by five o'clock she was again wide awake. The early hours, she knew, were the most crucial for the seriously ill or injured, when the body's resistance was at its lowest ebb. Had Selina survived them? ‘Critical', the newsreader had said, and ‘fighting for her life'.