Person or Persons Unknown (28 page)

She sat up, turned her pillows over yet again and, despairing of sleep, switched on the light. The hotel room sprang out at her, austere and anonymous, her meagre possessions insufficient to personalize it. It had been, as Peter Morris said, a wasted journey; in fact, the whole enterprise, at this lowering hour of the morning, seemed doomed to failure. It was three weeks to the day since she'd embarked on it, with her visit to the Fairchilds – halfway through the six she had allotted herself. And what had she accomplished? she asked herself despairingly. Virtually nothing. She should never have given in to Zara's pleadings in the first place.

As her mind slid insidiously back to Selina, she reached for the paperback on the bedside table and determinedly opened it.

At six o'clock, having read the same page several times without making sense of it, she switched on the radio, turned low for the sake of fellow guests; but Selina was mentioned only briefly in the news summary, with no update on her condition. At six thirty, unable to remain in bed any longer, Rona made a cup of tea and carried it with her to the bathroom for a shower, gradually cooling the water and tipping her head back so the stinging stream sluiced over her face. But even that failed to revive her; she felt tired, restless and disorientated, longing above all to be home. The card on the dressing table stated that breakfast was served from seven to nine, so that needn't hold her up; however, if she caught a earlier train than she'd intended, there'd be an excess fare to pay. Grimly, she felt it would be worth it.

She had just finished dressing when the telephone shrilled, and Max's voice said, ‘I take it you heard about Selina?'

‘Oh, Max!' Rona sat on the edge of the bed, blinking back tears. ‘It was on the ten o'clock news.'

‘I didn't hear till after eleven, too late to phone. You OK?'

‘Not really. I'm desperately worried about her.'

‘I've been watching the box, and the latest report said she was stable.'

‘Is that better than critical?'

‘I'd say so. Don't worry, love; she seems a tough cookie.'

‘Even a tough cookie is no match for a London bus,' Rona said, but she felt marginally better.

‘What time are you due back?'

‘I was thinking of catching a commuter train, but I'd have to pay excess.'

‘What the hell. Get the first you can, give me a ring when you're on your way, and I'll meet you. Then we'll go somewhere for lunch.'

‘Bless you,' she said.

Before leaving the hotel, she checked in her Filofax for the O'Tooles' number, but though the phone rang for a long time, nobody answered it, nor was it intercepted by an answerphone. Perhaps they didn't go in for such things. They must be at the hospital, Rona thought, and her concern deepened.

The Exeter train was crowded and she had to stand for a time, but she was able to doze on the local service, jerking awake at successive stations with a crick in her neck. Half an hour from Marsborough, she phoned Max, who confirmed he'd be there to meet her.

‘Poor love,' he greeted her, as she came through the barrier. ‘You look shattered.'

‘I didn't sleep well,' she admitted.

‘Then I suggest we go somewhere for a stiff drink, followed by lunch with a bottle of wine, and you then retire to bed for the afternoon. I'll come home early and cook something special for supper.'

Friday was the one day in the week when he had no classes and no commitments other than his own work.

‘That sounds wonderful,' she said.

When she eventually reached home, she found two messages from Zara, anxious about Selina, and after the nap Max had prescribed, Rona returned her call, though she'd nothing further to contribute.

‘How are you getting on?' Zara enquired tentatively, when they'd exhausted the topic of Selina.

‘Slowly, I think is the word.'

‘No breakthrough?'

‘No; several times I thought I'd found one, but they seemed to fizzle out.'

‘You're halfway through your time limit, aren't you?'

‘Yes; I realized that myself. I'll stick it out as promised, but please don't get your hopes up.' She'd not told Zara of either the email or the importunate phone calls; no point in alarming her. She added impulsively, ‘But be warned: if I
do
come up with something, it mightn't be what you want to hear.'

‘I don't care what it is, or what he's done, as long as I know who my father is.'

Rona, thinking of Jonathan Hurst and Philip Yarborough, held her breath, but Zara added, ‘And, of course, who killed my mother.'

‘Is this shoe box a permanent fixture?' Max enquired as he laid the table for supper.

‘Oh, sorry – I've been meaning to take it upstairs.' Rona picked it up and placed it on the bottom step.

‘What is it, anyway?'

‘Some things of Gemma's that – Selina found.' Her voice wavered at the name. In the later news bulletins, Selina had not been mentioned. Rona assured herself it was a positive sign, but the O'Tooles were still not answering their phone.

‘Can't be anything important, surely, or the police would have taken it.'

‘There are a few cassettes they didn't find, because they were mixed up with commercial ones. Selina's played them and says there's nothing significant; she suggested I pass them on to Zara, but first I want to listen to them myself.'

Max merely grunted in reply.

It was a wet weekend. Tom stood at the French windows of Catherine's sitting room, staring at the dismal autumn garden through a veil of rain. It suited his mood, he thought grimly.

The past three days had been difficult; how could they be otherwise? Avril was still refusing to discuss the future, immediately heading off any attempt he made. She addressed him only when necessary, but with punctilious politeness. Every evening they ate in the dining room in almost total silence, and every evening he thought how much easier it would be if they could revert to trays in front of the television. At least that would mask their awkwardness.

On Tuesday evening, when he'd returned from meeting the girls, it was to find the guest-room bed made up and his night things laid neatly on the quilt. The switch wasn't referred to by either of them, but was a relief to them both.

Catherine came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Second thoughts?' she enquired.

He turned immediately, slipping his arm round her. ‘What do you think?'

She smiled. ‘Actually, I meant about moving in here. You'd be very welcome, you know.'

‘I know, my love, but tongues would wag, and I want to forestall that as much as possible.' He glanced at her, but she was gazing out of the window.

‘In the beginning,' she said quietly, ‘we didn't want to deceive Avril, go behind her back. It would somehow have – spoiled things.'

He was watching her closely, aware of her tension. ‘Yes?'

She took a deep breath. ‘Well, she knows now. Deception wouldn't come into it.'

‘Catherine …' His voice was choked. He could feel her trembling. God …

She turned towards him and with one finger gently traced round his eyebrows, nose and mouth. ‘One of us has to say this,' she murmured softly, ‘so it might as well be me: Tom Parish, will you please make love to me? I don't think I can wait any longer.'

The rain continued to fall on the drenched garden, but there was nobody there to watch it.

When Max had left on Monday morning, Rona went up to her study, determined to play through Gemma's tapes. There were four in all, and as she lifted them out, unsure where to start, her eyes fell on the cards lying, still undisturbed, at the bottom of the box. Idly she picked them up. The top one was a garish postcard from Majorca, and its message was brief:
Great weather, great food, great men! See you next week, worse luck! Love to all, Mandy
.

One of the tennis crowd, perhaps, or, more likely, a colleague from County Radio. The front of the next card was more subdued, an aerial view of the Corniche at Monte Carlo. Rona flipped it over and her heart leapt into her throat.

Missing you more than somewhat
, she read.
Seems more like two years than two weeks! Don't you dare forget me! I'll phone the minute I get back. All love, M M.

M M? Rona frowned. One surely stood for Morrison, but the other? She quickly scanned the last two cards, but both were innocuous, one from Selina herself on holiday, the other from someone called Sue.

Rona propped up Morrison's card and studied it carefully, searching for clues as to identity. Someone who had spent a holiday in Monaco in – she peered at the faded postmark – September 1977. That should narrow it down, she thought ironically. The handwriting was well formed, though the ubiquitous ballpoint had been used, and there was a neat row of kisses under the signature, if it could be called that. He'd been in love with her then, all right. According to Selina, the affair had lasted about six months, ending in February '78, so this would have been written in the first flush of passion. If he'd only taken Gemma to Australia with him, Rona thought sadly, she wouldn't have died. But ‘if onlys' were a wasted exercise.

She picked up a tape at random and slotted it into her recorder, catching her breath as a voice instantly filled the room, young, light and carefree. ‘It's Friday the twelfth of January, and it's
snowing
!' it began. Rona's mouth was dry; after concentrating almost exclusively on Gemma for the last three weeks, she was actually hearing her speak. ‘This is to remind myself to ask Mrs J to babysit tomorrow evening. Oh, and to tell Selina when she gets back that her library book's come in.'

There was a click as the tape was switched off and Rona's throat suddenly tightened. January, she'd said, and the baby had obviously arrived. Which would make it January 1979, the month Gemma was murdered! Was it remotely possible there might …? But no; Selina had played these through and found nothing. All the same, this catalogue, if that's what it was, of Gemma's last weeks would be unbelievably poignant.

Almost fearfully, she switched on again. ‘Monday the fifteenth.' In the background, the baby gave a grizzling cry. ‘All right, darling, Mummy won't be a minute. Remember tomorrow to collect the—'

She broke off as the baby started to cry more lustily. There was a thud as the recorder was put down, then her voice came from further away. ‘It's all right, sweet pea, Mummy's here. You're supposed to be sleepy, you know!'

Softly, barely audibly, came the sound of a lullaby, and Rona felt her eyes prick. Gemma had come suddenly, uncannily, to life; no longer someone who'd died a quarter of a century ago, but a young girl singing her baby to sleep. For the first time, Rona felt an overwhelming sadness for her, as though she were a personal friend for whom she still grieved.

‘Oops!' said the voice on the tape, sotto voce but near at hand again. ‘I thought I'd switched it off.' There was a click, then silence, and Rona, switching off her own machine, sat staring unseeingly at the postcard from Monte Carlo.

She was still holding it five minutes later, when the phone roused her.

‘Would that be Miss Rona Parish?' asked a hesitant voice, and Rona's preoccupation fled.

‘Mrs O'Toole?'

‘Oh, it's yourself, dear. Thank the Lord I've reached you.'

‘How's Selina?' Rona broke in.

‘Well now, not too good, truth to tell, but isn't she insisting on seeing you?'

‘Seeing
me
?'

‘It's supposed to be family visitors only, but she's that agitated, it seems she won't settle till she's spoken to you.'

‘But why? I don't understand.'

‘None of us do, dear, and that's the truth. But now they're saying what they call this “anxiety complex” is slowing her recovery, and they've given permission for a short visit. Provided you don't mind, that is.'

‘Of course I'll come, if you think it would help. Where exactly is she?'

‘St Benedict's – do you know it? I'm not sure of the road, but I could—'

‘Don't worry, I'll find it. Which ward?'

‘Nightingale; she has a private room on the third floor. Could you – how soon could we be expecting you?'

‘As soon as I can get a train,' Rona promised, her mind spinning.

‘God bless you, dear,' said Kathleen O'Toole, and rang off.

‘Selina's asking to see me,' Rona hurriedly told Max over the phone. ‘I'm dashing straight down there. Could you come and collect Gus at lunch time and take him for a walk?'

‘I thought she was still in ICU?'

‘Apparently not, but it seems she's so set on seeing me it's hindering her recovery. Frankly, I can't make head or tail of it.'

‘But you'll be back tonight?'

‘Of course.'

‘Good luck, then.'

Rona had seen more of Marsborough station this last week than she had in months. She'd brought a paperback, but her mind was too volatile to read and she sat staring out of the window, wondering what could be so urgent that Selina was demanding to see her.

Fortunately, the taxi driver merely nodded when she gave the name of the hospital, and she sat back against the soft black cushions, anxious, now, about the state in which she'd find Selina. She'd no idea what injuries she'd suffered, but at least she must be conscious and able to make her wishes known. But then, Rona thought, smiling faintly, Selina would have to be very ill indeed to lose that facility.

‘St Ben's,' said the cab driver laconically, and she climbed out and, mentally crossing her fingers, went through the large main door of the hospital.

By the time she'd given her name at the nursing station, both the O'Tooles had appeared and come to greet her, pressing her hand and effusively thanking her for coming. A nurse who had also materialized escorted her briskly to a door off the main ward, and peered through the glass pane before turning back to her.