Person or Persons Unknown (8 page)

‘I come up here for lunch sometimes,' she confided as the waitress moved away, ‘and sit here unashamedly people watching. It's fascinating.'

‘Do you ever see anyone you know?' Rona asked, remembering a shock sighting she'd once had from this very table.

‘Not so far, but then I don't know that many people here.'

Rona took out the envelope containing the manifesto and passed it across the table. ‘Before I forget,' she said. ‘Thanks so much for showing it to me.'

‘Have you asked permission to quote from it?'

‘Not yet, but I'm hoping to meet Mr Latymer next week, at a fundraising event.'

‘I wonder if he remembers writing it,' Catherine mused. ‘How's the portrait coming along?'

‘All right, I believe.'

‘You haven't seen it?'

‘Oh no; work in progress is kept strictly under wraps. Quite literally, in fact: last time I went into the studio, Max draped a cloth over the easel.'

Catherine laughed. ‘I'm sure if I were having my portrait done, I'd want to look at it after every session.' She hesitated. ‘Did you ask him about speaking to our group?'

‘Yes, but I'm afraid the response was as I expected.'

Their coffee and pastries arrived, and Rona embarked on her Viennese slice.

‘You seem to have had a successful shop,' she commented, glancing at the packages on the floor.

‘So-so. I still haven't found a present for my son; it's his birthday next week.'

Rona looked up in surprise. ‘You have a son?'

‘I have indeed, and a daughter-in-law. They live in Cricklehurst.'

‘I don't know why, but I never—' Rona broke off in confusion, belatedly remembering the young couple in the photograph who, for some reason, she'd assumed to be a niece or nephew.

‘Don't I look maternal?' Catherine asked, with an amused smile. ‘Let me try to redeem myself: Daniel works for a computer firm in Stokely and his wife, Jenny, manages a flower shop. They've been married three years now, and one reason I didn't leave Marsborough when my mother died was because it was within easy reach of them without being on their doorstep.'

Rona's face was flushed. ‘I'm sorry – I didn't mean to—'

‘My dear, there's nothing to apologize for; I'm just surprised I've never happened to mention them. Your—' She broke off, flushing in her turn.

There was a brief, taut silence, then Catherine said quietly, ‘This is ridiculous; what I was going to say is that your father has met them – or, at least, Daniel.'

Rona gazed at her, mouth suddenly dry, and she went on quickly, ‘He very gallantly came to our rescue – twice, in fact. I was waiting for a bus one day when my car was in dock, and he kindly stopped and ran me home. And as if that weren't imposition enough, while we were having a cup of tea, Daniel phoned to say Jenny was having a miscarriage.' Her brows drew together, remembering. ‘It would have meant a taxi all the way to Stokely, but your father insisted on driving me there. It was so kind of him.'

Some comment seemed called for, and Rona forced herself to say, ‘I see.' And she did – partly. It explained how the friendship – if that's what it was – had begun, but she'd seen them together on a totally different occasion.

Catherine was watching her a little warily, perhaps anticipating further questioning, but loyalty to her father prevented it. Instead, Rona added simply, ‘That sounds like Pops.'

Embarrassed and uncertain, she'd suddenly had enough of the discussion, and, hurriedly finishing her coffee, she retrieved her handbag and took out her purse.

Catherine shook her head. ‘This is on me,' she said firmly, as she signalled for the bill. ‘I was glad of the chance to see you again. I do hope, now our professional contact is over, we can still meet occasionally?'

‘I'd like that,' Rona said awkwardly, wondering, even as she spoke, if it was the truth. Certainly when she'd first met Catherine, she'd hoped a friendship would develop between them; she had found the older woman's sense of calm relaxing and somehow comforting. But that was before she'd seen her strolling with Pops on a summer evening.

She stood up and clicked her fingers at Gus. ‘Thanks for the coffee, and for all your help over Buckford.'

‘It was a pleasure,' Catherine replied formally, knowing it would be unwise to press further. Though she couldn't resist adding, ‘Give my regards to your father.'

Rona shot her a quick look, nodded, and, with a final smile, walked quickly from the room, the golden retriever at her heels. Catherine watched her go with mixed feelings.
She saw us that evening
, she thought,
I'm sure of it. I hope to God I haven't put my foot in it for Tom
. And she turned with a slightly strained smile to take the bill from the waitress.

Rona walked along Guild Street until she was out of sight of the Gallery windows before stepping into a doorway, where she took out her mobile and dialled her sister's number. Lindsey answered almost at once.

‘Any chance of your slipping out for a couple of minutes?' Rona asked. ‘I've something to tell you. Two things, actually.'

‘I suppose I could take an early lunch. Where are you?'

‘A couple of hundred yards down the road.'

‘You don't give much notice, do you?'

‘Please, sis?'

‘OK. We can go to the wine bar in Market Street. I'll meet you outside the offices in five minutes.'

‘So,' Lindsey said, when they were seated with glasses of wine in front of them. ‘What is it that's so urgent?'

‘I've just had coffee with Catherine Bishop, and she admitted knowing Pops. Apart from the bank, I mean.'

‘She didn't!'

Rona recounted what Catherine had told her. ‘But it still doesn't explain what they were doing in Barrington Road,' she finished.

‘If it was all so innocent, how come neither of them mentioned it?' Lindsey asked suspiciously.

‘That was what I was wondering. And she nearly didn't tell me. She stopped herself at first, then she said, “This is ridiculous,” and came out with it.'

‘What was ridiculous? Skirting round the subject?'

‘That's how it struck me.'

‘So what do we do now?'

Rona said slowly, ‘I wonder if she'll tell Pops the cat's at least partially out of the bag.'

‘If she does, do you think he'll say anything?'

‘Time will tell,' Rona replied philosophically.

Lindsey sipped at her wine, thinking over what she'd heard. ‘And the other thing?' she asked after a minute.

‘What?'

‘You said you'd two things to tell me.'

‘Oh – my latest assignment, that's all.'

‘Which is?'

‘A parent search.' And she went on to tell Lindsey about her meetings with Zara, and Barnie and Max's reservations.

‘I see their point. It sounds a bit dodgy to me.'

‘Quite interesting, I'd say, trying to track down the errant father.'

‘Oh, come on, Ro! This is me you're talking to! It's the murder that attracts you, and you know it.
That's
why Barnie and Max don't like the sound of it.'

Rona shook her head impatiently. ‘It's old hat, Linz. Twenty-five years old, to be exact. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have a hope in hell of nailing him.'

‘You underestimate yourself,' Lindsey said darkly.

The second phone call resulting from the café meeting was put through to Tom's office at the bank.

‘I think I should warn you that I had coffee with Rona this morning.'

He frowned. ‘Warn me?'

‘I told her about the Stokely trip.'

He drew in his breath sharply. ‘However did that come up?'

‘We were talking about Daniel and Jenny, and it more or less slipped out. I tried to retrieve it, saw how futile that was, and decided to – make a clean breast of it.' She added anxiously, ‘I hope I didn't do wrong?'

‘Of course not.' He paused. ‘Did you mention that we've met since?'

‘No, but I'm almost certain she saw us that evening.'

‘What makes you think so?'

‘Just – her manner, somehow.'

‘But nothing was actually said?'

‘No. She left soon afterwards.'

‘All right, Catherine. Thanks for letting me know.' He glanced at the closed door of his office and lowered his voice. ‘I was wondering – that is, I'll have the day to myself on Saturday. Will you be free, by any chance?'

‘I think so, yes.'

‘Perhaps we could spend it together?'

‘That would be lovely, Tom.'

‘I'll be in touch, then. In the meantime, thanks for phoning.'

‘Goodbye,' she said.

Tom put down the phone, leaned back in his chair and surveyed the ceiling, his lips pursed. There'd been another contretemps with Avril the previous evening: Lindsey was coming to lunch on Sunday, he'd been told, but Rona was ‘too busy'. Tom had wondered, with a sinking heart, whether she was trying to avoid him, but then Avril had added, ‘She wanted to know what you'd be doing with yourself while I was out on Saturday. As if I wasn't the last person to ask.'

He'd made the mistake of remarking that he hadn't in fact known she was going out, whereupon she'd insisted that she'd told him, adding that he should try listening to her occasionally and he might learn what was going on. The situation was becoming farcical, he thought despairingly, but, more seriously, the stress of it was getting to him. He'd been alarmed last night to feel a warning twinge in his chest.

Now, added to everything else, Rona knew about the Stokely trip. She'd be expecting him to say something, but what the hell
could
he say?
My marriage is a sham and I've fallen for Catherine
?

A wave of heat washed over him. He'd never put it so baldly before, even to himself. Furthermore, he hadn't the slightest idea how Catherine felt. Oh, she valued his friendship, he knew that, but she'd given no indication that she wanted to take it further. After all, she was an intelligent, cultured woman with wide and varied interests; what would she want with an almost retired bank manager with a dicky heart?

At least, he thought, cheering up slightly, she'd agreed to spend the day with him on Saturday. That was something to look forward to.

After a week of cloud and early-morning mist, Saturday dawned warm and sunny. A coach was taking the bridge team to Chilswood, and Avril left the house soon after nine. An hour later, Tom drove to Willow Crescent to collect Catherine.

It had been agreed they would drive out to Penbury Court, a stately home fifteen miles south of Marsborough, which was famous, among other things, for its gardens. It was the last weekend in September, and the roads were busy with families intent on making the most of the good weather. But they were in no hurry; the drive itself was part of the day out, and Tom relaxed, responding to Catherine's light-hearted mood, and suffering the numerous hold-ups with good-humoured resignation. How different, had Avril been beside him.

When they eventually reached the property, they had to queue for several minutes while those in front of them either presented their National Trust cards or paid the entrance fee. Then, having parked and armed themselves with an up-to-date leaflet of attractions, they set off in the direction of the lily pond. Catherine was wearing a coffee-coloured dress and leather sandals, and, on leaving the car, had put on a sunhat. ‘To stop me getting freckles!' she'd smiled. Informally dressed, she appeared somehow younger and more carefree, and it seemed entirely natural when she slipped her arm through his.

They walked slowly round the pond, looking at the brightly coloured fish that swam there and the plants that grew along the edge, about which Catherine proved quite knowledgeable. And as they walked, they talked easily about a variety of topics that, while interesting them both, didn't touch on the personal. Tom always enjoyed their conversations, the gentle thrust and parry, the exchange of opinions and ideas as each of them stimulated the other to an increasingly wide range of hypotheses.

For an hour or more they admired borders and gazebos, statues and sunken gardens, fortuitously coming across the Courtyard Restaurant just as a table was being vacated. The midday sun was now directly overhead, and they seated themselves under the umbrella with a sigh of relief. Catherine removed her sunhat and tossed it on a chair.

‘I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a long, cold drink,' she announced, and smiled as a pleasant-faced young waitress appeared as if by magic and set a jug of iced water on the table, together with two glasses.

After studying the menu, Catherine selected prawn mayonnaise and Tom a Caesar salad. He ordered a bottle of wine, and sat back to look about him. Dotted round the courtyard were some two dozen tables, where couples or families laughed and talked over their meal, while inside the restaurant itself, he could see others who had opted to avoid the sun. The complex was an old mews, and the buildings surrounding the yard would originally have been stables. The tiled roof of the restaurant was surmounted by a small clock tower that, he noted, corroborated the time showing on his watch. Halfway through the day already.

And suddenly his happiness evaporated into misery. He didn't want this day to end – ever. He didn't want to go back to his wife's unsmiling face, her barbed comments, her perpetual discontent. He wanted – and he knew this with a blinding flash of certainty – to spend the rest of his life with Catherine.

‘Tom?
Tom
!'

He looked up, meeting her concerned eyes.

‘What's the matter?' she asked anxiously. ‘You've been staring into your glass as though you'd like to drown yourself in it!'

‘I've decided to leave Avril,' he said.