The House on the Cliff (18 page)

“I’ve known Evan for years. I’ve worked with him at the Assembly, he was a consultant on our arts funding strategy. I just don’t believe that he’d commit a murder and then cover it up,” Bob went on. “It sounds completely out of character. . . .”

I’d never been asked to be an expert witness in a trial before, and I was beginning to have second thoughts about having agreed, in principle, to help. Bob’s a lawyer; he understands this kind of thing, and I don’t. Which was why I was asking his advice.

“I mean, everyone knows he drinks too much, that he can be bad-tempered. And he has a colorful love life, of course.” Bob gave a wry smile. “Back in the day, before I met you, I used to go down to his parties at Creigfa House. There were always lots of gorgeous women clustered around him, would-be actresses and the like.” He sighed. “He was a randy old dog, I’m not denying that. But he’s a decent man at heart. I’ve always admired him. He’s phenomenally cultured. Talented. And generous. Those parties really were a mecca for anyone doing anything interesting in Wales. He’s done so much for the country, for the Assembly. . . .”

“Oh, I see.” I could feel my temper rising. “So just because he’s done a lot for the Assembly he can screw every woman in sight and get away with it, can he? Even though he’s a married man.”

Bob looked surprised at my outburst. Then he began to realize he was treading on dangerous territory.

“Well, no. Of course not. All I’m saying is that he may have his faults, but I can’t believe he’s a murderer. Or a liar.”

“So why would his wife say he was, if he wasn’t?”

“I don’t know. She’s a strange woman, by all accounts.” He paused. “She’s probably jealous. She’s had a tough time, I should think, and it’s taken its toll.”

“And the son? Why would he be gunning for his father as well?”

“Well, perhaps he’s taking his mother’s side. These things go on in families. . . .”

“Bob, a young girl drowned out at sea,” I cut in. “She was nineteen. Evan Morgan was trying to seduce her. His son saw the pair of them fighting on a boat shortly before she died.” I gave an exasperated sigh. “Aren’t we owed an explanation? However great a man Evan may be?”

“Yes, of course.” Bob lowered his voice, responding to the frustration in my tone. “Her death needs to be fully investigated. Evidently, it wasn’t at the time.” He paused. “But I’m just not convinced by this evidence you’ve come up with. I think we need to hear Evan’s side of the story.”

I didn’t respond.

“And if I were you,” he went on, “I wouldn’t commit myself to anything.”

“Well, thanks for your advice.” I tried to sound polite. “But I think I’m going to, all the same.”

Bob finished eating, got up from the table, went over to the sink, and rinsed his hands.

“OK. As you wish.” Then he added, as he dried his hands on the towel, “And I’m going to get in touch with Evan. I’d like to talk this over with him and find out what this is really all about.”

Although his voice remained calm, I sensed he was angry, but I said nothing as he turned and walked out of the kitchen. Just as he did, Nella came in.

She went over to the fridge, opened the door, and peered inside. “There’s never anything to eat in this house.”

“Yes there is.” I waved at the fruit bowl on the sideboard.

“Biscuits?”

“We’re trying to cut down on them. For Dad. There are some crackers, if you like. Cheese . . .”

“OK, OK.” She shut the fridge door, went over to the sideboard, and picked up a banana.

“How’s the homework going?”

She shrugged.

“Need any help with anything?”

She shook her head and made for the door. Just before she left she turned and said, “Oh, by the way, Mum, I’m going to London on Saturday with Tamsin.” Her tone was casual. “For the audition.”

“Oh yes?” I tried to sound casual, too. “How are you getting there?”

“Tamsin’s mother is going to take us on the train. She’ll drop us off, do some shopping, and then collect us.”

I thought for a moment.

“Is Emyr going to travel up with you?”

“No.”

“Why’s that?”

Nella scowled. “Because I knew you wouldn’t let me go with him.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Of course not. I don’t want him to know I’m treated like a child at home.” The scowl softened. “I just said I’d be fine going without him, and he accepted that. He’s quite busy at the moment, anyway.”

I thought that was odd, but I let it pass.

“So where’s the audition being held?”

“The Bush Theatre. The producer, Tony Andreou, works there.”

I considered the matter for a moment.

“Well, that sounds all right,” I said eventually. “But are you sure you wouldn’t like Dad and me to drive you up? We’d love to see you do your audition and meet Mr. Andreou.”

“No thanks.”

There was a short silence.

“So what time’s the audition?” I asked.

Nella shifted from foot to foot. “I’m not sure yet. They haven’t fixed it.”

“Oh?”

“The thing is, if this producer is running late, I may have to stay overnight.”

“Where would you stay?” I kept my tone level.

“He could put me up at his house.”

There was another silence. Then I said what she knew I was going to say.

“I’m sorry, Nella. You can go up to London with Tamsin and her mother for the day.” I paused. I hated to spoil her fun, but there was no doubt in my mind. “But you’ll have to come back with them. If this producer wants to see you so much, he can see you in the daytime.”

“But he may not be able to . . .”

“Well then, Dad and I will take you up in the car and wait. But you’re not staying the night. And that’s final.”

Normally Nella would have argued. But she knew that in this case I wasn’t going to budge, so she didn’t try.

“I’m sorry, darling,” I went on. “I really am. But it’s just not on. You know that.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she threw the banana at the sideboard and flounced out of the door, slamming it behind her.

The banana hit the edge of the sideboard and landed on the floor beside it. I walked over, picked it up, and for a moment felt like hurling it at the door, after her. But instead I calmly put it back in the fruit bowl, beside the rest of the bunch.

13

It was Saturday and I was shopping in the market. Upstairs, in the pet section, to be precise. Nella had gone to London for the day, to audition with the producer. I’d wanted to phone him and talk to him in more detail about the arrangements, but she’d begged me not to. I hadn’t wanted to embarrass her so instead, I’d given her strict instructions to return home with Tamsin and her mother on the train, even if it meant missing the audition. In the meantime, as the hours ticked by, I was struggling to take my mind off the situation, so I’d taken Rose out to the market. She wanted to buy a rabbit. She’d been pestering me about it for weeks, and I’d finally relented.

It’s a funny old place, Cardiff market, a great covered building with wrought-iron doors and a glass ceiling, like a Victorian railway station, and inside, a smell of burned fat, and butchery, and wet fish, and old leather, and cut flowers. Downstairs you’ll find the butchers, the pigs’ heads arranged in rows like an audience at the theater, with the prices pinned to their ears, and the fish counter, where along with the scary deep-sea monsters, you can get freshly caught local cockles and crabs and laver bread, that weird, green, salty, slimy seaweed stuff that’s supposed to be a delicacy here. There’s a haberdasher’s, where I often stop to buy buttons, zips, and bias binding, that sells the types of fabric you thought went out with the sixties: yards of nylon lace for net curtains, rolls of brightly patterned Crimplene for dresses, brushed cotton for nighties and pajamas. There’s no concession to the present: the leather-goods stores sell cheap, old-fashioned handbags; suitcases without wheels; straps for watches of the non-digital kind. And upstairs, in the gallery above, it gets even more recherché: there’s the ancient secondhand record shop with a life-sized figure of Elvis at the entrance; and beside it, the palm-reader’s, where a middle-aged woman with a plastic flower in her dyed black hair flits mysteriously in and out of view, between a pair of purple velvet curtains; and next to that, the greasy spoon, where a selection of hard-bitten men who look like the descendants of Steptoe and Son drink steaming mugs of tea, eating bacon, eggs, and beans, and read the racing papers. And opposite that, the pet shop, where Rose and I were standing, looking at the caged songbirds, the newborn kittens, the twitch-nosed rabbits, the crazily coiffured guinea pigs, the blind baby mice, and the fat white rats with their disturbingly long, pink tails.

“Cruel, isn’t it? Keeping them cooped up like that.”

I turned round. The woman who was speaking to me was in her sixties, well dressed, with immaculately cut and colored hair. She was accompanied by a dapper-looking man, slightly older, and equally well turned out.

It took me a moment to recognize her.

“Jean.” I paused. “Gosh. You look . . . you do look well.”

“Thank you.” Jean smiled. “This is Windsor.”

I nodded at her companion. He nodded back, but didn’t say anything. Instead he went over to one of the cages and looked at the rabbits with Rose.

“That must be your daughter,” Jean said.

“Yes. Rose. My youngest.” I tilted my head toward Windsor. “Is that . . . ?”

“My new beau. He’s moving in with me next month. We’re going to live in sin.” Jean giggled.

I was beginning to feel nonplussed. Jean was behaving like a completely different person from the one I’d known. She’d never shown any sign of a sense of humor before. I’d never realized she had one.

I looked over at the rabbits. Windsor had picked up a pellet from the counter displaying the pet foods, and was feeding one to the rabbit, much to Rose’s delight.

“Well, that’s lovely,” I said. “I’m pleased for you.”

“Oh yes. It’s all turned out very well.” Jean lowered her voice. “He’s very good around the house.”

I nodded, thinking of the curtain rail.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.” Jean waved her hand airily. “I’ve been so busy. It’s been such a whirlwind.”

I thought for a moment of pointing out that she really should have phoned to cancel the sessions, but decided not to go there, as they say. Instead, a silence fell as we both looked over at Windsor, Rose, and the rabbits.

“Well,” she said eventually. “Nice to see you again.”

“And you, Jean.” I spoke with sincerity. “Good luck with everything.”

“Thanks.”

She gave me a little wave, then went over to Windsor and took his arm. As they sauntered off together, I joined Rose at the rabbit cage.

“Who was that lady?” Rose asked.

“Oh, just one of my clients.” I paused, wondering why I didn’t feel angry with Jean. She’d quit her sessions without any notice, without a word of thanks. I’d lost fees, wasted time. And yet, seeing her like that had made me feel good. Really good. For a moment I forgot my worries about Nella and remembered why it was that I’d decided, all those years ago, to become a psychotherapist. I’d done it to help people. It was a clichéd phrase, but it was the truth. That had been my aim, and I realized now that sometimes—not often—I managed to achieve it. In Jean’s case, I’d only offered a holding operation while she recovered from her grief, but that had, apparently, been all she’d needed to get her back on course.

Rose pointed to a small gray rabbit in the corner, sitting alone. “That’s the one.”

“Are you sure?”

Rose nodded.

“OK, then. Good choice.” I put my arm round her shoulder. “Shall we celebrate with a bacon sandwich?”

Rose looked up in surprise. “You mean, over there?” She pointed to the café. She knew I didn’t like it, that I often complained about the smell of bacon fat that pervaded the market because of it.

I nodded.

She looked pensive. “Are you happy about something, Mum?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“What?”

“That lady. She used to be sad. And now she’s feeling better. That’s all.”

“Cool.” Rose paused for a moment. “Can I have a doughnut as well, then?”

We paid for the rabbit, arranging to collect it later, went over to the café and found ourselves a seat at the bar running along the edge of the gallery. I ordered two bacon sandwiches, a cup of tea, and a glass of bright green pop that didn’t even pretend to bear any resemblance to fruit juice.

As we waited for our food, Rose drank her pop noisily, sucking happily on her straw, gazing dreamily into space. I knew by the look on her face she was thinking about the rabbit.

On the countertop was a copy of that day’s
Echo
. The
Echo
is our local newspaper. It normally carries stories of buses failing to run on time, children recovering from suspected meningitis, and baby birds falling out of nests. I glanced casually at the front page, not expecting it to tell me anything more earth-shattering than that a dog had nearly bitten a man, and caught my breath.

In the center of the page was a headline:
EVAN MORGAN CHARGED WITH MURDER
. Underneath, there was a picture of him, taken some time ago, and an article that began:

Following sensational revelations received yesterday at the
South Wales Echo
, police have charged Evan Morgan with murder. The internationally renowned theater director spent three hours this morning at Central Police Station being interviewed in connection with the death by drowning, in 1990, of a Swedish au pair employed by the Morgan family. Bob Cadogan, Mr. Morgan’s lawyer, declined to comment.

It took me a moment to take in what I’d read: not only that Evan had been charged, but that Bob was representing him. My husband had gone off behind my back and offered his services to Evan Morgan, knowing that I was liable to be an expert witness for the other side. What the hell was he thinking of? Was he trying to make me look a complete idiot? A red fog began to rise up in front of my eyes. I locked my teeth together, in pure fury. I wanted to jump up, then and there, and rush home to confront him. But, for Rose’s sake, I stayed where I was.