With a sense of dread, Stirling forced himself to take the sheet of paper, but before he managed to read what was printed on it, a sneeze had them both turning round.
‘Who’s there?’ demanded Rosco. His voice, as thunderous as the crack of a whip, made Stirling jump.
A girl stepped out from the side of the boathouse; it was the pretty red-haired waitress who had bumped into him in the hall. From nowhere he had the feeling that they’d met before this evening. There was something in the eyes and the cheekbones. Very probably he had seen her at some other party like this where she’d been serving drinks and food. With such a distinctive look, she was the sort of girl anyone would remember.
‘Your wine,’ she said to Rosco.
Rosco made no effort to take it from her. ‘Were you listening to our conversation?’ he asked abruptly. Stirling was taken aback at the forceful tone of his son’s voice.
‘Certainly not,’ she replied indignantly. Her expression suggested she might like to throw Rosco’s wine at him.
‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ Stirling said smoothly. He slipped the piece of paper in his hand into his pocket and, taking the glass from the tray she was carrying, gave it to his son. The world might be about to come crashing down on them, but Stirling would be damned if he was going to allow Rosco to take out his mood on an innocent girl. There again, he thought, as he watched her march across the lawn back up to the house, she looked more than capable of taking care of herself.
‘Stroppy cow,’ muttered Rosco.
‘She was hardly that. And you were extremely rude to her.’
Rosco took a mouthful of his wine. ‘Given the sensitive nature of what we were discussing, I had every right to be suspicious of her. You know as well as I do, we can’t afford for a word of this to get out. If she did hear anything, we have to hope she’s as thick as two short planks and didn’t understand what she was hearing.’
‘She didn’t look stupid to me,’ Stirling said. ‘Far from it.’
Rosco frowned. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you, Dad? Why are you defending some nobody of a waitress when we’ve got the mother of all messes on our hands to deal with?’
His son was right. What the hell was wrong with him? Neil. He had to focus on Neil and what may or may not be true about him. But for all Rosco’s insistence, he simply couldn’t believe his brother had been embezzling clients’ money. Then from across the lawn he saw Gina hurrying towards him. She looked worried. Very worried.
‘Darling,’ she said breathlessly, ‘there are two police officers here. They won’t say exactly what they’ve come about, other than it’s something to do with Neil. They want to speak to Pen, but I think you should be there with her, don’t you? Scarlet’s with her on the terrace.’
The three of them hurried back up to the house. Oh Neil, thought Stirling, just what the hell have you done?
Dee burst into the kitchen. ‘Guess what! There are two policemen with Mr Nightingale in his study. Well, actually, it’s a policeman and a policewoman. They looked dead serious. What do you think’s going on?’ She giggled. ‘It’s like something off the telly. Just think; somebody could have been murdered! How cool would that be?’
‘Not cool at all,’ Sue huffed as she put the finishing touches to a tray of mini profiteroles and passed it to Katie. ‘And don’t you go gossiping in front of the guests. Just remember, whatever’s going on, it’s none of our business.’
Back outside, dusk was falling into night. Circulating the garden and terrace with the profiteroles, Katie’s mind was racing. Putting together the scraps of conversation she’d overheard and the arrival of two police officers, it didn’t take a lot to work out that something was seriously up. Talk about cupboards and skeletons! Just what kind of a family was she related to? And as for that obnoxious Rosco Nightingale, how could she have any DNA in common with someone like that? Someone who she now knew was her half-brother. She’d clearly heard him call Stirling, Dad.
Stirling had taken charge. Having instructed his wife and Rosco and Scarlet to go back to the party and pretend nothing untoward was happening – under no circumstances was Cecily to suspect that anything was amiss – he was now standing beside Pen, who he had seated behind his desk. Sitting opposite them were the two police officers. Detective Inspector Rawlings was the senior of the two. He had coarse grey hair and an unfortunately long and beaky nose, and had just finished explaining that they’d been to The Meadows but, finding no one at home, a neighbour had suggested they try Willow Bank, knowing that Penelope Nightingale was here for a party. The other officer, Detective Sergeant Fisher – the seemingly silent note-taking sidekick – was a chunky woman in her early forties.
‘When did you last see your husband, Mrs Nightingale?’ Detective Inspector Rawlings now asked.
Immediately Pen looked flustered. ‘Um . . . oh, I think it was Monday.’
‘You
think
? Or you know?’
‘Um . . . it was definitely Monday. Yes, of course it was. I’m sorry.’
‘So Monday was the last time you saw him. Have you spoken in the days since?’
‘No. He’s been away.’
‘Away? Where?’
‘Sailing. He’s on a sailing holiday. Somewhere in Greece.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
Stirling intervened. ‘Please, can you get to the point of why you’re here? Why exactly are you asking about my brother?’ He braced himself for the worst: that the clients with money missing from their portfolios had gone to the police and an investigation was under way.
‘A body has been found in the river at Medmenham, and we have every reason to believe that it’s your husband’s body, Mrs Nightingale.’
Pen gasped and put a hand to her mouth. ‘No. Not Neil!’
Stirling swallowed. ‘How do you know it’s Neil?’ he asked.
‘A Porsche 911 registered in the name of Mr Neil Nightingale was found nearby, along with his mobile phone and a wallet containing his driving licence. This is never an easy process,’ Rawlings went on, ‘but we need someone to formally identify the body.’
Stirling placed his hands on Pen’s shoulder. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for you to go through that, Pen.’
‘But it can’t be Neil,’ she murmured. Her face was pale and dazed, her eyes moist. ‘Not Neil. He’s away sailing. He’s . . .’ Her words trailed off.
‘We strongly believe it is your husband, Mrs Nightingale, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’ Rawlings paused. ‘We don’t think his death was an accident.’
Pen let out another gasp. She shook her head. ‘But it has to be an accident. He must have fallen in. Or it’s not him at all and this is all a terrible mistake.’
Rawlings just stared at her.
Stirling could have punched the man. Did he have no feelings? Was he so inured to the job that he could be so insensitive? He cleared his throat. ‘Why do you think Neil’s death wasn’t an accident?’
‘Until a post-mortem is carried out, we can’t be one hundred per cent sure, but we have reason to believe it was suicide because of what we found in the car: an empty bottle of sleeping pills, a half-consumed bottle of whisky and a note.’ Rawlings paused. ‘So you can see why we’ve reached the conclusion we have.’
Pen began to cry. ‘It can’t be true. I don’t believe it. Not Neil.’
Stirling desperately wanted to hang on to the hope that it wasn’t Neil’s car that had been found, that it was some other poor devil’s body waiting to be identified. But he knew in his bones it was false hope. Call it a sixth sense but he knew his brother was dead.
He swallowed.
Dead
. For the love of God, what the hell had been going on in Neil’s head lately? And why hadn’t any of them noticed the change in him? How could everything have been going on right under their noses without them realizing?
The woman police officer spoke for the first time. ‘Mr Nightingale, can you think of any reason why—’
‘No more questions,’ Stirling said decisively. ‘I think you should go now. I’ll be happy to speak to you tomorrow morning, but for now I think you should show us the respect we deserve and leave us to deal with the shock of . . .’ His voice faltered and he blinked hard. ‘Of my brother’s death,’ he managed to say. ‘If indeed it is my brother’s body you’ve found.’
The two police officers had the decency to know a dismissal when they heard one and got to their feet. ‘As I said before,’ Rawlings said, when he was at the door and Stirling had opened it for him, ‘we’ll need someone to identify the body. I’ll ring you in the morning to make an appointment for you to attend the mortuary.’
‘I was right! There has been a murder!’ If she’d been excited earlier, now Dee was practically beside herself.
They all stopped what they were doing and stared at her. ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Merrill said, smoothing down her apron. ‘Of course there hasn’t been a murder.’
‘So why was Mr Nightingale told he’d be needed to identify the body? I heard them talking. They were in the hall. Mrs Nightingale was there as well, and she’d been crying. It wasn’t like I was eavesdropping; I just happened to be passing.’
Sue and Merrill exchanged looks. ‘Which Mrs Nightingale?’ asked Sue.
‘Penelope.’
Katie kept quiet. Penelope Nightingale, the woman from The Meadows. She felt a pang of sadness for her. Katie knew all about losing someone she loved. She knew how it felt to receive the kind of news nothing ever prepared you for.
Sue said, ‘You don’t suppose it’s her husband who’s died, do you, Neil Nightingale?’
Merrill pulled a face. ‘If it’s not him, I hope it isn’t the son. That would be too awful.’
They both looked at Dee again. ‘Did you actually hear the word murder used?’ asked Sue.
Dee frowned as if trying to remember exactly what she’d overheard. ‘No,’ she said shortly, ‘but if it isn’t murder, why would the police be involved?’
‘It could be an accident,’ Sue suggested.
‘Whatever’s happened,’ Merrill said, ‘it’s not for us to worry about. Our priority is, if there’s been a sudden death in the family, where does that leave us? Is there still a party to cater for or is it over?’
Stirling Nightingale’s wife suddenly appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. If she had heard what they’d been saying, her expression gave nothing away. ‘We’re ready for the champagne and birthday cake now,’ she said crisply. ‘We’ll have it on the terrace.’
An ice-cool customer that one, thought Katie; a family tragedy and not a flicker. But then it was a cool family altogether if they were going ahead with the birthday celebrations as if nothing had happened.
Cecily was eager for the party to be over. She was tired of the charade. She wanted to know what Stirling was keeping from her. Just because she was ninety, it didn’t mean she’d become senile overnight. If anyone had lost their power of reasoning it was Stirling for imagining she didn’t know something was terribly wrong. Neil wasn’t here, and now suddenly Pen had gone missing. And if Rosco and Scarlet fussed over her any more, she would give them a piece of her fully functioning mind. Their patronizing manner always annoyed her, and tonight it made her long for Lloyd’s quiet, unpretentious company. There was a refreshing honesty to Lloyd’s character that she had always enjoyed and respected. She wished he was here now.
Meanwhile, and because she knew her elder son so well – that he would go to extraordinary lengths when it came to her well-being – she would play along with his pretence that despite the obvious, there was nothing wrong and they were all having a jolly good time.
At the sound of a collective ‘
Ooh!
’ she looked up to see one of the young waitresses walking carefully towards her; it was the pretty one who had earlier wished her a happy birthday. She was carrying a large birthday cake ablaze with an embarrassing number of candles. In the dark, the light cast from the candles illuminated the girl’s face with a soft radiance, making her pale skin glow like alabaster and her eyes shine. With her chestnut hair and delicate features, she was an extremely eye-catching young woman. Funnily enough, Cecily’s hair had been that exact same colour when she’d been young – before age had taken its toll and turned it white. Her eyes too had been the same colour as those of the girl, but they also had faded with age.
When the waitress placed the cake in front of her on the table, Cecily was reminded how she had felt before, that there was something familiar about this girl. But it was a familiarity that went beyond simple recognition; this was a feeling of something being woken deep within her, something that made her want to reach out to the girl. Puzzled, and ignoring the crowd of guests that had now gathered round the table, she stared intently at the waitress, scrutinizing her violet-blue eyes, her cheekbones and the pale pink of her lips. Then all at once, she experienced a moment of crystalline understanding: it was as if she was looking in the mirror at her young self. She was so struck by the realization that she impulsively put a hand out to the girl and touched her lightly on the arm, as though checking to see if she was real. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
The girl’s face flushed. ‘Katie,’ she murmured.
‘Katie what?’
‘Um . . . just Katie.’
‘You must have a surname.’
An unmistakable look of alarm passed through the girl’s eyes. But then her chin jutted out. ‘It’s Lavender,’ she said. ‘Katie Lavender.’
Cecily froze. ‘How old are you?’
But her question was lost in the commotion of Stirling and Gina appearing at her side and everyone singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her. And as if she had never been there, the girl had vanished.
When the singing came to an end and she had blown out the candles and made the first cut in the cake, and the other waitress had taken it away to be portioned for the guests, Cecily pushed herself out of her chair and got to her feet. ‘Stirling,’ she said urgently, ‘I have to speak to you.’
He looked worried. Which further confirmed her suspicions that he was hiding something important from her. ‘It’s not about Neil,’ she said impatiently, ‘and whatever it is that you’re trying to hide from me. This is a different matter altogether: you have to speak to that waitress.’