Untouchable Things (45 page)

“Sorry,” Anna mumbles.

José sighs. “It wasn’t very interesting anyway.” He pulls an
Evening Standard
out of his bag and puts it on the table. “There’s some stuff on the murder. Speculation, mostly. They’re thinking it might be someone known to him. Old business contact maybe. Reading behind the lines he screwed over a fair few people.”

Between the lines, my dear Manuel
. But no one says it. They pore over the newspaper and look up at each other.

Charles strokes his beard. “Seth disappears and not long afterwards his father is killed. Does anyone else keep wondering…” No one helps him out. “Well, could Seth have had something to do with it?” Silence. “Has no one else even thought it?”

José runs a hand through his hair. “It went through my head. But if he did it, then he’s…”

“A monster.” Anna’s voice is rock hard. “Clive Rothbury’s eyes were fuckin’ gouged out. Do you seriously think Seth could have done that?” She sticks her neck out, hissing at him like an angry goose. “And he was with us on the night his father disappeared. How many times have we been through this?”

“Like Michael said, a water-tight alibi.” Charles doesn’t drop his eyes. He takes a breath. “What if he used a hitman?” The words pop from his mouth, splatter into their faces.

Rebecca draws back. “A
hitman
?”

Anna laughs. “Have you ever heard of a hitman gouging someone’s eyes out?”

Charles nods slowly. “Suppose that was done later?” He rushes in to fill the silence. “And, yes, maybe it is possible Jake helped him in some way, Anna. He did leave early that night.”

Rebecca stares at spirals of congealing fusilli on her plate, bound for the dustbin.

Anna has found her tongue but Charles speaks over her. “There’s something else.”

Charles lowers his voice. “When I was at his flat, before that woman came – his mother – I looked through a few more folders. I found some poetry that looked like his own stuff, written a long time ago, judging by the handwriting.”

Anna stares at him. “And?”

“And… they’re about killing his father. Patricide.”

“
Mierda!
” José topples his glass, sending sparkling water frothing down the table. They all grab for napkins as Charles apologises. Rebecca dabs vaguely at dark blotches on her skirt and the waitress brings over a cloth. No one even cracks a joke. They all resume their positions, looking at each other.

Charles leans in and lowers his voice. “Also, talking about his parents having sex on the kitchen table. Like Catherine said.”

Rebecca swills the information around like a wine she’s trying to identify, but her pallet is saturated, numb. She feels nothing except for the white negligee pulled hard across her face.

Anna throws her napkin down. “It’s mad to speculate like this. Come on, let’s go and look at the feckin’ poems. I bet they’re nothing more than adolescent fantasies.”

Rebecca looks up. “What, go now?”

“Better than sitting here getting worked up. I’d rather be doing something. Why don’t Charles and I go and get them and bring them back here? We’ll only be gone half an hour or so.”

Rebecca thinks of insisting on going with them but the thoughts don’t reach her mouth.

* * * * *

“Whoops, I seem to be buzzing.” Twenty minutes later, José twists to reach into his pocket. Rebecca realises she’s left her phone on the kitchen worktop. José frowns as he reads.

“What is it?”

He lifts his head, an odd expression hovering but not quite settling over his face.

“Anna says they can’t get into the flat.”

“Why not?”

“She says the locks have been changed.”

Scene 9

The big guy in sunglasses ducks into the red telephone box when he sees them approach. Best-placed telephone box in London: has he said that before? They’re in a hurry, far too anxious to notice him smiling as he watches them. Anna marching half a stride ahead, as ever. They glance around like extras in a cop film before unlocking the downstairs door. As they disappear from view he imagines the scene unfolding inside and his smile broadens.

Four minutes later and they’re back on the pavement, looking around again. He can’t see their expressions but imagines them perfectly. As they stumble off in the other direction, his mobile chirps a cheery tune. He drops the big black receiver and any pretence to be on a call, looks at the name flashing up on screen. For a second he lets it ring. Then he presses the green button.

“Hello, buddy. Yes, all sorted. Yes, I’ve cashed it – thanks for that. No worries. Just let me know. I’ll be on standby.”

Scene 10

José looks at his watch. It’s only 5.30 but he can’t continue the pretence to be working any longer. Eyes follow him as he gathers up his stuff and mutters goodbye. He made another mistake yesterday, got confused about a deadline and the whole team ended up having to work late to bail him out. His boss yelled at him in front of a couple of colleagues and José nearly lost it. His chest tightened in a way that was becoming frighteningly familiar and he had to run to the bathroom.

The first time it happened he was at home, thank God. He thought he was going to die. He collapsed to his knees by the front door, jacket half on, clutching his chest. How long would it be until they found him? He was surprised not to lose consciousness, to be able to crawl to the hall shelf to reach his phone. He called Anna, whispered, “I think I’m having a heart attack.” How telling that he’d called her rather than an ambulance. He’s increasingly dependent on her, his only compass point in the foggy shadow-land he inhabits. She arrived before the ambulance she called and by the time the paramedic had rushed in with a stretcher he was drinking tea on the sofa.

Panic attack, they said. Is there anything you’re particularly stressed about at the moment? Anna laughed at that. Since then it had happened three times. And once was at work. He had to endure a dozen sets of eyes on him when he emerged from the bathroom. Eyes that may or may not know about his past. He’s no idea if his boss has been notified by the anonymous hand that is squeezing the life out of him. Or if the hand is biding its time, waiting to resume its onslaught of block capitals.

He bangs the door on his way out and stands for a second, gulping at air that tastes of autumn bonfires – or, as it turns out, a newly stubbed-out cigarette smouldering on the ground. He moves away and his eyes catch on the
Evening Standard
billboard across the road.

Scene 11

Business man: Wife arrested.

Rebecca grabbed the paper and bumped people on her way out of the door. As soon as the pavement started to widen she stopped against a railing and started reading as the fine drizzle came down and umbrellas poked her shoulder. Clive Rothbury’s wife had been arrested that morning in connection with his murder. She skimmed quickly –
separated
…
other woman
…
millionaire
. Her phone rang: Anna.

“Have you read it?”

“Yes, I…”

“Can you believe it? His mother, after the way she cried for the cameras.”

Rebecca shuffled closer against the railings. “I know, she looked so – genuine. But Charles had a funny feeling about her.”

“Well, he was right. So all the time it was her. Seth had nothing to do with it.”

I told you so
was in there somewhere. Rebecca looked upwards as flimsy fingers of sunlight wiggled out of the clouds. Anna was still talking.

“I knew it wasn’t him. He wouldn’t be capable of something like that.” Her voice sounded high, manic.

“She hasn’t been found guilty yet, remember.”

“It won’t be long, I bet you. And guess what – the funeral is on Friday. I think we should go. Seth must be going – it says here that police have spoken to him.”

“
What?
” How had she missed that?

“
It is believed that police have also spoken to the couple’s estranged son
.”

“God.” Rebecca felt her throat closing as she made arrangements with Anna. It was being held near the family home in Buckinghamshire. Would she see him again, after all this time? What if it was him, changing the locks, shutting them out of his life? How would he respond to them turning up? Anna was convinced Jake had changed the locks to get his hands on Seth’s stuff but now that the police had spoken to Seth that didn’t seem likely.

The arc of a rainbow was brushing the sky. She plunged underground, gripping the rail tightly, as if her feet would slip from under her.

Scene 12

Cars lined the main street of the village, encircling the church like a giant metallic garland.

“Worse than Chelsea on match night. We’ll have to park outside and walk in.”

The rain came from a clear sky, fine but deceptively wet, streaking Anna’s mascara at the corner of her eyes. Rebecca kept wiping her own face, grateful she’d brought a cap to keep some of the frizz out of her hair.

A crowd had already gathered outside the church gates, a very English assortment of multi-coloured cagoules and black umbrellas.

“Obviously more used to the weather than we are. It was gorgeous in London.”

Rebecca grunted, scanning faces in the crowd. No sign of him yet. But then he’d probably arrive in the funeral car. Her stomach lurched.

“It’s not quite Princess Di’s funeral but I bet the village has never seen so many visitors.”

José looked across the square. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

It was. But she couldn’t quite picture Seth in this picturesque place, with its thatched doll’s houses and rose bushes.

“Do you think we should try to get in the church?”

“Are you kidding? Do you think all these people would be waiting in the rain if there were places inside?” Anna’s hair was sticking to her cheek.

“Well, we’d better bag our spot then. Bloody hell, the press are out in force.”

She hadn’t noticed the group of photographers at the other side of the gate.

“Big news, isn’t it? Even the nationals are following it. And TV, by the look of things.”

They positioned themselves in a huddle as close to the front as possible, umbrellas grazing them like the wings of giant black birds.

José got up on his tiptoes and craned his head. “So Julia Rothbury will be coming? Even though she might have killed him? It’s like upper-class
EastEnders
or something.”

Anna nodded. “She’s been bailed so I think that means she can do what she likes. Within reason.” She nodded towards a policeman and woman patrolling the edge of the churchyard.

“Do you think the mistress is coming?”

“Dunno. Maybe that’s why the police are here.”

José stamped his feet and shivered. “I feel a bit bad that we didn’t tell Charles and Catherine.”

Anna shrugged. “Charles would probably have been against it. And Catherine’s just dropped off the radar.”

Rebecca waved her friends into silence. She was eavesdropping.

“Serves him effing right if you ask me. Lording it around like he owned the place. But who would have thought it was her, Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt?”

“Butter-wouldn’t-melt my arse. That woman’s as brassy as her hair. Probably getting her hands on his money before he frittered it all on his new fancy woman.”

The conversation was directly behind her and Rebecca didn’t want to alert them by looking round. Two middle-aged women by the sound of it.

“It’s him I feel sorry for, the boy. What was his name – something a bit odd. Seb? He wouldn’t stand a chance with parents like that. Though my Nathan said he was a right prick.” Rebecca stopped breathing for a second.

“Sent away to boarding school, poor sod, which is a prick-making factory if you ask me.”

“A prick production line.” Slightly muted cackling, followed by a “Shhh.”

“Look, the hearse is here. Do you think she’ll be in it?”

It was like a moment from
The Godfather
, a shapely calf appearing from the door to a collective gasp and the frantic click of cameras. The rest of Julia Rothbury appeared slowly, a cascade of hair emerging last like a bride’s train. Except this bride was head to foot in black, complete with enormous sunglasses. She clipped a few brittle steps, holding onto the arm of a tall, grey woman. No one else came out of the car.

“Well, that’s a pair of killer heels.” The women sniggered and spluttered. “Trust Long-faced Lucy to come out of the woodwork. She was always sweet on Mrs R if you ask me.”

Four suited men came forward to lift the coffin out of the car.

“What, you mean like that?”

“I’d say. Look at her.”

The tall woman guided Julia Rothbury as they walked behind the coffin and up to the church. People started chattering and moving away. Rebecca turned round but her comic informants must have slipped off, gossip over for one day. She noticed a woman with streaked blonde hair, dabbing at her face with a tissue. They caught each other’s eye and the woman smiled slightly. “Did you know him?”

Rebecca moved a little closer. “No – I, we, know his son, Seth.”

The woman nodded.

“Do you know the family?”

“We’re neighbours. Didn’t know them very well but said hello over the gardening, that type of thing.” She looked to her husband who nodded and leaned in.

“Terrible business.”

They had a reassuring burr of local accent. Rebecca could feel Anna’s eyes on her, waiting to be invited into the conversation. She ignored her and pressed ahead. “Actually we were rather hoping Seth, their son, would be here today. We haven’t heard from him in a while. I don’t suppose you’ve heard where he might be?”

The words sounded stark and direct, even to her. She tried not to look too hopeful.

“Oh, I see. No, there’s been no sight of him round here for many moons. No one’s seen young Seth for years, have they, Bill?”

“Not for years. Let me see, it would be – when did we move in, Joan? ’79? Not since a couple of years after that, probably. It was no good asking about him – they just changed the subject.”

Rebecca wiped rain spatters from her face. “Oh well, not to worry.”