Dark Place to Hide (27 page)

I turn to a fresh page. ‘I think something strange has been going on for a while – and it may be connected to the hospital.’ I’ve asked Paul if there’s any chance I can see the CCTV footage from the Queen Elizabeth; the police might have missed something. In the meantime we only have clues from Clara herself. ‘I think we need to try to remember everything Clara said.’

I ask about the last book she’d been reading, the last DVD she’d watched. Anything that could be out of the ordinary or triggered a conversation. Helen lists various stories Clara’s been hooked on lately. ‘Before
Little Red Riding Hood
, there was the
Princess and the Frog, Heidi, Matilda
,’ she counts them off on her fingers.

Marion adds, ‘
The Princess Bride, Ella Enchanted, The Dark Crystal
.’

‘What’s that last one?’ I interject.

She smiles. ‘It’s a Muppet adventure. On DVD. Another one she likes is
How to Train your Dragon.
’

I point upstairs. ‘Can I take another look around?’

I scour Clara’s bedroom and look beside her television, then check near the one downstairs. I’ve seen one of the DVD’s Marion’s mentioned somewhere recently –
not
here in the cottage – but I’m not sure where. I check all the downstairs rooms and come across a plastic supermarket bag by the shoe-rack in the hall. The DVD I’m looking for is inside – it’s the only item, but it hasn’t been opened; it’s still in the plastic wrapping. I get a sandwich bag from the kitchen and lift it out without touching it.

Helen pops her head out of the living room. ‘Have you found anything?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I join them, holding up what I’ve discovered. ‘
The Dark Crystal
. When did Clara get it, do you know?’

‘She saw it at a friend’s house – Samuel – then she wanted her own copy,’ Marion tells me. ‘I meant to get it out of the library for her. I didn’t realise it was already here. I don’t know where it came from.’

‘Did you see Clara with this bag?’ I hold up the plain white carrier bag.

She shrugs. ‘She often has something with her – for bits and bobs; pens, paper, a book to read – to pass the time at the bus stop or in waiting rooms.’

‘And Samuel?’

‘He’s the little boy in the next cottage along.’ She points to the left.

Helen comes with me. I’m holding the DVD inside the transparent bag. Samuel is at the swimming pool, but his mother asks us to wait at the door.

She comes back with his copy of
The Dark Crystal
to show us.

‘Clara must have got her own copy from somewhere else,’ I surmise. I curse my brain for not tracing my memory back to the source. I’ve seen it – I know I have.

It may be nothing, but it might also be the one key that unlocks everything.

On the way back to the cottage I think about the conversations I’ve had with Clara, to see if anything rings a bell. I notice things. I should be able to do this. Even though I don’t know her well, I am in a good position, because I have only a few exchanges to recall. Marion may find it harder to remember exactly what Clara has said, and when – and furthermore, her knowledge of her daughter will contaminate the words, too. They will tend to blend into the overall persona she knows as Clara. But I should be able to recall her words objectively.

On my last visit, Clara was certainly upset about something. What did she say exactly? Something about getting ‘juicy behind the knees’ and ‘hot in the head’. She asked me if I ever felt like that. With hindsight, it sounded like she was describing being angry more than upset. Then she said something about not wanting to ‘be there on my own’ – but she didn’t say where. I should have asked more, but I didn’t know at the time that it could be so significant.

I hear Frank barking as I press the key into the lock and fight through the mental fog to try to grasp Clara’s final words to me that day. Were they about Frank? About a dog? I get inside and close the door. No – her parting words have gone.

I give Frank a bracing walk through the woods and back along the river before supper. I’m feeling uplifted by about one degree above my recurring black mood. Partly because I’m making a small contribution towards helping Marion, and partly because I’ve got company for supper. Tara is arriving at six to prepare everything in my kitchen. I admonish myself. Our kitchen. There are other times recently, I notice, when I’ve referred to joint belongings as
mine
instead of
ours
. It’s like using the past tense after someone has died – the way reality gradually
sinks in, reminding you that a loved one is not coming back. I push the thought away. It’s not going to happen. You’re not dead. You’re coming back – I know you are.

Tara troops in right on time, carrying a stack of plastic boxes and bags of vegetables. She’s refreshingly business-like and gets straight on with it – her only requests are a glass of red wine and music.

‘What music would you like?’ I call out from the sitting room.

‘Latin American…salsa or bossa nova…yummy music…’

I select my playlist of Romeo Santos. ‘Okay,’ I tell her. ‘I hope this is yummy enough.’

‘That’s perfect,’ she laughs and swings her hips. I have to look away.

‘What’s with all the typewriters?’ she calls out. ‘What are they doing in the porch?’

‘Good question,’ I say, joining her at the chopping board. ‘Dee thinks I’m mad. I have a weird fascination with them; I think it’s mostly the sound. Do you remember those old movies set in newspaper offices, where everyone’s rattling away? I used to watch them with my dad when I was little. It’s so energetic, but contained somehow – the way they punch out each letter, one by one. I like the look of the machines, too – like little mechanical ribcages…’

I don’t expect her to understand. ‘Dee’s right – you are mad,’ she replies, ‘pass me the garlic press.’

Elaine arrives shortly before dishing-up time and joins us in a glass of wine. From your description of her, she isn’t the person I was expecting. You said she was frumpy and a little plump, Dee – but you were being generous as usual. In fact, Elaine is seriously overweight and her lemon-yellow dungarees do nothing for her. They seem to encourage rolls of fat to gather in regular intervals from her knees upwards; the colour even clashes with her ginger hair. Every
area of skin that’s exposed is overrun with freckles, making her look like she should be in quarantine. But, she’s earnest and wants to help. That’s all I can ask for.

She and I sit at the dining table talking about dogs, while Tara adds the finishing touches. She comes through with the starter – a beetroot dish with chicken livers and apples.

‘The whole meal is traditional in Denmark,’ she explains, telling us exactly what’s in it. The main course is lamb fricassee with turnips and goutweed (a herb in the carrot family, apparently) followed by a more recognisable rhubarb and macaroon trifle. The meal is unusual and tasty, but the best thing is that you and I have never had anything like it. It doesn’t belong to
us
, it has no memories attached to it. As such, it is a relief after so many instances in my life – nearly everything I touch and see; every thought I have – where you are immutably branded in my recollections.

I’m restless as we finish the dessert and Elaine and Tara continue to chat about school. I want to turn to the real reason Elaine is here. Finally, she reaches into her bag and brings out an envelope.

‘I’ve brought the photos from Doreen’s party, like you said.’ She fans them out on the table. ‘I don’t know if they’ll be any help.’

‘Are these in the order they were taken?’ I ask.

She checks and then nods.

‘Can you talk us through them?’ I suggest.

We pull up our chairs either side of her and she holds up each snap in turn. ‘This is soon after I got to the party. It was just in the staffroom at school. Diane is talking to Stephen in the first one,’ she points to you and I snatch an involuntary breath – you look so ravishing in that strappy dress.

In the next shot someone has joined you. I can see the stem, but the rest of your glass is hidden behind Morell’s elbow. ‘Who’s the woman?’ I ask.

‘That’s Stephen’s wife, Gillian.’

In the next picture, the three of them are still standing together in a little circle and Gillian appears to have her arm around Diane’s shoulder. ‘Does Gillian know Diane?’ I enquire.

‘I don’t think so. Gill’s like that with everyone. She’s very welcoming.’

‘How are things between Gillian and Stephen, do you think?’

‘Oh, they come across as a very strong couple…which…’ She appears to debate for a second whether to tell us more. The wine appears to make the decision for her. She’s had more than Tara and me. ‘…I’m happy for Stephen, of course – just wish things were different, that’s all.’

I find it hard, after my first meeting with Morrell to recall a single attribute that could be considered appealing to any woman, but perhaps he was on the defensive with me and in other circumstances his charms are more evident.

‘What happened after these photos?’ I ask. ‘When did you leave? Before Diane?’

‘Hold on…’ She looks at the row of pictures to get the order of subsequent events straight in her mind. ‘Diane didn’t look too well after this one was taken and Stephen’s wife took her to the bathroom. They both disappeared for a bit. I was talking to Stephen at the time.’

‘Diane wasn’t well?’

‘Yeah – she looked a bit queasy – Gillian led her out.’

‘How long did they take?’

‘Not long. About five or ten minutes, maybe…’

‘Then what?’

‘Stephen left first. The party was still going. There were a handful of people still hanging around.’

‘Where was Diane?’

Elaine stops to think. ‘Stephen went on his own…Gillian left a bit later with Diane – maybe she was waiting until she felt well enough.’

‘Did you actually see Stephen get into his car on his own?’ adds Tara.

‘It was a taxi. About five minutes later, I saw Gillian with her arm round your wife at the door as another taxi drew up.’ She smiles despondently. ‘That’s all.’

Elaine continues to add more unnecessary details about Stephen and how he comes across as shy and withdrawn, whereas in fact he has an ‘incredible’ sense of humour, is kind and gentle. ‘He’s helped me a lot at school,’ she stresses, ‘with assemblies, school plays and displays…’

‘She’s in love…’ declares Tara and Elaine laughs and knocks back more wine.

I don’t hear much more. I’m trying to figure out what exactly happened at the party. I scrutinise the pictures again as Tara and Elaine clear the dishes. It’s the glass in your hand I’m focussing on. It’s full, then empty, then full, then empty. How many did you have? And blue lagoons – when you’ve never been a fan of cocktails at all?

I change the playlist several more times and we sit in comfy chairs to drink coffee. Elaine takes up Tara’s offer of cheese and biscuits – fortunately she brought supplies with her – and, long overdue, Elaine calls a taxi.

As she’s slipping on her denim jacket, I have one more question for her.

‘The cocktails – did Diane order them herself?’

‘There wasn’t a proper bar, as such, we had to bring our own drinks. One of the teachers fancied himself as a barman and he was mixing drinks in a shaker by the sink.’ She stops and seems to acknowledge that she hasn’t answered my question. ‘I think Gillian got the first one for her. Yeah…she did. Now I think of it, she didn’t call it a blue lagoon – so perhaps it was something different…’

‘Can you remember what Gillian said?’

The taxi Elaine’s ordered draws up outside the gate. ‘Not exactly,’ she says, ‘but – actually, I don’t think it was even alcoholic – that’s right…Gill said something about it tasting like vodka, but that it wasn’t…’

Tara stays to help me clear up, but like me, I’m certain she is putting off the moment when she has to return to the solitude of her empty flat.

‘What do you make of that?’ she asks.

I don’t know whether Tara has put two and two together, but I decide it’s time to fill her in, if she hasn’t. ‘The date of the party was around the time Diane got pregnant,’ I say, absently drying a glass beside her at the sink.

I should have given her more credit. ‘I know.’ She turns slowly, frothy suds dripping from the rubber gloves. ‘Do you think it was Stephen?’

I drop my head, unable to respond.

Tara hesitates. ‘Except, Elaine said he didn’t leave the room at the party – she’d know, she was watching him like a hawk the whole time.’

The golden rule in my job is never to jump to conclusions. ‘Whatever happened at the party certainly made Diane very ill and resulted in her passing out.’

Tara takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘I hate to say this, but aren’t those the perfect conditions to…rape someone?’ I wince at her words. Of course, I’ve known all along that you could have been put through a savage attack like this. Before now, I haven’t dared to breathe life into that possibility, but now Tara has uttered the word, it suddenly feels like a concrete conclusion. Furthermore, it fits the circumstances more than anything else.

‘Diane swore she hadn’t been with anyone,’ I whisper, a sob swelling in my throat. ‘I should never have doubted her.’

I can’t let myself sink into this while Tara is here; I must wait until she’s gone. She puts her hand on my arm. ‘Don’t. You weren’t to know. According to Elaine, Diane thought she was drinking mocktails.’

‘Question is – whatever went on between them, did it happen at the party itself, or afterwards?’

Tara narrows her eyes. ‘And did Gillian get Dee straight home – or did they stop off at the Morrell’s place first?’

‘Dee took a pregnancy test the day after the party,’ I tell her, ‘but it was negative…’

‘Of course it was,’ Tara replies, without a breath. ‘Most people think it shows up on a test straight away, but it takes about two weeks.’

‘Oh…’ My head is pulsating with questions and misunderstandings. I scrunch up the tea towel and drop it on the draining board. ‘Let’s go through this again.’

She pulls off the rubber gloves and leans back against the sink.