Jigsaw (27 page)

‘So far and no farther?' queried a voice at his side, and Tom spun from his contemplation of the steering wheel to see Catherine at the open car window.

Feeling a complete fool, his colour rose. A hundred excuses for his presence jostled for precedence and he abandoned them all and said simply, ‘I don't want to go home.'

‘Let's go for a walk, then,' she said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and went back to lock the front door.

The evening was cloudy and close, and the day's heat rose from the pavements as they walked. Neither of them spoke, each content in the other's company.

Eventually, as they rounded the corner into Talbot Road, he asked, ‘Any news of Jenny?'

‘She's gradually getting over it. Her parents are still there, but they're going home at the weekend. She doesn't need nursing any more, and she's determined to go back to work. I think that might be the best thing.'

‘What does she do?'

‘She manages a little florist shop in Stokely.'

Barrington Park was now on their left, a green oasis in the built-up area. Catherine opened the gate and they went in. The grass was cool and comforting, and the sprinklers circled endlessly, sending arcs of sparkling water cascading to the ground.

‘I've had a row with my wife,' Tom said baldly. ‘I think it's the first ever.'

‘My goodness, that must be a record.'

‘It takes two, doesn't it?'

‘And you've never risen to the bait before?'

‘I suppose not.'

‘Why did you this time?'

He didn't answer, and she glanced at his averted face. ‘She didn't object to yesterday?' she asked anxiously.

‘I didn't tell her.'

‘Look, Tom, I don't want to be the cause of—'

‘It's nothing to do with you,' he cut in harshly. Then, seeing her face, laid a hand quickly on her arm. ‘I'm sorry, that didn't come out as I intended. What I meant was that this has been building for some time and I've refused to face it. But I'm due to retire later in the year, and the thought of the kind of life we'll be living frankly terrifies me.' He glanced at her miserably. ‘And now I feel disloyal and mean and altogether despicable for talking about it.'

‘It sounds to me as if the talking's overdue, though it ought to be with your wife.' She paused. ‘What's her name?'

‘Avril.'

‘Can't you talk to her?'

‘I suppose I'll have to try.'

‘Perhaps not this evening, though,' she suggested. ‘You need time to sort things out in your mind.' She looked at him with a smile. ‘Ready to go home yet?'

He smiled back. ‘No.'

‘Then how about coming back with me for supper? You can ring – Avril – and say you've been delayed.'

‘I don't want to put you to any trouble—'

‘No trouble at all. It will be good to have company.'

Having traversed the small park, they'd arrived at the gate giving on to Barrington Road and, emerging through it, started back along the pavement. As they reached the corner of Talbot Road, Tom came to a sudden stop.

‘Oh, my God!' he said.

‘What is it? What's wrong?'

He was staring down the road ahead of them. ‘That car that just passed us,' he said. ‘It was Rona's.'

Catherine went still. ‘Did she see us?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Oh Tom, I'm sorry. Would you rather go straight home after all?'

‘No,' he said grimly, ‘I wouldn't. Whether she saw us or not, having supper together won't make any difference now.'

Rona had indeed seen them, and was trying in some bewilderment to make sense of it. She'd been under the impression that Pops and Catherine Bishop barely knew each other, yet there they were, strolling companionably along as though they'd known each other for years. If they were friends, why hadn't either of them said so? A possible answer occurred to her and was instantly quashed. This was her
father
, she reminded herself.

But she'd no time to probe further. The Ridgeways' house lay ahead of her, and she drew into the kerb, pushing all speculation out of her head until she'd time to examine it in detail.

‘No Gus?' Magda asked, kissing Rona's cheek as she went into the hall.

‘No; I'm only just back from Buckford, so Max is keeping him till tomorrow.'

‘I thought you came home on Wednesdays?'

‘I do normally, but it was Miss Rosebury's funeral this morning, so I stayed over for it. She was the old lady I told you about.'

‘Oh yes. What happened to the missing cassette, did you ever find out?' She turned to Gavin, who had come forward to greet Rona.

‘She's up to her eyes in mystery again! Secret lovers, rambling old ladies, stolen cassettes—'

‘My God,' Gavin said humorously, ‘you certainly attract them, don't you? How about nailing whoever pinched Magda's collection, while you're at it?'

Could it have been Clive? Rona wondered suddenly, but immediately discounted him. He'd said he wasn't a one-man crime wave and she believed him; he wouldn't have been sufficiently organized to pull off a coup like that.

‘Still on vodka and Russchian?' Gavin was asking, as he showed her into the sitting room. It was a light, pleasant room with masses of flowers on every surface – a weakness of Magda's – and low, comfortable chairs. The French windows were open to the garden and a welcome breeze was drifting through them, bearing the scent of stocks from the bed just outside.

Rona watched Gavin as he poured the drinks, assessing his recovery. His long, rangy body remained on the thin side, and the short-sleeved blue shirt revealed arms still tanned from their holiday. It was odd to think that if she hadn't met Max when she did, it would be she rather than Magda who'd be Gavin's wife; odder still that, having waited so long to experience love, she should have fallen for two men in the space of a year.

During their teens and twenties Lindsey had fallen in and out of love as regularly as clockwork, each time convinced it was the love of her life. Rona, on the other hand, had felt nothing stronger than affection for the string of young men who courted her. Perhaps, she'd begun to think, this was as good as it would get.

Conventionally enough, it had been at Lindsey's wedding seven years ago that she'd met Gavin. Rona had been a bridesmaid, as had Hugh's sister, who was going out with him at the time. It had been love at first sight for both of them, and poor Lucy Cavendish had fallen by the wayside.

She'd been deliriously happy, Rona reflected now, intoxicated by the wonder of love after all the years it had eluded her. At the time she was still living in the flat she'd shared with Lindsey, and though Gavin didn't actually move in with her, he spent many a night there. Eventually, some eight months later, he asked her to marry him. She'd not accepted at once, pointing out humorously that one wedding in a year was enough for her father to stand, and in any event, surely they were happy as they were?

And the following week, at an art exhibition she was covering for
Chiltern Life
, she had met Max. Again, the attraction between them had been instant and mutual, but this time Rona wasn't free to succumb to it. Her emotions had see-sawed violently between the two men, not helped by the fact that they were entirely different characters, Gavin being easy-going, amusing and spontaneous, and Max introverted and reserved.

The next few weeks had been agonizing as she tried to decide between them, the hurt on Gavin's face almost more than she could bear. Seated now in his sitting room, with the ice-cold glass in her hand, Rona had a sudden memory of an evening she'd spent with Magda, endlessly discussing her dilemma. Finally, Magda had cut through her prevarications and said bluntly, ‘It's Max, isn't it? You're only humming and hawing because you don't want to hurt Gavin. Well, don't worry about him. I'll look after him.'

And, Rona reflected with an inward smile, she had been as good as her word.

‘So,' Gavin said, seating himself on the sofa opposite, ‘what's all this mystery you've been stirring up in Buckford?'

‘Solving, my love, not stirring up,' Magda corrected him. ‘And what about that cassette, Ro? Did you get it back?' She explained briefly to Gavin what had happened.

‘No, but I know who took it; it was my landlady's husband.'

‘Why on earth would he do that? Ah – he'd have known the old lady in question, wouldn't he, since she was his wife's aunt? You've certainly got yourself involved with that family!'

‘It's been sorted out now.'

‘But what about the lovers she saw?' Magda persisted. ‘You never did explain why she thought she should report them to the police.'

‘I haven't progressed much on that front,' Rona prevaricated, reluctant to bring Alan Spencer into the conversation. She had, after all, promised confidentiality.

Dinner in the oak-panelled dining room was as elegant and delicious as always in this house. Candles glowed in antique candelabra, and the old crystal glasses were heavy in the hand. The food served was, again as always, Italian, and Rona gave herself up to the enjoyment of it.

‘So have you finished these Buckford visits?' Gavin asked, as they sat over their zabaglione.

‘One more to go,' Rona replied. ‘And believe it or not, I'm going to the college Sports Day on Monday.'

‘Did Helena invite you?' Magda asked, pouring more dessert wine into her glass.

‘No, actually it was Beth Spencer.'

‘Who's Beth Spencer?'

Rona hesitated, sorry, now, that she'd introduced the name. ‘The mother of the little girl who was killed.'

‘Oh, of course. How did you meet her?'

Rona smiled wryly. ‘She wants me to prove her husband's innocence. My difficult assignments I do immediately,' she paraphrased; ‘the impossible take a little longer.'

‘I don't see how he
can
be innocent,' Gavin objected. ‘From what I remember, the evidence against him was pretty conclusive.'

‘It was a ghastly business,' Magda said sombrely. ‘Helena was absolutely distraught.'

Rona frowned. ‘Helena Maddox?'

‘Yes; she gave the child piano lessons, didn't you know?'

‘No.' Rona thought back to the meeting between the two women that morning. ‘I thought they just knew each other from the boys going to the college.'

‘I'm sorry for the mother,' Magda said, ‘losing first her daughter and then, to all intents and purposes, her husband. It's a wonder she keeps going.'

A couple of streets away, Tom and Catherine also sat over a dinner table in the deepening dusk. On returning from their walk he'd telephoned home, and been relieved to hear the answerphone click in. He left a brief message, saying he'd be late home and offering no explanation; there was none that he could give.

‘I really must make a move,' he said reluctantly. ‘Thanks so much for granting me asylum.'

‘Any time,' she replied. No further mention had been made of Rona's passing them, but now she said tentatively, ‘What will you do about Rona?'

‘Wait and see.'

‘She might think—' Catherine began, and broke off, flushing.

‘Indeed she might,' he agreed.

They met each other's eye and smiled. Then he pushed back his chair.

‘Thanks again, Catherine, for the meal and especially for the company.'

‘Remember my advice,' she said, ‘and talk to Avril. I'm sure you'll sort things out.'

Which, he found to his discomfort, was not what he wanted to hear.

Rona slid into her car with a last wave at her hosts, standing together at the gate. They were happy, she thought. Thank God for that.

She knew what she must do, even though she hated herself for doing it. Instead of reversing in the drive as usual, she drove on a few yards and took the first turning on the right, which led in an arc back to Barrington Road via Willow Crescent. As she came round the curve, she saw at once that there was no car parked outside Catherine Bishop's house and a wave of thankfulness washed over her. What, she asked herself blisteringly, would she have done if there had been?

Almost light-headed with relief, she drove home, grateful to find a parking space only a few doors down, and thankfully slipped into it. Without Gus for company, she didn't fancy the five-minute walk back from garaging the car in Charlton Road.

So, she thought, as she prepared for bed, Pops had spent at least the early part of the evening with Catherine Bishop. Was he aware that she'd spotted them? Looking into her mirror, she thought she'd seen him come to a halt on the pavement. Would he say anything to her? Expect her to say something to him? If the meeting had been innocent – and, for God's sake, what else could it be? – it would strike each of them as surprising if the other didn't mention it. So – who would go first? And where did Mum think he'd been at the time?

Shelving the questions, Rona slid into bed. It had been a long day.

The puzzle was, however, revived on the Saturday morning, by a phone call from Lindsey.

‘Ro, what's going on with the parents, do you know?'

Rona felt a clutch of apprehension. ‘How do you mean?'

‘I had them to dinner last night, and there was an atmosphere you could have cut with a knife. I've never seen them like that before – it was horrible. God, I've enough problems of my own without this.'

‘What exactly happened?' Rona asked fearfully.

‘Well, nothing
happened.
' Lindsey's voice was impatient. ‘It was Pops, really, more than Mum. I mean, we're used to her being difficult and everything, and Pops is usually the peace-maker. Not last night, he wasn't.' She paused, added suspiciously, ‘You don't sound particularly surprised.'