The Betrayal of Trust (14 page)

The sun on her face. The cheese roll was not a tarte aux pruneaux, but she was hungry, it was fresh, with surprisingly tasty tomato and real butter, though the tea was stewed.

She wanted to turn back. Turn back the van,
turn back the clock. Turn back. Olive had been alert and alive, husky-voiced and intelligent, quick-thinking, strong. That Olive no longer existed. The Olive she was going to see was an angry, foul-mouthed, occasionally violent stranger.

The sun on her face. Lenny closed her eyes. The French market square had been suddenly full of children, a long, bright kite-tail of them, graded in size, fluttering
out of a primary school. Olive’s eyes had brightened. The children had gone across the square, chattering, laughing.

They had asked for more
café au lait
. But no more pastries. They would save themselves for a long idle lunch.

The sun on her face.

Lenny opened her eyes and saw a bright red plastic tomato full of sauce, a bright yellow plastic mustard pot. A lorry roaring past. A plate of crumbs.

She did not buy a second cup of tea, just sat in front of the empty one, and the plate of crumbs, miles and years away.

An hour later she was sitting in the proprietor’s office. The senior nurse, a man called Colin, was in a chair by the desk, looking down at a red folder. He had refused to make eye contact with Lenny when he had walked in and shaken hands, and now he
looked
at the file in front
of him, at the floor or at the proprietor, Mrs Mulcahy. She wore no uniform but a bouclé suit with a gold-leaf brooch on the lapel. Her hair was bouffant and pale, like spun sugar. Lenny had seen her just once before, on the day she had brought Olive here.

‘We try very hard but there are limits to what I can expect my staff to tolerate,’ Colin said. ‘Physical abuse.’ He looked at the notes. ‘Scraped
her nails down Ignatia’s face. Spat at a cleaner, Norah Dobson. Urinated in a pot plant. Screamed for fifty-five minutes, until sedated. Slapped Nurse Smailes across the arm, bit her hand, drawing blood.’ He glanced at Mrs Mulcahy.

‘And so it goes on,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sure you are, Miss Wilcox. So are we. I don’t think I have ever found myself in quite such a disagreeable situation
before, but I have my staff and other residents to consider. I wonder if you’ve thought that Miss Mills really needs to be in some sort of secure environment?’

‘Secure environment? Do you mean kept under lock and key?’

‘For her own welfare and safety. That’s what I mean.’

‘Of course you do. Can I see her now?’

Colin shuffled his feet.

‘Miss Wilcox …’

‘Can I see her?’

‘I’m afraid there’s
rather more to it than that. We didn’t ask you simply to pay a visit.’

She had known that all along.

She stood up. ‘You’re kicking her out,’ she said to the proprietor and the nurse, Colin, who had not even had the courage to look her in the face.

‘You’re not entitled to do this,’ Lenny had said, several times. ‘I intend to speak to my solicitor.’ But it made no difference to their bundling
Olive into the van, strapping her in, putting her cases and boxes in the back. At the last moment, Colin had reached in and adjusted the seat belt under her coat collar so that it would not rub against her neck. Lenny had almost thanked
him
but did not, nor did she glance back as she turned out of the drive of Babbacombe House into the road.

The journey home was terrible.

Olive was silent and
still for ten minutes. Lenny asked her if she was comfortable. If she was warm enough. If she knew they were going home. She did not reply. She sat stiffly with her hands together, eyes ahead.

And then it began, first the low moaning sound, and then the rocking of her body back and forth, and after a while, the tossing of her head up and down and from side to side, like a horse in a stable. The
moaning became louder and changed to a cry and the cry to a scream. She screamed and shrieked and then fell silent, screamed and fell silent, struggled to get out of her seat belt.

Lenny pulled into a lay-by and took Olive’s face in her hands. Turned her towards herself.

‘This is me,’ she said, as if to the small child Olive now was. ‘This is me. Lenny. We’re going home, O.’

Olive twisted her
head and bit Lenny’s finger.

She had to keep stopping because from time to time Olive lurched sideways, grabbed the gear lever or the steering wheel or Lenny’s arm, tried to open the door. And screamed. She spat at the windscreen and banged her foot on the floor,
bang bang bang bang
, refusing to stop. It was like having a wild animal penned in the van with her.

‘I’ll put you out on the road
if you scream again, I swear.’

Olive screamed and then began to whistle, and to sing in a high crazy voice.

But a couple of miles from home she fell silent again, and when Lenny glanced across, her head had fallen forward and she was asleep.

She woke quietly when the van stopped and allowed herself to be unstrapped from the seat belt, helped out and up the path. She looked round, as if she
had no idea where she was, no recollection of having lived here for twenty-six years. She touched a bush beside the front door and then held up her hand to inspect it.

Lenny waited for her to go inside but she did not, and in the
end
, after trying to coax her and hold her hand and lead her, she had to half pull, half shove her into the hall.

At once, Olive opened her legs slightly, to pee for
a long time, making a widening, warm pool on the rug.

AS HE STOOD
in front of the mirror unravelling his black tie and starting again with it, Simon wished he was not a snob about ready-tied, and so would not have to put himself through this ten minutes of stress every time he went to a formal occasion. He began to retie, slowly.

The Lord Lieutenant held the St Michael’s Banquet every other year but Simon had only been once before. He had
endured rather than enjoyed it, though the food had been excellent, and the wines too, for those who were not driving themselves home in their own cars. The Chief would have had her driver, he thought, flipping right over left. He would not be able to slip away unobserved from a banquet as from a reception.

That afternoon an email had come in to say the computerised facial reconstruction of the
second skeleton was shaping up well. There would be an image for him to see in a couple of days.

Ben Vanek had been ringing a colleague in his old force whose wife worked in television documentaries and who might know a producer who would find the case of interest. But Simon held out no hope there. Cold cases going back sixteen years, girls who had gone missing – there was nothing unusual enough
in it for the media. The local press report had been picked up by the online crime news of a couple of nationals but led to nothing.

His tie was right. He combed his hair, put on his dinner jacket and prepared himself to be bored for the next four hours.

Haxby Castle looked magnificent, the tower and the main residence floodlit and the courtyard full of lamps, the flight of steps up to
the great doors red-carpeted. Sir Hugh Barr was rising seventy and would not be Lord Lieutenant for much longer. This might well be the last banquet he gave. His successor would not have a castle in which to entertain half the county.

‘Detective Chief Superintendent Simon Serrailler.’

He walked along the receiving line. Barr. Lady Barr. Their son, Marcus. And then the daughter, whose wedding
had caused the Lafferton Police Force such a headache, with royal guests and a crazed gunman on the loose, one with a habit of targeting brides. Emily Barr, now Lady Ravilious, was heavily pregnant, very beautiful.

‘Ah, the man who kept me safe on my big day,’ she said, taking Simon’s hand and holding it between both of her own for a moment.

He was very conscious that he was without a companion,
but for the next half-hour he was kept busy. He knew plenty of people or they knew him and as he was representing the Chief he had to circulate, listen to this or that comment or complaint – usually made laughingly. ‘I do know this isn’t really the time or the place, Chief Superintendent, but there is a singular absence of police on the streets/slow response to call-outs/lack of a sense of urgency
…’

He smiled, defended, apologised, explained, and sipped a single glass of champagne, which grew lukewarm in his hand as he went round, and identified his place, relieved to see that he was not on the top table, though he was sure the Chief would have been. If he had had a companion, he might have been too, which was the bonus for having come alone.

The occasion was as glittering as the palace
State Banquets, which the Lord Lieutenant was doubtless used to attending. Plate and glass gleamed and sparkled under the chandeliers and in the gently wavering light from candles in their tall silver sticks set down the centre of each table. Staff stood against the walls in motionless ranks, waiting. Slowly, everyone filed in, found their places, waited for the top table. The three speakers,
the
High
Sheriff, the Bishop and, finally, the Barrs. The buzz died down.

‘Bless, O Lord, this food to our use, and us to Thy Service, through Jesus Christ Our Lord.’

The Amen.

Voices rising.

Chink of cutlery and glass.

Doors opening. Lines of waiters, bearing dishes.

Simon turned to his right.

Afterwards, he asked himself time and again what it had been first, what he had noticed.

Eyes.
Deep violet blue. Eyes of that colour were rare. And skin. He remembered his mother saying that everyone who met the Queen noticed her beautiful skin, as she herself had.

He had known handsome women, pretty women, attractive women, women with rare individual features – a wide, appealing mouth, or hair like Jane Fitzroy’s wild red curls. But of none could he have said, quite simply, that they
were beautiful. How many women were?

Someone poured white wine into one of the glasses in front of him before he was aware of it. He pushed the glass slightly away.

The banqueting hall was settling down, conversations opening.

‘I’ve never met a detective chief superintendent,’ she said.

He tried to read her place card but it was obscured by the array of glasses.

‘Rachel Wyatt.’ She smiled.
‘And if you prefer not to talk shop, please say. But you must know how it is – people love the chance to get the undivided attention of doctors and policemen.’

‘You have my undivided attention.’

She hesitated, as if she would reply, then glanced too quickly away.

Plates of shellfish and smoked fish were set down in front of them. Langoustines. Crayfish. Prawns. Smoked salmon, trout and eel.
The Lord Lieutenant was never mean. Half-lemons in gauze bags, black pepper, fine slivers of bread and butter, arranged on platters.

‘Are you based in Lafferton?’

He cut gravadlax into small pieces. Handed her the plate of half-lemons.

‘I am.’

‘I read about the girl whose remains were found,’ she said, ‘and just now I saw her father’s name on the table plan. Brave of him to come.’

‘He’ll
think it’s a sort of duty. And perhaps easier than brooding alone. But you’re right – he is a brave man.’ He realised that she had illuminated something for him.

‘Have you anything to do with the case?’

He told her. She lifted her hand to reach for a pepper mill. She wore a wedding ring. But that might mean nothing. He had a strong feeling that it meant nothing.

How old was she? He thought
younger than he was. Where was her husband? Partners were not seated together. He might be anywhere in the room.

Rachel Wyatt.

‘Tell me more,’ she said.

‘About the Lowther case?’

‘About anything. Tell me anything.’

Then he did look at her. Surprise. Bewilderment. Alarm. Amazement.

All of those things. And something else. The one true thing.

She lifted her glass. Simon saw that her hand
was shaking.

He turned to the person on his left, a local councillor he knew slightly, and plucked a question from the air, about the cost of clearing up after the storm and whether there was an adequate emergency budget. It was dull and it was safe; the councillor predictably picked up the baton and ran on and on with it, giving Simon time to recover his equilibrium.

Roast fillet of beef with
excellent vegetables. Rich gravy. Tiny, crisp Yorkshire puddings.

Eton mess.

A Cheddar, and a goat’s cheese made by a small farmer in the county.

She had turned to her right, apparently engrossed in what her neighbour was saying, and did not turn back until the cheese
was
on the table, port was served, and the speeches were about to begin.

But as the Lord Lieutenant rose, she looked at Simon,
and smiled, a deep, warm and conspiratorial smile, as if she were sharing an unspoken joke with him.

Two of the speeches were long and uninteresting, one short, intelligent, witty. Rachel Wyatt leaned slightly towards him. ‘He should give lessons.’

‘Yes, to the other two.’

She laughed. Her eyelashes were very dark, her hair fairer, swept back with a comb on either side of her head. He wanted
to ask her if she had a job, if she had children, where she lived. Instead, she asked him.

‘In the Cathedral Close. I have a flat at the top of one of the old buildings.’

‘Do you play a musical instrument?’

He laughed now. ‘No. Do I look as if I do?’

‘You might be a pianist. Your hands are right. But I don’t know of any piano-playing cops.’

He looked at his own hands. ‘I draw,’ he said.

‘As in pencil? Charcoal?’

‘Both.’

‘And paint?’

‘No. I did, but not for a long time now.’

‘How good are you?’

How good? Who knew?

‘You’d have to ask someone else that.’

‘Who would I ask?’

‘My gallery probably.’ He hated himself for saying it. For sounding pompous. Or vain.