The Crooked House (23 page)

If they wired Alison up, if they monitored her responses, what would it tell them? Her heart was racing, her mouth was dry, even her skin felt weird and clammy. She thought she had learned to hide what she was feeling, but with Sarah Rutherford watching her, guilt rose inside her like sickness.

‘Who do you think killed him?’ she said, her tongue like rubber in her mouth.

‘Stephen Bray didn’t drown, he didn’t fall and hit his head, there was nothing he could have hit it on out there.’ Sarah Rutherford leaned close to her across the bar table. ‘But he sustained a massive depression fracture to the skull and consequent brain injury that killed him almost immediately.’ The policewoman sat back. ‘He managed to stagger a couple of steps into the mud but by the time he hit the ground, he was dead.’ She passed a hand over her forehead, rubbing: her skin looked dry at the temples, her hair coming out of its ponytail now. ‘There was still whisky in his stomach, but everyone knew he couldn’t afford whisky, and the last witness we have, someone who saw him after the pub had closed, said he wasn’t drunk.’

If she closed her eyes Alison could smell the home brew and paraffin and tar, she could see the old man poring over maps and photographs, his head next to her father’s. She managed to say, ‘Who was the last person to see him? He knew
something. Maybe that’s why. My dad must have told him something.’

But Sarah Rutherford looked at her strangely, and Alison knew something was different. ‘Cathy Watts saw him,’ Rutherford said, watching her. ‘She said, he was excited about something. He said he was going to meet someone, someone he hadn’t seen for a long time.’ And then she stood as if she was about to leave, but still she didn’t go.

The lights were off in the hotel bedroom when Alison opened the door but Paul wasn’t asleep. He was waiting for her: she could see the gleam of his eyes as he watched her move about the room in the dark. He lifted the covers to let her in and she lay against him. He didn’t speak and although since Kay’s phone call, since the pub car park, the conversation she needed to have with him had changed shape twenty times, nor did she.

By now it all seemed like something that had happened a thousand miles away and years ago. Did it even matter, him and Morgan, whatever that was? A woman about to get married gets drunk and kisses her ex-boyfriend, big news. Kyra Price had died after eight years fighting to stay alive, getting sicker and sicker. An old man had been beaten to death out on the lonely marsh, a hundred yards from where her family had died. And she was a suspect.

Paul knew who she was. Did he think she might have done it, too, was that what he wanted her for, he wanted to play detective? Perhaps he wouldn’t even be surprised when the police came back for her. His body was warm, his heartbeat at her ear steady, she closed her eyes and the thought took shape, seductive as smoke. He knows me.

Sarah Rutherford had stood there fiddling with something in her hands, turning to look at the policeman waiting for her in the doorway, and then she said, her voice low, ‘Someone
says they saw you out there, Alison. Out there by the house.’

Yes, thought Alison, hypnotised by the way Rutherford was looking at her. She’d seen someone watching her herself, she almost said it, agreeing,
yes
. Standing by the crooked house in the wind in her trainers that first morning, someone had stood out on the marsh and watched her, yes. But Rutherford seemed to mean something different: Alison struggled to understand what she was saying.

‘When?’ she said stupidly. ‘Someone saw me when?’

‘You went to meet Bray.’ Alison couldn’t even shake her head: Rutherford was avoiding her eye as she went on. ‘Cathy Watts said. Stephen told her it was you he was going to meet. Did you give him whisky? What did you want from him?’ And then she’d straightened her shoulders, cleared her throat. ‘I won’t make you come now,’ she said, remote now, ‘but we’ll need to talk to you tomorrow, Alison. You know that, don’t you?’

Sitting there frozen in her seat Alison had not remonstrated, she hadn’t stood and shouted because it had seemed impossible. Don’t make a fuss, was all she could think. And all she could manage was to say, ‘The wedding’s at midday.’ Her voice had sounded distant, mechanical. She had no idea how she should sound, how to convince Rutherford of anything. ‘There’ll be a reception afterwards. You’ll know where to find me.’

She had an alibi, of course. Didn’t she? She hadn’t asked when Stephen Bray had died, and she realised that Sarah Rutherford had not told her. All she knew was, it had happened after the pub had closed, twenty-four hours after they’d seen him there. She’d have been in bed with Paul.

Paul.

His arm around her had slackened: he was asleep.

Was
he avoiding her?

Alison had fallen asleep properly not long before dawn and by the time she woke, it was half past eight. She saw his suit for the wedding hanging on the outside of the wardrobe, fine dark grey wool, she saw the five-button cuffs and the polished old-fashioned shoes, but Paul wasn’t there.

Raising herself in the bed, she stared at the suit. She hadn’t seen it before and it set something ticking. What kind of man was she in love with? She’d never seen her father in a suit: everything about this one, like everything Paul owned, was carefully chosen. Was it expensive? She thought it probably was, like the flat and all the things in it. Not much of it but all of it good and all of it sending the same message. Order, tradition? Strength. Power. She got out of bed, crossed to the wardrobe and put her face against the cloth. He knew who she was. It wasn’t the same revelation as it had been yesterday, when Kay made it: then it had been a shock. It had been horrible. Now she walked around it tentatively, wondering what it meant. An aspect of it was almost … exciting. It was
new. It might even have worked, the next phase. Only there was Morgan, too.

There was a note on the desk:
Gone for a run
. No exclamation marks, no extraneous information. His work had been cleared away. She looked around for it and saw his briefcase leaning against the chair. It was heavy when she picked it up: she could look inside if she wanted to. She set it down.

Simon Chatwin hadn’t done it. Rutherford said so. But something crawled still inside her at the thought of him, of him creeping around her car, of his wooden attempts to ingratiate himself. He’d tampered with her car, she was sure of it. She shivered.

Her dress hung behind the suit, the blue dress with tiny buttons down the back that Paul had bought her. The gold sandals were on the floor. He must have put them there for her but it tugged at her. You can’t have him. This was a test and you’ve failed it. He’s gone. She closed her eyes and thought of him running through the lanes, across fields, to Morgan. Morgan would have him: for all the marquee and the flowers in church and the twenty grand dress she’d take Paul in exchange, she’d take him into her four-poster and her mother could coo over him and bring him breakfast. Alison couldn’t offer him any of that.

Naked, she crossed to the window, looking for a draught, feeling where it found its way around the heavy old window frame. She put a hand to the cold glass. Outside the blue had gone from the sky, it was leaden and low, but the wind was still buffeting the cypresses.

She thought of Simon Chatwin cowering in his battened cabin, and of what Rutherford had said. It’s science, statistics. But if not him, then who? She sat back on the bed, her mobile in her hand, she groped for what she knew, who she could trust. She could trust Gina. She closed her eyes: something Gina had told her was lodged there in the red dark – she looked for it. Was it Simon? Gina would know.

May
had been found, she was home safe with Gina: something good had happened. It would be OK to call. Alison picked up the phone and dialled. But as she waited, she heard him. Paul was in the corridor, calling back to someone, to Jan, or maybe Christian. In a flurry of panic and relief she fumbled with the phone and hung up before Gina answered.

He was at the door, the handle turned and Alison abruptly became aware of her nakedness. She grabbed for the slip and was inside it and on her feet, facing him as he came through the door.

She’d never seen Paul running: she’d had no idea he went. He was wearing shorts, trainers, a grey T-shirt, not new, he must have gone out and bought them once, he must have packed them. He looked different, more ordinary, ruddier. It could happen, thought Alison with wonder, we could live together, we could get married, have a life. Children.

He was sweating. He picked a towel off the armchair and wiped it across his forehead, looking at her.

‘My turn to clear my head,’ he said, dropping the towel but still looking at her.

And before she could answer, as she stood there, feeling the heat rise on her own body under the slippery silk as she looked at him, he said, ‘I know who you really are.’ And he raised an arm to wipe at his face again.

‘Who am I?’ asked Alison, and she felt cold.

‘You’re Esme Grace, and your father killed your family. Here in this village.’ His voice was steady, resigned. ‘I’ve known it since I first met you.’

Alison stood as still as she could manage but she felt breathless, winded.

‘I wanted to know if you’d tell me,’ he said. Hold on, she protested silently, grasping for the unfairness of the statement, but all she could focus on was that it
had
been a test, after all. She had failed.

‘I
would have,’ she said, although it was too late.

Paul stripped off his T-shirt, patched with sweat, dropped it on a chair and he stepped towards her. He put his hands on her arms, but didn’t come any nearer.

‘I should have told you,’ he said, frowning. She stared, trying to process what he was saying. Was it too late, or not?

‘I know,’ he went on, staring down. ‘I’m not good at …’ He made an impatient sound. ‘I didn’t really understand how cruel I was being. Until … until we got here.’ He lifted a hand off her and rubbed the back of his neck to ease something. ‘Believe it or not, I thought it might help. It was a mistake.’ He let her go and sat down, his face in his hands, his muffled voice resigned. ‘Morgan will tell you, no doubt. Someone’ll tell you. Some might call it reserved, private. Or alternatively classic academic, unable to empathise.’ He raised his head. ‘I thought you and I were alike. In that way.’

‘Morgan thinks only she understands you,’ said Alison, and she folded her arms across herself, letting the cold take hold of her, she couldn’t let herself soften, say
Yes, we are alike
. ‘Maybe that’s true.’ He kept looking, she saw his grey eyes cloud. ‘Was that why you were kissing her?’

‘Is that what you think you saw?’ Paul said, very quietly. ‘Well, in that case, who am I to argue?’ And reaching for the towel, he got up.

When he was at the bathroom door she said, ‘They want to talk to me about Stephen Bray’s death.’ He stopped, frowning. ‘Someone said he was going out there to meet me. Someone says they saw me.’

‘What?’ He let out an incredulous sound, that was almost a laugh. ‘No.’ But his face was alive, interested: he couldn’t help himself. ‘You mean, the other night? When the old man died?’

‘This isn’t a joke,’ she said, and it was all hopeless, she could see that. ‘This isn’t a game.’ Paul frowned. ‘I’m connected, all
the bad shit that happens here. This is why I should never have come back.’ Her throat felt choked with the effort to explain: he looked only bewildered.

‘I just know the police want to talk to me today,’ she said, faltering. ‘I don’t know when.’ His head tilted, waiting. ‘About Bray,’ she said, then before she could stop herself, ‘It wasn’t my dad. I know he didn’t kill them.’ And rushing on, ‘I found … I found … What if they still think it was me?’ And disbelieving, she repeated. ‘The police want to talk to me.’

Gently he steered her on to the bed and sat beside her, his arm around her. She let herself be held. ‘I’ll be here,’ he said. ‘Whenever it is.’

She looked up at him in alarm. ‘They won’t let you be with me, though,’ she said.

‘It’s all right,’ Paul said. ‘I mean, I’m not going away. I’m going to help.’

His arms around her felt like a luxury, something that had to be rationed: she made herself open her eyes, she made herself think. ‘What did he say to you? The old man, Stephen Bray. We saw him the first night and he said something to you at the bar.’

Paul frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Do you think that’s got something to do with it?’

‘I saw him look at me,’ said Alison. She was oddly calm: she didn’t have to think before she spoke any more, she didn’t have to calculate. It felt strange. ‘Did he recognise me?’

Uncomfortably, Paul shifted his arm around her shoulders. ‘I think he might have done,’ he said. ‘He said something about when you were small you had long hair.’ Alison held still. ‘I pretended I didn’t know what he meant,’ he added, but he looked worried. ‘Did you? Have long hair?’ She nodded, and he put his hand up to it now, smoothing the furry shortness of it behind her ears. ‘I told him we were here for the wedding,’ he went on slowly, frowning. Taking his hand away. ‘I thought
it was just … you know. Small talk. He was rambling a bit, like old men do.’

‘What’s the matter?’ said Alison. ‘There’s something the matter.’ Paul just shook his head. ‘What did he say to you?’ she said.

‘Do you think they’ll want to talk to me too?’ he said. She looked at him. Something was making him uncomfortable.

‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘I mean … do you want me not to mention it? You talking to him?’

‘What?’ he said, frowning. ‘No, of course not. No. It’s just …’

‘What did he say to you?’ she said again.

‘Well – it might have meant nothing,’ said Paul. ‘I’m not even sure I heard it right, I wasn’t paying much attention. I need it straight in my head before I go talking to the police.’ He grimaced, rubbing his forehead. ‘It’s – well – it’s frightening, isn’t it? I can see that. They might not necessarily believe you. And if the police don’t believe you … there are consequences.’

‘Can’t you tell me? What he said?’ He looked uneasy. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘OK.’ She put her face against his chest then pulled back, trying to smile.

‘You can’t go to church smelling like that,’ she said. ‘Go on. Wash.’

He’d been in there five minutes when the phone began to ring. Not hers, his. She could hear it, not see it. Still in her slip Alison stood at the centre of the room trying to trace the sound and then she saw the lit throb of the tiny screen, somewhere through the thin fabric of his T-shirt on the chair: he’d taken it with him running. The shower had stopped. Alison picked the phone up:
Morgan
, said the screen.

Paul came through the door in a towel and she held the mobile out to him. It was still ringing. His face was set as he looked down at it and she quailed.

He put it to his ear. ‘Yes.’ He sounded exasperated. He glanced at Alison, frowning, distracted, then away. She heard the urgent rattle of Morgan’s voice, some kind of diatribe
that barely paused for breath. Then a command, then another.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Hold on, all right, all right.’ Silence. ‘You’re sure?’ A murmur. ‘All right.’ He raised his head and looked at Alison. ‘I’m coming,’ he said into the phone, still looking at her. He hung up.

‘She needs you,’ she said, flatly. ‘It’s OK.’

‘They think there’s been someone in the grounds,’ said Paul. ‘She’s panicking. A prowler. With the marquee, all the comings and goings.’ He was pulling on trousers.

‘What about her father?’ she said, stubborn. ‘What about her husband-to-be?’

He was buttoning his shirt. ‘Roger …’ His impatient tone, she knew now, disguised anxiety. ‘He’s … she doesn’t want him to get worked up. She’s worried about him, he’s not as young as he thinks he is.’ He tucked the shirt in, glanced at her. ‘And it’s bad luck to see the husband-to-be on the wedding day, isn’t it?’ He sat on the chair and lifted a shoe.

‘What about the police?’ she said, without much hope.

‘I think the police …’ He looked up at her.

‘They’ve got other priorities,’ she supplied. Paul stood up and came close to her, clean-smelling now, dressed. Civilised. He put his mouth to her hair.

‘There
is
someone out there,’ she said, almost to herself. He took her face between his hands.

‘You don’t think it was your father?’ he said, examining her. ‘You’re serious about that?’

‘It wasn’t him,’ she said, and she felt what had been longing and instinct solidify: it became certainty. And this time someone believed her.

Paul nodded, frowned. ‘I was here that night, remember,’ he said slowly. ‘The night your family was killed. I always wondered …’ But then he broke off. ‘We’ve got to talk about this,’ he said. ‘When I get back.’

* * *

The
van smelled of sweat and rust. There were dead leaves in the footwell. Alison sat in the passenger seat with Simon Chatwin beside her. He looked terrified.

It had been parked on the forecourt as she came into the foyer, and then she’d seen him, shuffling like a much older man, coming round it to open the rear doors. Without pausing to think Alison had walked away from Jan in mid-conversation, hearing the chatter about wedding dresses stall behind her, and she was out on the gravel. Chatwin had stared at her: she’d walked past him and climbed inside the van. Waited.

The smell had hit her straight away, unchanged since he opened those back doors to her all those years before. Iron and oil and perspiration. The driver’s door had opened and he peered inside. He had looked back over his shoulder, frightened, and then he’d got in beside her.

He looked much smaller than she remembered, as though his bones had thinned, his shoulders had lost muscle overnight. His hands were rough and dry in his lap, and his trousers were muddy.

‘You didn’t know me at first, did you?’ Alison said. There were spots of colour at his cheeks, but he wouldn’t look at her.

‘You can’t say anything,’ he said. She tipped her head back, then straightened when she felt it touch the greasy seat-back. ‘I’ll lose the job,’ he said, sullen.

‘I don’t care about your fucking job,’ she said. She didn’t recognise herself. She had no compassion. Rutherford had said it wasn’t him. But she felt such sudden uncontrollable hatred, for the memory of his prying fingers, his dry mouth, of what he had been panting for in their backyard. If that wasn’t motive, what was?

‘It was you,’ she said. ‘He told me, Bob Argent told me. You were after my sisters, and so you killed them all. My mother, my brother, my sisters. Did Bray see you, did he know? Did
my dad catch you?’ A sob rose. ‘He’d never have hurt anyone. My dad never. You took the gun off him, you smashed his glasses. You were in the yard. I heard you, I …’

And then Alison ran out of words or breath, she felt it all drain abruptly out of her, she felt like lead, sitting there in the seat. Silence. She could only hear him breathing, heavily. He killed them, and she was sitting next to him in his van, he could start the car, drive away. He could drive somewhere where no one could see them and kill her too.