The House on the Cliff (27 page)

“Yes and no.”

It was a feeble response to her question, especially for someone who’s supposed to be a psychotherapist. But to be honest, that’s been my experience. In most cases you can make some headway with people you encounter as you go through life—get to understand them, earn their trust, begin to trust them. But there’s always the odd one that remains unknowable, that blindsides you, shakes your faith in human nature. The type you simply can’t fathom, whose inner life is a complete mystery. I haven’t come across many like that, but there have been a few. Evan Morgan might be in that category, for all I knew.

We stopped talking about Evan, and Mari turned her attention to the subject of the upcoming Bassey biopic. She’d got a callback for the part of Bassey’s mother, Eliza Jane, by all accounts an extraordinary character. Normally, I’d have been fascinated by what Mari had to say, but I realized as she chatted on that I couldn’t concentrate. And, what with my heavy roster of patients, I’d had enough of bizarre personalities and aberrant human behavior, however amusing, for one day. So, after listening politely for a while, I made my excuses, pecked Mari on the cheek, and left.

Outside, it was a beautiful clear night, a full moon, and a dazzling array of stars shining like diamonds on the velvet of a jeweler’s window. I drove home slowly, savoring the eerie light, glad to be away from the babble of human voices. Then, as I pulled away onto the main road out of town, I began to think about what Mari had said. Something about her story had struck me, at the time, as odd, but it was only now that I was on my own that I realized what it was. She’d spoken of steering the yacht with a tiller. Gwydion, on the other hand, had mentioned that, when he’d seen them, Evan and Elsa had been sitting at the wheel of the boat. It was the same yacht, I’d established that; so one or other of them had been wrong about the steering mechanism of the boat. I wondered which one it was.

I cast my mind back to my meeting with Evan. He’d pointed out the yacht when we were sitting by the window in the pub. Did it have a wheel or a tiller, I wondered. I really couldn’t remember. I wasn’t even sure if, from that distance, I’d have been able to see.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was coming up to eight. Under cover of darkness, I thought, I could make a quick detour to the marina, take a look at the yacht, and drive on, without anyone noticing. Evan might be on board, of course, but if I was outside, in the car, just driving by, he’d never notice.

When I got to the marina, all was calm. It looked as pretty as a picture, with rows of lights strung along the walkway by the water’s edge. I drove slowly past the pub, glancing anxiously in at the window as I did. I half expected to see Evan looking straight out at me, but all I could make out was that there were a few people inside. Then I saw that the main part of the quay, where the yacht was moored, was inaccessible to traffic. I hadn’t noticed before, but there was a row of bollards in front of it. I’d have to park the car nearby and walk the short distance over to the quay.

I parked the car as close by as I could, cut the lights, and got out. I shivered as the chill night air hit my chest, and I tried to zip up my jacket, but my fingers were too cold, so instead I hugged it around me.

It was a windless night, with only a subdued clinking coming from the masts of the boats. I walked along the quayside until I came to Evan’s yacht, still tied up at its usual mooring. I peered in at it. It was immediately obvious that it had no wheel at the back end, like some of the larger, more modern boats. Instead it had a long, elegant wooden tiller.

I gave a sigh of relief and satisfaction. That was all I needed to know. I was just about to turn and leave when a light went on, the door of the cabin opened, and Evan Morgan walked out.

“Dr. Mayhew. What are you doing here?”

Damn, I thought. I had no reply. So I did what I usually do in such situations, where there’s no other way out. I came clean.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Morgan.” I wondered whether that sounded ridiculous, whether I should be calling him Evan. “I just wanted to check a detail on your boat, that’s all. For my statement. To the police.”

For a moment he seemed alarmed. But then he recovered himself.

“Well, you’d better come on board and take a look around.” He stepped forward, offering me his hand so that I could jump onto the boat with him.

It was curiosity, I suppose, that made me take his hand, hop onto the cockpit of the boat, and follow him down into the cabin. I wanted to see the inside of the cabin, be in the box that Gwydion had told me about in his dream. Experience it for myself. I wanted to know whether what Gwydion had told me was true; not that I thought he’d lied to me, but I know all too well what strange tricks memory, and the mind in general, can play on us. And I’d seen for myself that he’d definitely been mistaken about the wheel; there was no wheel on Evan’s yacht. What else had he misremembered? Perhaps the interior of the cabin would tell me more.

“I was just passing by,” I said as I went in behind him. “I can’t stay long.”

“Drink?” he asked, ignoring me.

I looked around. The cabin was neat and tidy, the polished wood gleaming. To one side there was a small table, with a seat behind it, built into the woodwork. To the other, a galley kitchen, and beyond that, in the prow of the boat, a bed, nestled in a V-shaped frame.

“Well, if you’re having one.”

“I’m not. As I told you, I don’t drink anymore.” He indicated the glass of sparkling water on the table, beside a laptop and a pile of papers.

He went over to the kitchen, took out a bottle of whisky from a cupboard, a glass from another, and poured me a drink.

“No ice. That’s right, isn’t it?” He brought over the drink. I noticed his hand was shaking slightly.

I took a large gulp, and then another one. The alcohol immediately went to my head.

“What was it you wanted to check on the boat?”

“Oh, nothing much, really.” The whisky burned in my throat, but it gave me courage. “I just wondered . . . was the tiller always there?”

“The tiller?” The cabin was cramped, so we were close up against each other. I couldn’t help looking into his eyes. “Of course.”

“You haven’t changed it, have you?”

“How d’you mean?” He looked straight back into mine.

I breathed in the smell of him. The pheromones. I wondered if they were genetic.

“I mean . . .” I seemed to be losing track of what I was saying. “Was there a wheel there before?”

“A wheel?” His brow furrowed. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Why would there be a wheel?”

I shrugged and looked away. “Just wondering, that’s all.”

There was an awkward silence, and then he went over to the table, sat down, and waved me over.

I sat down opposite him. I tried to stop my legs from touching his under the table, but it was awkward because the space beneath was so small.

“It must be difficult for you, this situation. What with Bob defending me, and so on.”

“Not really,” I lied. “We don’t talk to each other much about work.” Or about anything else at the moment, I could have added, but I didn’t.

He could see that I wanted to change the subject, so he obliged.

“You remember we talked about Ernest Jones last time we met?”

I nodded.

“Well, I was intrigued by our brief chat. You inspired me to find out more. Take a look at this.”

He pushed the laptop over toward me. I twisted my legs to one side, rather awkwardly, and peered at the screen. On it was a sepia-toned picture of a young woman with soft brown eyes and full lips, standing by a tree. She was wearing some kind of loose white garment, and her long, dark hair hung in a disheveled plait over her shoulder, tied with a drooping bow. I wondered who she was.

“Morfydd Owen,” Evan said, as if reading my thoughts. “Ernest Jones’s first wife. They were only married a year. She died tragically young.”

“She’s beautiful,” I said.

“She was one of the few female composers of the time,” he went on. “A singer, as well. Really gifted.”

He leaned over, closed the screen, and brought up another image, of a brown-eyed man with carefully parted hair and a large moustache, wearing a stiff white collar and a spotted tie.

“Here he is. Ernest Jones. Freud’s Mister Fix-It.”

The man had bright eyes and, underneath the moustache, a small mouth with moist, shiny lips. He wasn’t bad-looking, but there was something curiously unprepossessing about him.

Evan leaned back from the laptop. “You know, the more I find out about him, the more fascinated I am.”

I nodded, remembering what he’d said at our first meeting.

“Are you serious about making a film of his life story?”

“I don’t know. I still have to find the right angle on it. But it’s certainly a possibility. I’ve got access to funding, at any rate. . . .”

His enthusiasm was infectious. I thought momentarily of Bob’s admiration for him and wondered whether he might perhaps be right after all. And then I thought of the way he had treated his wife, and felt a familiar anger bubble up inside me.

“I mean, once all this fuss is out of the way,” he went on. He swallowed nervously, picked up his glass, and took a sip. As he set it down, I noticed his hand was still shaking.

But anger for who, I asked myself, as I began to calm down again. Was I angry on Arianrhod’s behalf, or was I perhaps projecting my anger with Bob onto Evan?

“Of course, I’ve got a lot of other stuff on the go at the moment,” Evan said, flipping the image off the screen and closing the laptop.

It would have been a good opportunity to quiz him about Bob’s role in defending him, but I decided not to take it. I was still hoping that Bob would decide to back down, in deference to me, and that we’d have a chance to resolve the situation between the two of us, without any interference from outside.

“What I really need is someone who could research this for me,” he went on. “Take the idea a little further. Someone with some specialist knowledge of the subject.” He hesitated. “You wouldn’t be interested, would you?”

I was taken aback. “Me? No, no. I’m not a film researcher. I’ve never done anything like that in my life. Besides, I’ve got a busy practice to run. I wouldn’t have time. . . .”

I was giving him all the negatives, but even as I spoke, I couldn’t help feeling pleased that he’d asked me. And excited at the idea of such an unexpected, albeit unrealistic, prospect.

“You’d be well paid, of course. Enough to take a sabbatical.” He paused. “It’d involve some travel. To the places Jones visited during his life. Toronto. Vienna. New York. Paris. London. And West Wales, of course.”

I didn’t reply, but I felt a thrill of excitement run through me.

“I don’t think so.” I glanced away.

“Give it some thought, at least.” He leaned toward me. “I’d like to work with you. You’re smart. And . . .”

He let the sentence trail off. I should have left it there, but something stopped me. I wanted to know what he was going to say next. I wanted to be flattered.

“And what?”

“Well, you’ve got both, haven’t you—the brains and the looks.” He paused. “You could do anything you wanted, you know you could.”

I took another sip of my drink. I had to admit, I was intrigued by his proposition. And by his evident attraction toward me. Whatever his faults, there was no denying that he was a dynamic person, wholly engaged in—and engaging about—his work. There was a generosity about his enthusiasm that was thoroughly invigorating. I hadn’t really factored that in before. And, unlike my relationship to his son, ours was one of grown-ups, of equals. I wondered what it would be like to work with him. If he was proved innocent of the murder, as I was beginning to suspect he would be, who could tell what might happen between us in the future. . . . And yet, with his reputation . . .

I stopped myself short. There was something destructive in my attraction toward him, I knew that. An impulse to break Bob’s trust, to betray him, in the way he had betrayed me. With Evan Morgan, too, a man he liked and admired. Whatever was impelling me, it was like looking over the edge of a cliff and feeling the urge to jump.

“I really ought to be getting home now,” I glanced down at my watch.

“Listen,” he said, taking no notice of my attempt to leave. “Why don’t I take you out to lunch sometime? We can go somewhere quiet and talk some more about all this.”

I thought once more of raising the question of Bob, and the hearing, and his defense, but once more I couldn’t find the words.

“I’m not sure. I’ll phone you.” I got up, picked up my bag, and began to zip up my jacket.

He got up, too, and stood beside me, watching me.

“This doesn’t change anything, you know,” I said as I turned to go. “I’m still thinking of making that statement.”

“Of course.” A troubled look came over his face. He seemed, for a moment, to be considering saying more, but then thought better of it.

“Good-bye. I hope we’ll meet again. Soon.”

“Good-bye.”

I turned, walked over to the door, and let myself out. The last I saw of him, he was standing in the cabin, under the light, gazing after me.

I walked quickly down the quayside, back to the car. The only sounds were the quiet lapping of the water and the tinkling of the boat masts. As I reached the spot where I’d parked the car, the moon went behind a cloud. I shivered as I put my key in the lock and opened the door. Then I heard a voice behind me.

“Don’t move.”

A pair of arms reached around my body from behind, pinning me down. I looked down and saw a hand holding a gun, its snout pointing toward my chin.

For a moment I thought I was going to faint. Then my stomach seemed to turn over and I could feel the length of my gut constrict inside my belly, as if it was being squeezed, and opening again, in a painful spasm.

“Get inside the car.” It was a man’s voice, low and guttural.

I did as I was told. Keep calm, I told myself, as I opened the door and sat down in the driver’s seat. I was tensing my whole body and willing myself not to let go. For some reason, losing control of my bowels seemed more terrifying to me, at that point, than being abducted by a stranger.