The Real Katie Lavender (19 page)

Pen nodded in agreement. ‘She couldn’t have been more helpful. I’m . . . I’m afraid I rather fell apart, and she was very sweet with me. I hope you don’t mind, but she slept in your old room last night.’

‘Of course I don’t mind.’ He leant forward and rested his hand on top of his mother’s. ‘I’m just glad you had someone here to look after you. She sounds nice.’

Cecily smiled. ‘She is. You’ll love her. You really will.’

Time would tell on that score, Lloyd thought. He doubted very much that his cousins would welcome this girl with open arms. More likely they would view her as a threat, an interloper. After all, that was how they’d always viewed him, a trespasser on the hallowed ground of the name of Nightingale. A name, in their eyes, that was now about to be dragged through the mud as a result of his father’s actions.

The thought was enough to kill off his appetite. He stood up abruptly, banging his leg against the table. ‘I need to speak to Stirling,’ he said. ‘I need to know if he’s informed the police about Dad, and what he . . .’ His words trailed away. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud. Fraud . . . embezzlement . . . He still couldn’t believe his father had done it. What possible motive could he have had? Was there something Stirling hadn’t told him?

The Church of St Oswald’s in Sandiford was packed.

It was to be expected, Rosco thought bitterly. They were here in their sickening droves to be a part of the show, to satisfy their perverse curiosity. Not content with reading about it in the newspapers and on the internet, they wanted their own take on the speculation that was currently rife, and to witness for themselves how the family was bearing up. The regatta was on this week, and odds on most of the two-faced sticky-beaks here would head straight for the river afterwards, and with the champagne flowing would mull over what they’d just seen and heard with prurient delight.

When Lloyd had informed him how the funeral was to be carried out – that it would be a full church service, followed by drinks, open-house style, at The Meadows – Rosco had argued vehemently with Dad over it. He’d said they should make it as quiet an affair as they could; it should be private, family only. The last thing they should do was draw attention to themselves. But Dad had disagreed. He’d said that the decision wasn’t his, it rested entirely with Pen and Lloyd, and that he for one had no intention of burying his brother in a half-hearted fashion in an attempt to hush things up.

Fat chance of anything being hushed up with the kind of comments being posted on the internet. Accusations were being fired at them left, right and centre.
Who else was in on the fraud at Nightingale Ridgeway?
one anonymous writer had asked.
How can the company ever be trusted again?
said another.
Where there’s brass, there’s a thieving bunch of con artists!
someone else had written.

According to the Reverend Roger Batley – the minister leading this charade – Neil had been a devoted family man and loved by all. No mention then that the entire firm would be tainted with the same shade of his sleazy dishonesty. The whole performance was a travesty, and it made Rosco’s blood boil. The minister was now harping on about forgiveness. Unbelievable!

Forgiveness! He had to be joking. Neil had been a lying, cheating bastard. Why should they be expected to forgive him for that? Rosco was tempted to yell at the top of his voice, ‘This is all a load of crap! If the man had kept it in his trousers, he wouldn’t have been stealing from clients!’

When his father had told him that the police had evidence that Neil had had a mistress on the side – not that Dad had used those words, he’d said something about there having been another woman in Neil’s life, as though that made it almost respectable and less sordid – the picture was complete for Rosco and the final nail was driven home in his uncle’s coffin. The bastard had been stealing from clients to feather a love nest with some tart on the make. That was the long and the short of it.

He didn’t know how Pen and Lloyd had taken the news of this other woman, but to all intents and purposes they were carrying on here today as if Neil had led a life of perfect rectitude and had slipped away in his sleep, called by the blessed angels themselves. Was there anyone here today displaying a genuine emotion?

In need of something to take his mind off the drivel he was being forced to listen to – Lloyd was now at the front of the church and giving a reading – Rosco looked at the stained-glass window behind the altar and took in the vision of the crucifixion in all its gruesome glory. It made him hope that in those final moments before death had claimed him, his uncle had known real fear and regret and had suddenly changed his mind and wanted to live, only to realize that it was too late. Rosco didn’t believe in God, or any kind of god for that matter, but he believed in justice. And in his opinion, it would be wholly just if in Neil’s last seconds he had suffered.

It had been hell at work since Dad had formally informed the police that irregularities had come to light with various clients’ accounts. The full weight of the police force, including a team from the Economic Crime Unit, had promptly descended on the offices, and clients were then informed of what was going on, as well as all members of staff. Everyone had been stunned. Neil’s office had been taped off, and computers, files and anything else deemed to be potential evidence taken away.

That was the day they’d heard the results of the post-mortem on Neil’s body – death had been caused by asphyxia by drowning – and several days later, the inquest was held. It lasted no more than a few minutes, its purpose seemingly to state the obvious: that Neil Nightingale was dead, and that his body could be released for burial. They were told that the inquest was now adjourned until a later date, when all the necessary evidence and information had been gathered. Only then would a formal verdict be given as to the hows and whys. Again, as though it wasn’t bloody well obvious. The man had killed himself as a result of knowing he was about to be found out, hadn’t he? What more was there to say?

Rosco turned his head to his right, where his mother sat. Still and composed and dressed in a simple black suit and cream silk blouse, she looked as elegant as ever. Dad was sitting the other side of her, his head lowered. To Rosco’s left, and with her eyes closed, Scarlet was stroking her swelling bump through the fabric of a black and white halter-neck dress. Fiddling with a cufflink in his shirtsleeve the other side of Scarlet was Charlie. Charlie’s parents had excused themselves from attending on the grounds of a clash of dates, a prior and long-standing engagement up in Scotland. Lucky them.

Across the aisle, Granza, looking as regal as ever, was sitting bolt upright next to Pen. Now back in his seat, Lloyd was holding Pen’s hand. Them and us, thought Rosco. But hadn’t it always been thus? He and Scarlet had known from an early age that they had to fight to get a look-in from their grandmother. She had never actually said in so many words that Lloyd was her favourite, but she didn’t need to; it was there in her every word and gesture. Their mother had known it too. He’d often heard her complaining to Dad that it just wasn’t fair the way Cecily treated Lloyd so differently. Dad’s stock reply was that Cecily was the most fair-minded person he knew. Which, when you thought about it, was an interesting response, because maybe Dad believed Cecily was being fair in favouring Lloyd.

The final hymn sung, Dad and Lloyd, along with the other pall-bearers, were now hefting the coffin on to their shoulders and carrying it the length of the church. Rosco hadn’t been asked to help with this task. Nor had he offered. The sight of a single tear running down his father’s solemn face as he slowly passed had Rosco looking away.

Itching to escape the crush of pity, Pen let out a small sigh of relief. The worst was over. The service had come to an end. People were now standing around chatting soberly amongst themselves in the graveyard in the sunshine.

Everyone had been very kind to her, but how much sympathy and carefully measured words was she expected to take? How much of it was even genuine? How many of these so-called mourners, once she was out of earshot, would say something bad about Neil? And there was plenty of bad stuff they could say if they had a mind to.

On the day that Lloyd had come back from New Zealand, Stirling had arrived at The Meadows in the evening and, looking ominously ill at ease, had told them that he had yet more bad news for them. He’d said that the police suspected Neil had been having an affair. ‘I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you,’ he had said, his gaze switching nervously between her and Lloyd.

‘Suspect or know?’ Lloyd had asked.

‘They have phone records and they’ve spoken to the woman herself.’

‘Do you know who it is?’ Pen had asked quite calmly.

‘Her name is Simone Montrose. I’ve never heard of her. I certainly never heard Neil mention her.’

It was quite plausible that she had been mad with grief, but when Stirling had said it, the first thing Pen had thought was, oh, what a nice name.

‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’s responsible for what Neil did,’ Stirling had said, with more force to his voice than was normal for him. ‘She will have put him up to it. It would have been all her idea.’

Pen had hugged Stirling fiercely, knowing that he was trying to make Neil sound less guilty. She’d said, ‘You know as well as I do, no one could make Neil do anything he didn’t want to do.’

Stirling had rubbed his eyes hard. ‘He was always the same: once he decided on something, there was no stopping him.’

‘So how do we find out more about Simone Montrose? We’ll need to invite her to the funeral.’

He had stared at her in horror. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘If Neil loved this woman, then I owe it to him to give her the opportunity to mourn him in the proper way.’

‘But Pen, how can you be so . . . so reasonable, when in all probability – and I’m sorry to be so blunt – it looks very like Neil was taking the money because he was planning to leave you for this other woman?’

‘We don’t know that for sure,’ she’d replied firmly. ‘And maybe I’m still numb with shock, but what harm could it do to let her come? And what’s wrong with being reasonable? Isn’t that what you want Gina to be when you tell her about Katie?’

He hadn’t said another word on the subject after that.

If Lloyd had been shocked, angry or disappointed by this latest revelation about his father, he had kept it to himself. Which was so typical of him.

For her part, she was all shocked out. And all cried out. The only thing that had the power to upset her now was what was printed in the newspapers. But so long as she remained in ignorance of what was being written, she could survive.

She had made the mistake initially of wanting to know every word of what was being said, and would drive into Henley each morning to buy a whole raft of newspapers. She hadn’t gone to the newsagent she’d always used, but to the supermarket in the hope of being anonymous. Admittedly the story had become smaller as the days dragged by, but when Lloyd found her crying at the kitchen table over a piece in the money section of the
Telegraph
– they’d printed a photograph of Neil that made him look like a criminal – he got rid of every newspaper she’d brought into the house and made her promise she wouldn’t buy any more.

It had been good having Lloyd living back at home with her, but she knew the arrangement couldn’t go on for ever; he had to return to his own house and get on with his life. But he’d been a great comfort to her. At night, when neither of them could sleep, he’d sat with her going through the photograph albums, remembering all the good times they’d had as a family. ‘It wasn’t all lies, was it?’ she’d said to him one night. ‘It was only latterly that he hid things from us. The rest of it was all true.’

Pen didn’t have a clue what Simone Montrose looked like. Other than the picture she had created in her head of an elegant and sophisticated young woman. A career woman. A perfectly groomed woman who knew her way round clothes, who could dress for any occasion with style and panache. She would have her hair and nails done regularly at an expensive salon, and she would always smell of perfume. Probably something alluring and sensual. She would have petite feet that would never be seen in anything other than a pair of four-inch heels. And she would move gracefully at all times. She would be perfect.

But apart from Gina, Pen hadn’t spotted anyone amongst the mourners who fitted that description. Perhaps Simone hadn’t come, had thought her presence inappropriate. Or maybe she hadn’t really loved Neil. Looking out for Neil’s mistress – there, she’d said the word, if only inside her head – had not really been a top priority for her during the service. Saying goodbye to Neil had been the only thing on her mind throughout the proceedings, praying for him mostly. In common with so many people, she only prayed when she was in urgent need. She’d prayed on her knees for a child all those years ago, and Lloyd had been given to her. She had thanked God so fervently and so regularly afterwards that she began to imagine God was getting a little tired of constantly hearing from her, and so she’d stopped. Only to resume in earnest again when Lloyd had been five years old and had been rushed into hospital with appendicitis. She was bothering God again three years later when he had fallen from a tree he had been climbing with Rosco and had managed to knock himself unconscious. She had prayed when he left home for university. She had prayed when he went overseas to work for that charity. Now here she was making yet more demands, begging for Neil to be allowed to be at peace. Suicide was still considered to be a sin by some. Such blindly prejudiced judgement was more of a sin to her way of thinking. She hoped that God had moved on, that he wouldn’t hold it against Neil that he’d taken things into his own hands and killed himself.

Lloyd was magically at her side, his hand touching her arm lightly. ‘Time to make a move now, Mum,’ he said softly. ‘We need to go back to the house.’

She’d lost track of where she was, and suddenly saw afresh the open hole and the coffin that lay at the bottom of it. Lloyd had helped her choose the coffin. It was from their mid-range of caskets, the man at the undertaker’s had explained in a murmured, deferential tone that was so low and quiet that she’d had to ask him several times to repeat himself.