Thicker Than Water (17 page)

The breeze had strengthened, cool on her bare back and arms, blowing her hair across her face. Jill shivered, wishing she’d replaced the top on the car before setting off, but Gary’s suggestion of an alternative route had distracted her. Beside her, there was a tenseness in him that increased her hopes, after all, for a successful outcome.

And now the first of the copses showed up ahead of them, thinly spaced trees, permanently bent against the prevailing wind. Should she slow down, or—?

His voice broke the long silence. ‘How about stopping for a while? You’re not in any hurry, are you?’

Her heart leaped.
Yes! she exalted silently, oh yes!
And ‘None at all,’ she answered from a dry mouth, steering the little car off the road. She switched off the lights and they both sat unmoving, conscious of the stillness all round them as they waited for their eyes to accustom to the almost-dark. Then Jill said tentatively, ‘There’s a rug in the boot, if—?’

‘Might as well bring it,’ he said, and his voice shook slightly. He got out of the car and slammed the door.

When had she last made love under the stars? Heart thundering, she retrieved the rug and followed him into the trees, almost bumping into him as he came to a halt in a small clearing. Without the branches overhead, the sky was visible and the stars did indeed sprinkle it, lending the night a phosphorescent glow.

‘Here?’ Jill said.

He didn’t reply, but she bent down and spread the rug on the moist ground among the fallen leaves. Still he didn’t move. Well, she thought philosophically, she’d had to make the running all evening; might as well continue in the same vein.

She kicked off her sandals, bringing herself down to his height, and, turning to him, put her hands on his shoulders. He stiffened, but the semi-darkness obscured his face.

She said softly, ‘Gary?’ and, pressing herself against him, kissed him on the mouth.

His reaction was instantaneous, and not all what she expected. He flung her off so violently that she stumbled, and rubbed his hand vigorously across his mouth.

‘
Not
the point of the exercise,’ he said.

Tears of humiliation filled her eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You soon will. Sit down.’

He gestured towards the rug and, trembling now, desperately wanting to go home, she obeyed.

‘There’s something I want you to hear,’ he said, taking a small object from his pocket and further confusing her. Had she rushed him? Did he want to set the scene, play background music, for God’s sake?

She moistened her lips as he sat down on the rug beside her. ‘What is it?’

‘A tape recording. Or two, to be precise. Of conversations I had with your brother and sister. I think you’ll find them interesting.’

They found her car the next day, and, following a beaten-down path, came across her body strung from one of the saplings. Her throat had been cut, and a picture postcard was tucked down her cleavage.

Subsequent enquiries established that she’d dined with a companion at the Fisherman’s Catch, but extensive searches failed to trace him, and forensic examination could find no evidence of anyone else having been in the car. It had, the scientists reported, been thoroughly, and possibly professionally, wiped clean.

The postcard killer had claimed his third victim.

PART IV – THE PAST

Thirteen

Beth Sheridan walked slowly up the path to the house, trailing her fingers against the rosemary bushes and breathing in their perfume. Behind her, the lake was a sheet of steel under the leaden sky, while ahead the crag rose steeply, criss-crossed with bridle paths.

To be truthful, she wasn’t looking forward to Harold’s return. He’d been away on a course most of the week, and in his absence the atmosphere in the house had noticeably lightened, as though they’d all relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. And that, she chastised herself, was not only disloyal but unfair, since he was a good man – honourable, conscientious and dependable. Which sounded more like a job reference than the attributes of a husband. Yet he loved her, and she supposed she loved him. The main obstacle, from the beginning, had been the children and their implacable hostility. Because, of course, he wasn’t Simon.

The familiar pain twisted her heart. Simon, the love of her life, to whom she’d been married for fourteen happy years; Simon, whom the children had idolized; handsome, laid-back, fun-loving Simon, whose flair for facts and figures had made him, by the age of forty, a very wealthy man, and who, two years ago, had died in a freak boating accident on the lake behind her.

Sometimes Beth wondered how she could continue living here, with the treacherous waters constantly in sight. But he had loved both house and lake, and some part of him lingered here, making it impossible for her to leave. Though, as she reached the house and let herself in, she accepted that she couldn’t have come through that wretched time without Harold, who’d been the family’s accountant.

‘Anybody home?’ she called.

‘Only me!’ came Liza’s voice from the kitchen. Liza Jenkins had been with them since Jilly was a baby, when Beth had broken her arm and she’d come to ‘help out’. By the time Beth was fit again, neither of them wanted the arrangement to end. A valued member of the household, she had almost single-handedly kept the family afloat during the dark times.

Beth pushed open the door, and a smell of baking met her. She raised enquiring eyebrows.

‘Cranberry cake,’ Liza informed her, ‘to welcome Mr Sheridan home.’

Beth shot her a glance. She knew instinctively that Liza, who had adored Simon, disliked her new husband as much as the children did, though she’d been careful not to show it.

‘His favourite; that’s kind of you,’ she said. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Jilly’s playing tennis, Cal’s at William’s and Abby has gone for a hack. I reminded them you’d said to be back by five.’

Beth glanced at the wall clock. It was four thirty. ‘Then I’ve time for a bath. It’s really humid out there.’

‘Thunder’s forecast,’ Liza commented. ‘That should clear the air.’

But not, unfortunately, that in the house, Beth thought as she went upstairs.

Minutes later, her hair pinned on top of her head, she lay back in the scented, bubble-filled water and allowed her mind to wander. Was she to blame for all this tension? Had she been selfish in agreeing to marry Harold, barely a year after Simon’s death? In her darkest moments, she still wondered why she had. Yet at the time he’d seemed a rock, someone she could lean on, entrust with her worries, and who would always be there when she needed him.

His declaration of love, made over lunch one day, had come as a total shock. She’d assumed, without really considering it, that he was not the marrying kind, had even half wondered if he were gay. He was generally regarded as a confirmed bachelor, being fifty-four years old – twelve years her senior – thin, balding, and, as Simon had once laughingly remarked, as dry as his ledgers. But in her darkest hour he’d been exceptionally kind.

Though remarriage had never occurred to her, the long, dark evenings had become unbearable, and, unable to face the empty bedroom, she’d taken to spending the night on the sofa. Until the morning Liza found her, when embarrassment had driven her back upstairs. The prospect of having someone to advise on the host of decisions now demanded of her, to support and – yes – love her, appeared, the more she’d considered it, increasingly tempting. And it would be good, she’d told herself, for the children to have a father figure. In those early days, they’d seemed to like Harold. The trouble started when she told them of the proposed marriage.

The three of them had stared at her aghast, nine-year-old Abby being the first to find her voice. ‘But he’s
old
!’ she’d objected. ‘He’s like a
grandfather
!’

Compared to athletic, still-boyish Simon, this couldn’t be denied. Beth had forced herself to speak lightly.

‘Well, since you haven’t any grandparents, that would be a bonus. And he wouldn’t expect you to call him Daddy,’ she added gently.

‘I should flipping well think not!’ Twelve-year-old Cal. ‘But we don’t
need
anyone else. We’re managing, aren’t we? As well as we can, without—’ His eyes had filled, and he’d turned hastily back to his computer.

‘He’ll never take Daddy’s place,’ Beth assured him, fighting her own tears. ‘But you’re growing up, Cal, you’ll need a man in the house.’

‘Not him!’ Cal muttered, his back still turned.

‘Jilly?’ Beth appealed to her elder daughter, who was staring moodily at the floor. ‘What do you think?’

‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’ she’d answered, in that offhand tone Beth so disliked. ‘You’ve made up your mind, and nothing we say will make any difference.’

‘But I want you to like him!’ wailed Beth. ‘Please, darlings, try to understand.’

But that was something they weren’t prepared to do, either then or later; which was why she’d never even suggested changing their names from Poole to Sheridan, though it seemed, to her distress, to create a ‘them-and-us’ division in the family.

In the hall below, the old clock wheezed into its three-quarter chime, recalling her to the present. Abandoning her introspection, she stepped out of the bath and reached for a towel.

The storm broke an hour later, thunder rolling between the hills and rain sluicing down the windows. The children were all home, but Harold, having parked his car in the garage, had to make a dash for the front door, head down, his grip clutched to his chest. By the time he reached the hall, his thin hair was plastered to his head and his suit drenched.

‘God, what weather!’ he exclaimed irritably, allowing Beth to kiss his wet cheek. ‘I’d better go and change out of these things.’

‘Welcome home, anyway!’ she said. ‘Liza’s made you a cranberry cake.’

‘That’s good of her. Pour me a stiff whisky, will you, love? I’ll be down in a minute.’

A deafening crash sounded directly overhead, and Abby came flying down the stairs, nearly cannoning into her stepfather and burying her face against Beth.

‘Look where you’re going!’ he admonished, smoothing his dripping hair. Then, as Beth’s arms went comfortingly round her, ‘Come along, now. You’re not a baby, to be scared of a bit of thunder.’

The dark hallway lit up in a garish gleam, followed instantly by another deafening peal, reverberating around them in a series of diminishing echoes. Abby clenched her mother’s skirt and Harold, with a disapproving click of his tongue, picked up his grip and went on up the stairs.

‘He always hates it when you hold me,’ Abby said, her voice muffled against the cloth.

‘Don’t be silly, darling. He’s only telling you there’s nothing to be afraid of.’

But the child’s words struck home. Beth herself had noticed that displays of affection between her and the children tended to call forth a caustic comment. Perhaps, she thought tiredly, that was the root of the trouble: Harold was jealous of the children’s claim on her, and they of his. Pulled in two directions, she felt a helpless resentment, and gave Abby a little push.

‘Go on, now; the storm’s moving away. Supper won’t be long, so if you haven’t washed your hands since your ride, please do so.’

‘I wish he hadn’t come back!’ Abby said under her breath, as she ran upstairs.

Another flash lit the hall, exacerbating the headache such storms invariably engendered. With a grimace, Beth went to pour her husband’s drink.

Upstairs, Harold stripped off his wet clothes and went into the bathroom. It smelled of flowers – Beth’s bubble bath, he assumed, since her towel was damp. He washed quickly and rubbed his hair dry, annoyed with himself for snapping at Abby. But Beth did tend to baby those children; she should be firmer with them, make them stand on their own feet.

Still, he had more pressing matters to consider. While in London, he’d received a call from his sister to say their mother’d had another fall.

‘I really haven’t the time to keep going over to check on her,’ she’d said, ‘and you know she refuses point blank to consider sheltered housing. You’ll have to speak to her, Harold. It’s all very well for you, up there in the Lake District, you’re well out of it. I’m the one who has all the hassle.’

‘All right, I’ll have a word,’ he’d said, surreptitiously checking the time of the next session.

‘Well, you’d better. She’s more likely to listen to you, God knows why. But get one thing very clear: there’s absolutely no chance of her coming here. She’d drive us insane within days.’

‘Understood,’ he’d said crisply, and switched off. Margaret had a point, though, he’d admitted as he hurried down to the lecture room. Two points, in fact. He
was
well out of it, and his mother, a cantankerous eighty-nine,
would
be impossible to live with. The least he could do was offer his sister some support.

Supper was a less than scintillating occasion, Jilly – Beth suspected deliberately – having set the tone.

‘Felicity’s had her ears pierced,’ she announced. ‘Can I have mine done?’

‘No!’ said Beth and Harold as one, and Beth felt a spurt of irritation. The question had been directed at her, and surely she was responsible for the children.

Jilly glared at Harold, and turned back to her mother. ‘Please, Mum.’

Beth put a hand to her head. ‘Let’s not start an argument, Jilly. Daddy and I always said not until you were sixteen.’

‘Well, I will be, in March!’

‘But it’s only June,’ Harold pointed out pedantically, the mention of Simon, as always, discomfiting him.

‘This has nothing to do with you!’ Jilly flared.

Beth’s head pounded. ‘Jilly! Apologize to Harold at once!’

‘Why should I? He’s always butting in! No one asked for his opinion!’

‘Apologize, or go to your room. You have the choice.’

There was a taut silence while Jilly stared down at the table, her cheeks flaming. Then she said, barely audibly, ‘Sorry.’

Beth glanced at Harold, mutely beseeching him to accept the apology, grudging as it was, and though anger churned inside him, he gave a curt nod. Ignoring the girl, he turned to his wife.

‘I had a call from Margaret while I was away,’ he told her. ‘Mother’s had another fall.’

With an effort, Beth switched her attention from daughter to husband. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Did she hurt herself?’

‘I don’t think so, but it raises concerns. Margaret feels she’s no longer fit to live alone.’

Beth felt a clutch of panic. ‘You don’t—?’

‘No, no,’ Harold said hastily. ‘There’s no question of that. Nor can she go to Margaret. It’s just a matter of getting her to agree to move in somewhere.’

Beth was silent. Martha Sheridan was a difficult woman, who still ruled her children, middle-aged though they were, with a rod of iron. Beth and Harold had held their wedding down south for her convenience, during which she’d confounded them by demanding loudly why he wanted to get married at his age. But on a brighter note, Beth’s sister and her husband also lived in Surrey, and had taken the children back with them when she and Harold left on their honeymoon.

Their honeymoon. Her mind slipped back to the first days of their marriage, when they were still virtual strangers. There’d been no mention of sex before the wedding, and Beth guessed that her husband was a virgin. Consequently, she’d expected little of their love life – possibly a dutiful coupling every month or so – and consoled herself with the thought that she wouldn’t be betraying Simon; it would simply be a case of lying back and thinking of England.