This Body of Death (31 page)

“We’re investigating a murder up in London,” Barbara told them. “A girl called Jemima Hastings. D’you know her?”

They didn’t. But what they did know and were willing to assert was that Gordon Jossie was definitely no killer. Kitten, however, added an intriguing detail to the Jossie résumé as they were about to leave.

He couldn’t read, she told them, which always made her wonder at the fact that he somehow completed courses in college. While obviously there were classes one took that might not
require
reading, she had always found it a bit odd that he’d managed such
success
at the Winchester college. She said to her husband, “You know, darling boy, that
does
suggest something not quite right about Gordon, doesn’t it? I mean, if he could actually manage to get through his course work and still hide the fact that he couldn’t read …It does rather imply an ability to hide other things, wouldn’t you say?”

“What d’you mean he couldn’t read?” Ringo demanded. “That’s rubbish, that is. Bah.”

“No, precious. It’s the truth. I saw it. He absolutely could not read.”

“D’you mean he had trouble with reading?” Nkata asked. “Or he couldn’t read.”

He couldn’t read, she said. In fact, while he knew the alphabet, he had to print it out in order to know it for certain. It was the most peculiar thing she’d ever seen. Because of this, she’d wondered more than once about how he’d gone through school. “Reckoned he’d been performing for the instructors in ways not entirely academic,” she concluded, “if you know what I mean.”

T
HROUGHOUT THE REST
of the day, Meredith Powell felt a dull fire burning within her. It was accompanied by pounding in her head, one that wasn’t connected to pain but rather to the words
she’s dead
. The simple fact of Jemima’s death was bad: It put Meredith into a state of disbelief and sorrow, and the sorrow was more profound than she would ever have expected to feel for someone who was not a member of her immediate family. Beyond the fact of her death, though, was the additional fact that Jemima had been taken away before Meredith had been able to put things right between them, and this gnawed at her conscience and her heart. She could no longer remember what it even was that had actually so damaged their long friendship. Had it been a slow chipping away of their affection for each other, or had it suffered one deadly blow? She couldn’t recall, which told her how unimportant it must have been.

“I’m not like you, Meredith,” Jemima had said so many times. “Why can’t you just accept that?”

Because having a man’s not going to make you stop being afraid
had been the answer. But it had been a reply that Jemima had pooh-poohed as an indication of Meredith’s jealousy. Except she hadn’t been jealous, not really. She’d merely been concerned. She’d watched Jemima flit from boy to boy to man to man for years in a restless search for something not a single one of them would ever be able to give her. And
that
had been what she’d wished her friend to understand and what she’d tried again and again to get across to her until finally she’d thrown up her hands—or Jemima had done, because she couldn’t remember now—and that had been that as far as friendship went between them.

But there had been a bigger issue that Meredith had failed to see till now: Why had it been so incredibly
important
to her that Jemima Hastings see things Meredith Powell’s way? And for that question, Meredith had no answer. But she was determined to find one.

She phoned Gordon Jossie’s house before leaving work at the end of the day. Gina Dickens answered, and this was good, as it was Gina Dickens whom Meredith wished to see. She said, “I need to talk to you. Will you meet me? I’m in Ringwood just now, but I can meet you anywhere, wherever you like. Just not at …not at Gordon’s please.” She didn’t want to see the house again. She didn’t think she could face it just now, not with another woman there, happily going about a life with Gordon Jossie while Jemima lay dead, cold, and murdered up in London.

Gina said, “The police have been here. They said that Jemima—”

Meredith squeezed her eyes shut, and the telephone felt cold and slick in her hand. She said, “I need to speak with you.”

“Why?”

“I’ll meet you. You name the place.”

“Why? You’re making me nervous, Meredith.”

“I don’t mean to. Please. I’ll meet you anywhere. Just not at Gordon’s.”

There was a pause. Then Gina named Hinchelsea Wood. Meredith didn’t want to risk a wood, with all its solitude and everything that solitude suggested about danger, no matter what Gina Dickens said about being nervous of
her
and all that this was supposed to imply about Gina Dickens’ apparent innocence. Meredith suggested a heath instead. What about Longslade Heath? There was a car park and they could—

“Not a heath,” Gina said at once.

“Why not?”

“Snakes.”

“What snakes?”

“Adders. There’re adders on the heath. You must know that. I read that somewhere, and I don’t want to—”

“Hatchet Pond, then,” Meredith cut in. “It’s outside Beaulieu.” They agreed on this.

There were other people at Hatchet Pond when Meredith arrived. There were ponies and foals as well. The people strolled along the edge of the water, they walked their dogs, they sat in cars reading, they fished, they chatted to each other on benches. The ponies lapped water and grazed.

The pond itself stretched out a good distance, with a finger of land on the far side that reached into the water and was topped with beech and chestnut trees and a single, graceful willow. It was a good trysting place for young people at night, tucked off the road so that parked cars could not be seen, but still conveniently located at the intersection of several routes: with Beaulieu immediately to its east, East Boldre to the south, and Brockenhurst to the west. All sorts of trouble between hot-blooded adolescents could be got into here. Meredith knew that from Jemima.

She waited some twenty minutes for Gina to arrive. She herself had barreled the distance from Ringwood, driven by determination. It was one thing to be deeply suspicious about Gordon Jossie, Gina Dickens, and the fact that most of Jemima’s belongings were packed away in Gordon’s house. It was another thing to learn that Jemima had been murdered. All the way from Ringwood, Meredith had engaged in a mental conversation with Gina about these and other matters. When Gina finally arrived in her little red convertible with her enormous film star dark glasses covering half her face and a scarf keeping her hair in place—as if she were Audrey flipping Hepburn or something—Meredith was quite ready for her.

Gina got out of the car. She cast a look at one of the ponies nearby, as Meredith crossed the car park to her. Meredith said, “Let’s walk,” and when Gina hesitated, saying, “I’m a bit leery of the horses,” Meredith countered with, “Oh for God’s sake. They won’t hurt you. They’re just
ponies
. Don’t be stupid.” She took Gina’s arm.

Gina pulled away. “I can walk on my own,” she said stiffly. “But not near the horses.”

“Fine.” Meredith headed along a path that skirted the water. She cooperatively chose a direction away from the ponies, towards a lone fisherman who was casting his line not far from a heron, motionless as it waited to scoop up an unsuspecting eel.

“What’s this about?” Gina demanded.

“What do you
think
this is about? Gordon has her car. He has her clothes. Now she’s dead in London.”

Gina stopped walking, and Meredith turned to her. Gina said, “If you’re suggesting or even
trying
to get me to believe that Gordon—”

“Wouldn’t she have sent for her clothes?
Eventually?”

“She wouldn’t need her country clothing in London,” Gina said. “What was she going to do with it there? The same goes for her car. She didn’t need a car. Where would she keep it? Why would she drive it?”

Meredith tore at the skin round her fingernails. There was truth here somewhere. She meant to have it. She said, “I know all about you, Gina. There’s no programme anywhere round here for young girls at risk. Not at the college in Brockenhurst, and not at the comprehensive. Social services haven’t even heard of a programme and social services haven’t even heard of
you
. I know because I checked, all right? So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here,
really
. Why don’t you tell me the truth about you and Gordon? About when you really met and how you met and what that meant to him and Jemima.”

Gina’s lips parted then pursed. She said, “Honestly. You’ve been checking on me? What’s wrong with you, Meredith? Why are you so—”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me. That’s clever of you, but I’m not about to be dragged in that direction.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. No one’s dragging you anywhere.” She pushed past Meredith on the narrow path along the water. “If we’re going to walk, let’s bloody well walk.”

Gina stalked off. After a moment, she began to speak over her shoulder, saying sharply, “Just think, if you’re capable of it. I told you I was
establishing
a programme. I didn’t tell you it existed. And the first step in establishing a programme is assessing need, for heaven’s sake.
That’s
what I’m doing. That’s what I
was
doing when I met Gordon. And yes, all right, I admit. I haven’t been as diligent as I could have been about it, I haven’t been as …as dedicated as I was when I first came to the New Forest. And yes, all right, the reason for that is that I got involved with Gordon. And yes, I’ve rather liked being Gordon’s partner and having Gordon provide for me. But as far as I know, none of that is a
crime
, Meredith. So what I want to know—if you don’t mind—is why you dislike Gordon so much? Why can’t you stand the thought of me—or anyone else I daresay—being with him? Because this really isn’t about me, is it? This is about Gordon.”

“How did you meet him? How did you
really
meet him?”

“I told you! I’ve told you the absolute truth from the first. I met him last month, in Boldre Gardens. I saw him later that day and we went for a drink. He
asked
me for a drink and he looked harmless enough and it was a public place and …Oh, why am I bothering with all this? Why don’t you just come out with it? Why don’t you tell me what you suspect me of? Murdering Jemima? Encouraging the man I love to murder her? Or is it loving him at all that bothers you and why would that be?”

“This isn’t about loving anyone.”

“Oh, isn’t it? Then perhaps you’re accusing me of sending Gordon off to murder Jemima for some reason. Perhaps you see me standing on the front step and waving a handkerchief as he drives off to do
whatever
he was supposed to do. But
why
would I do that? She was gone from his life.”

“Perhaps she got in touch with him. Perhaps she wanted to come back. Perhaps they met somewhere and she said she wanted him and you couldn’t have that because then you’d have to—”

“So
I
killed her? Not Gordon at all, but me this time? Do you know how ridiculous you sound? And do you want to be meeting out here in the wilds of Hatchet Pond with a killer?” She put her hands on her hips as if thinking about the answer to her question. She smiled and said bitterly, “Ah. Yes. I see why you didn’t want Hinchelsea Wood. How foolish of me. I might have killed you there. I’ve no idea how I would have done it, but that’s what you think. That I’m a killer. Or that Gordon is. Or that we both are, somehow in cahoots to eliminate Jemima for reasons that are so
bloody
obscure …” She turned away. There was a weather-beaten bench nearby and she made for this and dropped upon it. She whipped off her scarf and shook back her hair. She removed her dark glasses, folded them up, and held them tightly in her hand.

Meredith stood before her, arms crossed against her chest. She was suddenly and acutely aware of how
different
they were: Gina tanned and voluptuous and obviously appealing to any man and herself a miserable, freckled beanpole of a thing, alone and likely to stay that way. Only that
wasn’t
the issue here.

Yet as if Gina had read her mind, she said in a tone no longer bitter at all but instead resigned, “I’m wondering if this is just what you do to any woman who has a nice relationship with a man. I know you didn’t approve of Gordon and Jemima. He said you didn’t want him to be with her. But I couldn’t sort out why, what it was to you if she and Gordon were partners. Was it because you yourself have no one? Because, perhaps, you keep trying and failing while all round you women and men get attached with no trouble at all? I mean, I know what happened to you. Gordon told me. Jemima told him. Because, of course, he was trying to sort out why you disliked him so much and she said it had to do with London, with when you lived there and got involved with the married man, the one you didn’t know was married, and there you were pregnant …”

Meredith felt her throat close. She wanted to stop the flow of words but she couldn’t: the catalogue of her personal failures. She felt weak and dizzy as Gina kept talking …about betrayal and then desertion and then
bloody little fool
,
don’t claim you didn’t know I was married because you are simply not that stupid and I never lied
,
I never once lied
,
and why the hell weren’t you taking precautions unless it was that you wanted to trap me is that what it was did you want to trap me well I won’t be trapped not by the likes of you or by anyone else if it comes down to it and yes, yes
,
you can damn well sort out exactly what that means my dear.