Veil of Darkness (17 page)

‘Unless she was too afraid,’ says Mr Gillespie, meeting and holding Trevor’s eyes. Is he a poof? Trevor worries.

‘Kirsty was never afraid of me. My wife used to fantasize, you see. It was the bloody books she kept on reading. She’d see herself as the heroine and start believing she was a fashion designer, or an airline pilot, or a sodding film director. Anything. Can you believe it? Whatever the latest book was about. But she couldn’t have been bored. She worked full time,’ and Trevor hots up, sensing audience disbelief, ‘and none of her workmates ever heard her complain about me or her marriage. And I’ve already spoken to one or two.’

‘What a good thing her heroines were always benign,’ muses Mr Gillespie. ‘How about the neighbours?’ he asks next, his sleeves rolled neatly below his elbow in the fashion of namby pamby professionals who have never done a decent day’s work.

‘We never lived in our neighbours’ pockets.’ Trevor shifts in his chair, remembering the several occasions when nosy parker Mr Terry from next door came banging on the door to ask if everything was all right. ‘But there were times when Kirsty’s fits grew hellishly violent, sometimes I had to physically control her and it could be that people thought the worst.’

Mr Gillespie leans forward, tapping his teeth with his silver pen. Why isn’t the bugger getting all this down? ‘Why is it that during all this time you never asked for help with Kirsty’s problem? You could have spoken to your doctor, the social services, the mental welfare department. How is it you never considered getting professional help? I mean, your children’s health must have suffered a great deal as a result of your wife’s mental state. You must have been very concerned, particularly over her violent outbursts.’

Trevor hangs a sorry head. ‘If she’d had the kids taken away Kirsty would have lost it completely.’ His eyes take on an unhappy shine and he swallows hard to digest the lie. ‘I put her first, Mr Gillespie, and that is where I fell down. My overriding concern was always for my wife. And despite everything the kids did love her.’

The solicitor crosses his legs and leans back, something Trevor cannot do because his chair is too upright. This puts him at some disadvantage. ‘But now you’ve changed your mind? Now you’re prepared to take action?’

‘Well yes, who wouldn’t be? I can’t have Kirsty hauling my kids up and down the land on a whim. I can’t allow that. Without me to keep an eye on the situation, God knows what will happen to them.’ Trevor shrugs his solid shoulders. ‘Hell, I don’t even know if they are alive! And I tell you this, I’ve lost my patience with this basket case; she’s gone too far this time and I’m bloody angry. Wait till I get my hands on her!’

Mr Gillespie nods many times. ‘Has she ever shown any violence towards the children in the past?’

Trevor’s lies slip easily off a well-practised tongue. ‘Only awful rages. She locked them in their rooms a few times, scared the poor little buggers stiff. You should see her, Christ, she turns into a raging witch, so bloody strong, and it’s getting worse. I think it might run in the family; her dad was a very odd bloke. She was brought up by her dad, you see, because her mother died when she was born.’

‘And you went to the police, you say?’

‘They weren’t interested,’ says Trevor defiantly, his brain disorganized by anger. ‘It seems that unless there’s a proven history of trouble they call it another marital scrap and they’re not prepared to take any action.’

‘Are you quite sure the police haven’t investigated the whereabouts of your children?’ Mr Gillespie goes carefully on. ‘It could be they have made enquiries and discovered that all is well.’

‘They would have told me.’

‘Not necessarily.’

This young man is too damn flippant.

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Not if they thought things were best left.’

Trevor sits forward. His fists are tightly curled balls. ‘What are you bloody well getting at?’

‘Calm down, calm down, these are matters I will have to go into before we take this any further.’

‘But you do think I have a case?’

‘If what you’ve told me is true, certainly, you do. Her illness sounds, to me, like a form of schizophrenia. What we would have to apply for is a section order under the mental-health act, something that’s harder to achieve than you might imagine. It involves the signatures of two psychiatrists.’

‘I wouldn’t waste my bleeding time coming here and making up all sorts of crap, of course it’s true. But Kirsty’s not going to break down in front of two of your shrinks; she acts as sane as you or I. On the surface no-one would ever believe…’ With difficulty Trevor takes hold of himself, noting his lawyer’s anxious eyes.

‘Look here, Mr Derek,’ says Candice Love, leaning forward confidentially. ‘It isn’t going to look too good, to be honest, if the media arrive to find your barmaid slumming it in some garret.’

Mr Derek looks mortified. He has agreed to lunch with Candice Love, this sophisticated woman from London, in the conservatory, a vast Victorian structure of iron and glass, filled with vines and trailing blossoms. They share a table for two in the window overlooking the bay through the fuzzy tips of fir trees.

‘What do you suggest we do?’ enquires the hotel manager over a frosted ice bucket of terribly dry white wine while Candice picks at her lobster.

‘Bernadette tells me she has no intention of returning to Liverpool, which is a pity because that’s where her family are and, although they don’t sound too bright, at least with them she would have some protection.’

‘Protection from what?’ asks a well-intimidated Mr Derek.

‘From exploitation, of course,’ says Candice, dabbing her lips with a napkin. ‘Your barmaid is about to become a very wealthy woman.’

‘Then perhaps it might be best, for her sake, to keep her out of the public gaze.’

Candice’s laugh is as brittle as the frost round the rim of the bucket. ‘Can’t be done, I’m afraid. Not if we want to do our best for her, which is, after all, what we are about.’

Mr Derek hesitates before suggesting, ‘I suppose I could—’

‘No, no, no, a big mistake. It wouldn’t do for somebody in authority over her to take on a protective role. That could be construed as taking unfair advantage.’

‘There’s always Moira Stokes,’ muses Mr Derek.

‘Oh no, that would give the wrong image completely. No, are there any particular friends who are close to Bernadette, anyone slightly more worldly, for example?’

Now Mr Derek has dealt with many rich and famous guests during his time at the Burleston. New money, old money. Pop stars, aristocrats. But this is the first time he has come face to face with a vamp so totally confident that she picks her teeth openly with a lobster claw, pulls her knickers free from her crotch while pouring herself extra wine, snaps him to silence by batting a mauve eyelid and cuts him in half with a cutlass scorn produced by a slight twitch of the lips.

‘There’s always Kirsty Hoskins,’ Mr Derek starts gingerly; ‘she is slightly older than the others and strikes me as a woman with some common sense.’

‘And who is Kirsty Hoskins?’ The name rings a bell. Oh yes, that was the name on the letter, the name Bernadette first used, the person Candice asked for when she first telephoned the hotel. Miss Love produces a cigarette holder in exaggerated Hollywood style.

‘One of our seasonal chambermaids. No, now I come to think of it, I believe Mrs Hoskins is employed on a full-time basis, keen to rent a cottage in the grounds for the winter season. Other than that, I’m afraid, there’s only Avril Stott.’

‘I had better have a word with both of them.’

Mr Derek automatically holds out a lighter towards Miss Love’s swaying cigarette, ignoring the ‘no smoking’ sign hidden behind the side salad. He clicks his fingers for an ashtray to be brought to their table.

‘Which doesn’t answer the question of what to do with your old barmaid.’

‘Old barmaid?’

‘Well, you surely don’t imagine that Bernadette will continue to work in your bar? Not now!’

‘I hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest; this is all so sudden and unexpected. What would you suggest, Miss Love?’

‘If you want your hotel to benefit from the surge of worldwide publicity about to explode around this little cove, I would suggest that you find Miss Kavanagh and her chosen companion a decent room pretty pronto.’

Mr Derek could counterattack with the fact that the Burleston is full most of the year and no longer needs to court publicity. In fact, many of the hotel’s regulars would shy away from that sort of thing, privacy being paramount. And yet, and yet, you cannot ignore the worrying trends—business is not good for most of the Burleston’s competitors; one day they might be glad of a famous author and her entourage. But instead he hears himself saying out of habit, ‘I don’t think we have any rooms that would be suitable.’

‘Oh come, come, Mr Derek, I am not one of your average punters. A five-star hotel like this must keep at least one vacant double room. I got in without much trouble.’

‘Only because of a last-minute cancellation.’

‘I would advise her to leave, but she seems to want to stay here for some undisclosed reason,’ says Candice, leaning back and stretching, flicking her ash aimlessly onto the marble floor. ‘If you do have a room available it would look pretty bad in the interviews if Bernadette was denied it because she was a mere barmaid.’

‘I see your point.’

‘I thought you might. And remember, one day Bernadette Kavanagh might be well worth knowing. Now, how about a pudding?’ And Candice Love disappears for one merciful moment behind an enormous, shiny white menu. Only her long scarlet nails are showing like streaks of blood on the edges.

‘You know I don’t want anything to do with this. I don’t want any part of it,’ says Kirsty quickly after hearing about the sudden upheaval.

‘But I want you with me,’ splutters Bernie, ‘dammit, I need you. I wouldn’t mind staying here, but Candice seems to think I should cash in on this opportunity. The Burleston are offering a free double room on the strength of what Candice has told them. Mr Derek, the slime ball, thinks I might be famous some day.’

‘You know why I have to stay out of this.’

‘Candice says some early press interest will help push the bids up.’ Bernie shakes her head in astonishment, loosening her thick, silky hair. ‘I still can’t believe the kind of money she’s talking. D’you realize that, if this is real, none of us will ever have to work again?’

‘But we can’t share Kirsty’s money now,’ worries the flustered Avril, meeker than ever, out of her depth and embarrassed that Bernie should suggest such a thing. ‘Not in these circumstances.’

‘I said we would split this three ways, and that’s what we’ll do,’ says Kirsty, who cannot envisage £10,000 let alone a million. ‘You’re going to have to work for it, it’s not coming for free. But I can’t help you out any more. It’s all down to you and Avril.’

‘But how can we move out and leave you here? Look at it. It’s disgusting.’

She never believed this would work so well. It is only with a great effort of will that Kirsty can go on with the plot. It seems to have blown up in her face; her little deceit has taken her over, her simple dream has become menacing. ‘You can and you must,’ she says with dull courage, now more fraught than ever for fear that her devious deed will be revealed. If this book is destined for fame, filmed and sold all over the world, surely someone, somewhere, will remember this early work by Ellen Kirkwood? She and the future of her kids will be destroyed by the scandal.

‘But it’s wrong, it’s not fair, all the money will go straight to Bernie,’ Avril bursts out, her face puckered anxiously.

‘Oh. So don’t you trust me?’

‘Of course we trust you,’ Kirsty reassures her, while Avril sighs and folds her hands in unhappy resignation. ‘You will have to divide it three ways, that’s all. That’s if Candice Love isn’t talking out of the back of her head, and I still can’t believe—’

‘No-one can,’ says Bernie, pleased, unconsciously running her hands over her beautiful body. ‘That’s why we’re getting all this attention, no-one as young and stupid as me has ever written a book like this. I’m going to Truro with Candice tomorrow to get some new gear for the interviews.’

Avril just cannot accept it. ‘But it’s Kirsty who ought to be going. It’s Kirsty who should be giving up work. She’s going to be cleaning our room while we live like queens. Kirsty’s only human, how long can she keep that up?’

‘As long as it takes,’ says Kirsty. ‘I don’t mind cleaning rooms.’

‘Or being suspected when anything’s missing, or watching an old black and white telly, sleeping on broken springs and eating reheated food.’

‘It won’t be for ever.’

‘She’s right,’ says Bernie, ‘and that’s where women like you fall down, Avril. Too short-sighted. Too small-minded. You have to trust me, there’s no alternative. If this works out Kirsty can buy Trevor off and get him out of her life.’

But now Kirsty is silent. There is another, bad side to this equation. If she had money she could travel, that’s true; she could take the kids out of the country, even if Trevor did fight for custody and get it with his convincing lies. But the law is the law wherever you go and Kirsty would not want to live in some backwater of the world like Ronnie Biggs—all bungalows, bars and swimming pools—in some corrupt, lawless nation, for ever a fugitive from home.

She notices that her knuckles are white and hides them in her overall pockets.

No. She is under no illusions. If Trevor got wind of pound signs he would be relentless in his pursuit of her and his children. He would sell his soul for money. No matter how good and expensive her defence, somehow he would triumph over her, as he’s always done, making her falter, stammer, forget, mistake what she means, crumble.
If Magdalene
had really been written by her maybe she would have the self-confidence boost to fight the dragon on her own terms. But Kirsty hasn’t discovered her talent, she is merely a cheat and a liar, and these actions do nothing to build her self-worth, if anything they reduce it.

Kirsty’s wounds are deep, deeper than anyone knows.