Killing Me Softly (7 page)

He looked at his watch; there were things he mustn't forget to do before he met Clare, duty before pleasure, drilled into him as a child. He had to follow his routine exercises in the basement, update his computer. He was very particular about keeping up with his skills. Miss a day and you soon got out of the way of it.

Abigail was taking a virtuous walk before breakfast. It provided bodily exercise, but a tramp through the fields, with the dank mist hanging low and limiting the view to dismal acres of brussel sprouts, was hardly spiritually uplifting. The rain was holding off, but the fog was clinging and penetrating, despite her big woolly scarf, a knitted hat and thick gloves, with her coat collar pulled up around her ears. She plodded along the narrow field path, thinking about the Ben situation, fidgeting with it in her mind and trying to see how she could make it work for her. Doubtless she would, in time. See the best in it. But not yet.

Her walk seemed suddenly pointless. She wondered crossly why she'd come this way. Picking your way along the edge of a field, between mud and puddles, was a form of masochism, and the smell of those sprouts was disgusting.

After breakfast she felt slightly better, and zipped through her necessary weekend chores, though without much enthusiasm, skipping the corners if the truth be told, since housework was never likely to be her favourite occupation. That done, she faced the question of what to do with herself, feeling like an engine with a broken fan belt. If anyone had asked her yesterday what she would do with two whole free days, she'd have said without hesitation sleep, sleep, sleep ... but that was yesterday, and today here she was, charged with energy and nothing particular in prospect, except many more of the same sort of weekends. The remembered promise to herself about Ellie Redvers came like a lifeline.

She pulled her diary from her bag and dialled Ellie's number. The welcome in her attractive, husky voice was immediately cheering. ‘I've just been speaking to Barbie,' she said. ‘Hear you called in at the shop on Thursday night.'

‘Only in an emergency, I admit. I left myself too little time to cook. I'd better arrange for that to happen more often, the food was delicious!'

‘Come and have lunch with me, Abigail. I've got the blues and I need cheerful company.'

It was consoling to know she wasn't the only one, but Abigail said, ‘I've got a better idea. Why don't you come out here and help me to eat what I intended to cook on Thursday? It'll give you a break.' Just in time she stopped herself from apologizing in advance for what was sure to be an inferior meal to any Ellie herself could cook, guessing how sick she and Clare must be of hearing such protestations.

Ellie accepted enthusiastically, saying she was longing to see the cottage, which she'd heard about but never seen.

Abigail suddenly saw her hard-won little retreat as it might appear to other people, an uninteresting, square little house overwhelmed by the hill behind it, with drab fields in front, redeemed only by the small garden she'd made. ‘Don't expect too much. I'm afraid you won't see it at its best. I look at it through rose-coloured specs but other people need the sunshine to appreciate it, and the garden's looking like nothing on earth this time of year.'

‘But it's lovely, lovely!' Ellie exclaimed, in the rather exaggerated way she had, when she arrived in her smart little dark blue Fiat, speaking warmly, as if she really meant it, as if the brave makeshift was every bit as appealing as the cool elegance of her own modern house.

She was appreciative of the food, too. Well, so she should be. She'd realize, if anybody did, the trouble Abigail had taken. She ate with relish and Abigail wondered enviously how anyone with an appetite like that could stay so slim. Thin, not to mince words, and really, not looking very happy. But if it was unhappiness that had hollowed her cheeks and given her that vulnerable, appealing look, it suited her. She was wearing a jacket in a soft tone of burnt orange, a matching checked skirt and narrow chestnut boots, but whatever she wore, Ellie always made other women look as if they tried too much.

‘I hear Miller's Wife's suffering from the recession like the rest,' Abigail said, when they were sitting relaxed after lunch, before the warmth of the piled-up log fire.

‘Oh? Who told you that?' Ellie was instantly defensive.

‘Barbie, when I was in the shop.'

‘Well, she shouldn't have, that's hardly the way to inspire confidence in our customers!'

‘I expect it was only because she knew I was a friend.' Abigail tried to be appeasing, surprised at Ellie's sharpness.

‘Doesn't make any difference, she was out of order.' She frowned, then fluttered her hands in an extravagant gesture of apology. ‘Sorry, sorry, I'm a bit touchy on the subject. Barbie's the proverbial treasure, but she does take a bit on herself, and I suppose that
is
what we want. Someone to show initiative, I mean. Clare thinks she's wonderful.'

Which, by implication, meant that Ellie didn't – or perhaps not quite as much.

Ellie seemed to guess her thoughts and smiled ruefully. ‘It's just that I can't understand someone as intelligent as she is being content to be, let's face it, nothing more than a dogsbody.'

‘Jobs aren't hanging off trees at the moment.'

‘Don't I know it,' said Ellie, who, from what Abigail had gathered, had never known what it was like to be short of a bob or two. ‘I suppose we're lucky, you and I, doing jobs we love.'

‘Most of the time I'd agree with you,' Abigail returned drily. ‘But I haven't exactly loved what I've been doing this week. Up to here with drugs.'

‘Drugs?' Ellie repeated, staring into the fire, holding her hands out as if they needed warming. ‘That's the pits. You do see the seamy side of life, don't you? But then, nobody's life is perfect.' She was suddenly all huge, sad eyes. ‘May I have some more of this delicious coffee, do you think?'

Supplied with a refill, she held both hands around the steaming cup, and went on as if there'd been no interruption. ‘My life isn't, anyway. It's far from perfect, at the moment. To be honest, it's a total mess. But I've really made my mind up to do something about it, finally. Last night, it seemed easy – stop it, just like that, the way you're supposed to give up smoking, but there's nothing easy about ending a relationship, is there?' She stared fixedly into the flames. ‘Not even when you despise yourself for it, allowing yourself to –' She broke off abruptly. ‘But you'd never let that happen to you, you're far too sensible.'

More than you think, Ellie. Abigail had been the one who'd sensibly ended the affair with Nick Spalding, and she'd felt for months as though whole areas of skin had been scraped off, leaving her raw. Saying so wasn't going to help Ellie now. Even allowing for a certain tendency to dramatize a situation, it was obvious she was in a state, but she hadn't yet reached the point where she was asking for advice.

‘Men are bastards, Abigail. Ask Clare, having to cope with the fall-out of –' She looked as though she wished she hadn't said that. ‘Or ask Barbie.'

‘Barbie?'

‘Oh yes,' she came back sharply, glad to be on another tack. ‘When you think about it, there's only one explanation for Barbie, and the way she looks. She's trying to hide it, of course, but there's a man somewhere, take it from me. Underneath all that don't-give-a-damn-how-I-look exterior, she's quite attractive. Haven't you noticed?'

‘I've noticed,' Abigail said, at the same moment as the telephone rang.

When she came back from answering it, a few minutes later, all thoughts of Barbie Nelson, Clare, Ellie's problems, had receded. ‘Sorry to be a wet blanket, but I'm going to have to wind this up. Duty calls, I'm afraid.'

Ellie said immediately, ‘That's all right, time I went, anyway. Nothing ghastly, I hope?'

‘Pretty ghastly for the young lad concerned, and his mum and dad. He was taken into hospital last night with an overdose,' Abigail replied soberly. ‘He died this morning.'

When he heard of Clare's arrangement with David Neale, Sam Nash had offered to drive over to Clacks Mill on Saturday morning to fetch his daughter to have lunch with him. ‘That way, he can drop you straight back home afterwards,' he'd suggested. Collecting Clare like that, Sam thought, would also give him the opportunity to cast his eye around the mill house.

‘Where's everyone?' he asked when he arrived, disappointed not to find Amy at home, and was told that she was out shopping for clothes with one of her friends. ‘Quite the young woman,' he remarked with a chuckle. It seemed to him not five minutes since he'd dandled her on his knee, or she'd come running out to welcome him with her hair flying when he came to visit with a pocketful of sweets.

‘She sends her love, though,' Clare told him, ‘and Richie says he'll be seeing you,' she added, a wryly raised eyebrow showing she was well aware of the hidden agenda behind this seemingly innocuous message.

Sam was an affable man who adored his grandchildren and would do anything for them, and he knew what the message meant, too. Richie had been lobbying him about this blasted car he was after, trying to enlist his aid against his mother, but Sam was too old a hand to get inveigled into that sort of situation. He'd told Richie plainly that he thought Clare was quite right, for the time being. To do him justice, Richie, never a lad to bear a grudge for long, had in the end taken it philosophically enough, no doubt he'd expected nothing more. But Sam knew they hadn't heard the last of it, Richie was well aware there'd come a time when they'd have to give in. Like all teenagers, he knew the value of relentless persecution.

And Tim, Clare added, scrupulously taking Sam at his word when he'd enquired about ‘everybody', had taken his gun and gone out shooting with John Fairmile, who lived at the farm at the bottom of the lane.

‘Hm!' Sam made no further comment, but stood by the window, drinking coffee while he waited for Clare to finish getting ready.

Apart from her lavish herb-and-vegetable plot at the side, there was no garden as such at Clacks Mill – just a gravelled forecourt with tubs by the front door that were filled with flowers in summer, and a short stretch of lawn at the back for sitting out or sunbathing. The natural landscaping of the mossy, tree-shaded banks, the stream rushing between the red sandstone rocks and past the wheel, was pretty enough to need no added embellishments.

Sam had already had a quick check around to satisfy himself that everything was in order, running his eye over the weather-boarding, gutterings, window frames, things in general. The drive needed resurfacing, he noted, there were puddles in the gravel. And something should be done about clearing and making use of that spare land alongside the lane, between the main road and the mill house. A quaggy four and a half acres, overgrown with sycamore saplings, brambles and holly, it wasn't much use for anything in its present unkempt state.

The millstream was high and running full spate over the rocks, and he'd walked along to the bridge over the race, testing it with his weight, shaking the low handrail to make sure it was safe. He was nothing if not practically minded, and felt it his duty to keep his eye on such things, here at Clacks Mill, since he knew Clare's husband never deigned to lower himself to such mundane tasks.

On the way into town they chatted for a while, then fell into a companionable silence. Sam could only guess what his daughter's thoughts might be; if she was under stress, she was determined not to show it by anything she said, but he'd noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands were clasped tightly together on her knee. And he was pretty sure, when her sleeve had slipped back, that it wasn't his imagination which had discerned a livid bruise on her forearm. He tried to push this new worry to the back of his mind.

‘Remember Mary Bellamy?' he asked her suddenly, with a quick, sideways glance as they drew up to a red light.

‘Of course.' Mary was the widow of one of Sam's acquaintances who had died some five or six years previously. She was a young-looking woman of about sixty, a retired nursing sister, childless, comfortably off, a good-humoured and practical person with a cheerful smile, whose name had cropped up more and more in Sam's conversation lately. ‘She's a lovely lady.'

‘Good to hear you say so, Clare, I want you to like her. I'm – er – taking her out to dinner tonight.'

‘Are you saying what I think you're saying, Dad?'

He grinned, looking suddenly boyish. In his late sixties, he was still a handsome man, well-muscled and spry, his fierce dark brows and tanned, craggy face a contrast to the crest of thick white hair and bright, quick brown eyes. ‘I somehow thought you'd have guessed. Dammit, this isn't the time to say this, I should've waited, but there's something you should know.'

‘You're getting married!' Clare guessed, delighted.

He was evidently a little disconcerted that it had been so obvious, but pleased at her reaction. ‘She's a fine woman, Clare.'

‘She'll be getting a fine man,' Clare said affectionately, and since she couldn't hug him when he was driving, she squeezed his arm and pressed a fingertip kiss on his cheek.

‘You could be prejudiced!' he returned, smiling, keeping his eyes on the road.

‘I could. But it's wonderful news, you'll make each other very happy, I know.'

He said seriously, ‘I wish I could feel as certain about you, m'duck.'

‘Leave it, Dad.'

She'd always known how he felt about Tim. He'd never been happy about their marriage and had done his best to stop her rushing into it. ‘Give it a bit more time. You've only known him a few weeks, girl,' he'd begged her. But she'd been twenty years old and fathoms deep in love and wouldn't listen, nor even agree to a long engagement. It had been the nearest they'd ever come to a serious row when he'd told her bluntly, ‘You're going to regret this, Clare. A fancy county name doesn't hide the fact that he's a womanizer, and weak-willed.'