Shifting Sands (26 page)

They left it at that.

Imogen pulled her scarf more tightly round her neck. It was a cold, misty evening, and while the bonfire warmed their faces, their backs felt the chill. She was holding firmly on to Jack's hand, much to his indignation, but the damp wood was spitting, and hot ash and sparks were flying in all directions.

Stalls selling hot dogs, sausages and baked potatoes were doing a roaring trade, there were polystyrene cups of soup to keep the cold out and Yorkshire parkin and toffee apples for the asking. Imogen was glad they'd opted for a public display rather than hold their own; it was much less trouble, and there was a happy, social atmosphere. Meanwhile, on top of his pyre, poor Guy Fawkes gradually disintegrated, each further slide into the flames greeted with shrieks of triumph. Once he was gone, the fireworks would begin.

She glanced at her parents, their faces lit by the firelight. Her mother's still had a sad expression in repose, and Imogen reached instinctively for her hand.

Pat Selby returned the pressure. ‘I meant to ask you,' she said. ‘Did you know Jonathan called on Uncle Ted?'

Imogen turned sharply. ‘No? Why was that? He hardly knew either of them.'

‘That's what I thought. What's even stranger is that, according to Ted, he seemed interested in Em's visit to Mandelyns.'

Imogen frowned. ‘What possible interest could it be of his?'

Pat lifted her shoulders. ‘Journalists, like God, move in mysterious ways.'

‘But he must have given
some
reason for calling?'

‘Not really, just mentioned vaguely that he was doing a series of articles. He was trying to be tactful, Ted said, but it didn't stop him asking a lot of questions about the cause of her death.'

‘What bloody cheek!' Imogen exploded.

‘Language, Timothy!' Roger rejoined them, armed with a savoury-smelling carrier bag. ‘Now, who ordered what?' He began handing out the food. ‘The hot dog's for Jack, I think. Pasties for . . . Les and Pat, hamburgers for us, and a bag of chips to share. Use the paper napkins to hold them – they're pretty hot.'

As they started to eat, he turned back to Imogen. ‘What were you being so indignant about?'

‘Jonathan Farrell going to interview Uncle Ted.'

Roger raised an eyebrow. ‘He must be following up some line or other.'

‘About Aunt
Em
?'

‘All will be revealed, no doubt.'

There was a shout as the first of the fireworks soared into the sky, scattering stars of red and blue and silver and gold. Imogen said no more, but she still felt mutinous. Next week, she knew, was the anniversary of Miles Farrell's death; how would Jonathan like it, if she went prying into its causes?

Jack tugged suddenly at her coat. ‘Mummy,
look
!' he yelled, and, abandoning her introspection, she turned to see a succession of rockets filling the night sky with magic. As Roger had said, all would doubtless be revealed, but nonetheless, given the chance, she'd find out if Sophie knew anything about it.

There were cards from Sophie and Angus, and Jonathan and Vicky, and a home-made one from the boys, in which Tom had written laboriously, ‘Dear Granny, we're thinking of you and Grandpa.'

Anna's eyes filled again with tears. She'd already received a text from Tamsin, presumably at Sophie's instigation. Did she really deserve her family's sympathy? At least she'd spared Jon and Sophie embarrassment by opting to be alone, but now the prospect of the long day ahead filled her with dread. How should she spend it? She couldn't simply wallow in guilt and grief or she'd be a nervous wreck; nor could she bear to go near the church. She'd visit the grave later in the week, when the day itself wasn't so poignant.

She could drive into the country and go for a walk. But the day was misty and uninviting, with the threat of rain – not guaranteed to alleviate grief.

One thing, however, she'd determined in advance: she would not, positively not, think about Lewis. The visit to Wendy and George had brought home to her how worried he was about the ongoing investigation and the threat it might pose to the planned celebrations. Consequently, when, as promised, he'd phoned the next day, she'd accepted the invitation, at least on her own behalf.

‘I'll just be one of the guests, though, won't I?' she'd asked anxiously. ‘I mean, there won't be anything to suggest we're—?'

‘Don't worry, my darling, this is principally a business do; there's no question of your being hauled up to the top table or anything. I'll arrange for you to sit with Wendy and George, and I promise not to single you out in any way.'

The embossed card had arrived on Saturday, and she'd put it in a desk drawer until today was safely over.

Now, she stood in the sitting room, looking at the sympathy cards arrayed alongside Miles's photograph. She could get out the albums, relive happier days, but they would only make her cry again. How
did
people cope with anniversaries? Most, she reminded herself, would at least be spared the added guilt.

A ring at the doorbell startled her. The post had already been; who else could be calling? Glancing in the mirror to check her eyes, she went to the door and opened it to find Beatrice on the step with a sheaf of flowers.

‘Oh, Bea!' she said, the tears starting again.

Beatrice took her arm and led her gently back inside, laid the flowers on the hall table, and put her arms round her. ‘I don't usually have such an unfortunate effect on people!' she observed, patting Anna's shoulder, and she gave a choked little laugh. ‘If you'd rather I didn't stay, fine, but I reckoned perhaps a non-family face might be welcome.'

‘You're so right!' Anna admitted, drying her eyes. ‘I was feeling very sorry for myself, and I'm not sure I have the right to.'

‘Of course you have,' Beatrice said briskly. ‘You've lost your husband, whom you loved dearly, and, one way or another, you've had a pretty traumatic year. But I'm not here to ladle out sympathy. By the look of you, you've done enough grieving for the present, so I suggest we drive out somewhere, have a pub lunch, and, weather permitting, a short walk. And if you want to talk about Miles, or Lewis for that matter, or would rather not, either would be fine with me. How does that sound?'

‘Perfect. I can't thank you enough.'

‘I don't want thanks, Anna. Now, let's put these flowers in water before
they
start wilting as well!'

Beatrice's bracing company was just the tonic Anna needed, and she found herself able to talk quite freely about Miles, even about the day he died.

‘It was such a shock,' she remembered. ‘One minute he was fine and looking forward to his game of golf. The next, there was a knock at the door to say he was dead. It was . . . unbelievable.'

She looked across the pub table at her friend. ‘God, Bea, I miss him so much! So how, in the name of heaven, could I have become involved with Lewis?'

‘Perhaps you needed more comfort than I or the kids could give you,' Beatrice suggested.

‘Sex, you mean?' Anna demanded bluntly.

‘Perhaps.' Bea's voice was calm. ‘Or, put more sympathetically, physical comfort as well as emotional. Look, you promised to be faithful to Miles
till death did you part
, right?'

Anna nodded.

‘So – were you unfaithful while he was alive?'

Anna looked shocked. ‘Of
course
not!'

‘Then why the hell are you beating yourself up like this? There's even a school of thought that says finding someone else within a year is proof of how much you loved your partner, though I confess I'm not entirely convinced.'

‘Sounds like a cop-out to me.'

Beatrice laughed. ‘That's more like the Anna I know!'

‘You're right. Which shows I'm ready to stop wallowing and hear all about your plans. Have you any exciting bookings lined up, important people or events you're catering for?' She gave a little laugh. ‘I sincerely hope Mandelyns' thirty-year bash isn't one of them?'

‘No, I haven't been thus honoured, you can relax on that front. But I have one or two engagements which sound promising.'

And, emotional issues temporarily shelved, they settled down to discuss more pleasurable and less hazardous subjects.

At another pub ten miles west of them, Sophie and Jonathan sat in subdued silence. Vicky, having committed to hearing Year Two read in the school library, had been unable to join them.

It had started to rain as they arrived at the church, intensifying the sadness both were feeling as they walked through the cemetery to their father's grave and read the inscription on the headstone. In front of it was a flower bed, where, in the early days, Anna had planted small annuals and low-growing shrubs. Some were still in bloom, but others looked bedraggled and forlorn in the wet earth.

They'd held an umbrella over each other as first one, then the other, placed the flowers they had brought in the stone container provided for the purpose.

‘Ought we to check there's enough water in it?' Sophie had asked.

Jonathan looked up at the leaden sky. ‘If there isn't, there soon will be!'

‘All the same, I think I'll get a watering can and top it up. The rain mightn't penetrate the foliage.'

Their offerings having been provided for, they'd stood for a moment in silence, heads bowed. Then Sophie's hand crept into her brother's, and, together, they had turned away and made their way back to the car.

Jonathan glanced out of the pub window. The rain was heavier now, providing no incentive to move.

‘Would you like coffee?' he asked.

Sophie looked up. ‘Yes, please.' Her fingers played with the cutlery in front of her. ‘I wonder how Ma's bearing up. I hope she's OK.'

‘She will be.'

‘Don't be too hard on her, Jon.'

‘I didn't think I was being.'

The waitress approached to remove their plates, and they ordered coffee.

When she'd moved away, Sophie said, ‘You don't really think Lewis had anything to do with the girl's death, do you?'

He shrugged. ‘If she was a danger to his beloved Mandelyns . . .'

Sophie considered the point, neither conceding nor opposing it. ‘It must have come as a terrific shock, a girl you knew being murdered. How did you hear about it?'

Jonathan stared at her, his mind whirling. Coming completely out of the blue, this was a question he'd not prepared for.

‘TV or radio, or not till you read it in the paper?' She looked at him questioningly, and he moistened his lips.

‘I . . . don't remember.'

‘Oh, come on, Jon, you must! It's not every day someone you know is murdered!'

He gazed at her helplessly, panic clogging his brain.

Sophie frowned. ‘What's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?'

‘One latte, one espresso,' said a voice above them, and they made space for their cups.

Her frown deepened. ‘Where were you that day? With Steve, or working from home?'

Oh, what the hell? he thought wearily. She knew half of it, she might as well know the rest.

‘Actually, I was in Manchester,' he said and, above her startled exclamation, added tonelessly, ‘In fact, I was the one who found her.'

Yvonne Standish turned into the drive of the neat little semi on the outskirts of Beechford, using her remote to open the garage door. Its purpose was invalidated, however, since, yet again, Kathy hadn't collapsed the buggy, which meant she had to get out in the rain to move it so the car would fit in the garage. One more irritant to add to her general feeling of depression.

Or perhaps not so general, since it was firmly rooted in the long-drawn-out police enquiry, and the increasing effect it was having on Lewis. Her heart ached to see the deeper lines etched on his face, the bags under his eyes, and though she yearned to offer comfort, there was little she could do.

‘Hello?' she called, closing the front door and hanging her wet raincoat on the hook.

‘In the kitchen,' came her daughter's voice.

Yvonne pushed open the door, to be greeted by the sight of nine-month-old Rose in her high chair, her mouth liberally covered in the orange-coloured mixture Kathy was trying to spoon into it.

‘Hi,' Kathy said, without turning, but Rose treated her to a wide, toothless smile.

‘You didn't collapse the buggy,' Yvonne said, striving to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

‘Well, I was soaked through – I'd forgotten to take a brolly – and I wanted to get Rose indoors before she caught cold.'

An inadequate excuse, Yvonne thought, since the baby was always wrapped up to her eyebrows, but in the interests of harmony, she let it drop. The truth was that, despite her efforts over the years, she and Kathy had never been close. Punctilious and responsible by nature, Yvonne had always been irritated by her daughter's fecklessness, and now they were again living under the same roof, they continued to rub each other the wrong way. In her mother's opinion, Kathy thought only of herself, doing as little as possible around the house and several times failing to hand over the agreed sum for her keep.

A year ago, she'd been living with her boyfriend in a flat in Guildford, but soon after she became pregnant he moved out, and there was no way Kathy's wages as a hairdresser could cover his share of the rent. Yvonne had been ready enough to step in and offer accommodation till she could find somewhere cheaper, but Kathy had made no attempt to do so.