The Unburied Past (26 page)

Angie regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You're still shaken, though, aren't you? Why won't you let me call your aunt?'

‘Because she'd immediately assume I'd been raped. I've got the mother of all headaches, but otherwise I'm fine.'

‘Then why not take a couple of paracetamol and lie down for a while? It's a good two hours till dinner.'

Kirsty smiled wanly. ‘I never did get lunch, sandwich or otherwise!'

‘I can make toast if you like?'

She shook her head. ‘The tea's helping, but the thought of food doesn't appeal at the moment. I
will
lie down for a bit, though, if you don't mind. To shift the headache if nothing else.'

Her headache would have intensified had she known how diligently the police were following up her allegation, rescinded or not. While their colleague's murder remained unsolved, hairs or fibres relating to any kind of suspicious behaviour were being analysed for comparison with those retrieved from the scene, and time was of the essence.

The expense of speeding up their examination was therefore sanctioned, and an officer despatched to take them over to the lab in person and await the results.

When Kirsty had gone upstairs Angie returned to the kitchen to tidy up, still unsatisfied with her explanation – or rather lack of one. Why, suddenly, had she lost her nerve like that? It was so totally out of character. She'd have felt much happier if the Marriotts were told about it, but that seemed to be out of the question.

Then, midway through wiping the surfaces, a solution occurred to her. Adam! The two of them were on better terms now – perhaps he could get to the bottom of it.

Hurrying into the office she clicked on the college website for their phone number, reckoning classes should have finished for the day. Minutes later she was asking to speak to him, giving her name as Angela Thomas. Which, no doubt, would set him wondering!

She was kept on hold for several minutes while they tried to locate him, then there was a click and a voice said in her ear, ‘Adam Carstairs.'

Stupidly, she was surprised by his Canadian accent. ‘Oh, hi,' she said hesitantly. ‘You don't know me, but I'm Kirsty's flatmate and business partner.'

‘Ah,
Angie
! But … is she OK?'

‘Yes. At least – well, yes.'

‘Now you're worrying me.'

‘I'm sorry. She's OK, but she had an unpleasant experience today, and—'

‘Not another of those damned emails?'

So she'd told him about them. ‘No, not that. Look – I know it's a bit of a cheek, but could you possibly come round?'

There was a pause, then: ‘Why isn't she calling me herself?'

‘She's having a rest.' Angie paused. ‘Please. I'm a bit worried about her and she won't let me phone her aunt.'

He gave a short laugh. ‘Understandable. OK, if you think I can help I'll be round in fifteen minutes.'

‘Thanks so much, Adam,' Angie said gratefully.

He was as good as his word, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she answered the door, sizing him up as she did so. Of medium height, he bore only a passing resemblance to Kirsty, but the eyes that returned her scrutiny were the same grey as hers.

She smiled. ‘Sorry, do come in. The sitting room's upstairs.'

‘I know.' He followed her up and into the room he remembered. Though it was dark outside the view from its windows was still spectacular, a panorama of the brightly lit town. Adam glanced briefly at it, then turned to face her.

‘So – what's the story?'

Angie indicated a chair, sitting opposite him as he seated himself, and launched straight into her account. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving her face until she came to the end.

‘So nothing untoward actually happened?'

‘No. But she was really frightened, Adam – that's the only explanation for her jumping out – and it's just not like her.'

‘Do you know this man?'

‘Yes, as I said, he's the husband of a friend. Well, they're both friends really, though we know Chrissie better. We've even had dinner at their house. He's an author,' she added inconsequentially.

Adam thought for a minute, then shook his head. ‘He must have said or done
something
to alarm her. I mean, one minute she's happy to get in his car — or at least, agrees to do so – and the next she's in full flight.'

‘I know. It doesn't make sense.'

‘Might the emails have worried her more than she let on, and her imagination suddenly ignited?'

‘It's possible, though she seemed to shrug them off.'

‘What's your opinion of them?'

‘They were a bit creepy, to be honest. We told the police – not that there's much they can do without knowing who's behind them – but there haven't been any for some weeks now, thank goodness.'

‘You think the sender knows her personally?'

Angie shivered. ‘He certainly knows where she lives because he delivered the nettle bouquet himself.' There was a long pause, then she added tentatively, ‘I hope you don't mind my calling you, but I needed to talk it over with someone and you seemed the obvious person.'

He nodded, getting to his feet. ‘I'd better go and have a word with her.'

Angie rose hastily. ‘I'll ask her to come down …'

But he was already halfway to the door. ‘Which is her room?'

She hesitated. ‘On the next floor, the door on the left, but I really think …'

‘Don't worry, I'll knock first!' he said over his shoulder, and started up the stairs.

Angie looked after him anxiously. How would Kirsty react to his suddenly appearing in her room? And would she blame her for contacting him?

Kirsty heard the tap on the door and stretched sleepily.

‘Is it dinner time?' she called, expecting Angie's head round the door.

‘Not yet.' Unbelievably, it was Adam's voice. Was she still dreaming? She struggled into a sitting position, pulling up the duvet to cover herself.

‘May I come in?'

She was definitely awake and it was definitely Adam. But …?

‘Yes,' she answered doubtfully, pushing the pillow behind her for support.

He opened the door and switched on the light. She looked incredibly young, he thought, with her hair ruffled and her eyes blinking in the sudden brightness.

‘Angie told you,' she said.

‘Yes.' He came in and sat on the end of the bed. ‘And now I'd like
you
to tell me.'

‘But you already—'

‘Starting much earlier. How well do you know this man?'

‘He's the husband of a friend.'

‘I know that, but how well do you know
him
? Or rather, how well did you, before today's episode?'

‘I've met him several times,' she said slowly, ‘but always in a crowd.'

‘Did you like him?'

‘He was … all right.'

‘What didn't you like?'

‘Well, he has rather a high opinion of himself. He's a writer, and—'

‘Yes, Angie said. But you never felt … apprehensive in any way?'

‘Not in the slightest.'

‘Even today, when you got into his car?'

‘No; I was just annoyed at being waylaid. I was hungry and wanted my lunch.'

‘But he invited you to join him, and despite your saying thanks but no thanks, drove out of town?

‘Yes.'

‘So were you nervous then?'

‘No, I was still annoyed, especially when we passed a pub and he said he hadn't noticed it.'

‘You didn't believe him?'

She hesitated. ‘I'm not sure.'

‘But you started to wonder where he was taking you?'

‘Perhaps. I … don't know, really.'

‘Well, did his manner change in some way? Did he try to touch you or anything?'

‘Not then, no.' She frowned, thinking back. ‘His voice was a bit … trembly and he was really gripping the steering wheel.' She gave a little shiver. ‘And he was sweating, when it wasn't hot in the car.'

‘He was sweating,' Adam repeated thoughtfully.

‘I suddenly felt I had to get out but he refused to stop, though to be fair the road was narrow and the mist was obscuring visibility. In fact, that might have been part of it; I felt somehow locked with him in … in an invisible world, if that doesn't sound too fanciful.'

‘You said he hadn't touched you
then
. Does that mean he did later?'

‘Only to hold me back when I struggled to open the door.' She shook her head helplessly. ‘There was no reason for me to take off like that. Honestly, Adam, I don't know what got into me. I feel a complete fool.'

He looked at her for a moment longer. ‘Well, no harm's done, and it seems he's not going to land you with a criminal record for stealing his car.'

‘I'll have to write and apologize,' she said miserably.

It seemed he'd get no further. Adam straightened and his glance fell on the soft toy on the chair. ‘So that's the famous teddy you were never seen without!'

Kirsty smiled, wrenching her thoughts from the day's trauma. ‘Yes, that's Bear.'

He bent forward and picked it up. ‘He looks rather the worse for wear.'

‘So would you if you'd spent years being dragged around by your ear!'

Adam smiled, pulling gently at the tuft of fur. ‘Yes, it looks as though a repair job was carried out at some stage. See the different-coloured thread?' He turned the toy over in his hands. ‘In fact, he seems to have had an internal op at the same time. Same colour thread, anyway.'

‘Perhaps his squeak needed replacing.'

His expression suddenly changed. ‘Hang on. When we were in Penthwaite you said this was your only link with Mum and Dad.'

She looked at him questioningly. ‘Yes?'

‘Well, just suppose …' He started prodding at the worn fabric. ‘I don't know if it's the squeak, but there's certainly something hard in here.' He looked up. ‘Have you any scissors?'

‘Oh, look, you're not going to—?'

‘
Scissors
, Kirsty!'

‘In my manicure set. Top drawer in the dressing table.'

He moved swiftly to retrieve them then, returning to the bed, carefully slit the stitches in the bear's middle while Kirsty watched in bewilderment.

‘I don't know what you think—' She broke off as he slid his fingers into the hole he'd created and began feeling around.

‘God, Kirsty!' Adam's voice was shaking.

‘What? What is it?'

Carefully, so as not to tear the fabric, he withdrew his bunched fingers and held out his hand. In his palm lay a small black cylinder and, as she stared at it unbelievingly, he pulled off the cap and tipped out a rolled-up film.

She swallowed convulsively. ‘You don't think …?'

‘Oh,' he said softly, ‘but I do!'

‘You mean it wasn't in the camera after all? It's … been there all the time?'

He nodded.

Unable to take in the enormity of their find, she shook her head helplessly. ‘But why didn't they take it straight to the police?'

‘God knows. And they couldn't have felt there was any urgency about hiding it, or why would she have gone on to mend the ear at the same time?'

‘Unless she'd been sewing the ear on, and that's what gave them the idea of a hiding place?'

‘Well, we'll never know, but it was a damn good one. Who'd think of looking for it in a child's toy?'

Kirsty stared, fascinated, at the shiny brown roll. ‘And that holds the answer to who killed them?'

‘With luck, yes. Otherwise, why should they have
been
killed?'

‘I – can't take this in!'

Adam fumbled in his pocket and drew out his mobile.

‘Who are you phoning?'

‘Graham Yates. He's a photographer, isn't he? With luck, he'll be able to develop it for us.'

‘After all this time?'

‘God knows. We can only hope.'

She held her breath as he clicked on Graham's number, but it switched almost at once to the answering service. Adam swore and ended the call.

‘I'll try again later; it's not a message to entrust to voicemail. Too bad I don't know his mobile number.'

Instinctively Kirsty reached out to him and he took her hand, gripping it tightly.

‘We've done it, sis,' he said. ‘I really think we've done it!'

Marilyn Ferris lay rigidly in bed, staring up at the ceiling and listening to her husband's rhythmic snores. During the hours of daylight she could dismiss the thoughts that swam into her head as being outlandish, absurd. But in the dark they returned in force, refusing to be ignored. She drew a deep breath. Very well; she would face them once and for all and prove to herself how nebulous they were.

Her first hint of unease had come when she read out the ad in the personal column and Dean had reacted so strangely, snatching the paper out of her hands and hurrying out of the house with it. He hadn't brought it back, either. It puzzled her at the time, but he'd shrugged it off and the incident had slipped from her mind.

More alarming was the visit of those young people with their horror story. Their questions had reminded her of that phone call, the day Tony disappeared. True, it mightn't have been important, but now
everything
that day acquired significance. Who, when she came to think of it, would have phoned Tony on a Sunday, of all days? And why hadn't he rung back as he'd said?

Even more unsettling was the fact that Dean had again behaved oddly when she'd told him of the visit, and for some reason had since avoided all her attempts to return to the subject.

Another thing – which again was not the norm but for which perhaps she should be grateful – was that although Dean had been agitated and on edge since returning from Germany, he'd also been exceptionally caring, bringing her flowers and chocolates and taking her out to dinner. They'd even made love a couple of times, an increasingly rare event these days.