The Unburied Past (9 page)

‘Kirsty?' Angie had appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Are you OK?'

Kirsty raised her head. ‘Not really,' she said.

‘Oh, poor love. Was it awful?'

‘Worse than you can imagine.'

‘Come on up and I'll open a bottle of wine.' She disappeared in the direction of their domestic kitchen and slowly, almost painfully, Kirsty went upstairs and into the sitting room, making her way, as she always did on returning home, to the bay windows and their spectacular view.

The town of Westbourne was attractive, historic and, in the view of some, inconvenient, since those approaching it from the north were forced to negotiate roads leading steeply downhill that put a strain on brakes and were especially treacherous in icy weather.

There were, however, compensations, one of which was that houses on this side of town, Kirsty's and Angie's among them, were afforded a bird's-eye view over the roofs of those on a lower level to the large park that lay in the centre of town, the twin crescents that encircled it and, beyond, the towers and turrets of Westbourne College. This evening the familiar view assumed a new significance and the college had never seemed so close. Soon, Kirsty thought incredulously, Adam would be working there.

Behind her she heard Angie come in and set down a bottle and two glasses on the coffee table.

‘Come and tell me about it,' she invited.

Kirsty turned, and at the sight of her face Angie gave an exclamation. ‘Even worse than usual?' she asked sympathetically.

‘Much,' Kirsty acknowledged shakily. ‘It seems my parents didn't die in a car crash, as I'd always been told.' She paused and drew a tremulous breath. ‘They were murdered, Angie. Both of them. While we were on holiday in the Lake District.'

‘It changes everything,' she said. It was two hours later and they were still sitting on the sofa, the bottle of wine two-thirds empty. ‘Before today, it had just seemed a tragic accident which could – and does – happen to anyone. But to hear they were killed
deliberately
, as far as we know through no fault of their own, and on top of that, that their killers might still be alive out there, happily living their own lives …' Her voice trailed off and she reached for her glass.

‘It's – grotesque,' Angie agreed. She paused. ‘And your brother's coming over?' Kirsty nodded.

‘At least this might bring you closer.'

‘It'll have come as a shock to him, too,' Kirsty conceded. ‘We've only been told now because while he's here he wants to research the family – a kind of
Who Do You Think You Are?
project – and would have found out anyhow.'

‘Do you think he'll go ahead with it, in the circumstances?'

‘I'm damn sure he will, if only because the family will oppose it.'

Angie smiled wryly. ‘You've not much of an opinion of him, have you?'

Kirsty toyed with her glass, her thoughts moving on. ‘There's something else.' She looked up, meeting her friend's questioning glance. ‘Do you remember someone called Nick Shepherd at Lois and Johnnie's wedding?'

‘Can't say I do. Why?'

‘He phoned, just as I was about to drive home, to invite me to the theatre next week, and like a fool I agreed.'

‘Like a fool?'

‘Angie, I don't know the man, and I'm not sure I want to. I certainly don't want to get involved.'

‘Hey, slow down! He's not asked you to marry him, has he?'

Kirsty smiled. ‘No, but – I don't know, I feel a bit uneasy about him. For instance, how did he get my mobile number? I'm pretty sure I didn't give it to him.'

‘If he was interested, he could have asked around. Any of our friends could have supplied it.'

‘Suppose it was he who sent that email?'

‘Why would he do that, if he was intending to phone you?'

She shrugged.

Angie laid a hand on her arm. ‘Look, love, you're overreacting – understandable, after the day you've had. But it's no big deal, is it? Think of it as a night out which at least will take your mind off things, and if you don't like him you need never see him again. OK?'

‘OK,' Kirsty agreed gratefully. ‘Thanks for putting it in perspective. I just wish we could do the same with the rest of it.'

T
he knowledge of how her parents met their deaths lodged like a heavy stone at the back of Kirsty's mind, forcing itself to the front any time she wasn't actively engaged.

Janice phoned on the Tuesday, ostensibly to see how she was. ‘Come back for lunch on Sunday,' she urged. ‘Last week was so difficult, and we missed out on our usual relaxed get-together. You've nothing special on, have you?'

It was true that since her break-up with Lance weekends had been something of a lottery. Angie was invariably with her boyfriend, Simon, and she filled them by going to the tennis club, where she had a crowd of friends, or bringing her correspondence up to date, or, since they'd no garden to speak of, taking a book down to the park where, on summer Sundays, a brass band took up residence on the old bandstand.

But she was not yet ready to face her adoptive parents, and when she woke in the night or in moments of leisure during the day, she pondered her slightly changed attitude towards them. Embarrassment? Resentment at their years of silence? Yet they couldn't be held responsible for that; it had been decreed that she and Adam should be told together and that ancient decree had held good right into their twenties. It was more, she decided, that she knew at their next meeting she'd be under anxious scrutiny, and couldn't face the prospect of a day of play-acting. Not yet.

Adam's pending arrival also featured largely in her thoughts. How would he contact them? Would he still have that arrogant, slightly aloof manner she remembered, or would he have matured differently? And how, exactly, was he reacting to the bombshell that had been dropped on them both?

Nick Shepherd had also phoned, to report that he'd managed to obtain seats at the theatre for the Wednesday. Kirsty, who'd been hoping it would be fully booked, agreed to meet him in the foyer at six forty-five, vetoing his suggestion of coming to the house to collect her. He'd also booked an after-show supper at La Table d'Hôte, the town's newest and most talked about restaurant.

‘It should be a great evening,' Angie said encouragingly. ‘I'll be interested to hear about the Table. If it's as good as people say I'll get Simon to take me on my birthday.'

Simon Lucas was Angie's long-term boyfriend; they'd been together for the past six years but showed no interest in taking their relationship further. He had his own flat at the other side of town and Angie frequently spent the weekends there. A couple of times Kirsty and Lance had made up a foursome with them, but it had not been a success since Lance, introverted and intense, was noticeably irritated by Simon's laid-back manner. Truth to tell, he hadn't liked socializing with any of her friends, preferring to keep her to himself.

On the Wednesday morning a bouquet was delivered to the house, addressed simply to ‘Kirsty'. There was no message and no clue as to the sender. Kirsty phoned the florist for more information, but all they could tell her was that they thought a man had ordered it, but they'd been busy at the time and couldn't be sure, and it was paid for by cash so they'd no record of a name.

‘I bet it's Nick Shepherd playing silly games,' she said crossly to Angie, who was admiring the sheaf of flowers.

‘Well, whoever it is, just be grateful. They're gorgeous, and if you're not going to put them in a vase, I shall. It always annoys me,' she went on, going to the sink, ‘in TV plays when a girl receives flowers from someone she doesn't like, she unfailingly throws them in the bin. As if it was the poor flowers' fault! I always hope someone will rescue them.'

‘I didn't say I don't like Nick,' Kirsty defended herself, ‘and I wasn't going to throw them away, but it really is rather puerile, all this anonymity routine.'

Angie turned in surprise. ‘Routine?'

‘This and the email.'

‘Oh, for goodness' sake – you're not still on about that? It was spam, or a virus or something. Forget it – it's not worth worrying about.'

But Kirsty did worry, and when she met Nick at the theatre she was unable to relax with him, answering his comments only briefly and not initiating any conversation. She sensed his surprise and disappointment, but was incapable of responding. It wasn't until they were seated in a secluded alcove at La Table d'Hôte that, taking the bull by the horns, she met his eyes across the table and said steadily, ‘Thank you for the flowers.'

He looked at her blankly. ‘Are you being sarcastic?'

She didn't reply, and his face reddened.

‘Is this what the cold shoulder is all about?' he demanded. ‘Because I didn't send flowers? Is there some code in this town that specifies bouquets must be submitted in advance of a date?'

She flushed in the face of his anger. ‘The point is I
did
receive flowers,' she said. ‘Are you telling me they weren't from you?'

‘That's exactly what I'm telling you, though if they had been, I fail to see why it should merit this treatment.'

She frowned. ‘You really didn't send them, though?'

‘No, I bloody didn't. I apologize for the oversight.'

Kirsty drew a deep breath. ‘Then it's I who owe you an apology.'

‘My thoughts exactly!'

‘Look, I'm sorry. I've been on edge all week and I've been taking it out on you. I really do apologize.'

He looked at her sceptically. ‘So what's it all about?' he asked more calmly.

He deserved an explanation, and reluctantly she gave it. ‘Before you phoned last weekend I received a … rather odd email. It wasn't signed. Then you rang out of the blue, and I wondered if there was a connection. And this morning these flowers arrived, addressed to me but with no message or any indication who'd sent them. Since it wasn't you, I apologize again, but these two instances coming immediately after you contacted me – well, what else was I to think?'

‘Possibly that I'm not the sort of guy who plays tricks?'

‘But I don't know you!' she said helplessly.

He relaxed a little. ‘No, you don't, do you? Perhaps we should rectify that, so here goes. Name: Nicholas James Shepherd, born twenty-fifth of September nineteen eighty in Surbiton, Surrey, to parents Pamela and Stephen. Two brothers, one sister. Educated at Kingston Grammar School and Durham University, present occupation head of English at Westbourne College.'

Kirsty caught her breath. ‘You're at the college?'

‘For my sins. Why?'

But she wasn't ready to go into convoluted explanations, and just shook her head.

‘Come on, then, your turn!'

She hesitated, then gave him the truncated version. ‘Kirsty Ann Marriott, born twenty-second of March, nineteen eighty-five. One brother. Partner in a company supplying handmade cakes to local coffee shops and patisseries.'

‘Really? That sounds interesting.'

‘Are you ready to order, sir?' asked a slightly reproving voice.

Nick looked up with a quick smile. ‘Sorry – too busy talking. Give us a couple of minutes.'

With their order duly placed, he sat back in his chair. ‘Glad we sorted that out,' he commented. ‘So, to coin a phrase, apart from that, Miss Marriott, how did you enjoy the play?'

Kirsty looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

‘Well!' he said in satisfaction. ‘That's so much better! Let's start again, shall we?'

‘Actually, I did enjoy the play, very much,' she said. ‘I was intrigued by the way they managed to introduce mobile phones and not make them seem out of place.'

They settled down to a detailed analysis of the production and progressed to a range of other topics. As she'd recalled from their previous meeting, Nick Shepherd was an interesting companion, with flashes of wit that made her smile, and the evening that had started so disastrously ended in mutual enjoyment. He walked her home through the warm summer streets to her front door, where she thanked him for the evening and he commented that they must do it again. No firm arrangement and no attempt at intimacy.

Kirsty let herself into the house in a thoughtful mood. As she reached the upper landing the bathroom door opened and Angie looked round it, toothbrush in hand.

‘Well? How did it go?'

‘Very well, after a shaky start. And he wasn't the sender of either the email or the flowers.'

‘What did I tell you?' Angie said with satisfaction.

‘I almost wish he had been; it would have – neutralized them. Now I'm back to square one.'

Angie made a dismissive gesture with her toothbrush. ‘To change the subject, Chrissie phoned while you were out to invite us to dinner on Saturday. She apologized for the short notice but Matt's only just suggested it. I said I'd have to check with you, but there's nothing in the diary.'

‘“Us” to include Simon, I presume?'

‘Yes; she asked tactfully if there's anyone you'd like her to invite, and I said I'd check that too.' She raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Definitely not,' Kirsty told her. ‘Nick Shepherd, though a nice enough guy, is a long way from being a significant other.'

‘
In
significant's good enough for dinner!'

‘Still no. The next move, if there is one, should come from him.'

‘Whatever you say,' Angie replied peaceably, and went back to brushing her teeth.

‘Adam, what's wrong?' Gina asked quietly.

They'd been sitting in his car in complete silence, and her anxiety for him was mounting. ‘Having second thoughts about the sabbatical?' she probed when he did not reply.

That at least provoked a response. ‘Most certainly not! I'm even more determined.'