When Night Closes in (4 page)

Lowri was silent. The pain was so deep, the sense of humiliation so sharp that she felt like crying. Jon was a cheat and a liar and she had been fool enough to believe he loved her.

She picked up the photograph again; she had to assure herself that it really was Jon they were discussing, the same Jon who had caressed her, who made love to her with such tenderness. There was no mistake. Suddenly she wanted to smash the picture into tiny pieces.

‘Take it away!' Mrs Brandon said flatly. ‘Drop it in the nearest bin. If my husband is not here now then he won't be coming.' She crossed to the door, making it obvious she wanted Lowri to leave. Lowri followed her, the picture clasped tightly in her hand.

As she stepped through the front door the soft perfume of the roses drifted towards her, a poignant reminder of the times she had been here with Jon.

‘Are you married?' Mrs Brandon asked abruptly.

Lowri shook her head. ‘No.'

‘Well, take my advice and don't bother! Live with them and leave them, don't put your faith in any of them.'

As the door closed behind her, Lowri stood for a moment, staring unseeingly up at the gathering clouds. He was married, he did not love her, did not even love his wife. He was the worst sort of man, a weakling and a liar. Why then was she clutching the photograph to her as though it would bring him closer?

As she drove back along the lanes, Lowri glanced at her watch. She had been out for much longer than she had expected, she had better be getting back.

She drove as though the hounds of hell were after her, negotiating the familiar lanes at a speed that made every corner a hazard. She was angry and hurt, and her foot pressed against the accelerator was a reflection of those feelings.

When she arrived outside the office, she jammed on the brakes and parked defiantly on double yellow lines. ‘Sod it!' she said, flinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘Sod everything.'

There were clients waiting: the small reception area seemed full of people. Mr Watson's door was open and he looked at her over his glasses, a smile on his face.

‘Just in time to help me out, Miss Richards. Mr Jones and Mr Fry finished work earlier so I need all the help I can get. Can you get me the files on the last two or three properties we're handling?'

He was a tall man, little more than fifty years old. He might have been striking once but now he wore tired suits and old-fashioned shoes. Lowri felt an affection for him – she had worked for Mr Watson ever since she left home.

For almost an hour, Lowri was busy dealing with paperwork for impatient clients who thought that the business of buying a house could be completed in a few days instead of taking weeks.

It was almost four when Sally kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the desk. Mr Watson had just left. ‘Thank goodness the boring old fart's gone home!' she chuckled. ‘Now, come on, give.'

Lowri sat on the chair in front of the computer, clicked the instructions until the screen was blank and switched it off. After a moment's hesitation, she reached in her bag for the photograph and put it on the desk.

‘Sally, meet Jon Brandon and his wife.'

Sally stared at the photograph, her eyes wide. ‘No!' She was galvanized into action, swinging her feet to the floor and leaning forward to look more closely at the happy smiling couple. ‘So he
is
married?'

Lowri, too, stared at the photograph, saw the man she loved with his arm around his wife and wanted to cry. It seemed that once, on that summer day, he had been happy to be with his wife, or was that also an empty sham?

‘Bloody hell!' Sally leaned back in her chair, her bare feet beating a tattoo on the floor. ‘Who would have thought it?'

She pointed at the photograph. ‘So that's why I never got to see this lover of yours, he was keeping his head down, the crafty devil!'

Lover. Lowri played with the word in her mind and decided it was too mild for the relationship that had been built between her and Jon over the past months. But now she could see it had all been an illusion, shifting sands, a snatched leg-over when he was away from his wife. Sally was right, he was a devil.

‘God I hate him!' She slammed her fist on the desk and the photograph shuddered before falling onto the floor. The glass smashed, the photograph slid from the frame and with it, a piece of folded paper.

‘Look, a clue!' Sally said.

‘You can be so childish at times,' Lowri said but, nevertheless, she picked up the paper and unfolded it.

‘Well, come on, what does it say?' Sally took it from Lowri's hand. ‘Oh, it's just a phone number. Whose, I wonder?'

‘Probably one of his other women,' Lowri said bitterly.

Sally began to pick up the pieces of glass. She swept them into a neat pile with her shoe and scooped them up onto the photograph.

‘Why did you bring the photograph here with you?' she asked, suddenly serious. She tipped the glass into the bin and the shards sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight.

‘I don't really know.' Lowri rubbed her forehead. ‘I suppose to convince myself I wasn't imagining the whole thing.'

‘Look, go on home,' Sally said, ‘there's only a half-hour or so left, no-one will know.

‘Perhaps I will,' Lowri said gratefully. ‘My head is splitting, I still can't believe what's happened these last few days.'

‘It's the shock,' Sally said. ‘I mean you go off for a dirty weekend and your bloke goes missing. If that's not enough, you find out he's married.'

Lowri picked up her bag and slipped the photograph and the frame inside. ‘Oh, where's the piece of paper?'

Sally looked puzzled. ‘Perhaps I threw it in the bin with the glass, did I?'

‘I'll look.' Lowri saw the paper at once and rescued it. ‘I'll maybe pluck up courage to phone the number and see who replies,' she said. ‘Then again, maybe I will just burn the damn thing.'

Outside, the sun was still bright and the long main street was thronged with holiday-makers. ‘Blast!' Lowri said. There behind the windscreen wiper was, unmistakably, a parking ticket. A perfect ending to a perfect day.

Once in the cool sanctuary of her house, Lowri kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her. Then she took out the photograph and stared at his face, Jon's face, so familiar, so dear. ‘You lying cheating bastard!' she breathed.

She picked up the phone and dialled the number from the piece of paper – it was stamped indelibly on her mind. She was poised, ready to slam down the receiver if a woman answered. It was a man.

‘Hello, I'm sorry to trouble you . . .' she began. The line crackled.

‘Miss Richards?' The voice was familiar.

Lowri felt a shiver of surprise run along her spine. ‘Who is this?' she demanded.

‘It's DI Lainey, you've rung the police station, my direct line. Can I help you?'

‘No, I'm sorry, wrong number.' Lowri slammed the receiver back in place, her mind spinning. Why on earth would the police-station number be hidden behind a photograph of Jon Brandon? Suddenly she was trembling; she put her head in her hands, trying to stop the tide of fear that swept over her. Something was very wrong and she would find out what was happening if it killed her. ‘And it might well, my girl.' Her voice echoed around the empty room and, suddenly, she was afraid.

‘What the hell's that you're reading, now?' Charles Richards strode into the large plant-filled conservatory and his wife realized at once he was in a bad mood. Rhian Richards sighed; she did not feel like a row right now.

‘And I've asked you a hundred times if I've asked you once to have a drink waiting for me when I come home,' Charles continued.

It was pointless to argue that she never knew exactly when he
would
come home. She rose to her feet. ‘I'll get you a drink, Charles.'

‘Answer my question first. What's that?'

‘Just a letter.'

‘I can see it's a letter but who is it from?'

Rhian took a deep breath. ‘It's from Lowri.' She tucked the letter in the pocket of her smartly cut trousers and slipped her feet into her leather sandals.

‘I might have guessed that by the look on your face. Your precious Lowri means more to you than anyone, doesn't she? You've always favoured that girl.' He sank into one of the easy chairs. ‘Go on, fetch that drink, I'm badly in need of one.'

She brought him a whisky and stood near the open doorway, feeling the summer breeze on her face. ‘I don't favour Lowri,' she said reasonably. ‘I treat both our children in exactly the same way.' It was a mistake.

‘Like hell you do!' Charles said. ‘We all know that your bastard child comes first.'

A wave of anger and guilt brought a flush to Rhian's face. Would Charles never stop taunting her about the past? As for their son, she had not seen him for years; he had left home at sixteen and settled in Canada. Charles conveniently forgot that.

‘Well, what has she got to say for herself?' Charles demanded.

‘Not a lot.' Rhian spoke softly.

‘A whole letter of “not a lot”! How literate she must be. All that university education wasted on a girl, I said it would do no good.'

Rhian struggled against the tightening of her shoulders. ‘It seems she's parted company with Jon Brandon,' she volunteered. But it was not as simple as that. It seemed the man had disappeared into the blue. Lowri was clearly troubled and unhappy but the last place she would come was home. She had been only too glad to leave at the first opportunity that presented itself.

‘Blast the girl!' Charles sounded angry and Rhian looked at him, puzzled.

‘Why blast the girl?' she asked, anger building inside her. ‘Lowri has the right to go out with anyone she chooses.'

‘There, you see?' Charles stared at her. ‘I try to take an interest in her and you bite my head off. She's not asking for money, is she?'

‘Now when has Lowri ever asked for money?' Rhian did not point out that, in any case, the money in the bank was hers; Rhian had inherited the estate when her father died. It was courtesy of his wife that Charles lived such a comfortable life. He worked, of course he did, he was a businessman, but whatever money he had, he kept to himself.

‘In any case,' he was like a dog with a bone; once he started on the subject of Lowri, he was difficult to stop, ‘she's only a girl, she should marry someone with a fortune and let him keep her.'

‘Like you did?' As soon as the words were spoken Rhian regretted them. She pushed her hands in her pockets and kept her back turned to her husband. She could just picture his face red with anger, his eyes bright with hate. Rhian sometimes thought Charles would like to put his hands around her throat and slowly strangle her.

‘You bitch!' he said and his voice was filled with venom. ‘I took you in when you were pregnant with another man's child, I gave you respectability, my name.'

She spun round. ‘So you keep telling me and I am supposed to be eternally grateful, am I? Well think of it, Charles, if it wasn't for me you would be living in a semi somewhere, not in an eleven-bedroomed house with eleven acres of land round it.'

Charles stood up. ‘I can always trust you to rub my nose in it, can't I? You think that you'll emasculate me with that evil tongue of yours – well, it won't work, do you understand?'

‘You mean you're still a ram in the bedroom?' She spoke coolly now. ‘Well I wouldn't know, would I? What energy you have you save for that trollop of a mistress of yours.'

He strode towards her, his hand raised, and Rhian did not move.

‘Just once, Charles, just once and it's all over. I'll do what I should have done years ago and leave you.'

She walked to the door leading into the large sitting-room. ‘Just in case you think you'll get rid of me permanently, think again.' She half smiled. ‘I've got all eventualities covered.'

She left him fuming in the conservatory and walked easily up the wide staircase. Oh yes, she had all eventualities covered all right. Her last will and testament was in safe hands. With it was a letter pointing a finger at Charles in the event of Rhian's untimely death. Let him try to get the better of her if he liked, but he would not win. Neither would he deprive Lowri of her inheritance, however much he wished to leave her penniless.

In her room, Rhian took out the letter and read it again and then sank onto the bed, her hands over her eyes. She wished that Lowri were here so that she could hold her and comfort her. Perhaps it was time she took a trip to Jersey Marine Village. Charles would not like it, but it was many years since Rhian had cared what her husband liked.

She kicked off her sandals and stretched out on the bed. Through the open window she could hear the lazy drone of the bees in the honeysuckle. It was a soothing sound and after a while, Rhian slept.

It was Sunday, a hot dreaming summer day. A day very much like the one when Lowri and Jon set out for the Swan Hotel two weeks ago. Lowri sat in the sitting-room drinking coffee and trying not to feel alone in the world. She should shake herself free of her memories of Jon. He had vanished from her life; he had lied to her about everything. She was better off forgetting him. But it did not feel that way.

Her loneliness was edged with a feeling of guilt. However unknowingly, she had been having an affair with a married man. She could still see Sarah Brandon's troubled face, the eyes behind the large glasses filled with tears.

It might help if she could simply be angry with Jon, find a way to hate him, but Lowri's emotions were mixed; one minute she wanted to kill him with her bare hands and the next she was praying he was alive and well. The dreadful feeling of unfinished business only added to her confusion.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples. What had happened in that room that night? How could she have slept through it, whatever it was? She went over it all again for the hundredth time. They had arrived at the hotel; she had signed the register while Jon fetched the overnight bags from the car.