Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 2. Whole No. 822, February 2010

A Dark Reunion by Kate Ellis

Kate Ellis’s longest running mystery series features archaeology graduate DS Wesley Peterson, who fights crime in South Devon, England. Each entry in the series combines an intriguing contemporary murder mystery with a parallel historical case. More recently, Ms. Ellis decided to create an additional series set in a fictional northern English city whose model is the real city of York. She has made many visits to York in recent years, and it’s there that she takes us in this new story.

Sorry. What did you say your name was?” I asked, looking the man in the eye. He had a broad face topped by a shock of fair hair. And something about his face seemed familiar. If only I could place it.

The stream of tourists, already out in force first thing on Monday morning, parted around us like the incoming tide around a pair of immovable rocks. We were getting in the way, holding up the flow of pedestrians through the Shambles, one of York’s narrower streets. I started to edge away but my companion stood firm.

“How did you enjoy the reunion on Saturday?” His lips turned upwards in a secretive half smile as though he was enjoying some private joke.

Enlightenment had come at last. We must have met at the school reunion but I had no recollection of it. It was clear that he recognised me, but some people, I knew, had a better memory for names and faces than I had. In my work as a writer, I always tended, so my ex-wife used to tell me, to walk through life in an imaginative haze where my creations seemed more real than the people around me.

I stood there trying to remember. The reunion for my year at Semchester High School for Boys had taken place in a hotel just down the road — the Viking Suite of the Royal Boar, all patterned carpets and flocked wallpaper. Being there had reminded me that I would be fifty next year and the slim waistline of my youth was a distant memory, as was most of my hair. But I took comfort from the fact that my former classmates were in the same sorry physical state — paunches and thinning hair seemed as uniform now as our school blazers and ties were back in our distant school days. Time had gnawed away like a rat at all of us, with the possible exception of Sebastian Sitwall. Sebastian had become an actor — he’d even appeared in a couple of TV soaps — and I suspected that he was no stranger to the cosmetic surgeon’s knife. But then, I’d never liked him much.

The reunion — the sight of all those aging bodies I’d last seen as lean, hopeful teenagers — had made me feel a little depressed and I must have drunk more than I normally would. I’d woken the next morning with a roaring headache and, although I remembered the dinner, the speeches, and the raucous singing of the school song, the later part of the evening was a complete blank, which surprised me, as I’ve always been able to hold my drink. Perhaps this was a sign of incipient old age. I remembered that Shakespeare speech we learned in the sixth form — sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

To tell the truth, I had found the reunion — or what I could remember of it — rather a disappointment. My friend Robbie hadn’t been able to make it and I’d found myself stuck with people who had been more acquaintances than friends during my time at Semchester High. Sebastian Sitwall had monopolised me for a time, as though he felt our occupations had formed some kind of bond between us. But I found that I liked him no more now than I had done during our school days. He’d been an arrogant bully then and, although time had added subtlety to his repertoire, I suspected that the unpleasant nature of the schoolboy still lurked beneath the veneer of sophistication.

The voice of the man who’d stopped me brought me back to the present with a jolt. “I didn’t manage to talk to you at the reunion. I think you were a bit out of it later on, then you seemed to disappear,” he said with a knowing wink. “Someone said you were a writer. What kind of things do you write?”

It was a common question, and all writers have an automatic answer. But I was so busy searching the recesses of my mind for his name that I heard myself stutter, “Er, sort of crime. Detective stories and all that.”

“So you get them published?”

I nodded, feeling a little stab of irritation that he hadn’t heard of me... but, on the other hand, so few people had.

I decided to tackle the problem head-on. If I offended this man, what would it matter? I might never see him again in my life. “Look, I’m so sorry but I really can’t remember your name.”

The man’s grin widened. It had been fixed there on his lips since he first greeted me and it was beginning to get on my nerves. It was as though he knew something that I didn’t. “Now I don’t believe that for one moment, Jack. You always did have a sense of humour.”

“Honestly, I don’t remember. You’ll have to give me a clue.”

The man’s smile became more guarded. “You write detective books, so clues are your department.”

I suddenly felt uneasy. It could have been my imagination, but his words sounded vaguely threatening.

I made a great show of looking at my watch. “Sorry. Got to rush,” I said, trying to sound like a busy man. The truth was, I’d just delivered a manuscript to my publisher so I had a precious period of leisure before she delivered her verdict — but I wasn’t going to let him know that. He was still smiling as I raised my hand in farewell and wove my way through a crowd of Japanese tourists, escaping down a side street and through the bustling market.

I hurried home to my flat on Bootham, walking swiftly through the narrow streets filled with ambling sightseers and past the golden magnificence of the Minster, hardly aware of my surroundings. I couldn’t think why the encounter with the anonymous classmate had unnerved me, but there had been something about him that didn’t quite fit in with his story. Or perhaps it was my imagination.

It was when I reached my flat that events really began to take a strange turn. Especially when I found two plainclothes police officers waiting for me by the front door.

I’d never been arrested before and I found the whole process rather surreal. I was taken to the police station and informed that I was being arrested on suspicion of murder before being placed in an interview room facing two detectives, a man and a woman, across a table. I had written about this so many times, but I’d never ever imagined that I’d be on the receiving end, and I must confess that I felt frightened. This wasn’t a story. It was real, and I didn’t understand why I was there.

“How long have you known Elizabeth Uriel?” the woman asked, leaning forward, her face uncomfortably close to mine.

“I’ve never heard of her. Who is she?”

My interrogators looked at each other.

“We found your photograph in her flat. You’d signed it. To Liz with all my love, Jack.”

I closed my eyes. Had I known a Liz Uriel? Or any Liz, come to that? I’d met one once at my publisher’s office, but I was sure her surname was something quite different. And I certainly hadn’t given any woman a signed photograph. That’s not the sort of thing I normally do.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “As far as I know, I’m not acquainted with anyone of that name. Have you consulted a handwriting expert?” I asked hopefully. “Because as far as I can remember, I’ve never signed a photograph in my life.”

When there was no answer, I sensed they were on shaky ground and I felt a fresh wave of confidence. “Look, I really don’t think I’ve ever met this Liz Uriel, but if you show me a picture of her, I’ll be able to tell you for sure.” I tried to sound helpful, playing the cooperative citizen with nothing to hide.

Another glance was exchanged between my interrogators and the woman, a plump mouse-blonde with too-perfect teeth, produced a photograph like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a top hat. She slid it towards me, face down. I reached for it and turned it over.

My hands began to shake. It was the shock of seeing that dreadful image of the dead woman with her discoloured face and staring, blank eyes. At first I looked away in horror, then I forced myself to study the face. It was the face of a stranger. I was as sure as I could be that I’d never seen her before.

The two detectives looked at me expectantly.

“I don’t know her. Who is she? Where does she live? Where did she work? How was she killed and where? If you tell me about her, I might be able to prove I’m innocent.”

The woman took the photograph from my trembling fingers. “She lived near you in a flat just off Bootham. She was twenty-five years old and she worked in the box office at the theatre. She was killed in her flat... strangled. Her body was found the next morning by a friend who’d arranged to call round for coffee. We found various items in her flat indicating that you and she were...”

My heart began to pound. I didn’t know Liz Uriel. And I hadn’t been to the theatre for at least seven years. “What items?” I heard myself asking.

“A couple of utility bills. Your passport. Your credit-card statement.”

I was half aware of my mouth falling open in amazement. As far as I knew my passport was stashed safely at the bottom of the chest of drawers in my living room. I hadn’t bothered looking at it since I’d put it there for safety after my last trip to the States six months ago. As for the credit-card and utility bills, I’d paid them and filed them away in a kitchen drawer as usual.

“Now we have your fingerprints and a sample of your DNA, we’ll see what turns up at the murder scene.”

I began to feel the first flutterings of panic. “Look, this is ridiculous. I’ve no idea how those things came to be in this woman’s flat. I didn’t know her. And why should I have taken my passport and an assortment of bills round to her place if I was going to kill her anyway?” Suddenly I saw a ray of hope in the darkness of that windowless interview room. “It’s a setup. I’m being set up. Someone must have stolen those things from my flat to incriminate me.”

“And who would do that?”

I shook my head. It was a question I couldn’t answer. I had no enemies as far as I knew. Certainly nobody who’d go to all this trouble. “When exactly was she murdered?” I asked. Surely there must be some way to prove my innocence.

“The pathologist reckons she’d been dead for roughly twelve hours when she was found, so death probably occurred sometime on Saturday night between nine and midnight.”

I felt my lips twitch upwards in a smile. “I was at a school reunion that night. Lots of witnesses. You can check.”

This time the glance between the two police officers was one of deflated disappointment. “We will,” the man said before pushing a notepad and pen towards me.

I scribbled down some names and the woman left the room with the pad. Then I sat back in my chair, arms folded, awaiting her return and my inevitable release.

But when she came back, I was in for a shock.

I had been in the cell for over three hours before they came for me again, and I realised that I hadn’t known true boredom until that day. How long, I wondered, could a man sit on a blue plastic mattress in a small room staring at four blank walls before going insane? The time dragged, and each minute seemed like an hour. When they came to take me to the interview room again, I felt an unexpected rush of relief.

But my elation was short-lived. The same two officers were waiting for me and the young man had a smug look on his face.

“We’ve been speaking to some of your old school pals.” He let the sentence hang in the air, as though he was about to impart a juicy piece of news.

“And?” I prompted. “They confirmed I was at the reunion all evening?”

The man sat back, a self-satisfied smile on his face. For a few moments I felt like punching him, but I knew I’d come off worst. “Nobody saw you after ten, and everyone presumed you’d left early. Apparently you were so drunk you could hardly walk straight. Someone saw you being helped outside, but they can’t remember who you were with.”

“I didn’t. I...” I found myself stuttering, my heart sinking with despair. I didn’t remember leaving the reunion. In fact, I didn’t remember anything of that evening after around nine-thirty. Had I left alone? How had I got home? Suddenly I realised I had no idea. “I want a lawyer,” I heard myself say before giving them Robbie’s name. My old classmate, Robbie Galton, had missed the reunion because of a prior engagement, but he had been a good friend over the years. And he was a partner in one of the city’s leading law firms.

If anyone could get me out of there, it would be Robbie Galton.

I waited in the cell for two endless hours for Robbie to turn up, and when he did he looked worried. Robbie was still lean as a ferret, with sharp features and restless hands. At school he had been good at games — the one picked for all the teams — and he had been an amiable, easygoing boy who had grown into an amiable, easygoing man. I liked Robbie, and we met up often... usually in far better situations than the one I found myself in now.

Robbie sat down beside me on the blue mattress, a concerned frown clouding his face. “So what happened?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember a thing after about half-nine. They say I was drunk, but I can’t remember having that much to drink. And I know I couldn’t have killed this woman. I didn’t even know her.”

Robbie thought for a few moments. “From the evidence I’ve seen, I tend to agree with you, mate. Who’d take utility bills and a passport round to their victim’s flat so they can be discovered conveniently by the police? It doesn’t make sense. Have you had a break-in recently?”

I shook my head.

“But if the killer found you unconscious, he could have taken your keys and helped himself. You’re sure you can’t remember having a lot to drink at the reunion?”

“A few glasses of wine. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Could someone have spiked your drink?”

I felt my heart lift. Of course. I had felt awful the next morning — certainly worse than a normal hangover. Why hadn’t I thought of it earlier? “They can do blood tests for traces of drugs, can’t they?” I said hopefully. “If they...”

But Robbie interrupted. “I’m afraid some of these so-called date-rape drugs leave the bloodstream pretty quickly, and it’s over thirty-six hours already so it’s going to be hard to prove. But it’s worth a try. Can you remember who you were talking to?”

“Lots of people.” I recited some names, and Robbie solemnly copied them down. When I said Sebastian’s name he looked up sharply. I knew he didn’t like Sebastian. In fact, whenever his name was mentioned, Robbie usually changed the subject.

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen?” he asked.

I put my head in my hands, trying to remember. “I met someone when I was in town first thing this morning. He said he’d been at the reunion, but I couldn’t remember him. In fact, I couldn’t place him at all. I asked him to remind me of his name, but he never told me. It was a bit odd, really.”

Robbie looked down at the list in his hand. “I’ll make some calls and get back to you.” He stood up and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Don’t go away, will you.”

“Fat chance,” I replied as the cell door opened to let him out into the world of the free.

Robbie turned up again a few hours later, just when boredom was turning to blind panic. This time I met him in the interview room, and he was carrying a file. He placed it on the table and opened it. Inside I could see a typed list of names and a selection of photographs. Middle-aged men in groups and individually. I could see myself amongst them, forcing a smile for the camera.

“I got these from some of the people who were there — the wonders of digital technology, eh. Can you see your mystery man on any of them?”

I studied them carefully, but I couldn’t see the man I’d met on the Shambles. Then Robbie took his reading glasses out of his jacket pocket and handed them to me. I gave him a grateful look. We were the same age and he understood. I slipped the glasses on and when I studied the pictures again I spotted the man in the background, standing in the shadows of a doorway, well away from the rest of my old classmates. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I had the impression he was watching. And the person he was watching appeared to be me.

I pointed to him and returned Robbie’s reading glasses. “There he is. I know most of these people from our year and I don’t recognise him. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who it is.”

Robbie frowned and said nothing.

We both went through the list of names of those who’d attended that Robbie had printed out from the school Web site, matching them with the faces. Whoever this man was, it seemed his name wasn’t there on the list. Which struck me as strange.

I stared at the image of the mystery man. He definitely reminded me of someone... someone I’d rather forget. In fact, I had forgotten him — put him out of my mind for thirty-five years. And now Paul Nebworth was crawling from the dark recesses of my memory like a portent of doom.

I had been with Paul Nebworth when he disappeared all those years ago. I hadn’t been able to keep up, so he had gone on ahead.

I shut my eyes tight and saw the scene again. We were fifteen and out in the Lake District on a geography trip. I’d been cold and wet and my shoes had been giving me blisters. Paul Nebworth and I had been working together that day and he had barged ahead into the descending mist, in his usual devil-may-care way. Paul Nebworth had been oblivious to danger and a show-off. And I never saw him alive again.

Suddenly I knew the identity of the stranger in the Shambles. It was Paul Nebworth. No wonder his face had seemed so familiar. But thirty-five years ago he had strode ahead of me into the thickening fog and disappeared from view. Everyone assumed that he had fallen into the ravine, but his body had never been found and laid to rest. Which was hardly surprising if he was still alive.

I wondered whether to tell Robbie about my theory, but I was afraid he’d think I was having one of my customary flights of fantasy. Anyway, if Paul Nebworth was still alive, where had he been all these years?

It was a stupid idea. The stranger had borne a strong resemblance to the young Paul Nebworth, but that didn’t mean the boy had come back from the dead. And this little mystery probably had nothing to do with my current predicament.

Robbie left. There were things to arrange. And after what seemed like hours I was released on police bail. There had been no fingerprints matching mine in the dead woman’s flat and they hadn’t managed to gather enough evidence to charge me.

I walked from the police station half free. And that was when my troubles really began.

I loved my flat on the first floor of one of the elegant Georgian townhouses lining Bootham, a long, straight Roman road just outside York’s ancient city walls; but when I returned there that day, I had an uneasy feeling that someone had been inside. That my sanctuary had somehow been violated.

Some things seemed to have moved slightly, and I was sure the place had been searched. I told myself that it must have been the police. And yet, they hadn’t mentioned it.

I was about to pour myself a drink when I had second thoughts. It might have been drink that had landed me in this mess in the first place. I’d just put the bottle back on the sideboard when the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver, my hands tingling with nerves. The events of the last twenty-four hours had made me jumpy. I said hello, but for a few moments there was silence on the other end of the line.

Then the caller spoke. One word. “Murderer.”

I’d had enough. “Look. I never met that woman. I’ve been set up.”

“I know.”

For a few seconds I was lost for words. Then I heard myself say, “Who is this? What do you want?”

“You killed Paul Nebworth and you’re going to pay for what you did.”

I heard the dial tone and I stood frozen, staring at the receiver in my hand. At last I knew what was going on. Whoever set me up thought I was responsible for Paul Nebworth’s death on that school trip all those years ago. The caller had withheld his number, but I was certain I knew his identity. It was the man I’d met in the Shambles, no doubt about it. The man who bore such a strong resemblance to Paul Nebworth himself.

I put my head in my hands. None of this made sense. I closed my eyes and tried to relive that fateful day up in the Lake District thirty-five years ago. We had been working in pairs in that wild mountainous landscape when the weather had started closing in and we found ourselves surrounded by thick, impenetrable mist. These days, health and safety regulations would have stopped the trip taking place, but things were different back then. Robbie was somewhere ahead of us, having been paired with Sebastian Sitwall for some reason I’ve since forgotten: perhaps Mr. Goff, the geography teacher, had considered Robbie a calming influence. I’d been put with Paul Nebworth, a boy I didn’t particularly get on with, but Goff never liked friends working together. Sebastian and Robbie had vanished into the mist and then Paul had dashed ahead, as though he was trying to catch them up. I had hung back because I couldn’t be bothered hurrying. Then, when I looked for Paul, he was gone. And Robbie and Sebastian swore that he’d never reached them.

I was questioned at the time, and I think I was believed when I told the police that Paul had simply disappeared. If others thought differently, there was nothing I could do about it. How could I prove my innocence after all these years?

I picked up the phone and dialled Robbie’s number. I needed someone to talk to; someone who knew that I was no murderer. And there was something I wanted him to do for me.

Robbie turned up a couple of hours later. He looked as tired as I felt. Perhaps he was under some strain of his own that he hadn’t told me about. He always seemed short of money, and his marriage had broken up some years before. Perhaps his ex-wife, like mine, was bleeding him dry. He never talked about her much these days, so I couldn’t be sure.

“So what have you found out?” I asked as he sat on the edge of my sofa.

He studied a sheet of paper he was holding. “Paul Nebworth had a younger brother. His parents moved down south after...”

“So the brother never went to our school?”

Robbie shook his head. “From what I gather, the parents made a clean break. Moved miles away.”

“So our mystery man could be Paul’s brother?” If he was, it explained a lot, I thought. Perhaps he’d only just discovered what had happened to Paul. Perhaps he had come to York bent on revenge for some reason. Revenge on me. But I was innocent.

“And what have you found out about the dead girl? Elizabeth Uriel?”

Robbie leaned forward, as though he didn’t want to be overheard. “I spoke to one of her neighbours... showed her that photo with our mystery man in the background. She was sure she’d seen him at Uriel’s flat. Said she heard raised voices a couple of times.”

“We should tell the police about this.” I suddenly felt hopeful that the nightmare was about to end.

But Robbie shook his head. “We’d better wait till we have more evidence.” He looked away, avoiding my eyes. “I’m sorry, Jack. You know what the police are like.”

I noticed that he was fidgeting with his shirt cuff, something he’d always done when he was nervous or agitated. Perhaps there was something he wasn’t telling me. “I think it would be best if you just left it for now; wait and see what happens. The police aren’t stupid. I reckon they know you’d been set up and that’s why you were released on bail. They’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“You should still tell them what you’ve found out, Robbie.” I looked him in the eye and I could tell he was uneasy. But I couldn’t think why this was.

“Like I said, let’s wait and see. Sorry, I’ve got to go.” He stifled a yawn. I could see the strain on his face. Just then he looked ten years older than he had that morning.

I saw him out and settled down for what was left of the evening. My flat wasn’t luxurious, but it was comfortable and a million times better than that cell in the bowels of the police station. I’d have a long soak in the bath and a reasonably early night.

And it was when I was lying in the bath, eyes closed, with the warm water lapping around my body, that I heard the metallic click of a key turning in a lock.

I froze, listening. I could hear the front door closing followed by soft footsteps on the wooden floor. Then I remembered that whoever had set me up must have had access to my key at some point. It would be a simple matter to get it copied in any high street. I stepped out of the bath, towelled myself down, and grabbed my dressing gown. If I had to face an intruder, I didn’t want to be naked and vulnerable.

The intruder was moving about in the living room as I made my way quietly along the passage. The door stood open and I could see him. He had picked up a framed photograph of me and Robbie together, drinks in hand, at some long-forgotten function, and he was staring at it with intense concentration.

I watched him for a while before I spoke.

“Why are you doing this?” I kept my voice quiet, calm. I didn’t yet know whether my visitor was dangerous.

He swung round. It was him, the man from the Shambles. And he looked frightened, which wasn’t what I expected.

“Why aren’t you in custody?” he said almost in a whisper.

“Because I didn’t kill that woman.”

He took a step back, recovering from the shock of being interrupted. I could tell he was biding his time, gathering strength.

“But you killed her, didn’t you?” I said, trying to keep my voice firm and confident. “You set me up. You drugged me at the reunion somehow, brought me back here, and took stuff to plant at her flat to incriminate me. Why did you kill her?”

The man suddenly looked unsure of himself. “We quarrelled. It was an accident.”

“The police said she was strangled. You don’t strangle people by accident.”

He took a step forward. “Okay, I lost my temper. Then I thought I’d turn the situation to my advantage. I’ve waited a long time for this.”

“For what?” I had a strong feeling of foreboding. This wasn’t going well.

“To get justice for my brother. I only found out a few months ago that you were responsible for Paul’s death. My mother died and I went through her papers. I was much younger than Paul, you see. My parents shielded me... told me nothing.”

“You’re wrong. I had nothing to do with what happened to Paul.” Somehow I had to convince him.

But he wasn’t listening. “The reports said you were working with him when he died, but you denied seeing what happened to him. You must have lied. And when I looked up Semchester High on the Internet and saw that your year were having a reunion and that you were going, I...”

“I had nothing to do with Paul’s death. I swear,” I almost shouted. I had to make him believe me.

He took a step toward me and my heart started to pound. I wrote about danger and murder all the time but the reality was quite different. I was scared.

“You must have killed him. There was nobody else.”

“You’re wrong. There were lots of other people around. And they never found his body, so how are you so sure he’s dead?”

This was obviously a question he hadn’t expected. He frowned, considering the answer. “He must be dead. He wouldn’t have gone away like that.”

He was beginning to have doubts, and I suddenly began to feel more confident. But then I remembered that he had killed once. And, what is more, I knew he’d killed — he’d confessed to me. He wasn’t going to leave a witness to his crime. I was in trouble. Serious trouble.

I looked round, searching for inspiration. The newspaper I’d picked up on the way home was lying, unread, on the coffee table and a headline caught my eye. “Actor killed in mystery robbery.” And beneath the headline was a posed photograph of Sebastian Sitwall displaying a row of perfect teeth. I felt as though the breath had been knocked out of me. I had only seen Sebastian a couple of days ago at the reunion and, even though I hadn’t liked him, man or boy, I was distracted momentarily from my predicament.

“What is it?” My unwelcome visitor’s question brought me back to reality.

“One of your brother’s old classmates has been killed. He was at the reunion. Actor called Sebastian Sitwall. You still haven’t told me your name.”

The man said nothing for a few moments, then he spoke. “It’s better you don’t know.” He reached in his pocket and I knew that this was life or death. He’d killed a woman in a fit of rage, then he’d tried to frame me because he thought he’d found evidence that I’d killed his brother. Only he was wrong. When Paul disappeared into the mist that day, I had no idea what had happened to him. All I knew was that I hadn’t killed him.

When the doorbell rang, I jumped. I hadn’t realised I was so tense, but then it was hardly surprising in the circumstances. The bell rang again and my captor and I stared at each other.

“Ignore it,” he whispered. “They’ll go away.”

I had no choice but to obey. His hand was still inside his jacket, and I had a feeling that he had some kind of weapon in there. He was sure to have come prepared.

Suddenly I heard the door being pushed open, and Robbie’s voice calling hello. Instinctively I shouted back, “Call the police, Robbie. He’s here.”

I saw a look of horror pass across the man’s face as he shoved me out of the way. He dashed past Robbie, almost knocking him to the ground as he flew out of the door. A stunned Robbie steadied himself and caught his breath for a few moments before I sat him down and poured us both a drink.

“We’d better call the police,” I said. “He confessed to killing that woman and said he set me up because he thought I’d killed Paul Nebworth. He’s Paul’s younger brother.”

“I know.”

I looked at Robbie. He was shaking.

“I know all about Paul’s family. I made it my business to find out all about them when...”

“When what?” I didn’t wait for the answer. “I’ve just read in the paper that Sebastian Sitwall’s been killed. It said he must have disturbed some robbers at his home in Harrogate.” I pushed the paper towards Robbie so he could read it for himself.

But he brushed it away. “I know. I saw it earlier. In fact, that’s why I’m here.” He took a long drink and I refilled his glass. “Sebastian was a murderer, Jack. Sebastian killed Paul. I saw him do it.”

I felt confused. Robbie’s words didn’t make sense. But then I thought about it for a while and there did seem to be a horrible logic to it. Paul had gone striding ahead into the mist on that fateful day and he could easily have caught up with Robbie and Sebastian. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Robbie shook his head. “It was misty and it all happened so quickly. I could have been mistaken. Sebastian swore it was an accident.”

“So what happened to Paul’s body?”

“Sebastian dealt with it. I don’t know what he did with him.”

I was speechless for a while, staring at my old friend who had nursed this dreadful secret all those years.

“I had to tell someone. I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.”

He was on the verge of tears and I gave him a hug. He was my oldest friend, after all.

I heard about Robbie’s accident on the same day the police came to inform me that Paul Nebworth’s younger brother, Neil, had been arrested for the murder of Elizabeth Uriel. As well as my testimony, there was a lot of evidence against him: DNA, fingerprints, the statements of neighbours and Liz’s work colleagues that her short-lived relationship with the violent and unstable Neil Nebworth had been tempestuous to say the least. One of Liz’s friends reckoned he’d never got over losing his big brother in some freak accident. Liz had told her that he’d gone on about it a lot.

As soon as the police had left, I had the call from Robbie’s ex-wife. She wanted to meet me. She had some news.

Fiona and Robbie had been married eighteen years before she told Robbie that there was someone else... someone at work who made her feel alive in the way poor Robbie never could. And Robbie was so bad with money. In spite of his good job, they always seemed to be living hand to mouth. In the end, Fiona had had enough.

I met her in the Hole in the Wall on High Petergate, because it was convenient for both of us. I ordered a pint of bitter for myself and a dry white wine for Fiona. She looked pale and she drank thirstily, as though she needed it.

She put down her glass and came straight to the point. “Robbie’s dead. He drove his car into a wall. They’re assuming the brakes failed and the stupid man wasn’t wearing a seat belt.” She shook her head. “I’ve been to his flat and I found this envelope addressed to you.”

She handed me a large brown envelope and I began to tear it open. Then I stopped. I was being insensitive. “Are you okay, Fiona? It must be a shock even though...”

“Even though I ran off with another man?” She gave a bitter little laugh. “Yes, Jack, you’re right. It is a shock. I hadn’t realised how much...”

She let the sentence hang in the air between us. At one time, I’d thought Fiona was greedy and heartless. But the expression on her face told me otherwise.

I didn’t open the envelope there and then. Something made me take it home to deal with over a drink — a toast to Robbie. As I tore at the envelope I felt warm tears streaming down my face. I saw Robbie as he’d been when we’d first met as two callow first-years in over-large blazers. Then as we grew to adolescence, and finally on that trip to the Lakes. The day that had cast a shadow over our lives.

There were several sheets of paper inside the envelope. Typewritten. And when I’d finished reading, blinking away my tears, I realised that I would never divulge the contents to a living soul. It was the least I could do for my old friend.

“My dear Jack,” it began. “By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. It’s for the best. All these years I’ve been living with secrets so dreadful that I could never share them with anybody — even you, my friend. I’m a murderer — the lowest of the low. The truth is that when Paul Nebworth caught us up that day, he started messing about — if he’d carried on, he would have messed up the whole project, and I needed good marks to get into university. I was serious-minded back then, as you know. Paul and I starting rowing and we came to blows. I thought Sebastian hadn’t seen what happened, but it turned out that he was lurking behind some rocks and witnessed the whole thing. He said it would be best if we tried to hide the body and he said he’d seen an old shaft or cave nearby so we both put Paul down there and covered it up with turf. I was numb with panic at what I’d done, but Sebastian was so calm... as though he did that sort of thing every day. It was an accident, Jack — I just lost my temper and hit out and he fell and hit his head.

“Sebastian never spoke about it again... until it was in the paper that I’d been made a partner in the firm. Then he called and asked to meet me. That was when he started demanding money to keep quiet... bleeding me white. It cost me my marriage, I’m sure of that. I killed him, Jack. I’d had enough. I called to see him, and when he wouldn’t listen to reason I picked up a heavy ashtray and smashed his skull. When he fell he just lay there, blood gushing from his head, staring at me with those dead eyes... just like Paul. I made it look like a robbery, but I just couldn’t keep up the pretence. Believe me, Jack. It’s better this way.”

That night I remembered my old friend and drank to his memory. And the next day I went on the old boys’ Web site of Semchester High because I thought some kind of tribute might be appropriate.

The Web site had been updated to feature pictures of the reunion. There was Sebastian Sitwall, who was posing for the camera wearing the smile of a satisfied snake. I could just spot Neil Nebworth in the background, avoiding the lens. And me. Jack Jenkins. Jack the innocent, who had no idea that his best friend was a killer. No wonder my ex had said I went round in a dream.

When I’d finished posting a carefully worded tribute to Robbie, I noticed the words there in large letters with a trio of exclamation marks. Fantastic Reunion. Let’s do it again next year!!!

Somehow I don’t think I’ll be there.

Copyright © 2010 Kate Ellis