Final Witness

Chapter 17

After the funeral, Peter stood beneath the portrait of his father-in-law in the dining room of the House of the Four Winds, talking in turn to each of the friends, neighbors, and distant relatives who had come to pay their respects.

His training in politics had made him skillful at this type of event. He remembered almost everybody’s name and spoke to each of them for just the right amount of time, accepting their sympathy with just the right amount of gratitude.

All the time that he was talking, however, he was also looking for his son. Thomas had disappeared after the funeral, and no one, not even Jane Martin, seemed to know where he had gone. Peter had been very conscious of how the boy had shrunk from his side in the graveyard, and he wanted to try to bridge the gap between them before he had to go back to London.

Not a day passed that Peter did not regret hitting his son, although he knew himself well enough to realize that it was not something that he could have chosen not to do. Thomas had provoked him too far when he said those terrible things.

Most of the guests had gone when Jane Martin told Peter that Greta wanted him on the phone. He extricated himself politely from a conversation with the Flyte harbormaster and took his glass of red wine into the study where he stood looking out through the newly repaired window as he picked up the phone.

“Hullo, Greta,” he said, but there was no response. Just a hubbub of voices above which he could hear a drunken man shouting that he wanted to go home.

“Greta!” he shouted into the phone. He could feel something was wrong, although he didn’t know what it was.

He heard her voice just before he was about to hang up and try to call back.

“Peter, thank God you’re there. They’ve arrested me.”

Peter dropped his glass of wine on the floor. It did not smash, but the red wine spread out over the pale carpet and Peter turned away. It looked too much like blood.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m in Ipswich with this Hearns man. They brought me here from London.”

“Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. There’s a lawyer here. He says that Thomas has made a statement saying it was me that sent those men to kill Anne. I don’t understand how he could say that to them, Peter. Not after all the time that we’ve spent together.”

“Greta, I’m coming. I’ll get you out. I promise.”

“Make it quick, Peter. Please.”

As he put down the phone, Peter saw his son come through the north gate and walk toward the house across the lawn. Peter ran outside to intercept him. They met under an old elm tree, and Peter pulled his son behind it so that they wouldn’t be visible from the dining room window.

“What is it, Dad?” Thomas was alarmed. His father was breathless and had still not let go of the lapel of his suit jacket.

“Where’ve you been?” It was not the question Peter wanted to ask but he needed time to find the right words.

“I went down to the beach. I was trying to make some sense of it all. You can help me, Dad.”

“Help you?” Peter laughed harshly. He could hear the wine in his voice. He’d drunk too much at the wake or whatever the dismal gathering inside was called. It wasn’t just today, of course. He was drinking too much every day and every night trying to cope while his son went off to that pushy policeman and stuck a knife in his back.

“Help you after what you’ve done to me!”

“What, Dad?”

Thomas sounded frightened now. His father had hold of both his lapels and was shaking him as he spoke.

Abruptly Peter let go. It was as if an electrical current inside him had suddenly been switched off.

“They’ve arrested Greta. Just like you wanted them to. You’ve got what you wanted now, Thomas.”

“It’s not what I want, Dad. It’s what’s right. That man was with her in London. I know he was.”

“There’s no point arguing with you, Thomas. You’ve gone down your own road now, and I can’t follow. I just think I deserved better from you. That’s all.”

“Oh, Dad.” Thomas began to cry. All the sense that he had started to make of things at the graveside and down on the beach began to crumble inside him.

“I’m sorry, Thomas. Perhaps you should have waited to make your revelations until after your mother’s funeral.”

Peter knew he was being cruel. Somewhere inside he even dimly realized that he was quite wrong to speak to his fifteen-year-old son like this on the day of his mother’s funeral, but uppermost in his mind was the thought of Greta in the police station among all the drunks and lechers. Stuck in the back of the police car coming down from London, with Hearns beside her sweating onto the stained upholstery, and now sitting in a cell feeling sick and scared.

“It’s true, Dad. Why can’t you believe me?” Thomas begged his father through his tears.

“Because it’s not true. It’s delusion. You’re sick with delusion, and you’re making innocent people pay for it.” The urgency was back in Peter’s voice. “I’ve got to go now, Thomas.”

“Where?”

“Where do you think? To Ipswich Police Station to get Greta out, and then I’m taking her back to London.”

“When will I see you again, Dad?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got to go back to work. Jane’ll be here to look after you, and then we’ll see. You need to go to a good school and learn something. That’s my opinion.”

Thomas turned away. There was no point in talking to this man who understood him so little. Just like his father hadn’t understood his mother.

Thomas started to walk slowly toward the house. His shoulders sagged and his back bent like he was carrying a burden way beyond his years.

“Pull yourself together, Thomas,” his father called after him. “There are still people in the house.”

Peter drove fast, checking in his rearview mirror to see that none of the reporters at the gate had followed him. The road was empty, and beyond Carmouth he wound down the windows and tried to make some sense of what was happening.

Above all he felt guilty about having left Greta alone in London. She had offered to come to the funeral, but he had told her to stay away. He hadn’t wanted any more conflict with Thomas after what had happened in Woodbridge, but he should have seen this coming. There was a craziness about his son that afternoon that should have given him fair warning, although there was obviously nothing he could have done once Thomas had decided to point the finger at Greta. Injustice must take its course, like justice. Except that he might have been there with her when they came for her; he might have been able to get to the police station sooner, get her a good lawyer. She needed someone strong to protect her from Hearns with his probing questions and dirty insinuations.

Greta was still being interviewed when he got to the station. He paced up and down in the front office, watched indifferently by a uniformed constable behind the desk.

“How long will it be before I can see Sergeant Hearns?” he’d asked over and over again, only to get the same reply each time.

“He knows you’re here, sir. He knows you’re here.”

It was past six o’clock, and Peter was debating whether or not to go to the nearest pub and drink some whisky when Hearns came out.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir Peter.”

“No you’re not,” Peter countered rudely. “Couldn’t you have waited until after the funeral?”

“I’m afraid not. We have to move quickly, otherwise evidence might be destroyed.”

“Who by?”

Sergeant Hearns did not reply, other than to raise his shaggy gray eyebrows. He looked as if he was wearing the same suit and tie that he’d worn on the night of the murder.

“Can I ask you a question, Sir Peter?” he said after a moment. “Why are you so angry about us pursuing this investigation? It is your wife that has been killed. I would have thought you would want us to find the culprit.”

“The right culprit. I don’t want you chasing up blind alleys. Persecuting my assistant.”

“She’s not been persecuted, Sir Peter. She’s been interviewed.”

Hearns’s studied politeness enraged Peter even further.

“You have no right!” he shouted. “She’s done nothing wrong.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” said the detective. “It does seem strange to me that you should be so concerned about us interviewing Miss Grahame, Sir Peter. I hope that you’re not concealing anything. That would not be sensible.”

“What the hell do you mean? How dare you talk to me like that! Do you know who I am?”

Peter felt himself losing his temper, but his anger seemed to have no effect on Hearns’s maddening equanimity.

“You’re an important minister in Her Majesty’s government, and to be honest with you, I don’t know if we’ve ever had a minister in this police station. We don’t get too many VIP’s down in our neck of the woods. I should get you to sign our visitors’ book before you go.”

Peter was speechless. Hearns clearly had a real talent for being rude while pretending to be the opposite.

“The point is, Sir Peter, it doesn’t matter who you are. You could be the prime minister, and it wouldn’t stop me doing my job. There’s evidence pointing toward your assistant, and it’s my duty to investigate it.”

“What evidence? A ridiculous identification and a window she’s left open by mistake. You’re trying to build a case for which there’s no foundation, when you should be out trying to catch the real killers.”

“I am trying to catch them, Sir Peter, and I won’t allow you or anyone else to stand in my way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I want to take Greta home with me now. Have you finished with her?”

“Yes, just about. There are a few formalities. It won’t take long.”

“So you’re not charging her. I thought as much. You’re not charging her because you haven’t got any evidence.”

“There is evidence, Sir Peter, but at present there is no charge.”

Hearns smiled as if pleased with the succinctness of his response, and once again Peter was treated to a sight of the detective’s yellowing teeth.

“I will have Miss Grahame join you in just a few minutes,” he said.

Greta slept on the way back to London. Peter drove fast, glancing repeatedly at her profile. The smooth, soft skin of her face and the groomed black hair tucked behind her delicate ear made his heart beat fast. He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed her. He felt determined to protect her from a hostile world, whatever the cost might be.

In Chelsea he stood at the top of the railings while she went down to the basement and opened the door. A minute later he heard her scream. Inside the apartment, drawers were pulled out everywhere and papers lay all over the floor. There was no cupboard or recess that had not been searched.

“They must have carried on after Hearns took me to Ipswich,” she said. “I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”

“Oh, Greta, I wish I could do something,” he said. “I feel so responsible. I didn’t want you to come back to this.”

“You are doing something. You’re being here.”

They were in the kitchen and Greta was moving about, straightening her possessions, making coffee, and bringing out a glass and a bottle of whisky for Peter.

“Have some too, Greta,” he said. “You’ll feel better.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll feel worse,” she said, laughing suddenly. “The coffee’s enough, and I’ll have some toast. I didn’t touch anything in that filthy police station.”

“Was it really bad?”

“It was squalid. Full of human misery like those places are. They put you in a cell, give you a taste of it to soften you up before they start asking you questions.”

“I’ve never been in one.”

“Of course you haven’t, Peter. You haven’t got a rich past life like me. Sorry, poor would be a better word.” Greta spoke harshly. There was a bitterness in her voice that Peter had not heard before.

“What are they going to do, Greta?”

“Oh, they gave me a date to go back. ‘Bail to return’ it’s called, but nothing’ll happen. They’re grasping at straws.”

“I know. That’s what I told Thomas.”

“It’s because of him that they’re doing it. You know that, don’t you, Peter? He’s so convinced that I’m the person behind it that he’s got Hearns convinced too. And the best part is that he didn’t even see the face of the man that I’m supposed to have been with. God, I wish I hadn’t lied. It’s too late now, of course.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Greta. I understand why you had to. What else have the police got?”

“The window that I forgot to close. The arrangement with Mrs. Ball that Anne asked me to make, and now they’ve got sweet Aunt Jane saying that I was standing in the hall talking to myself about how Lady Anne ‘had fucking had it now.’ Mrs. Posh I’m supposed to have called her.”

“Jane told me something about this. It was the day after it happened, and I went over to Woodbridge to talk to her and Thomas. Everyone got angry.”

“Well, I know why she’s said it. To back up Thomas, because that’s his problem. He needs someone else to say something.”

“You mean she’s lying.”

“Of course she’s lying. She’s always hated me.”

“I’ll dismiss her then.”

“No, don’t do that. It’ll just make things worse.”

“No, you’re right. I can’t leave Thomas there on his own.”

“On his own?”

“I can’t see him. Not after what he’s said to me. Not after what he’s done.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He said I was protecting you because we’re, we’re…” Peter flushed and looked away, busying himself with pouring out another glass of whisky.

Greta sat down beside him at the table and took his other hand in hers, knotting their fingers together.

“Look at me, Peter,” she said. “That’s why Thomas is doing this. I didn’t want to tell you before, but things have gone too far now. You need to understand.”

She was very close to him, and he sat captivated by her glittering green eyes.

“He wanted me, Peter. He told me that I was beautiful, that he loved me.”

“When? What did you do?”

Peter felt a rush of panic as if she’d suddenly taken a knife out of the drawer and put it to his throat.

“It was in the taxi on the way back here after we had a picnic in the park. The day that you couldn’t make it, you remember.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. What do you think I did? He was fourteen and I’m twenty-seven. I told him that he was very sweet but it wasn’t right. What else was I supposed to say?”

“Nothing. You did right. He must be crazy.”

“He’s a teenager who has never had a girlfriend. He’s thinking about sex three times a minute just like other boys his age.”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point. The reason I’m telling you all this is so that you’ll understand why he’s got it in for me. I rejected him and he’s got to hate me for that. Then he thinks that I’m having sex with you, which makes him hate me even more because I’ve taken you away from him and because he’s jealous. Then his mother’s killed and he feels guilty about having wanted me when I wasn’t Lady Anne’s favorite person. It’s a poisonous brew.”

“Did he touch you, Greta?”

The thought of his son’s hands, of anyone’s hands holding Greta had engulfed Peter. He suddenly felt sick with jealousy.

“Of course he didn’t, Peter. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t want anyone to touch you.”

“They’re not going to.”

She smiled and reached out her hand so that it touched his cheek. Her red lips were open, and he could see the tip of her tongue between her perfect small white teeth.

He took hold of her hand and kissed it. He meant his touch to be gentle, but instead it was hungry and his breath came in short, sharp bursts.

She stood up, and for a moment he thought she was going to leave but she did not pull away. Instead she took his other hand, unlacing it from the whisky glass, and brought it up until it covered her breast.

She looked dreamily at the wall through half-closed eyes as he cupped her breast in his palm and felt with his fingers for the hard nipple through the thin black material of her dress.

She was feeling behind her back for the zipper, grimacing in frustration when she could not reach it, but she did not speak. Instead she pulled his other hand round behind her, pressing herself forward into his body while she guided his fingers upward.

A moment later and he had found it. He pulled down and suddenly he felt the flesh of her back. He pulled apart the bra strap so that he could feel the hard bones of her shoulder blades and below that, a second later, the parting of her skin, the cleft above her buttocks.

As Peter’s hand descended, Greta threw her head back, exhaling deeply. The black dress fell away from her, and his face was crushed into the soft center of her breast. He opened his mouth and searched with his tongue for the nipple. It was hard and thick between his teeth, and he held her breast in both his hands, feeling in his fingers the soft size of it, the weight of it in his palms.

But she would not stay still. Instead she was pushing the dress down over her hips as she straddled him in the chair. Reaching out he cupped his hands under her strong buttocks so that he could guide himself deep into her.

Later they made love in Greta’s unmade bed, ignoring the chaos of the ransacked room around them. He moved slowly inside her with his eyes wide open so that he could experience every facet of her nakedness; the pink aureoles, the cleavage between her high breasts, the rich, thick blackness of her pubic hair.

“I love you, Greta,” he whispered and she smiled.

“He loves me, he loves me not,” she said as she rocked backward and forward above him, but he knew that his time for choice, if there had ever been a time, was now over.

Six hours earlier he had watched his wife being lowered into the wet ground, and now here he was having sex with his assistant for the second time. He was disgusted with himself; he smelled the whisky on his breath and the sweat on his body, but at the same time he rejoiced. Greta was more beautiful than he could ever have imagined.

At half past one the telephone rang. Just once, but it was enough to wake Peter up. He had been sleeping badly for the last week anyway. The whisky gave him insomnia, and any disturbance shattered his uneasy dreams.

He lay on his side facing the window and listened to Greta’s whispered conversation.

“Do you know what time it is?” she said angrily, and then after a moment she added: “Wait, I’m going to go in the other room. I’ll call you back.”

He felt her get out of bed and put on a robe. She went out into the hall and put the light on and then came back to stand on his side of the bed looking down at him for a moment. He kept his eyes closed and breathed evenly. He didn’t know why. It was almost as if he felt it was the polite thing to do, to pretend to be asleep.

She pulled the door to behind her without closing it fully, and he sat up in the darkness wondering who it could possibly be, who would call Greta like this in the middle of the night. He thought of the blackmailer Greta had told him about on the night of the murder. Had he come back? Perhaps he wanted more money. That’s what usually happened. It wasn’t just Greta’s problem now, Peter realized. It was his too. Peter needed to tell Greta that she could count on him. He groped around on the floor for his clothes and pulled on his shirt and trousers. Then he walked purposefully down the hallway to the door at the far end and paused with the handle in his hand. Greta’s voice was audible on the other side of the door and Peter suddenly felt that he would be intruding to walk in on her. He knew he ought to go back to bed, but her words kept him rooted to the spot.

“Look, you’ve got to leave me alone.” Greta sounded angry like she had been in the bedroom.

A pause, then her voice came again, louder this time: “Don’t call me that. I’m not your Greta Rose. Not anymore.”

Another pause and then: “You’ve had what we agreed. You got it all. Now leave me alone.”

Peter felt like a spy. He had to go forward or back, and he went forward. He needed to know what it all meant.

As he opened the door, he was just in time to hear her last words before she put down the phone.

“I’ve got just as much on you now as you’ve got on me. Remember that.”

Greta looked shocked to see Peter standing in the doorway.

“I thought you were asleep,” she stammered.

“I was. I heard you get up. Who was that calling you? Was it that man?”

“Yes, yes it was. He won’t call again.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got something of his. I made him give it to me when he had the money. You heard what I said.”

“What have you got?”

“I don’t want to tell you, Peter. You don’t need to know. Isn’t it enough that I tell you he’s going to stop?”

Greta held her arms out toward Peter and her robe fell open, exposing her body. But he remained by the door. His forehead was creased with anxiety.

“‘I’m not your Greta Rose.’ What does that mean, Greta? I need to know what it means.”

“You were listening outside the door, Peter. You were spying on me.”

Peter ignored the accusation. He needed an answer.

“Tell me what it means, Greta.”

“It means nothing. Greta Rose is my name; that’s all. Everyone used to call me that up in Manchester. Rose was my grandmother. I don’t know where they got the Greta from. Unless it was Greta Garbo, but she was a bit before my mother’s time, I think.”

Greta smiled but Peter was still not satisfied.

“I’ve never heard you called Greta Rose.”

“That’s because I dropped the Rose when I left Manchester. I wanted to make a clean break with all that life, start afresh. I told you that before.”

“Why did you say you weren’t his Greta Rose?”

“Because I’m not. You know what I told you. He likes me. He tried it on that last time he was here, but I didn’t let him.”

Peter’s head swam. The thought of this stranger’s hands on Greta had the same confusing effect on him that it had had when she had told him about the blackmailer a week before. Except that now the sight of Greta’s naked body and his experience of it only hours earlier redoubled his anger and lust.

Greta could see the effect of her words and pressed home her advantage.

“Perhaps I should have let him. It would have been easier.”

“No.” Peter almost shouted the word as he crossed over to Greta and took hold of her hands in a fierce grip.

“I didn’t because of you,” she said softly as he pushed the robe back from off her shoulders and laid her down on the floor.

This time he came almost immediately and lay exhausted with his head upon her breast. She had pulled a cushion under her head and lay naked on the carpet, making no effort to cover herself. She stared dreamily up at the ceiling with a faraway look in her green eyes. A smile played across her red lips as she stroked the thick black hair of her lover.