Frozen Charlotte

NINE

Saturday

Gethin Roberts was feeling disgruntled.

It wasn’t anything like he’d imagined. Having told Flora, his girlfriend, that he was off to Spain for the weekend on a trip (top secret) connected with the current investigation, and watching her eyes grow satisfyingly round, he was now sitting on a lumpy bed in a dingy room in a scabby pension that was more like a block of council flats. To cap it all it wasn’t even quiet. It was on a main road, right on a traffic island and there was no swimming pool, let alone the imagined bathing beauties, strutting their stuff in skimpy bikinis. And it wasn’t even hot. The girls around were all muffled up in coats, boots, scarves and woolly hats. They’d been held up for hours at the airport because of ice and fog and then, to top it all, when they had landed, his suitcase had burst open on the carousel, scattering hastily and carelessly packed clothes and he was sure people were making jibes about his dingy underwear in whispered Spanish. Not a good experience. PC Roberts decided there and then that next time he flew he would put a band around his suitcase. He and the inspector had had a very late and indigestible dinner of some tough meat and a bottle of Spanish wine between them. The wine had been the only thing that had lived up to expectations. Then Randall had told him the Godfrey’s house was four hours drive away and they would have to make an early start.

Roberts was wondering what he had given his weekend up for, but then he remembered Flora’s wide-eyed excitement and pride. He could embellish the drama. He bit his tongue and commented only that it wasn’t quite how he’d expected it.

Randall looked at him kindly. ‘Nothing ever is, Sonny Jim,’ he said, resting his hand for a moment on the young constable’s shoulder.

There was only one way to describe chez Godfrey. Opulent. In a hired Seat Ibiza they drove up a winding road that was in places single track, meeting farmers on the way herding goats. The tinkle of bells would always remind them both of this expedition and recall their mixed feelings.

Near the end of the road they were faced with huge gates and a plaque announcing El Hacienda . Very unoriginal. Randall glanced at Roberts whose mouth had dropped open as he took in the pink palace. ‘In your dreams, Roberts,’ he said kindly. ‘Or else a bit of luck with the lottery.’

Gethin Roberts managed a half-hearted smile. ‘First I’ll have to do it, as they say.’

‘Quite,’ Alex said drily.

There was an electronic voice receiver in the wall. Randall climbed out of the car, pressed the button and announced their arrival.

He got the same bored voice that he’d met on the telephone and the gates swung open, lazily, as though they too had got the message, mañana .

They circled round the front of the house which had the most amazing views right over mountains and valleys, rooftops and a small forest, all the way down to the sea, sparkling far off in the distance. Roberts’s mouth dropped open even wider. He was already practising the story he would relate to Flora, his ‘intended’, as his family called her. To him the word sounded just a bit sinister. But then he was a policeman.

‘Sir,’ he said urgently.

A woman was descending a curved flight of steps – carefully – as she was wearing skyscraper heels and a floating dress of many colours even though it was decidedly chilly up here with an almost arctic breeze. Even from this distance they could both see that she was wearing lashings of make-up. Thick, dark, greasy brown foundation and a lot of black around her eyes. Curiously, instead of making her appear youthful, this made her look like a very old woman. Something like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane . An ancient parody of herself. Yet judging from her figure and strong, shapely legs, neither man would have put her at much over forty.

‘Inspector Randall, I presume, and his sidekick?’ She had impossibly white teeth, and close up a face stretched taut, probably by a plastic surgeon. She was dangling a pink cigarette from her fingers. She was, both men decided, again mirroring each other’s thoughts, theatrical.

Randall introduced themselves.

‘Oh cut the formalities and come in,’ she said with a weary sigh. ‘I’d guessed who you are. We don’t get many visitors this far out. And it’s freezing out here.’

She scanned the beautiful view with something approaching loathing. Then turning around as she ascended the steps again, she said, ‘I absolutely don’t have a clue what you hope to achieve by coming here. Still, I suppose it’s a bit more entertaining for me than the usual Saturday morning cocktail party. And you’ve got a free weekend in the Costa del Sol. Though where the bloody sol is I don’t know. It appears to have buggered off for the entire winter.’ Again they both got the impression that however beautiful El Hacienda was Mrs Godfrey disliked it. No. Hated it.

Randall tried to flush her out a little. ‘It’s a lovely place, Mrs Godfrey.’

She turned around and gave Alex Randall a film star smile. ‘Petula. Please.’ She was quite an actress, swiftly replacing the apathy for a perfectly charming hostess.

Petula pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and led them into a conservatory which was jungle-hot and made full use of the view which spread out before them in a panoramic picture. The room was long and narrow and contained an assortment of cane furniture and a large, cream, leather sofa against the back wall. There were various brightly coloured canvases of modern art but the real star of the show was the view outside, of classical Spain.

Petula reclined across the sofa, legs stretched out in front of her, and waved a hand vaguely. ‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘Anywhere.’

Both men sat down opposite her, reluctantly facing the modern art rather than the picture through the glass wall.

‘Now then,’ she said. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘I don’t know how much you know,’ Alex began, ‘but the body of a child was found in the loft in number 41, The Mount, the house you occupied until five years ago. It had apparently been there for some time. The present owners deny any knowledge of it.’ He looked at her questioningly, waiting for confirmation.

Petula had obviously decided to play this scene archly. ‘And you think I put it there, inspector? You think I buried dead babies up in the loft of my old house?’

She had made it sound silly enough to match her burst of harsh, mocking laughter.

‘A dead baby,’ Alex said unsmiling. ‘One male child, newly born. Now can you help us?’

‘Of course I bloody can’t.’ Petula’s face was pink with anger. ‘What do you think I am?’

‘Do you have any children?’

Petula looked away. ‘I haven’t, as a matter of fact. Not blessed – or looking at my friends’ nasty little blighters perhaps cursed would be a more appropriate word – with them.’

‘And Mr Godfrey?’

‘Vince and I have been together since he was seventeen years old and he walked into my dad’s hardware shop to buy some screws,’ she said with a cackle. ‘ He hasn’t got any kids either. Even Vincey boy wasn’t up to infidelity when he was seventeen.’

There was a bitterness in both her face and her voice which escaped neither of the police officers.

‘You lived in the house for…?’

‘Almost four years,’ Petula said, guarded now as though the joke had gone. Dried up.

‘We bought the house off an old biddy,’ she continued. ‘Stripped it down, did the whole place up. Made a nice job of it.’

‘Did you do any work in the loft?’

‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Vince about that.’

‘Where is your husband?’

‘Playing golf,’ she said. ‘It’s all right for the blokes here. They get to play golf practically every day. It’s different for the women. Unless they join the golf boys, which isn’t quite my cup of tea. Too damned hearty and horrible clothes.’

Randall smiled for the first time at the vision of Petula in peaked cap and checked plus fours.

‘We women just get bored. And drunk,’ she added in a sad challenge.

Alex shifted in his seat, the cane making a painful squeak. ‘What time will your husband be back?’

‘In an hour or so. Don’t worry, inspector. He knows you’re coming.’

She treated them to another film star smile. ‘Well?’ Her glance drifted across to Gethin Roberts who flushed and said nothing.

‘Drink,’ she ordered, wafting long, horrendously manicured nails that reminded Alex of harpies, towards a half-empty wine bottle. ‘Well?’ she said again, suddenly defensive. ‘There isn’t a lot else to do out here. Especially when the weather’s this foul.’ There was deep resentment in her voice. ‘What do you want to drink?’ Without waiting for their answer she said, ‘I suppose you want a coffee. On duty and all that.’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Graciela,’ she screamed.

‘ Si .’

‘Come here, you lazy cow.’ A young Spanish girl, plainly dressed in a loose-fitting black dress and flat shoes scurried into the room.

‘Make our guests some coffee and you can get me another bloody bottle of wine.’

The girl scuttled out again.

‘Next question?’ she snapped.

‘Did anyone come to the house who was pregnant?’

Petula frowned. ‘What a stupid question,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember that. Possibly. Possibly not. I really haven’t got a clue. I take it the baby wasn’t premature or something?’

‘No. It was full term.’

‘So I would have noticed a bump, wouldn’t I?’

‘I would have thought so.’

‘I mean you can’t hide a bump that bloody big, can you?’

‘Indeed not.’

‘Who lived with you in the house?’

Petula rolled her eyes. ‘It gets worse, don’t it? Just me and my old man, sunshine.’

‘So just the two of you,’ Alex asked carefully.

‘We had a bit of help in the house. Can’t expect me to do the scrubbing and such like.’

‘What sort of help?’

‘I don’t know. Enough to make sure the everyday things were completed.’

‘What sort of help?’ Alex repeated.

‘A couple of maids. They never stay long. Greedy little things. Want money for nothing and then bugger off when they’re bored.

‘Anyone else?’

‘A daily, a gardener. You know – the usual.’

‘The maids?’ Alex questioned delicately.

‘None of them was pregnant. I’d soon have got shot of them if they were. What use would a pregnant maid be,’ she chortled.

There was no answer to that but Alex persisted with the subject.

‘What country were they from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So how did you acquire them?’

‘Can’t remember,’ she said dismissively. ‘Probably through an agency.’

Alex held up a finger as though to make absolutely sure he had the facts so far clear in his mind. ‘So as far as you know you are unable to help me establish the identity of the dead child.’

Petula stubbed her cigarette out in her wine glass. ‘Correct,’ she said.

They were distracted by a man in his forties in light coloured trousers and a pale sweater walking into the room. He looked jaunty and bent down to kiss Petula. ‘Hello, ducky,’ he said before extending a hand first to Alex and then to Roberts. ‘I assume you’re the two policemen from Shrewsbury.’

Alex nodded.

‘Rum business. Well, I don’t know how I can help you.’ He waved a decanter around. ‘Drink anyone?’

His wife sighed. ‘Not whisky, Vince.’ She glanced around her. ‘Where’s that bloody girl?’

She gave a loud annoyed sigh and addressed her husband. ‘Nice game, dear?’ There was something a little more than weary in her tone which told them all, including Vince, that she didn’t give a monkey’s rear end whether he had had a nice game or had knocked the ball to the bottom of a pond and not bothered to retrieve it. There was both resentment and a certain reproof in her voice.

Vince Godfrey poured himself a whisky, and flung himself down in one of the cane chairs. It too creaked a little in protestation as though it was a living entity and resented his weight.

‘Now then,’ he said cheerily, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles. ‘Fire away.’

‘I understand from your wife that you did some extensive refurbishment of the house in Shrewsbury?’

‘That’s right. Made a lovely job of the place though I understand from various mutual friends that they’ve done it up all over again. Hah.’

‘Yes. You refurbished the entire house?’

‘Top to bottom.’

‘It’s more the top than the bottom that we’re interested in.’

‘The bedrooms?’

‘No. To put it bluntly the hot water tank where we found the infant’s body was in the loft. It had been boxed in. Did you do that, Mr Godfrey?’

‘I might have done. I can’t really remember. We did a lot of electrics up there, trailing wires and such but I can’t think we would have bothered to box in a hot water tank. I mean, you’re not going to have an airing cupboard all the way up there, are you? Accessible only by an extending loft ladder. And all cylinders these days are encased in foam so they’re pretty well insulated. Can’t you tell by the age of the wood that was used?’

‘Not conclusively,’ Alex said.

‘Well,’ Vince Godfrey said, draining his glass. ‘Pet and I don’t know anything about it. Can’t help you there, inspector.’ He spoke the words politely but firmly. As far as the Godfreys were concerned they had nothing to add.

‘Sorry you’ve had a bit of a wasted journey – all this way.’

‘Yes,’ Alex said, making no move to leave.

The couple exchanged a swift glance, more disturbed by Alex’s lack of movement than he would have expected.

‘Did you notice any smell up there ever?’

Mark Sullivan had pointed out that because the child’s body had desiccated rather than decayed there would in all probability have been no smell, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

Oddly enough the Godfreys didn’t seem to know how to answer the question. Simple enough, Alex thought. Yes or no.

Instead Vince asked something, ‘How long do you think the body had been there?’

Again Alex was deliberately vague. ‘It’s hard to say. Somewhere around the time that you bought the property. Which is eight or nine years ago. By the way which estate agents did you use?’

Again the Godfreys looked at each other. Gethin Roberts gave his boss a quick, puzzled look but Randall’s face was impassive. Petula frowned and nibbled her finger. Then her husband tapped the side of his head. He had seen the light. Remembered. ‘Victor Plumley,’ he said. ‘Quite a small estate agents in Grope Lane in the old part of town. Love that name.’ He leered. ‘Grope Lane. Conjures up all sorts of naughty images.’

His wife gave him a frosty look but then the coffee arrived with some tiny petit fours which Gethin Roberts eyed greedily. He was working up quite an appetite. It was all set out very nicely by Graciela but Petula Godfrey wasn’t pleased. ‘Took your bloody time, didn’t you?’

‘ Lo siento ,’ the girl whispered.

‘And speak in bloody English, will you?’

‘ Si .’

They waited while the coffee was poured and handed around by Graciela. Alex waited until she had left the room before continuing the questioning.

‘The lady you bought the house from,’ he enquired delicately.

Vince gave a hollow guffaw. ‘I can’t see her doing much,’ he said. ‘When we bought number 41 she went to live with her son and daughter-in-law.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere in Birmingham, I think. Goodness. She was well into her eighties. Half demented from what I saw of her. The son and daughter-in-law were always there when we viewed. They were the ones who dealt with us rather than her. The place was quite rundown. She hardly used the upstairs. I suppose…’ He thought for a minute. ‘There was a bit of a fusty smell around the place but I just put that down to an old lady living there.’

‘I see,’ Alex said aware that it was a very neat answer.

‘Mr Godfrey,’ he said, ‘I wonder if it would be possible to have a quick word with you – alone.’ He gave a swift glance at Petula who was lighting up another cigarette and took no notice.

‘Sure,’ Godfrey said. ‘Shall we go into my study?’

Leaving Roberts to be entertained by Petula, Randall was led out of the conservatory into a large hallway and then through an archway into a dark room at the back of the house. The windows had grills over them, he noticed, and wondered why. Was Godfrey worried about intruders? There was a huge desk in the centre of the room with a computer and other paraphernalia scattered over the top.

‘Sanctum,’ Godfrey said ‘I don’t let Pet or Graciela in here. This is my place.’ As though to emphasize the point he banged the door shut and sat behind the desk. Alex took a leather armchair.

‘I can guess what you want to ask me,’ Vince said. ‘And the answer is yes. I haven’t exactly been a good little boy throughout our marriage but there’s never ever been anyone serious. Pet knows that. She’s the only one for me but when these women make a play for you.’ He gave a cynical grimace. ‘Women like money,’ he said, sharing the information with Randall. ‘Especially the young gorgeous-looking ones. They think they only have to stick with you for a couple of years and if they get fed up with you they can scarper and take a couple of million with them without having you hanging round their greedy little necks. Not bloody likely, inspector.’ He examined his fingernails closely. ‘I can honestly say, Pet’s the one for me. And she knows it.’ His face clouded. ‘She does like to get her own way though. That’s the only thing I can say against her. If she sets her heart on something, that’s it.’

Alex nodded. The words seemed logical and sounded honest and Petula Godfrey had appeared like that to him. A realist. But at one point when Vince Godfrey had been speaking there had passed over his face a look of intense pain. At some point in his life, for all his bravado, some woman had hurt this man.

There was a moment’s silence between the two men. Randall was watching Godfrey’s face, searching, waiting for some other clue. But the man’s face was wooden now.

He broke the silence.

‘Was there anything else, inspector?’

‘No, Mr Godfrey. That’s fine.’

‘You know. I’ve been thinking. The tank. It was already boxed in. I can remember now. I never touched it. I thought if it needed replacing I’d take it apart then. Maybe put a new one in. Otherwise – well to be truthful I was getting a bit fed up with doing the place up. Know what I mean?’ he gave a bland, pleasant smile.

Alex nodded. ‘OK,’ he said carefully. ‘Thanks very much. We’ll be going now.’

The relief in the man’s face was tangible but Alex reflected as they made their way back to the conservatory, that Vince was the sort of man who was probably always nervous around the police. A man like that who had made this amount of money was practically never completely above board. There was almost certainly a guilty secret lurking somewhere beneath the jaunty manner but it might have nothing to do with the case at all.

Just as they reached the doorway to the conservatory Vince Godfrey turned to face Alex. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘This is rather upsetting for my wife.’ He hesitated. ‘Go easy on her.’

Alex Randall didn’t reply.

Gethin Roberts looked relieved to see them return. He gave Randall a wry smile.

‘One more question,’ Alex said, ‘before we go. Does the name Poppy mean anything to you?’

Both Godfreys looked completely blank.

‘OK then,’ he said. ‘I think that’s all. Thank you both very much for your cooperation.’ He shook hands with each in turn. ‘If I have any more questions I shall telephone.’

He had the impression that Vince Godfrey would have liked to say something more but nothing was said and they climbed back into the car ready for the journey back to the hotel. The sun had, at last, come out and to the winter-weary pair it felt almost warm.

Alex rolled down the car window and took a deep breath in. ‘What say we stop at one of these lovely roadside inns and have some lunch?’

Gethin Roberts felt his spirits soar.

Martha was even in a temper deciding what to wear. She didn’t want to play mediator between her friend’s widower and his sugar babe. She felt middle-aged and rejected outfit after outfit. In the end she elected for jeans, high-heeled boots and a turquoise top, over which she knotted a tight-fitting turquoise cardigan. She dumbed down her make-up, brushed back her hair hard, almost seeing Vernon Grubb, her macho hairdresser, wincing as she did so. He was always telling her off for not treating her hair with the respect to which it was due. Sometimes she thought he should have opted for professional rugby where he could have taken his aggression out on the opposing side rather than women in their middle years whom he bullied mercilessly about their hair.

They met at Richmond’s, a newly opened bistro in the town. Neutral ground. Martha was surprised at Simon’s choice. He was more likely to eat in one of the many ancient restaurants or coffee houses which sprinkled this medieval town than here. It was ultra modern, spanking white with echoing marble floors and a long counter where you queued for food. It was too bright white, not the sort of place Simon would ever have chosen for himself. Then as she sat down and looked around her she felt pity. It was peopled with earnest and self-conscious teenagers. Simon would feel like a fish out of water. She picked up a menu. Nouvelle cuisine, no more than twenty calories a portion. Lots of rocket and basil. She waited for an anxious twenty minutes worrying that she had come to the wrong place. She was on the verge of ringing his mobile phone when he arrived. And again this was unlike Simon. He was a stickler for time. Never late.

He spotted her straight away and waved. His clothes too were different. A leather jacket, chinos, an open-necked yellow shirt. Not the sober-suited man she knew. In fact she realized that she didn’t know this man. On his arm clung a girl. Martha couldn’t have called her anything else. She was not a woman but a girl with long straight blonde hair and a fringe, which she had to distractingly blink out of her large cornflower blue eyes every few minutes. She was slim to the point of emaciation and looked vulnerable in tight jeans, high-heeled boots, an anorak with a brown fur collar, little make-up and beautifully manicured long nails.

‘Sorry we’re late.’ Simon bent and kissed her cheek. ‘We couldn’t find anywhere to park and had to hoof it through the town. Not easy with Chrissi’s heels.’

‘Martha,’ he said unnecessarily and with a flourish, ‘this is Chrissi.’

Chrissi smiled, her eyes holding an expression of mute appeal. Shocked, Martha realized the girl desperately wanted her to like her, approve of her. Why? What on earth did she matter? She was merely a friend of Simon’s dead wife and here to mediate between Simon’s daughters and this ‘child’.

But there was no doubt about it, Christabel did want Martha to like her.

So her pity swung from Simon, who was trying to pretend he was thirty years younger than he was, to a girl who must know that all his friends, family and acquaintances and in particular his two very bright, very energetic and very opinionated daughters, would disapprove of this relationship.

Martha held out her hand. ‘Hello, Christabel,’ she said. ‘Do most people call you that or do they call you Chrissi?’

The girl nodded. ‘Either.’ She sat down. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she said in a breathless whisper. Then with a loving look at Simon she added unnecessarily, ‘From Simon.’

‘Always a bit worrying,’ Martha said brightly. ‘Shall we get some food?

‘You two choose,’ Simon said. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

Great, she thought. Give us a chance to get to know each other. And what if I don’t want to?

Chrissi watched Simon practically all the time he queued and bought the food. Martha limited her questions to ones she could comfortably address to a profile. Where had they met? At work – she was his (cliché, cliché) secretary. She lived with her mother and brother. (She didn’t mention the father). They ‘really, really’ liked Simon. Wasn’t he handsome?

Errm.

He didn’t look his age, did he?

Errm.

Simon returned.

As she’d suspected, even with the nouvelle cuisine that was on offer Chrissi didn’t eat real food, merely played with bits around her plate, nibbling prettily as a rabbit on her rocket. And she let Simon lead the conversation.

‘How’s Sam doing?’ he asked heartily.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘At least he’s off the injury list and back playing. He might – just might – be coming home and playing for Stoke – on a lend,’ she added, explaining to Chrissi. ‘He’s a footballer,’ she said, ‘with the Liverpool Academy. He’s almost fifteen. One of a twin.’ Then she gave Simon a bright look which was meant to put him at his ease because he looked so terribly uncomfortable. ‘You haven’t heard the best. Sukey has decided she wants to become an actress.’

‘Goodness.’ He looked startled. ‘Little Suks? What on earth would Martin have said, I wonder?’

‘He was always one to let his children choose their own path.’

‘Ye-es. But acting.’

The conversation stopped and she felt suddenly cross. What right did Simon have to drag her into this uncomfortable and untenable position? He should sort this out himself with his daughters. Not bring her in as mediator, no doubt to plead this child’s cause.

Chrissi spoke. ‘You were a friend of Simon’s first wife?’ She lifted her eyes to Martha’s, beseeching, Make this easier for me, please?

‘Yes,’ Martha said. ‘You haven’t met Armenia and Jocasta yet?’

‘Tomorrow. We’re having lunch together. We hoped -’ she put her hand in Simon’s – ‘that you would come along too. It would make it easier for me.’

‘Of course.’

Martha risked a glance at Simon. He was looking away, frowning and she thought she could read his mind.

This was not going to work. He knew it and she knew it too.

But then Chrissi swallowed a mouthful of salad and gulped. ‘You must be wondering what Evelyn would have thought of this,’ she said, putting her hand in Simon’s.

‘Evelyn isn’t alive,’ Martha said quietly. ‘If she was you wouldn’t be here, would you?’

The blue eyes met hers with some understanding and Martha felt relief that she had spoken what had been in her mind from the beginning of lunch when she had recognized the incongruity of this relationship.

‘I’m dreading tomorrow,’ Chrissi said miserably. ‘I know Simon’s daughters won’t like me.’ Her voice trailed away.

‘They’re grown women,’ Martha said firmly. ‘They must adjust.’

Simon’s arm stole around Chrissi’s thin shoulders. ‘Take heart, my darling,’ he said quietly. ‘Be brave.’

Chrissi was not the only one dreading tomorrow.

The rest of the lunch was equally perfunctory and Martha left the soulless restaurant at three.

Depressed and a little tired she decided to walk back down to the car park, towards the English Bridge, passing Finton Cley’s antiques shop halfway down Wyle Cop. She glanced in the window and had a shock.

It sported a huge sign. ‘Meet Martha Gunn’. Below it was a female Toby jug with the three plumes of the Prince of Wales on her hat.

Finton had mocked her before about her name. For ages she had not understood why. One day she had asked him. ‘Why do you always smirk when you say my name?’

He’d looked smug, a public schoolboy who had a secret. ‘I can’t believe you’ve lived all your life and don’t know the significance of your name? Your parents never told you?’

She’d shaken her head. ‘They might not have known either.’

‘Well that would be a coincidence.’

She’d waited, knowing he would tell her. ‘She was a Brighton bathing attendant,’ he’d said finally, ‘in the early nineteenth century and reputed to have attended the Prince Regent. One version of events has her actually throwing him into the sea. A risky thing. Look.’ He’d shown her the three feathers on her hat.

Martha looked through the window. And now here was the original Martha Gunn herself.

She pushed open the door. Cley was sitting down, reading a book. Although the shop bell jangled he did not look up but continued reading. She cleared her throat. He inserted a bookmark, closed the book and finally turned round. ‘Martha,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Somehow I thought that little jug would tempt even you inside.’ He stood up. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine. You?’

He looked at her searchingly. ‘You seem a bit… on edge.’

‘It’s been a difficult day,’ she said. ‘And I expect more of the same tomorrow.’

She smiled and walked across to the window, picking the Martha Gunn jug up. It had a price tag of £1,800 on it. ‘An expensive lady,’ she said.

‘I can manage a small reduction,’ Cley said smoothly, playing the antiques dealer to perfection.

She turned. ‘How much of a reduction?’

‘It depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether you understand.’

She stared at him. He was a charismatic character, with long, curling hair, too long for current fashion, one pirate earring swinging against his ear lobe. He was in his early thirties and had a very public school accent. He puzzled her, seeming to always have a secret message. She had thought it was simply her name but now she realized there was more to it than just that. Still holding the jug she sat down. ‘Why don’t you stop playing games, Finton,’ she asked softly. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Message for Martha,’ she said.

He eyed her for a moment as though wondering. ‘Why don’t I stop playing games,’ he repeated softly. ‘Why don’t I? Why don’t I tell you the truth, Martha? I’ll tell you why, shall I?’

She waited, starting to see things more clearly now, as though frosted glass had suddenly become clear.

When he spoke again it was both soft and hard. ‘You like stories, Martha Gunn?’

He drew in a deep breath. ‘So why don’t you sit down? Have a cup of tea and listen to the story I have to tell.’

He began. ‘My father’s name was William. William Cley.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. And yet…’ She paused. ‘I have heard it before but I don’t know in what connection.’ She hazarded a guess. ‘Work?’

‘Interesting, isn’t it,’ Cley said. ‘The name means practically nothing to you and yet you virtually destroyed his family.’

‘What?’

‘My father died twelve years ago. Unfortunately he had left a note stating his intention.’ Cley met her eyes without flinching. ‘His life insurance specifically excluded suicide so my mother and sister were left without any money. I had been at public school so of course I had to leave and was bullied fairly mercilessly at state school for my posh accent and eccentric clothes. My mother, you may be interested to know, went to pieces. She’s dead now and my sister became very depressed and an alcoholic. There was no money for me to go to university. I could have become a lawyer or a doctor, just like you, but instead I had to support my family, both financially and mentally. That was what happened to William Cley’s family after you brought in a verdict of suicide, Martha Gunn.’ Then quite suddenly he erupted. ‘Why didn’t you simply say accidental death?’

‘If he left a note,’ she said quietly, ‘I had no choice. Your father would have known what he was doing and the consequence of his actions.’

Cley’s face crumpled. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make me feel any better.’

‘Finton, I’m sorry about your father,’ she said, ‘but I was simply doing my job. You can’t blame me.’

He did not reply but stared ahead of him, his dark eyes sad.

She bought the jug anyway.