The press then tried to badger him for the exact location. They could find it out fairly easily, but Alex trotted out the usual statement about respecting people’s privacy. He finished with a pledge that he would keep them informed of developments.
There was a lot of muttering and the press finally dispersed.
The last thing Alex did before going home that evening was to set up a meeting with Mrs Sedgewick and her solicitor on the following morning.
Then he went home, feeling his spirits sink as he turned into the drive of his house.
Martha cooked shepherd’s pie for tea. It was one of Sam’s favourites and he would be leaving in the morning. She hoped he would pass his medical examination and be pronounced fit to play again but she was also holding in her heart that throwaway comment about possibly playing for Stoke and living at home. She was trying not to get too excited about it, but oh, how she wanted him back here. She missed having a male around the place. She loved this cooking for a hungry lad, the washing of muddy clothes and dirty boots. She loved the noise of the place when he was around because, unlike his sister, who seemed to move around silently and whose only noise was her beloved pop music, Sam could do nothing quietly. He always made a noise, stumping around in his boots, clomping up and down the stairs. And his voice, again, unlike his sister’s silky tones, was gruffly masculine. While the pie was browning under the grill she rang the number Jericho had given her and arranged for the painter and decorator to come round on Thursday evening to give her a quote for the study. She felt content.
Only one thing happened that evening to disturb the domestic heaven. At around nine o’clock the telephone rang. Martha picked it up and heard the song playing. It was one which was becoming uncomfortably familiar to her. The slow beat of Adam Faith’s 1964 hit ‘Message to Martha’. Martha listened for a minute then spoke. ‘Hello, hello.’ As she had expected there was no response except that the phone was put down softly and she was left with that creepy feeling that someone was out there, watching her, with some intent.
She dialled 1471 and again, as she had anticipated, the caller had withheld their number.
She sat still for a minute. She had been bothered by these vague messages for a couple of years now. Flowers had been left at her door. There had been an occasion when a mouse had been dumped on her doorstep. She had, at first, thought it must be Bobby until Alex Randall had drawn attention to a ligature tied around its neck. The record itself, ‘Message to Martha’, cracked and dirty, had also been left on her doorstep. This was an isolated house. Three women lived here. At times she had felt threatened by these approaches but they had never become more threatening. It was less a physical assault than someone whispering in her ear, insinuating that she should understand. Understand what? She was less frightened now than frustrated. If someone had a message for her why didn’t they just come out and say it instead of this subversive, cloak-and-dagger approach which was so obviously meant to disturb her?
Sukey came in and found her sitting in the dark. She put her arms around her. ‘Mum,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’
Martha didn’t want to tell her. Sukey wasn’t quite fifteen years old. Mature for her years but still a child. She might not be frightened for herself but she was worried about Sukey. When Agnetha left Sukey would be alone in the house from when she arrived back from school to when Martha came back from work, and that could be late. Frequently after seven. There was the half-a-mile walk up a rough tree-lined track to the house. There was no other house within calling distance of The White House. Then there were the school holidays. Long days when her daughter would be here, alone.
She chose her words carefully.
‘Suks,’ she said, ‘this is a very lonely house. Would you prefer to live in the town?’
She didn’t mention that she, personally, would hate it.
It was unnecessary. So, it seemed, would her daughter. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said with vigour. ‘We’ve got the woods here to walk Bobby and lots to see around. Oh no, Mum. I’d hate it. Why do you ask?’
Martha hid behind a half-truth. ‘It’s just that next month when Agnetha leaves you’ll be here quite a bit on your own.’
‘I won’t be on my own,’ Sukey said stoutly. ‘I’ll have Bobby. And maybe even Sam if this Stoke thing comes off.’
‘That would be nice.’
Sukey slid into the chair next to Martha. ‘Mum,’ she said in the wheedling tone that daughters use when they want to get something out of a parent. Usually a father.
‘Yes?’
‘Would you hate it very much if I became an actress?’
‘What?’
Martha was astonished. She had never really thought about what career Sukey would pursue. But the stage…?
Keep calm, she lectured herself. Keep calm.
It helped that she knew exactly what Martin would have done in this situation. He had been tolerant, happy to allow life – his own and that of his wife and children – to work itself out. Whenever he had been faced with a conflict he had invariably chosen the easiest way out. So she followed this maxim.
‘You must do as you wish,’ she said. ‘It’s your life – not mine – but find out a little about the real acting world before you embark on that as a career. Don’t believe all you hear in the tabloids and glossy magazines. As I understand it most actresses spend a lot of time waitressing or scrubbing floors because-’
‘I know,’ Sukey interrupted impatiently, ‘but I was good in the school play last year, wasn’t I?’
The school had put on Abigail’s Party the previous year. Sukey had played the part of Abigail and yes, even allowing for maternal pride, Martha had thought she had been good. Very good. Her daughter was very determined. There was no point in opposing her but Martha had a feeling of dread. It wasn’t what she wanted. She gave the softest of sighs. Neither had she wanted Sam to become a footballer. She had hoped they would go into a profession. Medicine, the law, teaching…
Dream on, she said to herself.
She looked at her daughter’s anxious face. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘as long as you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’
Sukey gave her a cheeky grin, bounced out of her seat and was gone, leaving Martha alone again, unable to resist humming Noel Coward’s, ‘Don’t put your daughter on the stage’, substituting Mrs Gunn for Mrs Worthington.
She drew in a deep breath and felt powerless to influence her children’s lives any further. But now her daughter had skipped out of the room Martha’s mind returned to the anonymous phone call.
Alex Randall had told her if she received any more obscure contacts from the ‘Message to Martha’ person to inform him and he would investigate. She decided then that she would – if only for Sukey’s safety and her own peace of mind.
She would speak to him tomorrow.
Tuesday morning
And now it was time for Alex Randall to speak to Alice Sedgewick himself – with her solicitor present. After Talith’s descriptions he was curious to meet both of them and determine in his own mind what part Mrs Sedgewick had played in the fate of the infant. He spent the first hour of the day reading through Gethin Roberts’s initial statement and the notes made by his sergeant. He read through Talith’s comments with approval. He’d wondered about him when he had first joined the force. He had seemed abrasive, not good with the general public. He’d ruffled a few feathers with his lack of subtlety. But every now and again an officer learned his job, acquired unexpectedly good skills and changed to become something of real value to the force. This new sergeant would go far. He had become intelligent and perceptive, had matured as a police officer. Randall noticed as he read through Talith’s report that he had a great eye for detail, mentioning the fact that even in her confusion Mrs Sedgewick had remembered to turn the attic light switch off even though she must have left the loft in something of a panic. He smiled as he read through PC Roberts’s report. The poor lad had had a shock – not the first – and with a long career ahead of him in the police force it wouldn’t be the last either.