I am doing all this for my daughter. This is a mother’s sacrifice.
I want my daughter to love me.
The car moves along the drive, slowly, slowly, under the tunnel of trees. As we come out of the tunnel, I see curtains of rain, deep purple, almost black, pierced by gold shafts of sunlight.
I have no idea why I pick up James’ jacket and bury my face in it. I am silly and sentimental. I feel insecure. All my life I have craved reassurance. I shut my eyes and I breathe in the now familiar smell of James – expensive cigars, Polo aftershave, the special mints he claims he can get only at Harrods – James calls it the ‘Good Life’ What is this? Something in the pocket. I open my eyes. Papers – letters? Yes, a bundle of letters.
I hold the letters in my hand. No envelopes. The same handwriting on all of them. I tell myself I mustn’t read the letters, James may not like it, but then I recognize the handwriting…
Suddenly I feel hot. I start shivering.
I gasp The car is stopping. We have arrived. We are outside the Villa Byzantine. My eyes are blurred with tears, but I can’t tear them away from the letters. I feel as though I have run till my lungs have burst.
No, this can’t be true – it is absurd – monstrous – a cruel joke!
I look up and see my reflection in the car mirror. My face is pale and disfigured by shock. It does not look pretty. It does not look like my face at all.
I scream – but no sound comes out of my throat.
5
The Worst Crime in the World
It was seven o’clock on a mild evening in mid-September. There had been a storm in the morning but all was quiet now. The air felt fresh.
‘So they think she bumped off her mama-’
Major Payne broke off. Mustn’t be flippant, he reminded himself. The trouble was he tended to view life, even when at its most appallingly tragic, as comedy. Made him appear inconsiderate, insensitive and damned superficial – which he was not. Antonia thought it was a defensive reaction of sorts.
He pressed another scotch on James Morland.
‘Thank you, Payne. I didn’t mean to drink, but this is a terrible business. Yes, that’s what the police think. I’m afraid they regard Moon as their number one suspect. Complete nonsense of course. Um. It helps me, being able to talk about it. Most decent of you to listen to me.’
‘Don’t mention it, my dear fellow.’
‘I hardly know you, Payne, but I felt you’d be the right person to come to.’
Major Payne found himself wondering why he hadn’t called Morland ‘old boy’ but ‘my dear fellow’. He tended to employ the latter address with men he didn’t quite take to. Morland had a haunted air about him and, unless it was Payne’s imagination, a somewhat guilty look. Morland gave the distinct impression he was holding something back…
‘She has been “helping them with their inquiries” – that was how they put it – that’s how they always put it, don’t they?’
‘How old is she? Fifteen? Sixteen?’
Payne remained standing by the 1930s cocktail cabinet, which had been a present from his aunt. Lady Grylls had at long last managed to sell her country estate and move to a house in St John’s Wood, which had always been her dream. Chalfont Park was now a conference venue, managed by some super-rich industrialists who, Lady Grylls insisted, were in fact members of the ‘Russian mafia’.
‘Sixteen and a half, nearly seventeen.’
‘Did you say you bailed her out?’
‘Yes. Money’s not a problem. I know she’s a difficult girl, but I feel responsible for her, Payne… In a loco parentis kind of way… Stella and I were about to get married… I’d have been Moon’s stepfather.’ Morland spoke haltingly. ‘Melisande has no idea I’m here
… I don’t want her to know… She took it rather badly, you know – our breakup… My fault… Couldn’t be helped… One of those things.’
‘Yes, quite.’
‘Look here, Payne, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention to Melisande that I’d been here. I mean, if you bumped into her or something.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘I’m sure they – the police – will realize they’re on the wrong track soon enough and start looking for the real killer… Though when is soon enough?’
Payne gave another sympathetic nod. Morland seemed to have got himself into a pretty mess. It was the kind of complicated emotional drama one wouldn’t have associated with him. By no stretch of the imagination could Morland be said to represent high romance, but there it was, no accounting for taste. When they had first met him, Morland – middle-aged, widowed, with grown-up children – had been about to marry Melisande Chevret. Melisande had introduced him to the gathering as her fiance. Morland had then become secretly engaged to the Bulgarian matron, Stella Markoff, with whom he appeared to have been having an affair for some time. And now Stella Markoff was dead – mysteriously murdered!
Morland sat slumped in his armchair, looking dejected. ‘I wonder what Moon’s doing now. She didn’t like it when Julia told her she had no Sky. That’s my sister,’ he explained.
‘You left her with your sister?’
‘Yes. In my sister’s flat in Kensington. She wanted to come with me here, actually. Moon likes you. She said you were “cool”. She said you say funny things. She likes that. She wants to know about the murders you and your wife have investigated.’
‘Isn’t she upset?’
‘Of course she’s upset. Terribly upset. Distraught. She’s not as tough as she appears. It’s suddenly hit her she’ll never see her mother again. She’s frightened. She knows it’s serious. She’s no fool. My solicitor’s doing his best, though he advises caution… I don’t think he took to Moon… Not many people do… Stella… My God, I can’t believe Stella is gone!’
‘When was the last time you saw Stella?’
‘This morning. We made plans for tonight. I had tickets for Covent Garden. Stella loves opera – loved… She was delighted, awfully excited, really looking forward to it… I’ve still got them somewhere
… I mean the tickets.’ Morland took out a fistful of papers from an inside pocket, but his hand shook and some of them scattered on the floor. Puffing, he picked them up. ‘Here they are.’ He waved the tickets in the air.
‘What were you going to see?’
(Why did Morland think it necessary to show him the tickets?)
‘Battered Bride. No, Moon wasn’t coming with us. There were going to be only the two of us. Covent Garden, yes. I mean Bartered Bride – sorry.’ Morland gave an awkward laugh. ‘Moon hates opera.’
‘Did she hate her mother too?’
‘I wouldn’t say “hate”, that’s too strong a word, but they didn’t get on too well. Moon is keen on doing her own thing. She’s wilful, headstrong… She wants to go back to America. I don’t know what to do, Payne… I really don’t…’
Battered bride, eh? A Freudian slip? Had Stella been battered to death then? The manner of her demise was yet to be revealed to Payne.
‘Stella used to say all of Moon’s problems sprang from the fact that she’d never had a proper father figure in her life. I’ve been wondering whether I could adopt Moon. Not a terribly good idea, perhaps? Not sure it would work. It might prove to be a disaster.’ Morland spoke distractedly. ‘Moon doesn’t really like me, but she knows no one in England. She doesn’t want to go back to Bulgaria. She refuses to give me the names of any of her relatives in Bulgaria. Says they are all peasants.’
Would a man planning a brutal battering buy expensive opera tickets? When he knew perfectly well they would be wasted? Well, yes – the tickets constituted an alibi of sorts. Money was not a problem for Morland.
‘Is her father really in jail?’ Payne asked.
‘I believe so. Yes. He was one of those Communist apparatchiks. That’s all I know. Poor Stella didn’t like talking about it. It embarrassed her. She managed to get a divorce. She’d had a terrible life. Terrible. And now – now she is dead!’