‘I did a lot of things I don’t remember clearly back then,’ said Charlotte. ‘At risk of getting arrested for past behaviour, I was either drunk or stoned most of the time.’
‘Like Marnie Sedgwick at Blaydon’s party,’ said Annie. ‘Only that wasn’t her choice.’
Charlotte ignored Annie, but Jessica Bowen gave her a warning glance.
‘But is it true, Charlotte?’ Gerry repeated. ‘Your mother thought it all sounded quite glamorous. Like so much of your life. She’s very proud of you and your achievements, you know.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me that. And if I wrote it on a postcard I suppose it must be true.’
‘So you don’t deny it?’
Charlotte folded her arms. ‘What would be the point?’
‘May I see these postcards?’ Jessica Bowen asked.
Gerry passed over the cards. The solicitor picked them up, glanced briefly at the photograph of Kavos on one and a view of the Albanian coastline on the other, then turned them over one at a time and read. She passed them to Charlotte, who glanced at them in passing and dropped them on the table. Her body seemed to have tensed up now, Annie noticed. The skin stretched taut over her forehead and cheeks, lips a straight narrow line. She was playing with her ring again.
‘Do you admit to writing and sending these?’ Gerry asked.
‘Yes,’ Charlotte hissed. ‘So what?’
‘These postcards are evidence of your presence on Connor Blaydon’s yacht, the Nerea, at Kavos, Corfu, on the week of 15 June 1999. What happened during that week, Charlotte?’
‘What do you think happened? We partied. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.’
Gerry checked her files. ‘You gave birth to Marjorie — or Marnie — on 13 March 2000. If you do the calculations, you’ll see that’s very close to nine months after 15 June.’
‘So?’
‘So,’ said Gerry. ‘Was Connor Blaydon Marnie Sedgwick’s father?’
Even Jessica Bowen’s jaw dropped at that question.
‘How could you even think—?’
‘Do the math,’ said Annie, ‘as the Americans say.’
‘It’s just a coincidence.’
‘There seem to be an awful lot of coincidences in your life,’ Annie said. ‘But maybe this is stretching it a bit too far. Is it a coincidence if a woman sleeps with a man and nine months later has a baby?’
‘You’re reading too much into it.’
‘Tell me how. Or let me tell you what I think happened. What if you met Connor Blaydon aboard the Nerea that June and slept with him? Why not? You’ve already said you were running wild and fancy-free, sleeping around, and Blaydon already owned the yacht before he bought his first villa on Corfu in 2002. You were twenty-one and he was around forty. Attractive older man, rich and handsome. So you slept with him and you became pregnant. Happens all the time. As you’ve already explained, an abortion wasn’t an option for you, so you returned to England, hid away in the countryside during your pregnancy, gave birth, and arranged to have the baby adopted. Marnie Sedgwick. You remained there for a brief period of recovery, then you returned to the normal flow of life with new energy, throwing yourself into building a career. Am I on the right track?’
‘Apart from the business about Connor, yes. More or less.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’
‘So who was the baby’s father?’
‘I... I don’t know.’
‘Are you suggesting it could have been one of many?’
‘I wasn’t exactly celibate, if that’s what you mean.’
‘But it could have been Blaydon’s.’
‘You’re putting words into my mouth.’
‘Yes,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘Do stop that, DI Cabbot.’
‘A DNA test could prove it one way or the other. Are you willing to risk that, Charlotte?’
Charlotte shook her head.
‘What does that mean?’ Annie asked. ‘Did you sleep with Connor Blaydon on his yacht in June 1999, and did you have a baby in March 2000?’
‘Maybe. Yes. Maybe. No. I don’t know.’ Charlotte put her hands over her ears. ‘Can we stop again now, please?’ She looked towards Jessica Bowen with a desperate expression.
‘Because if you did,’ Annie went on, ‘and if Blaydon was the father of your child, then it means he raped his own daughter, doesn’t it? She didn’t know who her father was, and he didn’t know she was his daughter, but you did. And that, Charlotte, I think, gives you a pretty good motive for murder. Is that what you meant when you said things had come full circle?’
‘Murder? What do you mean, murder?’
‘Let’s call a halt to this right now,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘My client is clearly distraught, and things are taking a turn none of us could have reasonably expected. We’ll need some preparation time before we continue.’
Annie sat back in her chair. ‘Fine,’ she said, dropping her pencil. ‘Take as long as you need. I could do with a cuppa myself.’
That morning, Ray woke up from a vivid dream convinced that Zelda would be coming home before dark. He couldn’t remember the details, but the feeling of hope and anticipation remained strong in him even through breakfast and a quick perusal of the bills the postman had delivered. Money wasn’t a problem. His paintings were selling well and his reputation was gaining in stature day by day. He might not be at Hockney’s level, but then few living artists were. Those kinds of millions were beyond him and always would be. Still, he was doing all right; he could pay the bills, and he could support Zelda.
But it had been just a dream. In reality, Alan was coming over tonight when he got back from Paris, Ray hoped with more news about Zelda. He would go out later and buy food, maybe the ingredients for a chickpea curry, along with some beer and wine, and he had already put aside a few LPs for their listening pleasure: Soft Machine’s Third, Kevin Ayers’s Shooting at the Moon, and Gong’s Camembert Electrique. They should keep the blues at bay for a while. Anything to chase the demons out, even if only for an hour or two. Perhaps some Edgar Broughton Band? No. The three choices would be enough, then they would move on to something a bit more mellow. Pity Banks didn’t enjoy the occasional spliff, though. Ray always felt like a naughty boy smoking dope in front of him. Maybe he would smoke up before Banks arrived this evening, avoid any awkwardness.
After the second coffee, still not inspired to start work, he decided he needed to tidy the place up. First, he dealt with the sink full of dirty dishes, putting as many as he could in the dishwasher and washing the rest by hand. After that, he swept the hardwood floors and vacuumed the carpeted areas. He stripped the bed and put on clean sheets and pillowcases, stuffing the others in the washing machine. He had lived alone down in St. Ives long enough to know how to do all these things, as well as cook for himself and anywhere up to ten guests. Hungry at lunchtime, he whipped up a cheese omelette and toast, then drove to the Tesco on the edge of Eastvale and bought what he needed for dinner.
By early afternoon he felt ready for the studio. He was working on a new painting. It started as a portrait of Zelda, but had soon become a sort of composite of all the elements he saw in her. Faces within a face, a collage of possibilities. In some lights, she was a classic Eastern European beauty, from another angle perhaps half Thai or Vietnamese, and from yet another Middle Eastern. Ray was trying to capture all these facets in one small portrait and together, viewed from a distance, they should ideally resolve themselves into a realistic head and shoulders portrait of Zelda against a slightly psychedelic background. He would be the first to admit that there was more than a hint of Love’s Forever Changes album cover in the work. In fact, he had it propped up on another easel while he worked and had played it many times over the past few days.