“How do you know that?” James asked. To Emma the question seemed too loud, too urgent. What could it matter to him?
“We found fingerprints in the public phone box there. You know the one,” Vera said. Again Emma thought this didn’t sound right. It was as if the words had another meaning, as if the two of them were talking in a code she couldn’t understand, hadn’t been let in on. “We’ve tested them and we know they are Christopher’s, Vera continued. “So what I want to know is where he went after that. We’ve tracked people who walked their dogs along the shore that morning. No one saw him. There were people about in the village that day. You’d think he’d want something to eat, wouldn’t you? A cup of tea, at least. But he didn’t go into any of the shops or the bakery. He cut quite a striking figure, apparently. Even if the staff didn’t know him by name, you’d think he’d have been noticed. Can you think of anyone who might have put him up? Where he’d have hidden? And who he might have wanted to hide from?”
“No!” she said. “I feel that I knew as little about him as I did about Abigail Mantel. And I won’t have the chance now to know him better.”
“I’m sorry,” Vera stood up suddenly, pulled on the cardigan as she walked towards the door. “This isn’t fair. You’ve enough to cope with. If you think of anything which would help, you can give us a ring.”
The sergeant, Ashworth, followed. He hadn’t said a word since he’d come in, but at the door he stopped, gave Emma a look of such sympathy and pity that she was brought close to tears. “Take care,” he said. It was as if James was no longer in the room.
Suddenly she was a child again. She was in the house in York, sitting on the stairs. She’d been in bed but something had woken her and she’d stumbled down, half asleep. It had been summer and was still light, the garden behind the open door full of sunshine and birdsong. And her parents’ words. They’d been discussing her. She’d heard her name and that had woken her properly and she’d run down to join them. They were sitting on a wooden bench. She’d run out to them. There was a patio made of old flagstones, which were rough against her bare feet but still warm. Her mother had gathered her into her arms. Emma had expected to be included in the conversation, an explanation, for she,” after all, had been at the centre of the discussion.
“What were you talking about?” she’d demanded.
“Nothing, darling. Nothing important.”
And Emma had realized that it wasn’t worth asking again. She’d been irrevocably shut out. Now, in the Captain’s House, she felt just the same.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The next day Emma visited Abigail’s grave. She left the baby with James and went alone, only saying that she seemed to have been stuck in the house for days and she needed some exercise. Usually, on his days off, James went everywhere with her. He liked the three of them to be together as much as possible. Liked the idea of it, at least. Tbday he let her go without comment, without seeming even to listen to her explanation, and she wondered again what was preoccupying him.
Christopher wouldn’t be buried next to Abigail. Although they didn’t know yet when the body would be released, Mary and Robert had already decided that he would be cremated. Mary had said she couldn’t bear the idea of strangers coming to stare at his grave; these days even civilized people seemed to turn into voyeurs whenever a violent crime was reported in the media. Emma hadn’t been consulted over the matter, and she thought that was only right. Of course she was sad that Christopher was dead, but she wasn’t devastated. She wasn’t overwhelmed with grief as you should be when a brother has been killed. She wondered what was wrong with her.
Emma felt guilty too because she’d had so little contact with her parents since Christopher’s death. She could do something about that and she promised herself she’d go soon to Springhead to see how they were getting on. She realized she had viewed their retreat into isolation with something like relief. It meant her father wasn’t turning up on the doorstep every five minutes to offer moral support and guidance. She didn’t have to play at dutiful daughter.
When she reached the cemetery she wasn’t sure why she’d bothered coming. After so long, her presence was probably a meaningless gesture. At the last minute she wished she’d brought flowers. It would have given the visit some point. She tried to fix a picture of Abigail in her mind, but whenever she remembered an occasion they’d spent together, the image of the girl slipped away from her and she was left with the background to the scene. So, there was that time when Abigail had told her triumphantly that she’d finally persuaded Keith to ask Jeanie Long to leave. Friday night. Youth club in the church hall, which Abigail usually turned her nose up at, but which Emma was forced to attend. A couple of pool tables and a ghetto blaster in the corner playing music she’d never heard before. The smell of steamed fish left over from the old people’s lunch club. A stall selling crisps and Cash and Carry cola and cheap sweets: chews, lollipops and twisted bits of brightly coloured candy she’d never seen in proper shops. Emma knew Abigail had looked stunning in a sparkly green top she could remember the pang of envy which had shot through her when Abigail had sauntered into the hall but she couldn’t see her. She could picture the faces of all the lads in the room looking wistful because they’d known she was way out of their league. Including Christopher’s,
because he’d been there too. He’d been playing pool and had straightened up from the table and stared intently for a moment. But not Abigail’s. Emma couldn’t remember at all what Abigail’s response had been to all that attention.
Standing at the grave, her focus shifted. Instead of being part of the background, Christopher took centre stage. This was where he’d last been seen. And if the inspector was right, it was a place he’d visited many times before. She could picture him quite clearly the long flapping anorak, his lank, untidy hair. The face drawn through lack of sleep and a hangover. But she had no idea what had been going on inside his head. She felt the desperation of missed opportunity. If only she’d been more sympathetic or more assertive. If only she had persuaded him to tell her what he knew.
Her attention was caught then by a flurry of activity around the farm buildings across the field. A minibus had arrived in the yard and a gaggle of police officers got out. There were a couple of dogs; she heard shouted instructions. The officers waited, then a car pulled up and two figures, sexless in white paper overalls and white caps, emerged. Someone must have had a key to the house because they went inside. The rest of them stood by the bus, looking at the junk, the piles of rusting machinery, as if they didn’t know where to start. Emma thought Vera Stanhope might turn up and didn’t want to be caught by her at Abigail’s grave. The detective might think it was her comments of the night before which had prompted Emma to come. Emma didn’t want her to have that satisfaction.
As she turned to leave, Emma saw Dan Greenwood leaning against the railings. He must have been watching her. He smiled and raised one hand in greeting. She felt her face flush, a sick excitement in the pit of her stomach. There was still a thrill of connection. That was what made James different, she thought. She never really felt connected to him. He was just a character in one of her stories.
“What do you think they’re doing?” She nodded towards the figures in navy, who had started to organize themselves into groups. One of the parties filed through a gap in the hedge into the field nearest the river.
“They want to find out where Christopher spent the day he was killed. The cemetery was the last place he was seen and the farm’s empty. He could have been in there. They’ll be checking if he left any trace of himself behind.” He didn’t speak as if he was guessing. She supposed he must still have friends in the service who kept him informed.