She was aware that she had never grieved for her father, and she didn’t know anymore whether or not she had ever loved him. She didn’t think she could have done. Not really. She had loved her mother, though — and still did, painfully so, a love now dogged by guilt — with all her faults and paradoxes. And maybe that is why she had never given anything emotionally to her father nor he to her. It almost seemed like a disloyalty to her mother.
Margaret Meadows, as was her wont, reacted unpredictably to the unexpected death of her husband. She inherited Laurel House outright — Colin Meadows had failed to make another will following his estrangement from his wife and in any case his new partner had died with him — and the old Victorian villa, short on tender loving care as it had been for so long, was a big house in a sought-after location and turned out to be worth a considerable amount of money.
Margaret Meadows sold the place at once and, in a way which might have seemed quite out of character, proceeded to handle her financial affairs extremely sensibly. She invested part of the proceeds of the sale of Laurel House in order to provide an income, and the rest she used to buy a small but pretty cottage in the village of Kingskerswell, where she and Karen then lived until Karen left home for college. Karen found herself observing, in that peculiarly detached way she had as a child, while her mother turned her entire life around. Margaret almost totally stopped drinking, joined the Women’s Institute, took up jam-making and ballroom dancing and found a charming widowed farmer to escort her around. She never married again, in spite of being asked to do so regularly by the farmer, and indeed it seemed as if the death of her husband gave her both the freedom and the will to live her life to the full.
The depressions became fewer and further between and, no longer fuelled by excessive alcohol, seemed to be controllable. Karen remembered thinking that her mother might have made a rather fine actress. Certainly her ability to reinvent herself as a totally different human being proved to be considerable and, while her performance as a stalwart of village life was worthy of an Oscar, Karen never quite believed in it, even though it seemed to keep her mother happy. Indeed, those years at Kingskerswell were among the happiest in Karen’s life too. The changes both in her surroundings and in her mother’s behaviour were extraordinary.
One thing did not change. They still never really communicated, never talked about anything important. Certainly Richard Marshall, and the mysterious disappearance of his wife and children, was never mentioned.
Throughout the rest of that day Karen found her thoughts returning to the past. The very act of reopening the investigation into the disappearance of Clara Marshall and her children, which although never officially closed had effectively ended years previously, was a journey down memory lane. And by and large not a particularly pleasant one.
Caught up in the buzz of it all, some time around six o’clock Karen suddenly remembered that she had arranged to meet Bill Talbot in the pub. She felt, however, that there was nothing further to learn from Talbot at that moment, and after such a long and traumatic day she really couldn’t face what she feared was sure to descend into a morose drinking session while Talbot relived his and the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary’s failings in the Marshall affair. So she called him to put off their meeting, pleading pressure of work which, as she suspected she would not be ready to leave the station until at least ten o’clock again that night, was actually more than just an excuse.
The following morning brought a potential breakthrough. Just before 11 A. M. they got word back from Rolex. A brief report was faxed over from their UK headquarters in East Grinstead, which a beaming Phil Cooper brought into Karen’s office. The watch, serial number 765323, had been sold by Gavin of Inverness. Predictably, Mr. Gavin no longer had any records of his business, certainly not going back to the sixties. But it was beyond all reasonable doubt that the watch had been bought by Sean MacDonald and given to his daughter Clara. Its discovery adjacent to her body in that old sunken German U-boat was, Karen felt sure, already sufficient to identify the remains they had found.
Karen punched her desk with the clenched fist of her left hand.
“At last, Phil, at last,” she murmured.
“I know, boss.”
For a second or two Karen felt the past overwhelming her again. Then she gave herself a mental shaking. They actually had some evidence, at least enough to establish at last that they were dealing with a murder. They had something tangible after all this time, they had a victim. They had a body. This was no time for any kind of self-indulgence. This was the moment for which she and so many others had waited so long, this was a moment to be grasped with both hands. She must concentrate absolutely on the present and on ensuring that some kind of justice was finally achieved on behalf of Clara Marshall and her children.
Karen turned her full attention to the sergeant once more.
“And Marshall? Do we know where he is, yet?”
Cooper’s smile had broadened even more. “We certainly do, boss. Just got confirmation. He’s running a marina in Poole, not far from Bournemouth where he came from, of course. He calls himself Ricky Maxwell nowadays, like you said. Changed his name not long after he moved away from Torquay with that hairdresser woman, if you remember, boss.”
Karen shot him a withering look. “Do you really think I could have forgotten, Phil?”
“Sorry, boss.”
Karen grinned.
“Bit of an unfortunate change of a name really, wasn’t it? Maxwell. Later to be made notorious by Robert, one of the greatest villains in corporate history.”
She got to her feet and strode purposefully towards the door, gesturing for Cooper to follow her.
Outside in the incident room she called for attention, but she hadn’t really needed to do so. All eyes were on her as soon as she walked in. She was acutely aware of the quite heady atmosphere of suppressed excitement in the room.
“Right, boys and girls,” she began. “We have every reason to believe that we have at last found the body of Clara Marshall. And we all know who our prime suspect is, do we not?”
A murmur of assent rippled around the room.
“OK!” Karen continued. “We also know where to find him. So...” She paused. A little bit of dramatic effect was all part of man management, she reckoned. “Let’s go get the bastard, shall we?”
Her words were greeted with a brief cheer and a chorus of muttered “yes”es. Everybody in the force wanted Richard Marshall. The loudest shout of “yes” came from Phil Cooper. Karen shot him an appreciative glance. She liked his enthusiasm. Liked everything about the man, in fact.
“I need two of you guys, Tompkins and Smiley.” She deliberately chose two of the older detective constables, long-serving men who were all too familiar with the history of the Marshall case. Then she turned to Cooper. “I’ll want you as well, Phil, plus two uniforms. Find out who’s available and make sure they’re young and fit just in case we need muscle. It wouldn’t really be Marshall’s style to resist arrest, but I’m taking no chances. The rest of you, just carry on. Let’s dig deep on this one. Marshall’s well capable of escaping our net. I don’t want him to be given the opportunity to do so. So let’s make sure we miss absolutely nothing — and I really do want all those old records gone through with a fine tooth comb.”
This brought about the obligatory moans from the detectives assigned to the dreary task of dealing with the mountainous paperwork already compiled for the case. But Karen had the feeling they didn’t really mind that much. Not if the end result was locking up Richard Marshall.