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  ‘And you, obviously, are still at Chase Mortimer. I was afraid, when you didn’t answer my letter, that you might have left. I phoned to check.’

  ‘Not only still there, but a partner.’

  ‘Good for you. Congratulations.’

  She looked at him challengingly. ‘And what about you? How is it you’re free to come waltzing up here when you should be at your desk, working?’

  ‘You sound like a wife!’ Hugh teased, adding, as her face remained impassive, ‘I had to come up to Aylesbury to see a client, so I made a detour on the way home.’

  ‘A pretty long one.’

  ‘But well worth it.’

  Breaking free of his gaze, her eyes fell to his hand on the table, the fine red-gold hairs glinting on the back of it, and she shivered as her body treacherously betrayed her. For Hugh had been a passionate lover, able to take her to heights unachieved before or since, and although mentally and emotionally she’d felt nothing but relief when they parted, physically she had continued to ache for him. Which was why, frantic for sexual release, she had fled to Max that time. The memory of it still woke her in the night, drenched in sweat and burning with shame, to recall her abject pleas, her stumbling, confused excuses about ‘keeping it in the family’, and the cold contempt in his eyes.

  She drained her glass of the remaining liquid and picked up her bag. ‘I must be going,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll walk you to your car.’

  ‘No need.’ She stood up and allowed him to help her on with her coat.

  ‘I insist,’ he said quietly.

  The rain had stopped, but the wind was still gusting and he took her arm as they turned into Alban Street and battled their way to the car park behind the offices, shared by Chase Mortimer and other firms in the building. Only a few cars now remained, sleek and wetly shining. Lindsey walked over to hers, unlocked it, and turned to Hugh.

  ‘Thanks for the drink,’ she said, ‘but please don’t come again. I shan’t change my mind.’

  He bent down, and she detected the familiar aftershave as he lightly kissed her cheek. ‘And I shan’t give up trying,’ he said, as she turned and climbed quickly into the car. To her fury, she found she was trembling. She started the car with a jerk, causing the tyres to skid on the wet ground, then spun round and drove swiftly out of the car park. Her last glimpse of him in the side mirror was of a solitary figure under the harsh light that, for security reasons, brilliantly illuminated it. As she again turned left, on to Alban Road, tears were raining unchecked down her face.

  All right, he’d been charming this evening – and Hugh could certainly be charming when he chose – but it was important to remember all his other traits that had contributed to months of misery and which, should they ever get back together, would undoubtedly resurface.

  ‘Goodbye, Hugh!’ she said aloud, and turned up the volume on the radio. As a means of distraction, however, it was a failure, and as she fought to control the car against the buffeting wind, she found herself resurrecting all the memories she’d striven so hard to forget.

  ‘Everyone has rows,’ Rona had said once, when Lindsey had confided in her. ‘Max and I certainly do.’ But their rows had sounded like the kind she and Rona occasionally indulged in – shouting at each other, banging around, but always aware of underlying love. Those between herself and Hugh had been quite different; his temper could flare with frightening suddenness, and hurtful jibes would be flung at her, which afterwards lodged in the memory. He’d never actually hit her, though there were times he’d come close to it, and when his rage had burned out, he would sulk for days, refusing to speak to her. Occasionally, later, he would say, ‘It’s my red hair!’ – as though that excused everything. It was the only apology she ever received.

  Her mother’s voice sounded in her ear. The best way to get rid of him is to find someone else.

  And Hugh himself had echoed her: I shan’t give up till you actually marry.

  Simple, really, Lindsey told herself bitterly. But where exactly was she going to meet an attractive man in his forties, who wasn’t either married or gay? Yet she must find someone, she thought fearfully, turning into the driveway of her home; because if it ever occurred to Hugh to exert sexual pressure, she might not have the strength to hold out. And that would be fatal.

  Rona’s contract arrived in the post the next morning, and she was flicking through it when Max phoned.

  ‘Have you seen the paper?’ he asked.

  ‘What paper?’

  ‘The newspaper, honey! Wake up!’

  ‘I’ve not had a chance; Eddie’s just sent me the contract, and—’

  ‘Well, if you’ve got it in front of you, turn to the foot of page 4. Can’t stop now, but meet me for lunch at the Gallery?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t be so mysterious,’ Rona grumbled, trying one-handedly to open the broadsheet.

  ‘Twelve-thirty?’

  ‘Yes, fine. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Love you!’ he said, and rang off.

  Rona put down the phone and turned to the page he had indicated, her heart giving a jerk as the photograph used for her Chiltern Life articles smiled up at her. Alongside it was the heading ‘Biographer to Write Author’s Life’.

  Apprehensively she read on:

  Well-known biographer Rona Parish (left) has accepted an invitation from his family to chronicle the life of the late thriller-writer Theo Harvey, who was found drowned near his remote cottage in August last year. It will be interesting to see if Ms Parish, known for her meticulous research, can dig up anything to throw more light on this tragic and largely unexplained event. Harvey was the author . . .

  How had they got hold of that photo? she wondered suspiciously, and in immediate reply the phone rang again and Barnie’s voice said in her ear, ‘Seen the plug I engineered for you?’ She’d told him of the project when she’d handed in the final article.

  ‘So it’s you I have to thank! How did you manage that?’

  ‘Just a word in the ear of a friend. It’s OK, isn’t it? I thought it would create a bit of interest in advance.’

  ‘Well in advance!’ Rona said. ‘So far, I haven’t written a single word.’

  ‘At least it’ll warn off anyone else whose thoughts might have been turning in the same direction.’

  ‘It was a kind thought, Barnie. Thanks.’

  Meriel Harvey had also seen the item, and hers was the third phone call that morning. ‘Does this mean you’re ready to go ahead?’ she asked excitedly.

  ‘Almost,’ Rona told her, ‘but the timing of the piece is pure coincidence; I didn’t know anything about it till I read it myself. Still, I’m posting off the signed contract today, after which I’ll be free to begin.’

  ‘Excellent. Then perhaps you could come out again, and we could make a start? And please do stay for lunch this time; I’m sure there’ll be more than a morning’s work ahead of us. Would tomorrow be convenient?’

  Rona hesitated, taken aback by the immediacy of the invitation. She normally allowed herself a week or two to prepare for a new biography, using the time to ease herself into the mindset of it by roughly planning its shape, drawing up schedules of interviews, and, on a more mundane level, ensuring that she had adequate stocks of paper and spare cartridges. In this instance, she’d also determined to finish reading Harvey’s novels. On the other hand, it was as well not to dampen his widow’s enthusiasm.

  A little unwillingly, she said, ‘Thank you, yes. That would be – fine.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing you, then.’

  Rona turned from the phone to the dog lying at her feet. ‘I’m not going to be allowed to hang about, Gus!’ she told him humorously. ‘Come on, let’s go to the park. I need a good blow to get my thoughts in order.’

  The Gallery Café was reached via a black iron staircase on Guild Street, next to the doorway of Willows’ Fine Furniture. As a puppy, Gus had mistrusted the open steps, but now he galloped up them confidently, pulling Rona
behind him. Though the walkway above housed several specialist shops, the Gallery held pride of place since, like the furniture store below it, it rounded the corner from Guild Street to Fullers Walk, thus offering its patrons a choice of view. Max was already seated at a window table, and rose to kiss her as she joined him.

  ‘What did you think of the newspaper article?’ he asked her, as she sat down and Gus made his way under the table.

  ‘A little unnerving. It turned out to be Barnie’s doing; “A word in the ear of a friend.”’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly announced your undertaking to all and sundry.’

  Rona looked at him closely. ‘You sound less than enthusiastic.’

  He shrugged. ‘I just wish it hadn’t implied you might come up with an answer on his death.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, Max!’

  ‘Well, if you remember, that was my main reservation about your taking it on.’

  ‘But he drowned, for God’s sake! What’s so mysterious about that?’

  ‘It was an open verdict, remember.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting there was something suspicious about it, are you?’

  ‘Not suspicious, so much as “unexplained”, as the article put it.’ He passed her the menu. ‘You’d better decide what you’d like; the waitress passes this way but once.’

  She glanced at it. ‘Salmon fishcakes with dill sauce,’ she said, ‘and a spritzer.’ She looked up at him. ‘Is that why we’re having lunch? So you can voice your apprehension?’

  ‘No, we’re having lunch because I’ve finished what I set myself this morning, because I know you’re between jobs, and because I wanted to see my wife.’

  She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  He smiled. ‘How well you know me! All right, also because I’ve something interesting to tell you.’ He paused. ‘Guess who I saw yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘To warrant lunch, it must be someone unexpected. The Prime Minister?’

  ‘Hugh Cavendish,’ he said.

  Rona stared at him. ‘Hugh was here?’

  ‘He was indeed. Hanging about outside Chase Mortimer.’

  ‘He didn’t go inside?’

  ‘Not while I saw him, but it was too wet and blowy to hang about.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Around five thirty.’

  ‘Then he’d have been waiting for Lindsey to come out.’

  ‘Well done, Watson! Harvey’s death will pose no problems for you!’

  ‘But why hasn’t she phoned me?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps she doesn’t want you to know she’s seen him.’

  ‘But you heard her at the parents’; she was in a state after only getting a letter from him. Do you think I should ring her?’

  ‘If you’re really asking my advice, then no, I do not. If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you in her own time. And I wouldn’t like her to think I was spying.’

  ‘Ready to order?’ interrupted a voice above them, and Max duly obliged.

  Rona looked frowningly down into the street. Yesterday’s rain had blown away, but the wind was still strong, and people thronging the pavements were clutching their coats together against its intrusive blast.

  Max studied her averted face for a minute. ‘You said the contract’s arrived?’

  ‘Yes, I posted it back on the way here.’

  ‘So you’re all set?’

  She nodded. ‘Meriel Harvey phoned just after you, and invited me to lunch tomorrow. She’d seen the piece, too.’

  ‘Just tread carefully, love, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘Don’t I always?’ she replied.

  In the three weeks since she’d last driven this way, spring had arrived. The misty green had formed into new shoots, blossom was out, and daffodils gleamed in profusion. White clouds raced across a newly washed sky, and at last Rona felt that lift of the spirits that always presaged a new work, delayed in this instance both by her own vague disquiet and Max’s reservations.

  Again she had to negotiate market shoppers in the village, and again she was admitted by the young woman Cecile, who invited her to bring Gus into the house.

  ‘Madame say you will be here for quite a while,’ she explained.

  Meriel Harvey came into the hall to meet her. ‘It’s no problem at all,’ she insisted, as Gus wagged his tail ingratiatingly. ‘I’m fond of dogs, and it’s not fair to keep him shut up when it’s unnecessary. I’m sure he’s well behaved.’

  ‘Usually,’ Rona said. ‘If he’s not, he’ll go straight back in the car.’

  Over coffee, she asked Meriel’s permission to use a tape recorder and, having been given it, set up the machine and opened her notebook at the list of questions she’d hurriedly prepared.

  ‘Perhaps we could start with a few facts,’ she began. ‘I looked your husband up on the Internet, and learned that his parents were Reginald and Frances Harvey, that he was born in February 1944 and had an elder brother and sister.’

  ‘Tristan and Phoebe, yes.’

  ‘Are his parents still alive?’

  ‘His father is, in a residential home near Chesham.’

  ‘Is he fit to be interviewed?’

  ‘Oh yes; he’s ninety-three, but he’s a strong old bird, in fine fettle. All three of his children have, over the years, invited him to live with them, but he won’t hear of it.’

  Rona took down the address and phone number of the home, and then the addresses of both Tristan Harvey and Phoebe Henshaw. ‘Were they a close family?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, Theo was much younger, but as they grew older they’d more in common. They used to meet several times a year, and always in December, when he gave a post-publication party and handed out copies of his latest book.’

  ‘My father always had it for Christmas,’ Rona commented.

  ‘That’s nice.’ Meriel looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap.

  ‘Did the younger members of the family come to these parties?’

  ‘Yes, everyone was invited. Tristan has a son who’s married and a daughter who isn’t, and Phoebe has a married daughter. They always came, plus husbands, wives or partners. Theo’s three sons were invited each year, but never turned up. I think that hurt him.’

  Rona hoped they’d co-operate with her; their view of Theo Harvey was likely to differ from other people’s, and would help to give a more rounded portrait.

  ‘By the way,’ Meriel said suddenly, ‘I don’t know if it’s relevant, but we had a burglary soon after Theo’s death.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Not much was taken, as far as I could judge, but his study was ransacked. We were – at his funeral at the time.’

  Rona’s dormant apprehension stirred. ‘What did the police make of it?’

  ‘They sniffed around a bit and decided the burglar must have been disturbed. Since so little was missing, they more or less wrote it off.’

  ‘In spite of the open verdict on your husband’s death?’

  ‘I did mention that, but they seemed to discount it. They told me there are people who read the death columns, then break in to the deceased’s house when they know the relatives will be at the funeral. Can you credit that?’

  Rona avoided the question. ‘What exactly was taken?’

  ‘A silver cigarette case from the table over there, and some costume jewellery from my bedroom. They overlooked far more valuable things.’

  Token items? Rona wondered. She shook herself. Watson, indeed. Nevertheless: ‘You say the study was ransacked; was nothing taken from there?’

  ‘Not that I could see. They didn’t find the safe, which is what the police thought they were looking for.’

  Conversation returned to the family, and Rona enquired about Harvey’s first wife.

  ‘She was only thirty-seven when Theo left her,’ Meriel said, ‘but she’s never remarried. Probably didn’t want to miss out on the alimony.’

&nbs
p; ‘How old are her sons?’

  ‘Lord, now you’re asking. Let me see: Jonathan, the youngest, had his twenty-first a couple of years before Theo died, which would make him about twenty-four. I know there’s three years between them all, so Luke must be twenty-seven and Gavin thirty. He was married last year.’

  ‘Do you know where they live?’

  ‘It’ll be in Theo’s address book; I can get it for you.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d also like to contact anyone apart from the family who knew your husband when he was young.’

  Meriel smiled. ‘Do call him Theo, it’s so much easier than having to say “your husband” every time. And I’m Meriel; we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, so we might as well use first-names.

  ‘As far as old friends are concerned, I can’t really help. Theo always maintained he hated his school days, and it gave him great pleasure to refuse invitations to officiate at prize-givings once he’d become famous. I don’t know if any of the masters who taught him are still there, but he kept in touch with a few of his school friends, and several university colleagues. We could go through his Christmas card list – that would give their addresses.’

  As the morning progressed, Rona changed the tape more than once, and her notebook also began to fill up with jottings. Gus slept peacefully in front of the fire and Meriel at last began to relax.

  ‘How will you plan the book?’ she asked interestedly. ‘I mean, will you work chronologically, or start from a certain point in his life and work back and forth?’

  ‘I don’t usually decide until after the first few interviews,’ Rona replied. ‘Personally, though, I’m put off by biographies that delve into a long family history before you even get to the person you’re interested in.’

  Meriel nodded agreement. ‘It would be pointless in this case, anyway; Theo’s forebears weren’t of particular note.’

  ‘Of course, I’d want to say a fair bit about his parents, because their attitude towards him would have had a significant bearing on his character.’

  ‘Frances was nearly forty when he was born,’ Meriel said reflectively, ‘and he certainly wasn’t planned. According to Tristan and Phoebe, she spoiled him appallingly. I think they resented him taking up so much of her time, though I believe his father was quite strict.’