capable of anything.
She had also, once, been her best friend. That had to
count for something.
‘We have to tell her,’ said Tom. ‘She has to know. I think — maybe I should go down there. Tell her that way. Not over the phone. What do you think?’
‘Yes. Possibly.’ Marianne sounded very upset.
‘Look, Marianne, you should get home. There’s nothing
more you can do.’ God, what an absurd thing to say. How
death produced cliches.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Is your car there? At the hospital?’
‘No. I came in a cab. I’ll call one. Or maybe Marc or
Zoe could come and get me. I feel a bit shaky. I’ll call
home.’
‘I’ll do it for you. I know how hard it is in those places.
You need endless change. ‘Bye, Marianne. You’ve been so
wonderful today. Thank you for everything.’
Fifteen minutes later, as Marianne sat, shaking slightly now with shock and grief, Nico Cadogan walked into Reception. She was somehow not remotely surprised to see
him; his presence there seemed entirely natural, what she
would against all logic have expected. She needed him and
he was there; it was as simple as that.
‘Don’t say anything,’ he said, sitting down beside her,
putting his arm round her, ‘anything at all. I’ve come to get
you safely home. No more than that.’
‘Oh, Nico,’ said Marianne, burying her face against him,
trying and failing to blank out the picture of the shell that
had been Felix lying on the high bed, the machines about
him silent and still, his strength finally spent, his vitality lost
for ever. ‘Nico, you’ll never know how pleased I am to see
you.’
‘Maybe some day you’ll be able to tell me,’ he said,
kissing the top of her head. ‘Come along now. Let’s take
you home.’
Tom dialled Octavia’s mobile. It was switched off. Damn!
Why had she done that? Surely she couldn’t have gone to
sleep, surely. Must have been a mistake. Well, he could call
the hotel, get them to ring up to her room …
‘No reply from her room, Mr Fleming.’
‘Are you sure? Try again.’
Another long wait. ‘Sorry, no. She’s not answering.’ The
voice was beginning to sound bored.
‘Well - could someone go up? Maybe she’s asleep,
maybe she’s ill. She’s a very light sleeper, it’s unlike her …’
She wouldn’t, couldn’t - Christ - have taken an overdose, would she? She’d been so distraught, she always had sleeping pills with her, anything was possible. No. No,
she wouldn’t. That really would be out of character.
‘The room’s empty, sir. No one is there.’
‘Oh, God. But she has the key still?’
‘She hasn’t handed it in, sir.’
‘What about the dining room, or something. Could you
have her paged?’
‘The dining room is closed now, sir.’
‘I see. Well — is her car there?’
‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not? You must have a car park, go and bloody well
check. This is an emergency, for God’s sake. It’s a Ranger
Rover, N reg, N459 AGR.’
‘Very well, sir. If you’ll just wait while I find someone.’
Another interminable wait. Then, ‘No, the car has gone.
I’m sorry.’
Jesus! What had happened to her? Where had she gone?
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘please let me know if she comes
back.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
There it was; in spite of her mother having told her it was
still weatherproof, still there, that she had phoned Mr Briggs
a few months earlier to warn him she was thinking of selling
it, she had worried increasingly as she got nearer. Mr Briggs
might have been being economical with the truth, afraid of
losing his annual rent cheque. Quite a large cheque,
actually, she’d discovered, in return for what was after all a
very small piece of land indeed that nobody ever visited any
more. He must be quite an old man now, and these were
not exactly easy times for farmers. Anyway, it seemed to be
all right. Thank God. Parked in the comer at the bottom of
the field; looking as if it had put roots down into the
ground. Sunk on its haunches a bit, very rusty no doubt,
but still there, still with its roof. Hopefully it would be dry.
If only there was a bit more moonlight. Still, her torch was
very powerful. She could pick it out. Under the apple tree,
in the corner. Yes, it was fine. No cows in the field, just a few sheep. Well, that was all right, they wouldn’t make
much noise.
It was amazing how she’d remembered it all so vividly:
the other way to reach it, so she didn’t have to drive
through the farm, down the farm track even, so the dogs
didn’t bark. She remembered that even now; Mrs Briggs
asking her mother to go that way round. It was along a very
rutted track, and quite often when it had rained a lot, the
car got stuck in the mud. There wasn’t any mud now: it
was very dry.
She had parked the car in the gateway of the first field;
Minty was asleep. She wondered if she dared leave her
there while she did a quick recce; she’d have to. She locked
all the doors and climbed over the gate.
The field was blessedly dry; she made her way down
towards the corner where the caravan was. Below the field
were some woods, beyond them the sea. It was a beautiful
place; they’d only had a few holidays here, but she still
remembered them as being very special. It had all been so
exciting, like an Enid Blyton story, getting milk and eggs
from the farm, water from a tap in the corner of the field
that fed the sheep trough — that was very lucky, she
presumed it was still there - endless picnics, exploring
beaches and caves, scrambling up and down cliff paths.
The caravan wasn’t even that rusty: it looked remarkably
sturdy. She pulled the key out, put it in the lock. Please,
please let it work, don’t let it be rusted. There was a bit of
resistance, but it opened. She beamed her torch inside:
filthy, cobwebs everywhere, but it was dry. A neat pile of
sleeping bags, no doubt spider infested, on one of the
bunks, saucepans still on the stove, a few old postcards
jammed jauntily into the window frames, a vase set on the
table, a Cornish pixie toast rack on the side. Even the old
curtains hung still at the windows, and a battered travel cot
stood in the comer. That was wonderful: Minty was much
too big for a carrycot; she’d been worrying about it. And a
picture of the four of them, her mother, herself, Benjy and Dominic, all quite small, smiling over the farm gate, set in a fame on one of the shelves.
‘Oh, Mummy,’ she said aloud, a catch in her voice, ‘oh,
Mummy, I wish you’d come back.’
Well, she wouldn’t. She was gone. For ever. She had to
manage without her now. And she had to look after Minty.
She looked back at the car; probably best to take the stuff
in first, then Minty. She could make up the travel cot with
the bedclothes, put her in that while she sorted out another
bottle and a nappy and so on.
A wave of happiness swept over Louise. This was just as
she had imagined it. Possibly even better.
The best way was down the A30 from Exeter. It was a good
fast road and at this time of night there was no traffic on it.
Octavia turned on to it; she felt almost happy. She had
always loved night driving. God knows how she was going
to find the caravan. Or even Plenty Farm. But she would.
She could do anything now. Anything at all. She was going
to get Minty back.
‘Perhaps you should try Mr Trelawny,’ said Caroline to
Tom. ‘He might have heard from Octavia.’ She was very
subdued, very shaken.
‘Yes, maybe I should.’
‘I feel so bad,’ she said suddenly.
‘Caroline, for heaven’s sake why, why should you feel
bad?’
‘If I’d stayed behind, looked after Minty, this wouldn’t
have happened. I’m so sorry.’
‘Look,’ said Tom, ‘that really is absurd. I never heard
such nonsense. If it’s anyone’s fault, it was ours, not looking
after her properly. But yes, you’re right, I’ll ring Sandy
Trelawny. And Charles Madison, that wouldn’t be a bad
idea either.’
Sandy was clearly sitting by the phone; he snatched it up.
He said he’d heard nothing. ‘But I’ll ring you immediately,
if Ida’
‘Thanks,’ said Tom.
He phoned Rookston Manor. No answer for a long
time, then Charles Madison’s courteous voice, heavy with
anxiety.
‘Charles, it’s Tom. Tom Fleming.’
‘Tom! Is there any news?’
So — that was no good.
‘No. I just wondered if by any chance you’d heard from
Octavia.’
‘Octavia? No, I’m afraid not. Why?’
‘She’s disappeared,’ said Tom, ‘we have no idea where
she is. And — you see, I have to contact her. Her father’s
died.’
‘Her father? Oh, how dreadful. What was it?’
‘Heart attack,’ said Tom briefly.
‘I always liked him so much. He was so kind, coming to
Anna’s funeral.’
‘Yes. But you see, I do have to find Octavia. Apart from
anything else.’
‘Yes, of course. And I’ll tell Janet too in the morning.
She’s gone to bed.’
‘You couldn’t check now?’ said Tom hopefully.
‘Tom, it is quite late. She lives in a separate flat. Over the
stables. She would have told me if Octavia — or Louise for
that matter - had phoned. She really would.’
‘Yes, of course. Well - thank you, Charles, anyway.’
‘Not at all, not at all. I feel so dreadful myself. I feel - oh,
I don’t know.’ He sounded very tired, absolutely defeated.
‘Charles don’t feel that. No one could have helped all
this.’ Except me, he thought, me, by not starting the affair,
not damaging that fragile psyche further.
‘Have you told the police? About Octavia disappearing?’
‘No,’ said Tom, ‘no, not yet.’
He knew he should; but he kept putting it off. It made it
too official.
Minty was all right at first. She let Louise change her nappy
— God, where was she going to put these things? There were a lot of things, after all, she hadn’t thought of. She’d have to find somewhere tomorrow. Minty took a bottle
from her, a cold bottle, but then it was a hot night, even let
her wipe her face and hands with some baby wipes. She
couldn’t start stumbling about looking for the sheep trough
in the dark. It was when Louise tried to take her dress off
that she started. It was as if the dress was her connection
with familiarity, safety, places and people she knew. She
screamed and screamed, on and on. Loudly, relentlessly.
Louise was terrified; it was a very still night, someone
might hear her, would come down to see what was
happening. She had hidden the car as best she could,
halfway down the track; in the morning she’d have to move
it, park it somewhere in the village maybe, where it
wouldn’t attract any attention.
She rocked Minty, trying to soothe her, holding her
close: or trying to. Minty struggled and pushed at her; every
so often the crying stopped, turning to panicky hiccups,
then started again. Poor little girl: what a dreadful day she’d
had. Well, tomorrow would be quite different. She could
lie under the apple tree, while Louise cleared up, set up
house in the caravan; they could go for a walk, down to the
beach - she could remember it so well, a lovely scrambly
path, bordered by fields, leading to the brilliant sea, they
could play on the beach, she could even dangle Minty’s toes
in the water. She’d love that. Juliet had loved that, when
they’d taken her to the seaside. Screaming with delight,
kicking her little fat legs, her brown pudgy feet. Minty
would love it too.
But Juliet had stopped crying when she held her close
and talked to her. Minty wouldn’t let her hold her close and
was crying too loudly to hear anything she said. Louise
began to feel desperate. She was so tired; so very tired. She
only wanted to sleep.
She put Minty down in the travel cot; she promptly
stood up in it, shaking the sides, screaming on. Louise
turned all the torches out. Maybe in the darkness she’d
settle down. She would give her ten minutes, that was the
magic time. They always went to sleep after ten minutes Minty screamed on; lying down now, jammed into a coma
of the cot.
Maybe she was frightened of the dark; she’d brought
some nightlights. Maybe she should light a couple of them,
see if that helped.
Louise rummaged in her bag for the nightlights, set them
in saucers, lit them. The light was very gentle, casting soft
shadows in the caravan; the effect was magical. Minty lay
staring at the shadows fascinated, her screams slowly
quietening.
Thank God, thought Louise, thank God. At last she
could go to sleep …
Janet couldn’t sleep; she had a dreadful headache and she
felt terribly Worried — and something else. Not quite guilt,
but a sense of dreadful responsibility. The more she thought
about Octavia driving off in the middle of the night to find
Louise, the more she felt it was dangerous. Louise’s