Shades of Murder (7 page)

What makes you pick out just one man in the crowd in those circumstances? Meredith never knew what made her do it. He was standing quite close, only a few feet away. Although his back was towards her, she guessed he was young. In build he was compact and muscular. He wore jeans and a tight grey T-shirt marked with darker patches of sweat at the armpits. A large rucksack lay at his feet, an airline’s luggage receipt attached to it. She noticed that he kept his face turned up towards the departures board, as if he was not just unsure of the platform number, but uncertain about the very existence of the train. How far had he travelled, she wondered. Was this his outward or inward journey? As if aware of her scrutiny, as we can be when someone is staring at us, the man glanced back and she felt his gaze scan her before she could look quickly away and pretend to be concentrating on something else. She had the impression of features which were unusual but attractive, extraordinary large dark eyes and a small mouth with curving lips. She was filled with a sense of unease which she put down to guilt at being caught spying.

Then the platform number had flashed up on the screen and the crowd moved like a herd of spooked cattle, stampeding for the gates. Meredith ran with the rest, clearing the way with a well-wielded briefcase and finally collapsing panting and triumphant into a window seat. The other passengers shoved and squeezed until all seats were taken and the losers stood resentfully at the end of the carriage, waiting for the first people to reach their destinations to vacate their places. It was only then that she realised that the young man was seated opposite her.

He’d stashed his rucksack between the seats and as the train drew out, he looked eagerly from the window, clearly seeing it all for the first time. Meredith, as curious about him as he was about the world through which the train gently rocked, made the most of her chance to assess him further, instead of concentrating on the
Evening Standard
crossword as she usually did.

She judged him in his late twenties or early thirties; it was hard to tell. His skin was very sunburned as if he spent a lot of time out of doors, his hair dark and curling and faintly touched at the temples with early grey. His bare forearms were dusted with fine black hairs as were the
backs of his loosely clasped hands. His face was oval. He had a long straight large nose and those huge dark eyes. A medieval face, she thought, stepped from a church fresco, but whether belonging to saint or sinner it was impossible to say.

The, without warning, he turned his head to look straight at her. He smiled.

‘There are a lot of people on this train,’ he said. His accent was marked, but his voice was pleasant and easy. Any concern he’d had about his journey had vanished. He reclined in the seat in a relaxed way, apparently unbothered by the lack of room which resulted in other passengers being huddled like sardines in a tin, stiffly conscious that elbows clashed and feet became entangled. It occurred to Meredith that even though he appeared so relaxed, it disguised an underlying energy, ready to be switched on in an instant. She was reminded of a big cat, sunning itself on the savannah, yet watchful and always ready to spring.

In reply to his comment, she said rather more brusquely than she intended, ‘There always are. It’s the rush-hour.’

‘Yes? I’m not used to big cities.’ He smiled again in a confiding, disarming manner and revealed a gold tooth, the left canine. Somehow this touch of continental dentalwork added to the air of harmlessness and Meredith felt her earlier misgivings fade. ‘I’m a countryman, isn’t that what you say?’

‘Which country?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.

‘I’m from Poland.’

Now was the moment to mumble, ‘Oh, really?’ and stop the conversation right there or she’d be stuck with his chat-up line for the rest of the journey – depending how far he was going. She wondered where he was going and, just as if he’d read her mind, he said, ‘I’m going to a town called Bamford. Do you know it?’

She couldn’t deny it and at once he became eagerly attentive, leaning forward and asking, ‘What is it like? Do you know it very well, the people there very well? I’ve never been there.’

There was a kind of childish urgency in his request for information. Far too late now to hide behind the
Evening Standard
. Other passengers had opened paperback novels, fished office work from their briefcases, were muttering into mobile phones or had fallen asleep. She was on her own. She did her best to give a thumbnail sketch of Bamford.

‘It’s only a small place, some nice old buildings, but it’s a workaday town, not on the tourist circuit. There are a lot more picturesque places not far away, like Bourton-on-the-Water, Chipping Camden. You’ll find
it all in tourist literature or guidebooks. Bamford hasn’t really got much to offer in that line.’

He listened to all this, nodding, and when she stopped speaking, he asked, ‘You appear to know it very well – you live there perhaps?’ His voice expressed only a conversational curiosity, yet it struck her that his dark eyes had become just a little speculative. Saint or sinner? she found herself wondering again.

‘Yes, with my partner.’ That was to let him know their acquaintanceship was going to end at Bamford station. But as soon as the words left her mouth she realised, with a jolt, that this was the first time she’d ever referred openly to Alan as her partner. Their relationship had moved on, she thought. They were partners, he wholeheartedly, she as ever ravaged by secret – or not so secret – doubts. Suddenly she felt ashamed at her quibbling attitude. She had either to show equal commitment to the partnership or walk away from it, and she didn’t want to walk away from it. She
would
put her house on the market, she decided. Not for renting out but for sale. Unless she took that necessary first step, there could be no progress along their road. She must phone Juliet and let her know.

Her travelling companion was still looking thoughtful, pursing his mouth and tapping his fingers on the little shelf under the train window. It surprised her to see that his hands, albeit strong and tanned, were quite small and as well-formed as a woman’s.

‘Perhaps I’ll visit these other towns.’ His tone dismissed the whole lot. He wasn’t interested in touristic details. ‘I really want to know about Bamford, you see . . .’ Without warning he leaned forward, smiling conspiratorially, and she realised with some alarm that she was about to become the recipient of a confidence. ‘I’m not here just as a tourist. I’m here to visit my family.’ He sat back and his smile widened, the gold tooth flashing.

‘Oh, right.’ Meredith was reluctant to go on with the conversation and did her best to speak in a way which would close it off without being impolite. She wondered afterwards if this was because she’d sensed somehow that she was about to be told something which would disturb her.

‘I disengaged mentally,’ she explained to Alan when she was telling him all about this later. ‘And that was my mistake because I was totally unprepared for what was coming. I thought he meant he had relatives descended from Polish émigrés, but it wasn’t that at all. I nearly fell off my seat when he asked if I knew the Oakleys.’

‘The Oakleys?’ She’d gaped at him. Cautiously, she began, ‘I don’t know a family, I mean a big family . . . ’

He was shaking his head. ‘It’s not a big family. There are just two ladies, quite old, sisters.’

The train had drawn into one of the stations along the line and the carriage had largely emptied. When it drew out again, Meredith and the stranger had no one seated near them.

‘We can’t,’ Meredith said firmly, ‘be thinking of the same people.’ It seemed impossible.

‘They live at a house called Fourways.’ He pronounced the name of the house as if it were written as two words. Four Ways.

Meredith gasped, still unable to believe it, ‘You’re talking of Damaris and Florence Oakley.’

The gold tooth flashed. ‘Yes. They’re my cousins. You know them? This is wonderful!’ He looked her full in the face and she saw the spontaneous pleasure in his dark eyes turn to something very like triumph. ‘I’m Jan Oakley,’ he said simply, as if this must explain everything. He pronounced his name in Polish fashion, ‘Yan’.

It wasn’t often Meredith found herself struck dumb but this was one of those rare occasions. She realised she had her mouth open and closed it. ‘Oh,’ she managed feebly.

She still hadn’t really recovered her composure when they reached Bamford. Her companion retrieved his rucksack and walked briskly beside her along the platform. Meredith was five foot ten in height and took a perverse pleasure in noting that her companion was slightly shorter. But he had the musculature of a gymnast and strode out with a bounce in his step. To her annoyance, his attitude seemed to suggest they were now old friends. She knew she had to get rid of him sharpish, but at the same time, her mind was buzzing furiously. Was he expected at Fourways? Cautiously, she asked.

‘Oh yes, I’ve been in correspondence with my cousins. They know I’m coming today.’

‘Are you – is someone meeting you?’

He frowned. ‘No, but I can I find a taxi, can’t I? Is the house very far away?’

‘It’s on the outskirts of town, near a crossroads. That’s how it got its name.’ They’d reached the exit at the front of the station. ‘It isn’t very far,’ Meredith told him. ‘The taxi fare shouldn’t be very much.’

‘It has been very nice to meet you,’ he said, very politely, and held out a hand. Unthinkingly, Meredith put out her own hand to shake his,
but he seized her fingers and raised them gallantly to his lips, accompanying this with a formal bow. ‘We shall meet again, I hope?’

Not if I can avoid it, thought Meredith, making for her car in the busy car park. However, as things turned out, she hadn’t seen the last of him that evening. As she drove slowly along the station approach, she saw Jan Oakley making a lonely figure, his rucksack at his feet, by the deserted taxi rank. She slowed.

He had recognised her and came towards the car, his expression hopeful. ‘All the taxis have been taken. I have to wait perhaps twenty minutes until one comes back.’

‘I’ll run you out there,’ said Meredith resignedly. ‘Put your pack on the back seat.’

He tossed it in immediately and slid into the passenger seat beside her. ‘This is very kind of you,’ he said, it seemed to her complacently.

Meredith made no reply to this, but concentrated on weaving her way out of the station car park through the other cars all driven by impatient commuters, anxious to be home.

As they drove through town, Jan remarked, ‘It looks a nice place. Why did you say it wasn’t interesting?’

‘Because I live here, I suppose. I mean, yes, it’s all right. Are you thinking of staying long?’ Meredith tried to suppress the tone in her voice which said, ‘I hope not!’

‘It depends,’ he said vaguely. ‘Perhaps two weeks, or three?’ He was slouched in the seat, his eyes fixed on the windscreen, his hands resting on his knees. A small gold crucifix had escaped from beneath the T-shirt.

‘What sort of work do you do in Poland?’ she asked, probing for more information about him. So far, he seemed to be making all the running. She felt as if she’d been caught off-balance and didn’t like it. That kiss-hand business, for instance – she’d never liked that. But if he had a regular job, he would have to get back to it eventually. He couldn’t prolong his stay indefinitely.

He raised his hands and spread them out, palms facing. The crucifix wasn’t the only jewellery he wore. His wristwatch looked expensive and she wondered if it were a fake – and just how much of a fake its owner was. ‘I look after horses,’ he said.

‘Horses?’ She hadn’t expected that.

‘Yes, thoroughbred horses – on a stud farm. We breed fine horses in Poland. They’re a valuable export for our economy.’

That explained the outdoor appearance and his claim to be a
‘countryman’. Horse-breeding was big business in Poland, Meredith recalled from an article on international showjumping. Jan’s English was good; he obviously fancied himself a bit. He might, despite his casual appearance, have quite an important job on that stud farm, wherever it was.

For the second time in their brief acquaintance, he spoke as if he’d followed her thoughts. ‘I’m what you call a veterinarian.’

‘That’s an American term,’ she told him. ‘In this country we say veterinary surgeon, or vet, for short. Oh, here’s Fourways!’

They’d reached the house almost before she’d realised it. The sun was sinking in the sky, streaking it with cyclamen pink on turquoise. Against the paintbox colours the house looked of a piece, part of the backdrop to a stage production –
Lucia di Lammermoor
, perhaps. Built at the height of the Victorian Gothic revival, its windows were tall and thin, pointed and filled with arched tracery. Meredith knew from past visits that they didn’t let in very much light. There were gargoyles under the eaves masking waterspouts and at one corner of the upper floor was a funny little pepperpot turret sticking out as if it had been a last-minute burst of inspiration on the part of the architect.

Jan Oakley leaned forward, his hands resting on the dashboard above the glove compartment, staring through the windscreen at the house. There was an extraordinary tension about him; electricity crackled in the air between them. His face held an exalted look as if he gazed on some holy relic. Meredith found herself unable to speak and could only sit and wait.

After a minute or two he turned to her and said quietly, ‘You can’t understand what this means to me. I’ve dreamed of this place. Actually to see it, to be here, not just for myself but for my father and grandfather, who never saw it – even my great-grandfather who left this house to come to Poland.’

‘Your great-grandfather?’ It all fell into place. ‘You’re William Oakley’s great-grandson!’ she gasped. ‘You’re Wicked William’s descendant!’

He turned to her and she realised she’d made a bad mistake. Hostility glittered in the dark eyes and something more. It was as if she’d attacked her companion personally. For a second she panicked, thinking he would physically strike back. But then the hostility faded. His tongue flicked across his lower lip as if, for him, this had some calming effect. Certainly, he relaxed. The dark eyes held nothing worse now than a mild reproach.