Текст книги "Vows of Silence "
Автор книги: Susan Hill
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
“When isn’t it?”
“True. Right, heads down and take a long look, at your own map, at the map on the wall. I want everyone more familiar with the fair site than with the proverbial back of. I know some forces do this with fancy PowerPoint presentations but I haven’t the know-how and in my experience the old-fashioned way is the best—it gets it engraved on your minds which is what I want. This has to be as familiar to you by Friday afternoon as the layout of your own houses. I want you to be able to go in there blindfold and find your way about. This is Map One—we’ll look at Map Two in a mo—which gives us the position of every fairground ride and stall c it’s always laid out to exactly the same plan as any of you who went to the fair when you were five and went again last year will know. But here you’ve got the area as it is today. It will be like this from midnight on Thursday—i.e. there will be no parked cars, in fact no vehicles at all.”
They looked down at the familiar street names in the Old Town area. The Jug Fair was mainly centred on St Michael’s Square and a couple of the lanes which rayed out from it in the direction leading away from the cathedral towards the town. The wide pedestrian-only New Moon Street led to and from the fair.
“If our marksman tries to take a vehicle down there he’ll be stopped by the barriers.”
“If he has a vehicle.”
“Well, it’s probable. He needs to conceal his rifle, get away quickly c he can’t walk through the streets carrying it without being spotted. Right, the square is sealed off here and here—those two lanes are only ever pedestrians and cyclists anyway. This is the layout of the rides and the stalls c the big Ferris wheel at this end, the merry-go-round at this.”
“I used to love them Jinny horses when I was a kid. Couldn’t go on them enough times.”
“Bag of chips in your hand.”
“Or a hot dog.”
“Nah, candyfloss. You have to ride on them with your candyfloss.”
“No wonder the square’s awash with puke by midnight.”
“Shut up, Clive.”
“The kiddies’ rides are all out of the main square, up here. Teacups. Peter Rabbit ride. Ribbon Lane is all stalls—here up this way and here. Coconut shies, bobbing ducks, that stuff.
“Ghost train and the scary rides this side. Along here, more stalls c plus your food stands. We are going in down New Moon Street and parking up—here. And the second ARV is at the other side, here.”
“Bit prominent, aren’t we?”
“That’s the plan. High-profile armed response.”
“Ah, public reassurance.”
“Don’t sneer, Rowley.”
“Wasn’t sneering, sir.”
Houlish looked at him. Clive Rowley’s face was blank.
“Right, well, don’t. Like I said, high profile. These shootings have made the public very jittery, as well they might, and as you may possibly have heard we have caught a lot of flak from our friends in the media, so there’s uniform crawling all over the fair, there’s plain clothes, there’s us. Nothing is going to go wrong. We’re at the ready from the minute we’re in position. OK, let’s look on the screen again please. From the shooting of the two young women outside the Seven Acesclub we’re sure this is a skilled and cunning marksman. He knows what he’s doing. The guy who shot Melanie Drew and Bethan Doyle confronted them at close range from their front doors with a handgun. It may not be the same guy as the Seven Aceskiller and it’s the latter we’re worrying about here. If he’s going to target the Jug Fair for whatever perverted reason he’s unlikely to be confronting members of the public at close quarters with a handgun. He’ll be using a rifle—he’s a sniper. Right, let’s have some guesses here. Westleton, Rowley, be the sniper, where do you fire from?”
“Top of the helter-skelter.”
“How do you get up there with a rifle without being spotted? When? How do you stay up there out of sight when there’s a queue of people climbing up and flying down? Think again.”
“He has to get into position unnoticed,” Clive Rowley said, speaking slowly and with concentration. “There’s always a load of people setting up, no way could he lurk in the fairground without being seen c so it’s got to be buildings around. Empty buildings? That’s where he was when he shot the girls outside the Seven Aces—either in the empty granary building or in the office block. So I reckon we’ve got to look at what’s aroundthe fairground site, not at the temporary structures.”
“Right, let’s think along those lines. What have we got?” Houlish took the pointer. “Let’s take the square first. East side. High wall. Iron gate. Nothing there. North side. The courthouse building. Victorian. Six storeys. What do we think?”
“Good view—unobstructed.”
“Roof’s hidden behind that crenellation. Not sure if it’s flat or not.”
“It’s not.”
“Wouldn’t matter,” Tim said.
“Access c building’s in use during the day. Various offices. We’ll sweep the whole thing at the end of the day.”
“What’d be his exit route?”
“Rooftops,” said someone. “Or he’d hole up till morning.”
Clive Rowley was silent. He was known to work things out before speaking. “Is there a security guard?” he asked.
“No. CCTV and that’s it.”
“Better get them to check it actually works.”
“Why don’t we get in there ourselves, guv? Stake it out. Great vantage point.”
“Because this isn’t an ambush. Too many people around, too dangerous.”
“What? We’re sitting doing cat’s cradle in the vehicle all night?”
“I didn’t say that. Next door to the courthouse building we’ve the run of terraced cottages, half a dozen of them, all offices, then the war memorial, then there’s two four-storey buildings which are being renovated.”
“There’s scaffolding and the frontage is covered in plastic. He could hole out there without much trouble.”
“He’s probably got a rifle with telescopics—he doesn’t need to be that close.”
“What if he isn’t using his rifle? He could be walking about with a handgun. Very difficult to suss that out in the sort of crowds we get at the fair, especially after dark,” Clive Rowley said.
Bronze Command shook his head. “He’d have no chance of getting away. This guy’s not a nutter who shoots to give himself up. He’s cunning. His close-range killings have been in places where he’s made pretty sure there’d be no witnesses and he could make an easy getaway. That just wouldn’t be possible here even without all of us. OK, let’s go back to the plan. There will be our two ARVs and Bevham are lending us one for backup. Here c”
Clive sat back and watched the pointer go over this entrance and that exit, this danger point and that. Steve Mason had slipped down into his seat and looked as if he was asleep with his eyes open.
“That’s it. We’ll have another briefing in here nine a.m. on Friday. Until then, don’t shove it out of the way, get that plan in your head. Brood on it. Come up with a bright idea, shout. You’re the sniper. Think like him. He’s clever. We’ve got to be cleverer.”
Ten minutes later they were filing out for refs. In an hour they would be on the way to the airfield for a training session. It was drizzling outside.
“What do you reckon?” Steve said, standing in the queue.
“Nothing’ll happen. Too obvious.”
“I’m not so sure. He could cause mayhem in five seconds c he’d love that, shooting at random,” Clive said.
“No, he’s got a reason for these killings. I reckon they’re personal.”
“Large tea, bacon and tomato bap, thanks. He must be a bloke with a hell of a lot of grudges then. Don’t think forensics have established any links, have they?”
“Come on,” Ian Dean said, piling four warm sausage rolls onto his plate, “no way are these random. There has to be links.”
“I don’t see it. I don’t see any of it, to be honest. I can’t get a handle on this guy.” Clive set his tray down and moved the sauce bottles out of the way. “I just think—putting half the county force onto the Jug Fair is a waste of resources. He’s not going to show.”
“A fiver says he will.”
“You’re on,” Clive said, taking a swig of tea. “That fiver’s got my name on it.”
Forty-one
Lois was there as ever on night-duty reception. Lois, pleased to see her and ready with a warm hug of welcome.
But then Jane caught her expression. “I’m too late,” she said.
“Yes. Karin died about an hour ago.”
Jane sat down. She felt tired, cold and frustrated. The storms had caused such appalling delays and rerouting that she was here at ten when she should have made it by five.
“Come into the kitchen, I’ll make you a hot drink. Have you eaten?”
“No, but I’m not hungry. I should go and see her.”
“Have this first. No hurry now.”
No. No hurry. Karin had waited for her as long as she could but Jane had let her down. It was not her fault, of course it was not, but she felt guilty nevertheless.
The fluorescent lights hummed as Lois switched them on and poured water into the kettle.
“Poor Jane. Nothing more upsetting.”
“I wanted to be with her. She wanted me to be with her.”
“I know.” She did not give out false comfort. Lois was a realist.
She set down a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. “Dunk one,” she said, “I know you said you weren’t hungry but somehow a dunked biscuit always goes down.”
It was true. Jane followed her out to the reception foyer. From the far end of the corridor she heard murmured voices, saw a light. A door closed.
“Do you know about Dr Deerbon?” Lois asked, back behind her computer.
“Yes, Cat told me. I was hoping to see her but I can’t very well go up to the farmhouse at this time of night.”
“I should think you of all people probably could. Why don’t you ring now?”
Jane hesitated.
“She might be glad of it, you know.”
“Has she heard about Karin?”
“Not my place to ring her.”
Jane wondered what she could say to Cat, out of the blue, at ten thirty at night. Looked at Lois. Lois nodded.
“Look, go into the relatives’ room, I’ll switch the phone through.”
It was picked up on the second ring.
“It’s Jane,” she said. “I’m at Imogen House.”
*
Ten minutes later she was sitting beside Karin McCafferty. The nurses had not yet moved her body, though the syringe pump and drip stand had been taken away. The lamp was on. They had closed the door.
Karin looked like a moth under the bedclothes, her skin fine, and almost transparent over the bones, her hair brushed and tied back, lying on the slightly raised pillows. Jane took her cool hand and put it to her own cheek.
“I know you won’t blame me, but I should have been here. I wish I had been. I’m sorry.” Karin’s eyelids were faintly blue, like those of a newborn baby. She was beautiful in death, as she had been in life, but remote. Sometimes, Jane had been with the dying and the newly dead and had had a powerful sense of their presence. But not now. Karin was as far away as it was possible to be and had left no trace of herself behind.
Half an hour later, she was sitting with Cat beside a low fire in the farmhouse sitting room, a whisky in her hand, the rain lashing against the windows.
Cat was leaning back, eyes closed, her face drained of everything but exhaustion.
“A patient who was nursing her mother at home said to me, “I’m way beyond tired.” And this will get worse. It’s like lying down while someone rains blows on you but somehow each blow hurts in a different way.”
“How are the children?”
Cat shook her head. “The saving grace there is Judith Connolly. My father has been seeing her and she is amazing—calm, strong, easy-going, got the measure of him perfectly and fantastic with all three of the children. She’s fast becoming my rock, in the absence of Simon.”
Jane took a swig of her whisky. “Absence? But I saw him on the television news.”
“Yes, you did. That’s one reason for his absence and obviously the chief one—it’s tough for him. But what makes me mad is his stupid attitude to Judith. Si was always Mum’s blue-eyed boy but Mum is dead and he can’t take someone else being at Hallam House.”
“Doesn’t he see that it’s helping your father?”
Cat snorted. “He doesn’t choose to see. It’s a good job he’s so tied up with work and I’ve got Chris to worry about or I’d really lay into him.”
Jane said nothing. She had not been sure what she would feel, coming back here, hearing about him. Everything ought to be overshadowed by Karin’s death and Chris’s illness. She was acutely aware of Simon, nevertheless. He was associated so closely for her with this house and with his sister. Jane’s memories were more vivid than she ever expected.
“I never knew what happened exactly with you two,” Cat said now. “And feel free not to tell me.”
Jane set down her whisky glass. “I ran away,” she said. “That’s what happened.”
“You sure? Only it’s usually the other way round. Simon is the one who runs.”
Jane shook her head. “I ran. I didn’t know what I felt. I was in a very confused and fragile emotional state and I couldn’t cope with another factor being added to the mix. It ought to have helped but it made things worse.”
“A lot had happened to you. Awful things.”
“I needed to sort myself out.”
“And have you?”
“Not altogether. But I think I am slowly working my way towards it—whatever itmay be. I thought it was going to be the abbey. I really did want to make that work, but I knew straight away that it wouldn’t. I knew when I lay in bed in my room there on the first night. I struggled on for six months and I’m glad I did.”
“One down, so to speak.”
“Yes. I feel much more confident about the next move. I want to do more academic work.”
“You mustn’t bury yourself in a library, Jane, you’re too good with people. A library is as bad as a convent.”
“But a library combined with students and a hospital is about right, don’t you think? I don’t deserve my luck.”
“As to that, which of us deserves what we get?” Cat shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. She got up and pushed the last of the logs together so that they burned up bright again. “Australia is as far away as a sunlit daydream.”
“Did you like it?”
“Not really. But we were happy together, and it was different, which always shakes you up. Looking back, it seems idyllic, frankly.”
“How is Chris coping? I don’t mean physically.”
“I don’t know. How strange that sounds. But I really don’t. At the moment, he’s just pretty doped and getting through the days, sleeping a lot, waiting for the radiotherapy to start. Everything else is just beyond him. And you know Chris c he doesn’t philosophise, he just gets on with it. The worst thing is, I can talk to patients about dying. I do talk to them. I think it’s important. I get them to tell me what they feel, I get their relatives to do the same. But I can’t do it with Chris. We talk about what’s going to happen medically, but otherwise c I can’t and he doesn’t. We have never ever had anything we couldn’t talk about, even if we argued. We often argued. But now there is this. It’s frozen us, somehow. I feel as if I’m acting a part. This isn’t me, this isn’t Chris, this isn’t us.”
“It’s strange. Karin believed so passionately in alternative medicine that she rejected everything you and I would accept—and probably Chris too.”
“Definitely Chris. He’s an evidence-based man. He won’t consider anything else. When it comes down to it, you know, not many doctors do.”
“What would you blame for Karin’s death? That she refused orthodox treatment?”
“Cancer is what I blame for her death, Jane. It’s what I will blame for Chris’s. But the longer I’m in medicine, the more I see of it, it becomes clear that what we know about cancer goes on one line that reads as follows: “You get it, or you don’t. You get better, or you don’t.” There’s another thing c I feel it ought to be me, I feel guilty. But inside, I’m just relieved that it isn’t me. That it’s someone else again, even if the someone is my husband. I’ve escaped. There now, I’ve said it.”
“But that’s what we all feel, isn’t it? The bullet missed me. Phew. No, that’s not the best analogy just now.”
“Are you going to see Simon, now you’re here?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. I have to go tomorrow, and you say he’s tied up with this investigation.”
“Stay with us for a few days. The children would love it and I won’t have much time for friends once Chris comes out of hospital.”
Jane was silent for a moment. She wanted to stay and she had no reason to be back in Cambridge yet. She might also see Simon. Did she want that? Yes. Should she?
“I’d like to very much. But I don’t think it would be a very good idea.”
It was Cat’s turn to say nothing.
Forty-two
It was chance. A beautiful chance. Roadworks had held him up for so long he’d tried a side route, taken a wrong turn off the bypass and found himself in Dedmeads Road.
One end led into the new Ashdown estate, a large and still growing area of private housing, interlacing cul-de-sacs off a main avenue. The completed houses were furthest away. From Dedmeads Road it was still a building site, half-finished houses and garage blocks, unmade roads, scaffolding, pieces of scrub which would be turfed as the final job. Of the completed houses, many were still unsold. Developers’ flags flew outside a couple of show houses.
At the north end, down which he had just come, one road of identical 1960s houses led to the bypass and away.
He stopped. Got out and looked around. He had the very dirty silver Focus. You saw a dozen of them every half-hour.
It was nine ten. School was in. Workers in. Dedmeads Road was empty apart from a few mothers with toddlers and push chairs gossiping in a cluster outside the row of shops.
He got back into the car and drove on down. Parked near the shopping block but not near enough to have anyone pay attention to the car or the number plate.
The mothers huddled closer as he walked past and into the post office-cum-newsagent’s, and bought a paper and a packet of chewing gum.
“Morning. Thanks.”
“Going to rain for the weekend again.”
“Right bugger then.”
“Eighty pence. Cheers.”
“See you later.”
He walked out, reading the front page of the redtop. The shopkeeper had forgotten him before he reached the door.
Newsagent’s. Chinese fish and chip shop, closed. Launderette, two people inside, busy at the machines, not noticing him as he glanced through the windows. Late night grocer. Louise, Ladies’ Hairdresser. He walked straight by, looking at the paper; the place had a venetian blind down, slats open. No one saw him. Empty shop. Empty card-display stands pulled into the middle. Dirty windows. Piles of junk mail on the floor below the letter box.
That was it. He walked on, past a block of semis. Then the low brick wall. A gravel car park. Bit of grass. Three or four trees. Blue sign. Gold lettering.
Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church
Times of Mass: daily at 8 a.m.; Sundays and Holy Days.
8 a.m., 9 a.m., 10.30 a.m., 4 p.m.
Confessions: Saturdays and Thursdays, 6–7.30 p.m.
Priest: Father G. Nolan, The Presbytery,
40 Dedmeads Road.
Bare-looking 1960s brick. Bright blue, yellow and green stained glass on either side of the light oak doors. Three shallow steps up. Wide gateway. Low iron gates, open and hooked back against the wall.
On the other side of the road, semis and a single detached house quite low down at the bottom of steep drives. Outside the detached, a sign. Dedmeads Veterinary Surgery. Three or four cars.
Hours: Monday to Friday 9–11 a.m. and 3–5 p.m.; Saturday 9–11 a.m.
Perfect.
Everything was perfect. Chance. A beautiful chance. He had to take it. Things fell out the way they did for a reason, he knew that.
He got back into the dirty silver Ford Focus and drove unobtrusively away.
At six that evening the Focus was stowed away in the lock-up he rented in Canal Street and he was in the van on his way to the airfield. It was raining heavily. Traffic was light and he knew he wasn’t being followed because no one had any reason whatsoever to follow him. No one. He turned on the car radio to a local newsflash about the body of a teenage girl found in a ditch. She’d been missing for over a week. So why had it taken so long to find her? What had the police been farting about at? She’d been assaulted and strangled. Who did that sort of thing? Some animal. He shuddered, thinking of her, daft as teenage girls were, full of herself, cocky. Or some sad, lost kid, broken home, abused already and now again. Gone off with a stranger for a bit of fun and attention. Affection.
How did parents get through all that, girl not arriving home, mobile not answering, friends saying she’d left them hours before. Waiting. Dreading. Hoping. Desperate.
What kind of animal did that?
He knew nothing about that sort of behaviour.
His were completely different.
A clean kill.
The airfield was full of potholes and the potholes were full of water. Rain streamed across the headlights. He doused them as he drove up to the hangar and used the torch when he opened the doors. He drove the van inside and closed the doors again, took out the mechanic’s lamp from the boot and plugged it into the battery.
Which was when he heard the sound. He froze. Outside the hangar? Or inside? He waited. Nothing. He waited again, counting. Two minutes. Three minutes. Nothing.
He relaxed, picked up the torch again and trained it on the place where the rolled-up plastic was hidden. Waited again. Nothing.
He stepped on the cement blocks he had manoeuvred there weeks ago and reached for the space behind the strut. As he did so, there was a noise again, far back inside the dark recesses of the hangar.
He jumped quickly down and walked towards it, holding the torch out. His trainers made no sound.
The noise was odd. It might have been a human groan, or an animal snuffling. There were foxes out here, his headlights had picked them up.
He moved slowly forward, though now the noise had stopped he was unsure if he was heading towards it. The torchlight picked up scuffed papers and broken concrete rubble on the ground, and the sides of the hangar when he moved it higher. Nothing else.
It came again. Animal. Had to be.
The next minute, something moved, his torch picked up a series of shapes and shadows, and then a man was lurching blindly towards him, hand up to his face against the powerful beam.
“Whatsitwhositwhatthefucksgoingon?”
He stopped. The man was a few yards away, still dazed by the light.
He trained it straight into his face.
“Bloodygerritoffwhatthehellyoufuckingplayingat?”
“Turn round.”
But the bundle of old clothes and filth that was the man who had been disturbed from his drunken snoring in the corner of the hangar took another lurching step forward.
“Turn round.”
The man did so, swaying a bit. “Allrightallrightwhatyoudoingsfuckinnightnothurtinganyone
fuckincopsyourenotsafeanybloodywhereforgodsake—”
He slumped at the first blow to the back of his head.
Two minutes. Three. Four.
He hadn’t moved.
The torchlight showed blood down the filthy matted hair and on the old raincoat.
Leave him or drag him back into the corner?
Leave him.
It took a few minutes to select the piece of plastic and stick it to the side of the van, roll up the rest and replace it carefully. Then he unplugged the mechanic’s lamp from the battery, and stowed it behind the false panel in the back. Drove out. Closed the hangar doors. Took off his gloves and stowed those away.
It was still raining. He went slowly over the rutted ground—there was always the chance of getting a puncture here and he didn’t want to hang about changing a wheel by torchlight, risking being seen from the road. As he neared the gates, a fox slipped across in front of him, yellow eyes gleaming, caught in his headlights.
Forty-three
“I feel guilty,” Cat said.
The Croxley Oakwas pleasantly busy, with half a dozen people at the bar, two-thirds of the tables full and the first log fire of the autumn. A waiter went past carrying a loaded tray. There was the chink of glasses.
Simon looked at her across the table. They were both exhausted, both in need of exactly this. He didn’t bother to reply.
“Chris should be here.”
“Yes, he should.”
“Will he ever have this sort of quiet evening out again?”
Simon shook his head.
“He might. When he gets over the operation. The radiotherapy will reduce the rest of the tumour for a time, then he’ll get a remission, it might be quite a decent one and we can come here.”
“You should. Do everything you can.”
“Yes.”
“You said we weren’t going to talk about it.”
Cat’s eyes filled with tears.
“Come on.”
The menus were chalked on blackboards at either end of the long room, specials on another board behind the bar. It was one of Simon’s favourite eating places and he hadn’t been here for months.
“Let’s make the most of it. Oh, good, they’ve got mussels.”
Moules marinières and fresh sardines, French bread and a bowl of olives were on the table when Cat’s mobile rang.
“If it’s home answer it, otherwise ignore it.”
“I don’t recognise the number. All right, ignore.”
“When is Karin McCafferty’s funeral?”
“I’ve no idea. Do you know that apart from her bastard ex-husband I don’t think she had any family? She never mentioned them. I wonder who’ll make the arrangements? I’ve known very old people have funerals at which the only attenders were me and the district nurse but that just meant they’d outlived everyone. Karin was only in her forties. I’ll talk to Imogen House, see what they know.”
“You went to see her when she was alive. That’s what matters. Don’t have regrets.”
“I don’t. Jane is the one who has those.”
“Jane who?” He looked blank for a moment.
“Jane Fitzroy. God, it’s been so long since we’ve talked.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Are you on call now?”
“I’m always on call at the moment. What about Jane Fitzroy?”
“Oh, you do remember her then.”
Simon picked a mussel carefully out of its shell with the prong of his fork and put it into his mouth. He did not look up.
“By the time she got here she was an hour too late. Not her fault, but it upset her.”
“She rang you?”
“She stayed the night.”
He poured her another glass of wine.
“Don’t you want to know any more?”
He shrugged.
“She asked after you.”
“Cat. Leave it.”
“Why?”
He shook his head, wiping bread round the plate to mop up the sauce.
“You liked her.”
“Well, yes. So did you.”
“That’s different.”
“Just leave it.”
Cat recognised his expression and his tone of voice. He meant it. The portcullis had come down. She would get no more out of him.
“You’re your own worst enemy, did you know that?”
But the waiter came to take their plates and Cat knew better than to pursue the subject further. For now, she thought. For now.
“Are you taking the kids to the Jug Fair?”
“I think so. Chris will be back home but Dad said he would stay with him. Felix is a bit young. He can stay too.”
“Will you join up with someone else?”
“I’m sure we’ll meet a load of people but Judith said she would come with me. And please do not put on that expression.”
“What expression?”
“Get over it, Si. She’s lovely and she’s good for Dad. Don’t put yourself out in the cold.”
The waiter came towards them with braised lamb shank and pan-fried black bream.
“Simon,” she said, after the vegetables were on the table, “thanks for this. It’s what I needed. I didn’t realise.”
“Trust your brother.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Oh, I do. On some things.”
She picked up her knife and fork, but as she did so she remembered, remembered the full horror and awfulness of what was happening, remembered Chris lying in bed that afternoon, eating a spoonful of scrambled egg very slowly, his head bound with bandages, eyes tired and defeated. He had already seemed to be receding from her, living a twilight life in a place she could not go to, a place he had to inhabit entirely alone. She swallowed and stared at the food on her plate.
“It’s OK,” Simon said.
But it was not and the tears spilled onto the back of her hand as she tried to wipe them away.
She got up. “I’m going to the cloakroom. When I come back, just talk to me. I can’t. Just talk to me.”
Simon waited, separating the flakes of moist lamb off the bones and eating them slowly, thinking. The bar had filled but they were in a corner at the end, not overheard.
She was a long time but when she returned her face was tearless, her hair brushed back.
“Right,” Cat said, putting the last of the vegetables onto her plate.
“Do you think I’ll ever find the right person to marry?”
She stared at the food piled onto her fork, trying to take the question in. He had never asked anything like it before, had always veered away from the subject when she had raised it. Cat thought she had given up trying to fathom her brother but now she realised that she had not.
“I know you want me to talk about Jane but I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure about anything.”
“I suppose,” she said carefully, “the first thing to know is, do you actually want to be married? Do you see yourself as a husband and perhaps a father, living in a house with a wife, having a totally different domestic set-up from the one you have now?”
“Why? Why would all that have to change?”
“Because now you are a bachelor, you have a pad for a bachelor, you live a solitary life, mostly at work, sometimes away with your sketchbook, occasionally with us. But that would change.”
“Not necessarily.”
“You expect a wife to fit in round the corners? You carry on as you are?”
“No. But you make it sound as if my life would change completely.”
“And you don’t want that?”
“No. Of course I don’t. I love my life.” He knew as he said it that it was profoundly true.
“Then you would have to have either a very remarkable wife or a very unusual marriage or probably both. It wouldn’t change all at once, but in the end it would have to. Marriage is a new life and it’s always a compromise c you just have to make sure that you both want the same compromise.”
“Yes. So perhaps I need to forget it.”
“I’m not saying that. You do have to be sure—perhaps more than most people. They marry for the person but maybe also because they are ready to change and develop and have a new sort of life. They want that actively. You don’t. But you’re not quite forty, Si, you’re not old enough to be so set in your ways.”
He finished the last of his lamb without replying.
Cat thought about the women he had known—the ones she had been aware of at least. Diana, the older, spasmodic mistress—that had worked as far as Simon was concerned because Diana had not changed his life, though Cat knew she had wanted to. Freya Graffham. Yes, he had thought he might be in love with her, even more so when she became unobtainable. Before Diana, there had been one rather fleeting affair with a young woman barrister whom Cat had not liked. Eleanor someone.
