CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Do you recognize this?” a young policewoman showed Anne a filthy piece of red and yellow rag.
Anne shook her head and looked away in horror. She did not need to be told where it had been found.
“Are you sure?”
Anne forced herself to look again, more closely this time. Beneath the dirt and mud, she could just make out spots that might once have been yellow.“Patricia was wearing red and yellow polka dot pyjamas,” she managed to whisper. “You don’t have to stay,” she added. more forcefully. “In fact, I’d much rather you didn’t. Besides, you and your colleague must have other things you need to be getting on with.”
“I’m happy to stay. But if you’d really rather I didn’t…” the WPC hesitated then produced a card and handed it to Anne. “Call me any time. We’ll let you know the minute we have a positive identification.”
Anne paled, nodded and instantly sat down.
They were in her room at The Orion, the kind policewoman, a male colleague, Charley Briggs and herself. She wished they would all go away and leave her alone.
“What about Owen Shepherd?” Charley wanted to know.
“My colleagues are at his house now. We’ll need to question him, obviously.”
“Obviously,” boomed Charley in a self-satisfied manner that grated on Anne’s nerves.
The two police officers left.
“A nice woman,” Charley commented as she returned to a chair next to the bed. “He didn’t have much to say for himself though. Mind you, that’s men for you, not much help in a crisis.”
“Yes, she was nice,” Anne absently agreed.
Charley regarded her friend with dismay. “Poor Anne, all this must be such a shock. I don’t know what to say. But if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, you know you only have to ask.”
Anne glanced wearily at her companion. “It seems to me that you’ve said and done more than enough already,” she remarked, the words spoken softly but with an unmistakeably accusing edge.
“What else could I do but go to the police?” Charley shifted uncomfortably in the wicker chair, “We’d found a body, after all…” she protested.
“Yes, a body…” Anne closed her eyes.
“One thing led to another. I got carried away. Spence warned me not to interfere. I took no notice, Charley always knows best,” she cried with self-deprecating candour, “I didn’t mean any harm by it, honestly I didn’t. But I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing, could I, not once my suspicions were aroused? If you must know, I was frightened. Not for myself, you understand, but for you. I mean to say…well…who knows what Owen Shepherd might do next? Oh, that man! To think he has pretended to be your friend all these years, and all the time…”
Anne sat up. “And all the time, what…? For your information, he has been a good friend. No pretence there, I can assure you. As for what he’s supposed to have done, he deserves the benefit of doubt, surely?”
“What doubt?” Charley demanded, “What conceivable doubt can there be when a body is discovered at the bottom of his garden? How can you defend him, Anne, you of all people?”
“I’m not defending him, I’m just…”
“Giving him the benefit of doubt, so you said,” interjected Charley irritably. She took a deep breath. Poor Anne was in shock, she reminded herself, and immediately adopted a gentler tone. “Time will tell. We must wait and see. You’re quite right of course. We mustn’t judge Owen too harshly until we hear what he has to say for himself. I have to say, Anne, your loyalty does you credit. If I were in your shoes, I’d be howling for blood.”
“And what good would that do? Would it change anything? No. Would you prefer I got hysterical? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Oh, I can do hysterical. I had plenty of practise years ago. I could have made everyone happy and become a bitter, twisted woman. Instead, I decided to get on with my life as best I could, no matter if people think I’m weird.” Charley started to protest but Anne continued in the same quiet, chilling voice. “Oh, yes, they thought that and worse. My husband, friends, they all thought I was deluded, making out as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had happened! Did they really think I could forget I ever had a daughter?” Anne got up and went to the bay window. “One by one, they made more and more pathetic excuses to avoid me. I embarrassed them, you see.” She rounded angrily on Charley. “Would I have embarrassed them any less if I’d stayed a nervous wreck, I wonder? Oh, yes, I do that too. Believe me. I do nervous wreck to perfection.”
“You’re upset,” Charley murmured, wishing that Spence were there to give her moral support. “I’m so sorry, I really am. It was that damn letter, the one Alice Shepherd wrote to Fern McAllister. It made me curious and…well…”
“We all know curiosity what did,” said Anne.
“It’s for the best, surely? If it turns out to be Patricia, and the chances are it will, at least now you can give the poor child a proper funeral, say goodbye,” adding as an afterthought, “Maybe Owen will do the decent thing and let Fern McAllister do the same for poor Carrie, now he has nothing to lose…”
“Once she’s finished dancing on Alice Shepherd’s grave,” Anne retorted, “She obviously has it in for Owen.”
“Can you blame her?”
“Did Alice know, I wonder? Maybe that’s what she meant when she told me she was frightened for him, why she kept him on such a tight leash all those years. Oh, poor Owen…!”
“Poor Owen, my foot…!” Charley heaved herself out of the chair. “You have to face facts, Anne. The man is…”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” Anne fumed, “but you don’t care about that, do you? All you care about is being right. Not just about Owen, either. You’re right and everyone else is wrong, so they can go to hell. I saw it in your eyes the first time we met. I can see it now, just as I saw it in Fern McAllister’s yesterday. God forbid the pair of you should ever be in the wrong.”
“You saw Fern McAllister yesterday?” Charley was intrigued in spite of the character assassination to which she was being subjected. Poor Anne was in shock, after all.
“Owen and I bumped into her and Bob Cartwright in Lewes. She could hardly bear to look at Owen.”
“Can you blame her?” Charley fought to keep her temper. “So have they got back together again, Fern McAllister and Cartwright? How weird, and after all this time...
“I didn’t get that impression. Frankly, I don’t care one way or the other. It’s none of my business or yours.”
Charley blushed at the jibe. “I think I had better go.”
“Don’t let me keep you.”
“If there’s anything, anything at all…”
Anne crossed to the door and held it open. Charley left, close to tears. Anne shut the door and returned to the bay window.
Although early evening still, the beach was still crowded. The tide was going out. Watching a gentle rise and fall of waves leaving behind stretches of almost pebble-free sand, she could but wish much the same for the worst thoughts and feelings rushing at her from all directions. How could she expect Charley, or anyone else for that matter, to understand? If she believed Owen capable of…evil…” She shuddered. What did that say about her instincts, not to mention her judgement or her fondness for Owen Shepherd all these years? “Can I really have been such a blind fool all this time?” she demanded of her shadow on the opposite wall.
Another knock at the door made her jump.
On this occasion, it was Mel Harvey, in panic mode. “It isn’t true, is it? Tell me it isn’t true. It can’t be true!”
“Come in,” said Anne.
“This is terrible. You know how bad news travels fast. The place will be swarming with reporters in no time. I don’t think I can bear to go though all that again. The police can’t honestly think Owen would do such a thing, can they? The whole idea is outrageous. Owen wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone…”
“They seem to think the body discovered in Owen’s garden is that of a child,” Anne felt obliged to tell the hotelier, “We’ve yet to wait for a positive identification. As for Owen, the police will want to question him of course.”
“But he couldn’t have…done that…could he? You can’t really think he could have…?”
“Abducted my daughter, killed her and hid her body in his shrubbery? I really have no idea. Innocent until proven guilty, isn’t that what the law says?” Oh, yes, innocent until proven guilty? Who am I kidding? Of course the man’s guilty. How could I have been so stupid, so wrong all these years? You fool, Gates, you stupid, stupid fool.
“That’s all very well but…it doesn’t look good, does it…for Owen, I mean? Joe will go ballistic when he finds out. It isn’t easy, you know, running a small hotel. Guests think it’s a piece of cake and people like Joe and me are raking in the profits. The truth is we barely make ends meet. And now…the publicity could ruin us.”
“It didn’t ruin you twenty-three years ago,” Anne pointed out, “So why should it do so now? A spot of notoriety will probably see bookings soar. You survived before, and you’ll survive again, just as we all will, one way or another.”
“How can you be so…calm?”
Before Anne could answer, there was another knock at the door and the young policewoman re-entered the room without waiting to be asked. She looked directly at Anne, frowning. Anne’s heart skipped a beat. “Sorry to intrude again, but it seems my colleagues haven’t been able to track down Mr Shepherd. Apparently, he’s not at home. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
A wave of nausea almost knocked Anne off her feet. “I have no idea,” she managed to say, swallowing bile. “But he doesn’t have the use of his van at the moment so I’m sure he won’t have gone far. He’ll probably be home soon.”
“Let’s hope so,” said the WPC sternly and left the room without another word, leaving Anne to review her previous impression of the young constable.
“You don’t think Owen has gone on the run, do you?” Mel Harvey became excited. “I mean to say, if that isn’t an admission of guilt, what is?”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” Anne reminded her dryly, “Now, if you don’t mind. I’d like to lie down for a while.” She gestured towards the door.
Mel Harvey was quick to take the hint. “Feel free to call my extension any time, day or night,” she assured the guest she’d had thought of as a friend for years. But Anne was in the queerest mood. It seemed kinder to leave her alone, for now at least. Deep in thought, she inadvertently left the door ajar as she exited and headed for the stairs (she hated lifts).
Anne went and closed the door. Again, she crossed to the bay window. On this occasion, though, she could not bear to contemplate its splendid view. Instead, she closed the curtains and was soon stretched out on the bed again, wondering where on earth Owen could be?
The telephone rang. It was Mel Harvey. “Shall I call a doctor? A sedative might help…until we know for certain…”
Anne replaced the receiver sharply. Immediately, she regretted it but ruled out calling the hotelier back. Mel meant well. People invariably did. Even so, she had been hooked on sedatives for years and wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.
She closed her eyes but could only see that filthy piece of red rag the young policewoman had shown her, faded spots barely visible beneath the grime. They may not have been yellow, after all, she reminded herself. It had been barely possible to tell. Nor could she be sure it was Patricia’s body they had found. But what if it was? What if it was her Patricia left to rot in a grave at the bottom of Owen Shepherd’s garden?
Will they expect me to view the remains? Without any promoting, her legs made a frantic dash for the toilet, reaching the hand basin just in time for her to be violently sick. Later, dry -eyed, she followed the slow progress of a fly across the ceiling.
What is the matter with me? Why can’t I cry? Why don’t I feel anything? Has it really come to this? Have I become so dried up a creature of habit that, after all this time, I can’t even take pleasure in any sense of an ending? But what am I saying? What ending? There can be none. All we can do is wake up in the morning, go to bed at night and try to make the in-between as bearable as possible. And what of Owen, what would become of him? “What of Owen?” she repeated aloud and continued to address the fly. “It can’t be true. It just can’t...can it?” But her eyes closed of their own accord and she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
The fly, oblivious to the woman’s despair, flew to the bay window, fond a chink in the curtains and escaped into the sunshine.
Woken by the sound of her mobile phone ringing shrilly in her ear, Anne groped for it on the table beside the bed. “Yes?”
“It’s Cathy. I’m just calling to let you know I’m on my way. I hope Lynette hasn’t been any trouble. It’s very naughty of her to foist herself on you like this. Steve and I had no idea. We’ve only just found out…”
“Lynette? Found out what?” Anne struggled to regain her senses.
“The porter told us she was coming to see you. It really is too bad. But I’m on my way, so...”
“But…”
“Steve and I had an almighty row, you see. Lynette must have heard us and that’s what decided her to take herself off like that. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
“But…I haven’t seen Lynette. Not since I saw you earlier. She certainly isn’t with me.” An ominous silence followed. “Cathy? Cathy, are you still there?”
“You’ve not seen Lynette at all?” Steve Taylor’s voice crackled down the network.
“Well, no, not since...”
“So where the hell is she?” he interrupted, and she could hear the rising panic in his voice. “The receptionist thinks she may have seen her leaving the hotel with a man I can only assume was Owen Shepherd. Oh, yes, I know all about your little caper this afternoon so there’s no need to act the innocent about Shepherd.”
Anne swallowed the protest on her lips with some difficulty. “The receptionist must be mistaken. Why would Owen go to Hillcrest? He went home specifically to avoid seeing you. Better be safe than sorry, I told him, given that nasty temper of yours, Steve Taylor. She’s probably with that little friend of hers at the hotel. Now, what did she say the child’s name was…?”
“You could be right. Kids, eh? They have all the fun while you worry yourself sick.”
“You will let me know when…?” But the phone was already dead. Anne swung her legs over one side of the bed and proceeded to pace the room in utter consternation. She must have tried calling Cathy’s mobile number twenty times. The result was always the same, an irritating female voice suggesting she leave a message after the tone. In desperation, she went and knocked on Charley Briggs’ door. It was Spence, however, who answered. “Is Charley there? I need to speak to her. Something awful has happened. That is, I don’t know yet. I can’t be sure. Cathy phoned. It’s Lynette. Steve thinks Owen and Lynette…” She burst into tears.
Glad of Spence’s comforting arm around her trembling shoulders, Anne let him guide her to a chair. Nor did it even occur to her to decline a generous portion of brandy he insisted she drink a short time afterwards
“You mustn’t worry about Lynette. She’s a sensible kid. You know how kids are when they hear the parents arguing. They take off. I did that myself when I was her age. Well, maybe a bit older but Lynette’s very mature for her age. So stop worrying. You have more than enough on your plate right now. Take it from me, Lynette will be fine. I’m sure Cathy will call again if there’s any need. She’s probably giving Lynette a big hug and a telling off even as we speak.”
“I suppose so,” Anne responded wearily.
“I know so,” said Spence with a self-confidence she envied. “Look, about this other business, I can only guess what you’re going through. I’m only sorry I didn’t stop Charley in her tracks before things got this far. If there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all…”
Anne hastily collected herself. The brandy helped. “Where’s is Charley?”
“She’s at the hairdresser’s.”
“But she only went a few days ago.”
“Yes, well, you know Charley. She likes to make sure she’s looking good. Besides, it’s her favourite therapy, especially when she’s feeling hard done by,” he added with a grin that Anne found curiously reassuring.
Anne glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly eight o’clock.” It struck her, irrelevantly, that she had missed dinner.
“Let’s face it, just about everywhere stays open late at this time of year. They need the tourist trade, I guess.” Spence observed. “Look, Anne, if I can help in any way just say the word. I feel sort of responsible. If I hadn’t let Charley persuade me to dig up that grave…”
“A child’s body would never have been found,” she reminded him bluntly.
“Yes, but…”
“Would you mind terribly, walking me to Owen’s flat? I can’t face waiting around for a bus and, to be honest, I don’t want to go on my own.”
“We’ll take my car."
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I thought a walk might do me good.”
“It’s no trouble,” he assured her, “and, if you don’ mind my saying so, those pins of yours look on the shaky side to me.”
“Well, perhaps, if you’re sure…” she flashed him a grateful smile and was rewarded by a confident grin.
“You’re very kind.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he told her then, “Will we be able to get in once we get there? I mean…the police…they’ll have sealed the place off by now and taken Owen in for questioning…” His voice tailed off miserably, confidence visibly ebbing fast.
“We have to try, please.” Her eyes focused pleadingly on the handsome face, its broad grin still in place but reminiscent of a waxwork model she’d seen only recently in a shop window.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh?” He grabbed his car keys, reached out a hand and was reassured by the sureness of her grip. She was tougher than she looked, Anne Gates.
Meanwhile, Owen Shepherd was being grilled at the police station. Moreover, not only about a body found in his garden but also concerning the whereabouts of Lynette Taylor, aged ten years, reported as missing by the child’s distraught parents within the past half hour.
To be continued on Monday.
