The War Widow Read online

  I could just make out a few scraps of paper on the shelf under the dashboard but salt and grime had crusted the glass and it was hard to distinguish more. With another quick glance along the deserted street and paying particular attention to my unguarded back, I ducked against the wing to peer inside. Hoping vehemently that no one would spot me in this position I wiped the glass, squinted against the gloom, and finally saw what the papers were.

  The first was a till receipt for drinks and bore nothing but a few numbers and a code for the items bought. The second was a garage receipt but I couldn’t make out much from the scrawl of handwriting; the final scrap was just the remnant of an empty matchbook with no branding whatsoever. Frustrated, I wiped a little harder and squinted again at the handwritten note.

  It was, it transpired, a receipt for fuel and a top-up of oil. I couldn’t make out the name of the garage. I rested my eyes for a moment before looking again.

  There was, predictably enough, the word ‘Garage’. Something Garage, Garstang Road, Ca— I concentrated fiercely on the untidy lettering. Of course. Catterall. I enjoyed a moment of triumph at identifying this small garage in a small town on the road south from Lancaster; before crashing back down to earth with a very sudden bump indeed.

  My first thought, after all that watching and waiting, was not ‘they’re here; they’ve found me’, but with a kind of desolate relief: It’s true.

  Chapter 7

  There was in my mind a certain terrifying wish for them to take hold of me again because then it would all be over and I could stop this ridiculous pretence that I could do anything about it. The other part of my brain, the sensible part, was already propelling my body sternly back up the hill towards shops and shelter from the stiff breeze, and down again towards the police station. I wasn’t intending to beg for sanctuary. I’d learned that lesson before and I wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

  I had a small, very fragile germ of an idea and I suppose it was growing from the sudden shock of finding the car. Nothing else would have had the power to cut through the fog of helplessness that had followed me from that house. It was just a shade unfortunate that the relief of finding a new strategy – or indeed any strategy at all – subsequently led me to veer off course into the telling of downright lies.

  The police station stood on the main shopping street opposite the post office. The street was called Great Darkgate Street and fittingly the police station was constructed in fearsome black stone and had crenulations. It squatted menacingly between dwellings and innocent shop fronts like a miniature fortress. Or perhaps that description was just indicative of what I wished it to be that day.

  A woolly-haired sergeant looked up from her post behind the desk as I entered, clearly very busy and clearly very worn out by the world. She was not at all pleased by the interruption. She gave me a brief look up and down and I think she could scent fear, but mistook it for guilt.

  “Yes?”

  At her resigned bark, I withdrew my hands sharply from where they had been defensively thrust into my deep coat pockets and approached the desk. “I’d like to talk to someone about viewing Rhys Williams’ possessions, if that is possible. Are they available?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have a case number?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. He died. At Devil’s Bridge. The investigation has concluded, I believe. That’s why I’m here.” I counted breaths in an effort to calm my sense of urgency as she fussed with some documents, and stumbled blindly into telling my first lie. “His mother was told the possessions they found were ready to be collected. I believe someone is expecting me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh dear – perhaps I can speak to the policeman in charge? Is he available?”

  “No.”

  Failure stung. “Is there anyone else I can speak to?”

  “No.”

  Perhaps lying really did reap its own rewards. I was about to add a little truth when she abruptly deigned to expand a little. “You have to see Detective Inspector Griffiths. It’s his case.”

  I waited. I don’t think I was being brave. I think the truth is I was numb. I don’t think I was really thinking anything except that I didn’t want to have to go back out onto those streets like this. So I waited, face moulded into something bordering on polite encouragement and at long last she mustered the energy to concede, “He’s back in tomorrow. Would you like to make an appointment?”

  “On a Saturday?”

  She peered up at me beneath lowered brows. Meaning, I think, to imply that a policeperson’s work didn’t stop for the weekend.

  I said contritely, “Yes, please.”

  “Eleven o’clock suit you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Name?”

  This was where I made my second mistruth. Some wildness within me made me say after only the tiniest of hesitations: “Mrs Williams.”

  The foolish thing about it was that technically I was still entitled to use that name. It was on my passport and on various other documents such as my account with the bank. However my latest ration book was most definitely in my maiden name and it was the one I had very recently taken to using on a daily basis so really the truth here was a touch blurred. I suppose if I’d been truly honest I’d have dictated Mrs Kate Williams (indicating divorcee) rather than Mrs Rhys Williams (indicating that a husband still had ownership of me).

  I watched as her hand carefully entered the name in the large diary on her desk. Then the hand recorded the name of the case I’d mentioned in my enquiry. The pen paused hovering over the paper. After a moment she looked up and suddenly seemed considerably more human. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Williams, I’m sure Inspector Griffiths will be glad to help you. I’m sorry he isn’t in today. It’s his mother’s birthday. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Lies really are an ugly thing, and they definitely do bring their own punishment. I walked out with my head wavering between the unexpected return of hope and the rather grimmer calculation of waiting another day and whether or not it mightn’t be wiser to abandon everything and make for the nearest train, and I only came to when I caught myself glaring fiercely at every man I met as I hurried along. My heartbeat kept intensifying until they were past and I was safe again. Which was ridiculous because if they were that close it was already far too late. And as it was, I ought to have been watching more closely for someone else because Jim Bristol was following me.

  Or rather, remembering my terrible mistake yesterday with another man from the hotel, it would be more accurate to state that he was sauntering along at his ease some way behind me.

  It was hard to be sure. He seemed to have his head thoroughly buried in his guidebook so he might have just been completing his much discussed tour of the town. As I hurried along another shopping street towards the promenade with half a plan of going from there to the hotel to retrieve my bags and pay my bill, I kept throwing little glances over my shoulder and at first I thought I had lost him. But the second time I looked, a carefully staged examination of a pair of gloves in the window of a gentleman’s outfitters, I saw him more clearly. He seemed to vanish just as I turned but I was confident now that I was not mistaken; he was following me.

  It was exhausting work guarding myself from this specific threat at my back at the same time as remaining ever watchful for the uncertain threat of the two men who might approach from any side they chose. It was exhausting to the point that it made my brain ache. Part of the difficulty lay in the fact that with each passing day since the accident, I was growing less confident about my memory of those men from Lancaster. I knew I would recognise them if I saw them. I also knew they weren’t Jim Bristol and I’d managed to eliminate the other faces I’d met so far from my endless watch. But these days when I tried to fix my mind upon a definitive description, their eyes and noses slid away into nonsense. Sometimes the faces in my memory were the doctors at the hospital. Sometimes they had the faces of old friends like Gregory or even my husband.
And the more I fought it, the more I found it hard to tell if any of it was real. As was happening now, in fact, with the uncertainty of being followed.

  In the end, I opted for ambush. I turned a full circle and doubled back up the main shopping street. I crossed again as I neared the junction onto the street that led down to the pier. There was a tearoom there, just on the corner. Jim Bristol was still behind as I followed an old lady step for step around a man selling newspapers and finally slipped inside. I waited by the door for a few thrilling moments; nerves and eyes fixed on the street outside and eventually he obliged me by walking past. His coat today was a well-cut pre-war sports jacket. It was burgundy and unmistakeable. I shrank back in case he saw me, but he only seemed interested in the antics of a group of young soldiers on the opposite side of the road who were clearly on leave. They still wore their uniforms even for a day at the seaside.

  I waited a while longer before finally acknowledging the waitress’s ushering and I allowed myself to be shown to a table in the heart of the room for a rest and a sandwich. It was an expensive bolthole. After the outlay of funds for the train journey and the hotel it was perilously close to being above my means but it was the perfect position. I was screened from the street outside by the line of crowded booths that were arranged along the high glass windows and yet I could see the car. It was still entirely deserted and ordinary.

  The tearoom was reassuringly ordinary too. It was the sort that appealed to wealthy older couples and thankfully none had the fearsomely brutish form that my two would-be kidnappers must take. The patrons did unfortunately put me through the usual rigmarole of making my heart jolt every time one of them spoke in a tone that was reminiscent of Rhys’s voice or turned their head in just such a way to cause a momentary spark of recognition before it evaporated again, but I was getting used to that by now.

  Then my solitude was disturbed by a loud call of ‘Katie’ and it was clear that someone had managed to surprise me here.

  Mary James bore down on me like a whirlwind through a rose garden and to be honest it was a relief to find that it was only her. I’d been surveying the shadows around that parked car. I hadn’t imagined I could have been so inattentive to the traffic through the door.

  Mary draped her coat over the back of the chair opposite, dropped like a bomb into its seat and stole a sip of my water while the bright whirlwind slowly settled into the standard garish print of her day dress. Modern frocks were frequently rather garish. The cynic in me suspected that it was a deliberate tactic – probably engineered by a committee somewhere – founded on the principle that we women might not notice the shortages and hardships of our daily lives if we were sheathed in bright things.

  If that was their aim, it hadn’t worked for this woman. I had thought before that she was testing the peace for its tedium and now I saw she was actively working to break it at any cost. She was made up again today with rather too much drama about the eyes that outdid the customary flash of crimson upon her lips. Her frock was narrow-waisted but whereas the extreme restrictions of a girdle made her sister look angular and severe, Mary only looked impressively fashionable. I didn’t think the cost of my lunch would have meant much to her. She observed cheerfully, “It smells of cabbage in here. Are you having a nice day?”

  She must have noticed my rather blank expression because she gave me an astonishingly genuine smile. She leaned in to rest her chin upon a hand and said in a confidential whisper that was anything but discreet, “I’ve been abandoned by my sister. Dear Aged Albert has decided he feels unwell. Oh no, nothing serious, don’t worry.” There was a waft of her hand in response to my automatic shift from bewilderment towards polite concern. “Being a doctor he is well versed in a variety of complaints that aren’t awful enough to mean he shouldn’t take his usual luncheon but still absolutely require his wife to tend him lovingly. It just means that our planned adventure has had to be postponed yet again so I’m at a loose end – and sulking like a five year old.”

  I began to feel a stuffy prude. There was something truly disarming in this assault – there is no better word for it – by her determined good humour. I’d seen it at work on the men at the hotel and scorned their weakness then. But now I couldn’t help asking amiably, “Does your loose end happen to extend to having lunch? I’m just having mine. There’s some tea left in the pot if you can get a fresh cup.”

  In many ways she was a very clever woman.

  Mary shook her head. “I’ve already eaten, thank you. I couldn’t face waiting any longer. What are you going to do now? Do you fancy being my chaperone for the day? I fully intend to drop you as soon as my sister is free but if you don’t mind I’d love to borrow you for a while. We could catch the bus to Ynyslas.”

  I thawed and only then did it occur to me to wonder if she was somehow a rogue sent to winkle me out of my hiding place. But she didn’t leave much room for scepticism because she was already hurrying me into finishing my tea and in truth, I wasn’t particularly hard to persuade. That fatalistic part of my brain that wanted to end this hadn’t faded away with the brief rest in this tearoom. The defiance had revived a touch but that was all. If they had found me, this was it. If Jim really was part of this, I had no hope of evading anyone if they chose to come and get me. And if he wasn’t, I didn’t want to pin my hopes on being able to hide away in my room till the next day, attempting to turn the hotel into a garrison with the other guests cast as my guards; achieving nothing and doing nothing until the time came to face the race across town to my meeting with the inspector at the police station tomorrow. That was the kind of waiting game that felt it must leave scars on the mind.

  So I paid my bill and climbed to my feet with absolutely no expectation other than that I would soon know precisely what part she meant to play if I followed her.

  That being said, the first step outside was taken a little less recklessly. Regardless of my decision I couldn’t help glancing behind as we stepped out on to the pavement but if Jim Bristol was there, I didn’t see him. I didn’t see those two men either. Their car was still waiting serenely beneath the university building. I was just checking the darkened telephone booth and deciding that it was likewise definitely empty when the woman beside me suddenly let out a wild shriek and leapt into the road. Quite understandably, it was a moment or two before I realised the rapidly approaching car was a red Rover 10 and her scream was a cry of delight.

  It was delight though, and now Mary was laughing like a maniac. She was standing there in the middle of the road, striking a pose of careless elegance as she turned back to me, eyes bright and absolutely determined to defy the box-like nose of the car that squealed to a stop, quivering, barely inches from her knees.

  “Are you insane?” Adam didn’t sound remotely amused. I suppose it was Mary’s way of proving the cost of following her sister’s orders to ensnare her man; it was just unfortunate for her that her sister wasn’t watching to learn the lesson and we were. I watched Mary sashay around to the driver’s door and found myself alternating between fascination that anyone could really act like that and make it seem such a natural part of herself, and watching the road for any of the men who might be after me. There was also a part of me – the wiser part – that was adding Adam to the list and contemplating scuttling off while he and Mary were distracted. In the road, Mary had come to a rest with her hand laid artlessly along the top of the driver’s door. Her coat was trailing from her other hand onto the grimy tarmacadam.

  “Yes, I’ve gone mad,” she admitted firmly. She’d noticed the coat’s plight and draped it carelessly about her shoulders with about the same elegance as a millionaire with a fox fur. “As I’ve been telling everyone who’ll listen, I’m at a loose end and acting like a five year old.”

  “Most five year olds that I’ve met have learned a little road sense.”

  Mary was unsquashable. But she did at least moderate her voice so that it was a glimpse of her real self. It had the bizarre effect of making her whole a
ppearance – clothes, make-up and all – seem like borrowed plumage applied under the strict supervision of another. “Where are you going? You promised to take me with you.”

  I saw him suppress a smile as he shifted the car out of gear. “A castle.”

  “I love castles.” The idea that her charm was a front was gone again. She chose to be this way too. A finger ran along the top of the doorframe and I swear she actually simpered.

  Adam only raised an eyebrow. Mary laughed. “All right, I don’t like castles; they’re boring. I was going to catch a bus to the beach but it’s hardly the time of year for it and perhaps you’d let me come with you instead? It’d be so nice to actually go somewhere, even if it is a castle. Please? We’ll be quiet, I promise; won’t we Katie?”

  I baulked at this sudden inclusion. Now I really did wish I’d taken the opportunity to slip away. She jerked her head and beckoned me closer to add weight to her plea but I gave a quick silent negative and remained where she had left me, hovering foolishly on the edge of the pavement. His gaze followed hers to fix on me for the first time and as a respite from the usual terrors, the embarrassment was excruciating.

  I made it worse by saying; “If he’s got things to do, I’m sure he’d much rather be on his own.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Oh, ignore her; she just doesn’t want to admit that she’d much prefer your castle to my beach. And she’s got to come. She’s playing the part of the maiden aunt to my youthful heroine. Please?”

  Adam’s resigned sigh was carried on the light breeze. With a triumphant smirk at me, Mary darted round to the passenger door and slid in. She fixed me with an expectant stare but Adam was already climbing out and dragging open the rear passenger door for me. He gave a brief jerk of his head. “Come on,” he said with that slight smile of his that might have been teasing, or it might not.

  I moved towards the open door. He wasn’t looking at me any more but that may well have been because he too was noticing the approaching bus. It was squeaking huffily to a halt behind the stationary car instead of running me down. All the same I flinched aside instinctively. And then I gave a self-conscious laugh that couldn’t help turning into a lift of my eyes to Adam’s face when I realised he’d been sharing the thought too. But he’d already suppressed his own reaction and was chivvying me into the back seat so that he could press the door shut on me and release the impatiently idling bus. Then, with an apologetic lift of his hand, he climbed in and prepared to send the car cruising away down to the promenade.