‘Look, who’s telling this story?’ asked Chrissie, mock-aggrieved. ‘Don’t forget your place. You’re a relative newcomer to Ilkley.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Karen, miming the action as she said the words, ‘I will zip my lip.’
‘What makes it interesting,’ Chrissie went on, ‘is that it starts very quietly, with the subterranean rustle of a worm turning. The Greenfords had lived quietly enough in Ilkley with no one knowing much about them for more than twenty years, possibly from when they were first married. They didn’t have children. Gwyneth was a quiet soul, but perfectly amiable. Worked in the Vauxhall car dealership. Often seen around the shops, always with a pleasant word for everyone. Not many close friends, so far as people could tell, but a number of acquaintances, with whom she would meet from time to time at coffee mornings.
‘Adrian was more of an extrovert. Also worked in the motor trade, selling second-hand cars. Was away a lot for work, it seems, but quite a well-known figure round the pubs of Ilkley. What used to be called a “man’s man” … don’t know if the expression’s still used. Seemed most at ease with a pint jug in his hand and a slightly off-colour joke on his lips. Such a stereotype – so many more men like him – that he made as little impression as his wife did. Ordinary people, heads rarely seen above the parapet. That is, until eighteen months ago …’
‘Nearer two years,’ Karen interposed, then shrank from the look of mock-fury that was turned on her. ‘I know, because it was soon after I moved up here.’
‘Very well,’ Chrissie snapped. ‘Nearer two years. Anyway, it seems that Adrian Greenford had an affair. Had been having an affair for some while. Not a big deal, you may think, in the scheme of things. At any given moment, I’m sure any number of people in a town like Ilkley are having affairs. And you might have thought, allowing for a bit of prurient gossip, it was nobody’s business except for the couple involved. And maybe the third party involved. I’m sure that’s how Adrian Greenford hoped it would be.
‘Unfortunately for him, Gwyneth didn’t see it the same way. As I said, it started with a worm turning, but the worm pretty soon took on dragon-like proportions. “Hell hath no fury”, and all that. You hear of spurned wives smashing the contents of their husbands’ wine cellars and cutting up their suits. Gwyneth Greenford’s revenge was more public than that. From being invisible, she suddenly became very visible. She had leaflets printed, stating that “ADRIAN GREENFORD IS AN ADULTERER”, and she took them into all his favourite pubs. The landlords didn’t let them stay for long, but enough people saw them for the damage to be done. She stuck similar posters over the front of their house and – the final indignity for a petrol-head like Adrian Greenford – she spray-painted the same slogan over his precious E-Type Jag. Was ever a man so humiliated?’
‘And what happened to the other woman? Adrian’s mistress, girlfriend, whatever?’
‘I don’t know where she went. She certainly left Ilkley.’
Chrissie sighed, sat back and took a long swig of Sauvignon Blanc. Her part of the narration was over, and this time she made no objection when Karen picked up the baton. ‘It’s no great surprise that they moved after that. Adrian couldn’t go anywhere in the town without people whispering behind their hands. How they sorted it out between them, who set up the house sale, who decided where they were going to move to, I’ve no idea. But move they did. To Fethering, of all places.’
Jude looked bewildered. ‘But how on earth did Gwyneth do all that? Getting the posters printed, taking them to the pubs, spraying the car. Who did she have to help her?’
‘She didn’t have anyone to help her,’ answered Chrissie. ‘She did it all on her own – the revenge of a woman scorned.’
‘But how could she have done it?’ asked Jude. ‘In her condition?’
‘In her condition?’ echoed Chrissie.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Karen.
‘In the house they’ve bought in Fethering, High Street, near the parade, just a few along the road from Woodside Cottage, which I’m sure you remember well, Karen …’
‘Certainly do.’
‘… Adrian Greenford has had to put in all kinds of ramps and handrails.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘So that his wife Gwyneth can get around the place in her wheelchair.’
‘Wheelchair?’ The two other women looked at each other in astonishment, before Chrissie said, ‘Gwyneth Greenford had no problems with her mobility. She didn’t use a wheelchair when she lived in Ilkley.’
SEVENTEEN
Over the weekend, Carole kept thinking about Jude. She wasn’t jealous of her neighbour being at a healing conference in Leeds. She couldn’t imagine anything she would enjoy less. She needed ‘Healing in the Head’ like a hole in the head. And she didn’t think being in the company of a lesbian couple would improve the experience for her. But she did want to share the news of her Friday afternoon encounter with Dr Rawley. Calling Jude’s mobile was always an option, but Carole – typically – was worried that might make her sound needy. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t survive a weekend with an empty Woodside Cottage next door. The conference, she knew, finished at lunchtime on the Sunday. Jude would be back late that evening. Catching up with her on the Monday morning would be soon enough.
By the Sunday morning, however, the need to make contact was even more urgent. Carole tried to allay it, by ringing her son Stephen and family in Fulham, but listening to the garbled exploits of her granddaughters, Lily and Chloe, did not work its usual magic sufficiently to distract her. When she’d put the phone down, she knew she was going to give in and call Jude.
But, before she had time to dial the number, the phone in her hand rang.
She answered it and a slightly accented voice said, ‘Good morning. This is Malee Shefford.’
The house in which Bill Shefford had lived with two wives was not on one of Fethering’s most highly prized roads, nor did it have period charm on its side, but it was far enough from the Downside Estate to be deemed respectable. In the front room, Carole was struck again by Malee’s beauty. It was not like the glossy allure of a model photographed in a magazine, but something deeper: an iconic face that seemed to symbolize generations of femininity. Seeing her close to, it was more difficult to judge the woman’s age. She could have been anything between twenty and fifty.
The room was meticulously clean and tidy but showed little sign of Malee’s influence. It had a slightly old-fashioned air, as though nothing had been changed since the death of Bill’s first wife Valerie some eight years before. But on the top of a glass-doored cupboard was a photograph of him. In front was a low vase of flowers. Lit candles in short ceramic holders stood either side. Carole did not know whether the shrine was a reflection of Malee’s religion or a personal tribute.
She had been offered tea but refused. She wasn’t sure what kind of tea someone from Thailand would drink, and didn’t want to risk embarrassment if she didn’t like it. Typical Carole.
When they were seated opposite each other, she asked, ‘Why did you agree to see me?’
‘Because you asked to see me,’ Malee replied with disarming simplicity. Her English was very good, with only a hint of an accent.
‘Has nobody else asked?’
‘Nobody outside Bill’s family, no.’
Carole realized this was probably true and considered the implications. While Fethering had been abuzz with speculation and accusation ever since Bill Shefford’s death, nobody had directly confronted the main suspect. Despite feeling a thrill at being the first one to make the breakthrough, Carole could not suppress a sense of collective guilt that the woman had been so isolated by the village. And that guilt was increased by the knowledge that race had played its part.