“You could say that.” Fiona clamped her mouth shut, her eyes on the ground in front of her.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m so cross with him,” Fiona said fiercely. “We had a blazing row the other night. He got this death threat in the post, and he refuses point blank to take it to the police. He says it’s just a routine crank letter, but I’m not so sure. It felt very unpleasant to me. And after what happened to Drew Shand…”
“But surely that was a one-off?” Caroline said. “According to all the reports I’ve seen in the Scottish media, they reckon it was a pick — up for S&M sex that went wrong. There’s been no suggestion that anybody outside the gay community could be at risk.”
Fiona scowled at the horizon. “That’s only one possibility. And we don’t know if Drew Shand had any death threats, because all we know is what the police are telling us. I know it’s a long shot to suggest that the killing might have more to do with Drew’s writing than his life, but it’s a possibility, and while it’s a possibility, I think Kit should be taking this more seriously.”
“And that’s what you had a fight about?”
“We’ve hardly spoken since.”
“Presumably Kit understands why you’re so wound up about this?” Caroline said, taking advantage of the path splitting into two parallel tracks to catch up with Fiona.
“I think he’s got the message that I’m concerned about him,” Fiona said frostily.
“But that’s not really what it’s about, is it?”
Fiona said nothing, simply ploughing on resolutely and making great play of looking down at the river as it widened into the still expanse of water created by the dam for the Georgian mill at Cressbrook.
“This isn’t just about Kit, Fiona. It’s about Lesley.”
Fiona stopped in her tracks. “It’s nothing to do with Lesley.” Her jaw was set in a stubborn line.
Caroline came to a halt a few feet ahead of her and turned to put a gloved hand on her arm. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Fiona. You can’t bear the thought of losing him because you’ve already lost Lesley and you know what it feels like when someone you love is murdered. And that fear magnifies the slightest danger into something life-threatening, turning you into a one-woman nanny state.” Caroline paused. Fiona said nothing, so she pressed on. “I understand the phenomenon, because I do it myself. It drives Julia crazy. If she’s in town without the car, I always pick her up. She says it makes her feel like a teenager whose mother doesn’t trust her not to be snogging the local ruffian behind the bike shed.”
Caroline gave a weak laugh. “One time, early on in our relationship, she insisted that I not pick her up after a parents’ evening. So I hung around outside the school and waited till she came out. I followed her home. And I nearly gave her a heart attack because when she was cutting through one of the alleys in the town centre, she heard footsteps behind her and thought she was going to be mugged. That was when she realized that my insistence on picking her up was more about my fears than about her capabilities. So now she goes along with me, in spite of how it irritates her deep down. Fiona, you need to tell Kit why you’ve let this threatening letter take on such huge proportions. If he says it’s nothing, he’s probably right. He knows what his post is like. But he needs to know that you’re not just fussing. That there’s a valid reason for the way you’re behaving.”
Fiona glared at the limestone cliffs on the other side of the dale. “I thought I was the psychologist around here.” Her voice shook slightly.
“Yeah, well, psychologist, analyse yourself.”
Fiona studied the scuffed toes of her walking boots. “You’re probably right. I should explain myself better.” She met Caroline’s steady gaze. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him.” Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.
Caroline pulled Fiona into a tight hug. “I know.”
Fiona drew back and managed a frail smile. “I’ll talk to him when I get home. Promise. Now, are we going to stand here till we get hypothermia, or are we going to the Monsal Head pub?”
Caroline pretended to consider. “I think, on balance, I’m going to go for the pub.”
“Race you to the dam,” Fiona said, setting off across the hillside at a killer pace.
“You win,” Caroline muttered, following at a more reasonable speed. Twelve years on, and still Lesley’s death was the denning event in both their lives. No matter how much they tried to put it behind them, it was there, ready to ambush them, she thought. Sometimes she wondered if they would ever be free of its embracing shadow. Or even if they actually wanted to be.
Fiona marched up Dartmouth Park Hill from the tube station, determined to set things straight with Kit. Caroline was right; she just hadn’t allowed herself to accept what was driving her determination that he take the letter seriously. Head down, she scuffed through fallen leaves, easily out pacing the late commuters coming home from the office. She reached the left turn into their street in record time, gathering speed as she headed downhill. She was eager now, more than ready to apologize and explain.
So her heart sank when she opened the door and heard Kit call, “We’re upstairs.” Whoever the other component of ‘we’ was, she wasn’t in the mood for their company.
“Just taking my boots off,” she shouted. Backpack on the floor, jacket tossed over the newel post, Fiona undid her laces and stepped free. She wiggled her toes at the pleasure of release. Comfortable as her well-worn boots were, they still caged her feet. She stopped in the kitchen to pick up a glass, reckoning that if Kit had company, the wine would already be open, then she made her way up to the first-floor living room.
The lamps were on, casting scattered pools of warm light through the wide room. Kit was in his favourite armchair, glass in hand. That would have been perfect if he’d been alone. But his companion was the last person Fiona felt like seeing.
Curled up on the sofa, her strappy sandals kicked off on the rug below her, was Georgia Lester. A legend in her own lifetime, Georgia had published over thirty novels in a twenty-five-year career that had seen her rise to challenge P.D. James and Ruth Rendell to the title of Queen of Crime. She’d been one of the first crime writers to have her work successfully adapted for TV, and that had guaranteed her a slot in the bestseller lists ever since. She was a darling of the media, shamelessly exploiting every possible opportunity to appear in print, on the radio or on TV. Men fell for her flirtatious flattery and her undeniable generosity; most women, including Fiona, cheerfully loathed her. “She’s the Barbara Cartland of crime fiction,” Fiona had once remarked to Mary Helen Margolyes, who had choked on her drink and then promptly passed the remark around the bush telegraph. Without attribution, of course.
The soft illumination flattered Georgia, softening the tautness of cosmetically tightened skin, minimizing the elaborate make — up that Georgia skilfully employed to keep the years further at bay. In this light, she could pass for early forties, which Fiona regarded as nothing short of miraculous for a woman who couldn’t be a day under fifty-seven. “Fiona, darling,” Georgia purred, tilting her head upwards in a gesture that demanded an air kiss.
Fiona obliged, conscious of her wind-burnt skin, her unbrushed hair, and that her fleece probably smelled of sweat. Georgia, naturally, was fragrant with Chanel No. 5 and dressed immaculately in a flowing midnight-blue garment that clung only to the strategic points of breasts and hips. Her hair, an improbable but convincing ash-blonde, appeared to have come straight from the salon. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, Georgia,” Fiona said as she turned away and helped herself to a glass of wine. She crossed to Kit and kissed his cheek. “Hello, love,” she said, hoping the action would combine with her tone of voice to indicate that she was offering a truce.