“Perhaps,” James said after a pause. Then, “I’ve always thought of suicide as a very selfish act. It’s the people left behind who suffer.”
Because they were being so companionable, she was tempted to tell him about the tall man who had spat out his Communion wine at Robert, but the event still seemed so shocking that she couldn’t bring herself to speak of it. James turned into the straight, bumpy track which led between two enormous fields to the house and she sat beside him in silence.
In the kitchen Robert was standing in front of the Aga. His trousers were steaming. Emma looked for some sign that the incident at the Communion rail had shocked him as much as it had her, but he said with a little smile, “We took Miss Sanderson home. I only helped her out of the car but I’m soaked.”
“Go and change, dear. You’ll catch cold.” Mary was fretting about the vegetables and he was in her way. Despite the position of authority he held at church and at work, sometimes she treated him like a child.
Robert seemed not to hear her and only moved away from the range to pour them each a glass of sherry. Emma put the baby in his seat on the floor and tucked a blanket around him. Mary lifted the chipped cast-iron lid of the stove to reveal the hot plate The room seemed suddenly warmer. She stooped to heave a casserole from the oven and slid it onto the plate. It began to bubble. Her face was flushed from the heat and the exertion. Her fine grey hair was tied back and Emma thought she should get it cut, coloured even. A ponytail looked ridiculous on a woman of her age. Mary wrapped a tea towel around the casserole lid and took it off to stir the contents. There was a smell of lamb, garlic and tomatoes, and Emma was suddenly certain that this was the same meal they’d eaten the day Abigail was strangled. She looked sharply at her mother expecting her to remember it too, but Mary only smiled with relief that the Aga had stayed sufficiently hot to cook the meat, and Emma felt foolish. She wondered if her mind was playing tricks. Her fantasies always seemed so real.
At this time of year they ate in the kitchen. The dining room had no grate and although there were storage heaters they were barely tepid when the family got up, and cold by the evening. Emma laid the table, slipping into the familiar routine, her hands moving to the cutlery and glasses without thought. It was as if she’d never gone away. Hard to believe that, like Jeanie Long, she’d spent years at university. If she hadn’t met and married James she would never have come back. Was that at the heart of her dissatisfaction with him?
Robert had finally gone upstairs to change and returned wearing jeans and a thick navy sweater. James opened one of the bottles of red wine. They took their places and waited for Robert to say grace. He always said grace even when only he and Mary were present. But today he seemed not to realize that they expected it of him, took the ladle and began to serve himself. Emma looked at her mother who only shook her head, humouring him again, and passed around a bdwl of potatoes.
Mary never washed-up after Sunday lunch. Robert would put a match to the fire he’d already laid in the living room and she’d sit there, drinking coffee and reading the Sunday papers until they joined her. By then the room would be almost warm. She was always grateful for this time to herself and never forgot to thank them.
Robert and Emma were alone in the kitchen. James had taken the baby upstairs to change him.
“Who was the man who spat at you?”
He answered without turning away from the sink. “Michael Long, Jeanie’s father’
He’d changed, she thought. The Michael Long she remembered had been strong, broad shouldered, loud.
“Why did he do it?”
“People often need someone to blame at a time like this.”
“But why you?”
“I had to submit a report to the parole board. I couldn’t recommend her as suitable for parole.”
“Jeanie Long was your client?”
Now he did turn round. He dried his hands deliberately on the threadbare towel hanging from the Aga, then sat next to her at the table.
“Only for the past twelve months.”
“Didn’t anyone think that was wrong? That it might be considered, I don’t know, some sort of conflict of interest?”
“Of course we discussed the suitability of my taking over the case, but the problem wasn’t one of a conflict of interest. You never appeared as a witness for the prosecution. It was a matter of whether I could develop a relationship with Jeanie, whether I could deal with her in a fair and open-minded way, and we decided that I could. The question of her guilt or innocence never came up. Not at that point. That was decided at the original trial and at a later appeal. I didn’t know Jeanie before she was sentenced. And I didn’t know Abigail, even though the two of you were friends.”
And now she thought about it, she supposed he was right. There had only been six months between the Winter family’s move to Elvet and Abigail’s death. During that time Springhead had been even more inhospitable than it was now. The elderly couple who’d lived in it before had only used two rooms, the rest of the house had been full of rubbish. There had been disasters with the plumbing, embarrassing smells, sudden blackouts. It hadn’t been a place to bring a new friend. All the sleep overs the giggly nights of videos, chocolate cake and illicit bottles of wine, had taken place at the Mantel home. Mary had met Abigail on a couple of occasions, at school events, the brief encounters on the doorstep when she dropped Emma off at the Old Chapel. Robert, eager to make an impression in his first post as probation officer had worked long hours, and was seldom around.
“Is it true that the case was to be reopened?”
“I presume it still will be. If Jeanie was innocent, someone else must have killed Abigail Mantel.”
They sat for a moment looking at each other. Emma thought it had been a day for unusual conversations. Her father had never spoken so simply or so frankly to her. By now it was quite dark outside. The wind blew through gaps in the window and moved the heavy curtain which covered it. From upstairs came the sound of the baby chortling.
“Did you think she was innocent?”
“It wasn’t my place to make that sort of judgement.
I’m an officer of the court. I have to accept the court’s decision. She always claimed she was innocent, but so do many of the offenders I work with.”
“What was she like?”
He paused again and his hesitation made him almost unrecognizable to her. He had always been a man of certainties.
“She was quiet, intelligent…” There was another break in his speech, almost a stutter. “Most of all she was angry, the most angry person I’ve ever met. She felt betrayed.”
“Who did she feel had betrayed her?”
“Her parents, I think. Her father, at least. But most of all Keith Mantel. She couldn’t understand why he never visited her. Even after he’d asked her to move out of the house she still believed he loved her.”
“But she’d killed his daughter! What could she expect?”
“Certainly he thought she had. And according to Jeanie that was the worst betrayal of all. That he could think her capable of murder.”
“Why didn’t you recommend her for parole?”
Emma thought he would refuse to tell her. He never talked about the details of his work. It was confidential, he’d say. He had the same responsibility as a priest to keep secrets. But today he seemed eager to talk. It was as if he needed to justify his decision to her.
“Partly it was her anger. I couldn’t be sure she could control it. At the trial the prosecution claimed that she strangled Abigail in a moment of rage and jealousy. I couldn’t take the risk that she might lose control again, strike out at someone who’d hurt her. It might have been different if she’d shown a willingness to cooperate with the prison authorities. I asked her to attend one of the anger management courses which we run at Spinney Fen but she refused. She said that if she attended it would be like admitting her guilt, admitting that her behaviour needed to change.”