‘Left a note? Oh yes, she was always doing it. I’d come back from an evening shift, find a note on the kitchen table saying she hated me and she’d left and she never wanted to see me again. The first few times I panicked. After that I got used to it. She was always back within twenty-four hours. Back when she was hungry. Or needed clean knickers. Very fastidious Marina always was about personal hygiene.’
‘And where do you think she went those nights when she was away?’
‘Slept over at a friend’s house.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘I don’t think so. That’s what she wanted me to think. She wanted me to be shocked. But I think it was probably just one of the girls from school.’
‘And then there was this one time when she didn’t come back.’
‘Yes, Carole. At first I thought it was the same routine as usual, but as the days went by, I realized this was different.’
‘Was the note she left that time any different?’
‘God, I’ve asked myself that so many times. I’ve looked at it and looked it, trying to find some secret message. You try, by all means. A fresh eye may make all the difference. You see if you can find what I’ve been missing for the past eight years.’
Susan Holland reached into her handbag and produced a transparent plastic folder containing a much-creased sheet of paper. She handed it across.
‘May I take it out?’
‘Be my guest.’
A piece of A4 copy paper, worn and frail along its folds. The writing in blue ballpoint was pitifully faded but in a tidy, firm hand. And it read: Goodbye. I hate you and I know that you really hate me. I’m going to find someone who really appreciates me. And this time I really won’t be coming back.
Carole observed, ‘The last sentence sounds pretty final.’
‘She wrote that every time. If I hadn’t thrown them away, I could show you another dozen notes with virtually identical wording.’
‘And you sure it’s Marina’s handwriting?’
‘Yes. That’s one of the things that I thought too – that someone had abducted her and forged the note. So I went to a graphologist who checked it against other stuff Marina had written and yes, it’s hers. She wrote it.’
‘Hm.’ There was a long silence, then Carole Seddon said, ‘You’ve been very open with me, Susan.’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Well, as you said right at the beginning of our conversation, there are a lot of strange people out there and you don’t know me from Adam – or should that be Eve?’
‘No, but you do seem to be genuinely interested in what might have happened to my daughter – and it’s a long time since I’ve met someone with that qualification.’
‘It’s the only qualification I do bring to the table, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t worry about that. If you think you really can find out something about Marina . . .’
‘I don’t know whether I can. But I’m prepared to try.’
‘Well, it’s probably hopeless. It all happened so long ago, and the few trails there ever were have gone very cold. But if you would like to pursue it further, Carole . . .’
‘I would, Susan.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I’m just nosy.’
Susan Holland grinned. ‘Nosy is good,’ she said.
THIRTEEN
‘Ah, hello. Is that Tom Ruthven?’
It was the Friday evening. Jude had tried the number Oenone Playfair had given her a few times before, but this was the first time she’d got more than an answering machine.
‘Yes, it is,’ the precise elderly voice at the other end of the line confirmed. ‘Who is it speaking?’
‘My name’s Jude. We met on Wednesday with Piers Targett at the Lockleigh Arms after your game of doubles.’
‘Oh yes, of course. And after that morning’s terrible shock.’
‘Mm.’
‘Well, it’s delightful to hear from you. You’re not ringing to say you’d like to join us next Wednesday, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. We’re one short. Jonty Westmacott has injured his toe. At least he says he’s injured his toe, but I rather think it’s a recurrence of his gout.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. But why did you think I might be offering my services?’
‘Well, I’ve tried ringing round a few of the usual suspects, but without any luck, so I asked George Hazlitt if he might try to fix us up with a fourth. I thought he might have asked you.’
‘But I don’t even know how to play the game. And I’m not a member of the club.’
‘Not yet,’ said Tom Ruthven.
‘I may never be.’
‘You will if you stay with Piers. No way he’d tolerate having a girlfriend who didn’t play real tennis.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’
‘Anyway, if it’s not about tennis, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?’
‘It’s to do with something Oenone Playfair said to me.’
‘Oh? How is the poor darling? She must be in a terrible state. In spite of the rather cavalier way Reggie treated her at times, the pair of them were absolutely devoted to each other. I’ve been meaning to write to Oenone, but I keep procrastinating. Difficult to put into words what you feel for a bloke like Reggie. Poor old bugger.’ Jude was beginning to wonder whether those three words would be what ended up carved on Reggie Playfair’s tombstone.
‘Oenone and I were talking about Reggie’s interest in ghosts.’
‘I didn’t know the old reprobate had an interest in ghosts.’
‘Well, apparently he did, and Oenone was wondering whether that might have had something to do with why he had gone to the court that Wednesday morning.’
‘Really?’ For the first time there seemed to be a note of caution in Tom Ruthven’s voice.
‘Well, do you have any idea why he might have been there?’ It was worth asking.
But she didn’t get much by way of return. Tom Ruthven replied rather woodenly that perhaps Reggie had left something behind after his unexpected exit from the Sec’s Cup.
‘Oenone said he definitely hadn’t.’
‘Then I’ve no idea why he might have been there.’ The old man’s tone made it clear they’d come to the end of that particular line of questioning. Once again Jude got a sense of closing ranks. The men who played at Lockleigh House tennis court looked after their own. They might entertain their own suspicions about what Reggie Playfair had been doing, but they were not about to share them with anyone else.
‘Going back to the ghosts, though . . .’
‘Yes, Jude.’ Tom Ruthven sounded relieved that the conversation had moved on.
‘Oenone said you’d once mentioned some ghostly sighting at Lockleigh House, or the tennis court or somewhere around. Does that ring any bells?’
‘Distantly. Oh, goodness, that was years ago. I’m surprised she remembers that far back. It was something I was told by some relative of mine called Cecil. I can never remember whether he’s my great-uncle or second cousin. Cecil’s a Wardock.’
‘Oh, from the family who built Lockleigh House?’
‘Yes. So I might have some connection to them as well, though I’m not sure what. Some ancestor of mine married into the Wardocks, I think, but I’ve never bothered to check the details. Yes, Cecil did tell me some vague story about a ghost, a woman who topped herself, I can’t remember the details.’
‘Might Cecil himself remember them? That is, if he’s still around.’
‘Oh yes, he is still around. Just. Mind you, he’s seriously old.’
Coming from a man in his eighties, Jude wondered just how old that might be.
‘Is there any way of contacting him?’
Tom Ruthven chuckled. ‘Well, that couldn’t be easier.’
‘Oh?’