Gaby grinned, as if levity could somehow take the seriousness off their conversation. “Of course, it casts an interesting light on my mother, too, doesn’t it? Puts rather a big question mark over her, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. There is another thing too, Gaby…”
“Oh God, I don’t know how many more ‘other things’ I can take. I’ve had a bellyful of ‘other things’ over the last few weeks.”
“You know you were born premature?”
“Yes. Of course I do.”
“Have you ever looked at that photograph on your grandmother’s dressing table, of you as a baby with your parents, outside your house in…Worcester, I suppose.”
“Well, obviously I’ve seen it, but it’s been part of going to see Grand’mère for so long that I can’t really say I’ve ever given it very close scrutiny.”
“When you came to see me about your back, Gaby…”
“Yes?”
“…you gave me your date of birth.”
“Twenty-fifth of March 1974.”
“Exactly. But that photograph of your grandmother’s says you came home from hospital on the twenty-seventh of May 1974”
“OK. Two months in the premature baby unit – that’d be about right.”
“Except that wasn’t what had originally been written on the photograph.”
“What?”
“A little piece of paper has been stuck over the month after the first two letters – ‘M’ – ‘A’. I’d put money on the fact that under the paper you’d find the ‘R – C – H’ of ‘March’.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Yes. Your grandmother’s eyesight’s so bad she would never have noticed the change to the date. But what it means is that that photograph was taken two days after your birth.”
“No!” This revelation had been news to Gaby, and she was slowly trying to piece together its implications. “So…?”
“So when you were born, you were a healthy, full-term, baby. The story of you being premature was only put about to explain the length of time between Marie and Howard’s wedding and your birth.”
“Just a minute, just a minute. You’re going too fast. So what have I got here? Not only was Howard not myfather, but also my mother was pregnant by another man when she married him – is that right?”
“Yes, Gaby. That is exactly right.”
Thirty-Four
It was dark but still warm when Carole took Gulliver out through the back garden gate on to the scrap of rough ground behind her row of cottages. When they went by this route, the dog was always gloomy. He knew that the excitement of lead-rattling was not the precursor of a proper walk, just a quick functional trip out for him to empty his bowels.
This he did with quiet efficiency, and Carole was about to take him back to High Tor when a tall figure stepped out of the shadows between her and her garden gate.
“Sorry to interrupt you.” The voice was rough and unmistakably familiar.
“Excuse me,” said Carole, in a voice of steely gentility. “Could I please get back to my house?”
“Yes. But only to leave the dog. Then I’m afraid you must come with me.”
Carole just had time to register that she was talking to someone who knew about dogs. If Gulliver was left wandering around outside, his barking would soon raise the alarm. Inside High Tor, he’d just settle down to snuffle in front of the Aga, reconciled to yetanother of his mistress’s unexplained absences. But then, of course, someone who’d been a gamekeeper would know about dogs.
As she led Gulliver and Michael Brewer through into her kitchen, Carole wondered what she could do to escape her predicament. Rush to the phone? Rush out into the street screaming “Help!” Such behaviour wasn’t her usual style, but she was hardly in a situation to care about style.
As if anticipating her thoughts, Michael Brewer said, “I do have a gun in my pocket. I don’t want to use it, but if that becomes necessary, I won’t hesitate.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You have to come with me.”
“Where?”
He didn’t even bother to answer. “We’ll go in your car. You’ll drive.”
“Well, can I just put out some food for the dog?” Michael Brewer allowed her to put out the dog food, then ushered her through into the hall.
“And don’t try calling anyone on your mobile phone.”
“I don’t have a mobile phone,” said Carole icily, as he escorted her out through the front door.
She had hoped there might be someone on the road, someone to whom she could call out to for help, someone who would rescue her. But no, the good folk of Fethering kept sedate hours. Every curtain along the road was discreetly closed.
And of course there were no lights in Woodside Cottage. When Carole needed her most, Jude was in another country.
Like an automaton, following the man’s instrucfions, she opened the garage door. Any thoughts of leaping into the Renault and driving off without him had been anticipated. At gunpoint he saw her into the driver’s seat; keeping the gun trained on her, he moved round the car and jumped in beside her.
Touching her with the gun to remind her that it was still there, Michael Brewer told her to keep within the speed limit and drive on the Fedborough road out of Fethering.
Doing as she was told, Carole thought back to the modus operandi of the other murders. In the form of the Renault was she conveniently providing her own inflammable coffin…
Thirty-Five
There was little traffic on the roads. Each sweep of headlights coming towards Carole was a potential rescuer, but she could not think of any way to communicate her plight. In cars people become anonymous; nothing shows the passions, conflicts or dangers of the drivers or passengers. Carole was helpless, all she could do was follow the instructions of the silent man with the gun beside her.
They by-passed Fedborough and joined the main A27 towards Worthing for a short distance. Here there were more cars flashing past, but Carole still had no way of making contact with them. Then Michael Brewer directed her to take a left turn up a small road into the Downs. This snaked its way past a few straggling houses, then deeper into uninhabited countryside. Eventually he ordered her to stop in front of a railed metal gate that gave on to an open field.
He got out of the car, but, while he unlocked the gate, his gun was still pointing at her. Anyway, Carole, almost immobilized by terror, was not contemplating escape. They were in the middle of nowhere. However fast she ran, he would quickly catch her, and her situation was already grim enough; she didn’t want to antagonize her captor further.
Michael Brewer ushered her through the gate, and closed it behind the Renault. Once again there was a potential opportunity. Carole could have put her foot down on the accelerator and shot off into the unknown. But she had no idea what lay ahead, and Michael Brewer did. He wouldn’t have taken the risk, if he thought there was any way she could get away from him.
Getting back into the car, he told her to switch off the lights and drive along the track ahead. At first Carole demurred, saying she wouldn’t be able to see where she was going, but he would not tolerate argument. And, sure enough, her eyes did soon accommodate to the darkness. There was enough watery moonlight to pick up the chalk whiteness of the compacted farm track, dry and hard after the recent hot weather.
After maybe a mile – it was difficult in her distracted state for Carole to judge distance – she was instructed to turn off down a less defined and more overgrown track which led towards a small coppice. At the edge of this she was told to stop. Ahead stood a tangled mass of brambles, briars and other dense undergrowth.