The Question: A bestselling psychological thriller full of shocking twists. Jane Asher
Читать онлайн книгу.
but managed to put away the car, open up the house, read the note left by the cleaning woman and attend to a frantically welcoming dog without feeling the need to know. She surprised herself by reaching for the telephone and dialling her brother in Gloucestershire, unsure what she would say to him but satisfying some deep-seated urge to make contact with someone.
Andrew picked up the phone in dread. For the last few years he’d always hated answering it, knowing he would find it difficult to hear what the person on the other end was saying and, even worse, knowing he might well be completely unable to identify them even if he could hear them. What appeared to be the entire collapse of his memory system, at least as far as names and faces went, caused him much embarrassment and annoyance, and at times like this, when Catherine was out of the house and he had no option but to pick up the receiver, he felt very hard done by.
‘Hello? Winstead 354?’
‘Andrew? Andrew, it’s me.’
Now that was familiar. He felt a huge sense of relief wash over him as he recognised the voice of his sister, and the fact it took him a split second to remember her name seemed amusing rather than serious.
‘Nellie. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Well I – no, I’m fine.’
There was a small pause, and Andrew panicked slightly at the thought that something was expected of him. He went quickly over the conversation he’d had with Catherine that morning before she left. Was there any message he was supposed to do, have done, give to somebody? It wasn’t Nellie’s birthday or anything was it? It wasn’t his own birthday, surely? He smiled to himself. No, his internal address book and mug shot files might be completely out of sync but he did at least know that his birthday was a good few months away. But it was odd, Nellie ringing up like this out of the blue. The occasional call she made to them was more likely to be at a weekend than in the middle of a Monday afternoon.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course. How’s Catherine?’
‘She’s fine. She’s off shopping in the village. Stocking up after yesterday. We had one of our parish dos. She put on the most marvellous spread.’
‘Oh, right.’
There was another silence and Andrew shifted his weight off the more arthritic of his hips and cleared his throat. The small hall clock made the odd grating noise that it did before chiming, echoing in the polished quietness of the cottage hallway, and he turned to look at it.
‘She should be back soon,’ he went on. ‘She’s been gone about three-quarters of an hour. How’s John?’
Well, yes, thought Eleanor, of course he’s going to ask that. It’s only normal. The huge significance this simple question has for me is irrelevant to him.
She opened her mouth to give him some sort of noncommittal reply, then stopped, struck by the thought that if she were to answer with any sort of truth at all she would have to say she had absolutely no idea. How was John? Was he happy? Guilty? Miserably wretched and bored with his life of compromise; at having to come back to his worn old wife every weekend after the joys of Ruth’s firm young flesh? Or did he revel smugly in his cleverness at having deceived her, enjoying the rest and comfort of a well-ordered Surrey home after the rigours of his London life? She couldn’t stop a short grunt of disgust spilling out of her mouth at her own stupidity.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, Andrew. He’s fine, thanks. I thought I might pop down and see you both for a few days – are you a full house at the moment?’
Why did I say that? she thought. She had had no idea she was going to ask before it had slipped quickly out, but even as she waited for him to answer she found the thought of an escape route rather comforting.
‘No, no, just us. Yes, of course, Nellie, come any time you like. Just you, or could John manage a few days?’
‘No, just me. Not immediately, I don’t think, but maybe in a week or so. I’ll give you a ring. There are a few things I need to ask you.’
This last sentence filled Andrew with foreboding. Even as a practising vicar he had hated to be confronted by other people’s problems, much preferring the ceremonial and administrative side of his job to the shepherding and nurturing of the flock that was an inescapable part of it, and since retirement he had been even more uneasy at having to discuss anything of any personal depth. For a man who had spent all his working life representing or at least acting as an officer for the Church, his reluctance to discuss matters of the spirit or of emotional depth was a tiresome handicap, but one which he had managed to overcome by hiding behind the comforting rituals of the job. He had coped quite happily with his parishioners’ divorces, bereavements, illnesses and deaths by not only using the designated paragraphs from Prayer Book or Bible, but by trotting out the well-used formulaic words of comfort that he had copied from older and wiser colleagues during his training. But if anyone ever looked him in the eye and attempted a direct conversation with him about what he really believed in himself, or tried to tell him, really tell him, about their passion, agony or a dark night of the soul, he would dip his head in embarrassment and change the subject.
Now there was something in the way Eleanor had spoken that made him think that something very emotional indeed was about to come his way, and he curled his toes at the thought of having to face it.
After lunch the office always tended to quieten down a little, and John found a moment to pop over to see Ruth across the corridor.
‘Oh hello, Mr Hamilton,’ she smiled at him, ‘how was the lunch?’
‘Good, thank you, Ruth, very good. That’s all well on course and the client seems very happy. The last house should be finished next week. Thanks for all your help on that as usual – and the food was excellent, too. We should use that place again.’
‘Yes, right, I’ll make a note of it. Did you want me for some letters now?’
‘No, don’t worry, we’ll leave it for now. Come and do them about four, would you?’
‘Of course, Mr Hamilton.’
Just as John turned to leave he remembered what he had come to ask her.
‘Did you manage to get that spot of shopping done for me, Ruth?’
‘Yes, of course I did. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Much better, in fact. Much better.’
She gave him a little encouraging smile and he nodded back at her.
‘Jolly good. Thanks again. See you at four.’
He walked back to his own office and shut the door behind him, feeling more settled than he had during the morning, now that things seemed to be getting sorted out. Ruth had become indispensable during the five years she had worked for him. She was pleasant-looking, too. What was it she was wearing today? He knew he wasn’t too good at women’s clothes, but he tried to picture her attractive body as he had seen it seated at the desk not a minute before. Pale blue. That was it, wasn’t it? A pale blue jumper of some sort; pleasingly tight. Her pretty red hair fastened up in one of those slide things. Very nice. He smiled a little to himself and shook his head. He gave a little sigh as he smoothed his straight greying hair back with both hands and then sat heavily into the leather swivel armchair behind the desk, hitching up both knees of his trousers automatically as he lowered himself into it, regretting the Stilton and biscuits he had unwisely indulged in after the chicken, but congratulating himself on having stuck to mineral water. He shook his head a little and smiled to himself as he thought, not for the first time, how lunches had changed since before he had become chairman. In those days they had taken place in the office dining room and lasted two or three hours; good, rich food – three courses minimum – always accompanied by plenty of claret, a Sauternes perhaps with the pudding, and port with the cigars. A certain sleepy fullness hung over everybody who had taken part for the rest of the afternoon – certainly there was not much work