When Trudi woke up, she was lying on her bed still fully clothed except that her shoes had been removed and her blouse unbuttoned at the throat. Also there was a cold wet hand towel neatly folded and draped around her brow.
She could hear voices somewhere in the house. She sat up and felt pain stab at her forehead, but not unbearably. The towel fell on to her lap and she saw there was a smudge of blood on it.
Immediately the memory of Astrid came into her mind and she screwed up her eyes in a pain much stronger than the physical one.
The door opened and Dacre came in.
‘Are you all right?’ he demanded. ‘Lie back.’
‘How long have I been like this?’
‘Ten minutes. You fainted. Also you banged your head on the coffee table as you went down. I don’t think it’s much, but you should see the coffee table.’
He smiled. Reassured she lay back, then sat up again immediately.
‘Those men …’
‘I’ve given ’em their marching orders,’ said Dacre grimly. ‘I suggested that their heavy-handed methods had done enough damage for one day and told them that the only person you’d be talking to tonight was the doctor.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Yes. I thought we’d better get a quack to look you over. I’m sure it’s just a cut and a bump, nothing more, but best to be sure.’
The doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be the doctor. Lie still.’
The doctor was a fat, breathless man smelling of pipe tobacco. He examined her with a thoroughness which might have surprised or even annoyed her if she had been in the frame of mind to take much notice.
Finished, he packed his bag, nodded farewell, and left.
A few moments later, James Dacre returned.
‘All decent?’ he said.
‘Yes. He looked at the oddest places for someone examining a bump on the head.’
‘Did he? Well, he’s one of the old school. Slow but thorough.’
‘Is he your doctor then?’
‘That’s right. I didn’t know who yours was or even if you’ve got one. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not,’ said Trudi. ‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing to worry about. You’ll have a bit of a swelling, and a bit of a headache, but a couple of aspirin and a good night’s sleep will see you right. I’m afraid our trip to the pictures will have to wait till another night.’
He glanced at his watch. She was suddenly terrified that he was going to leave her.
‘James, you’ll need to eat something. Let me cook you a meal.’
‘No way,’ he said. ‘A kitchen is no place for a dizzy woman. I use the term medically, of course. No, I’ll scramble us some eggs later if you feel up to it. All right?’
‘That’d be fine,’ she said. ‘Fine.’
Dacre realized she had started to cry almost before she herself did.
‘Here, what’s the matter?’ he said, sitting on the bed and putting his arm rather clumsily around her shoulders. ‘My cooking’s not that bad.’
‘Scrambled eggs,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s what Astrid made for me that last time I saw her. I went to quarrel with her and we ended up getting drunk and eating scrambled eggs and then she … then she …’
She leaned her head against his chest and sobbed uncontrollably. He held her tight and did not speak till the outburst died away.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she gasped.
‘That’s all right,’ he said gently. ‘She must have been a good friend, this Astrid.’
‘A friend?’ She laughed only slightly hysterically. ‘Oh no. Not at all. Like I say, I went round to quarrel with her. You see, I’d found out she’d been having an affair with my husband!’
After that the whole story came out, about Trent’s death, Astrid’s visit, Trudi’s discovery at Six Mile Farm, her trip to Vienna, the confrontation in the apartment.
That was where it should have stopped, but with the floodgates open, reticence seemed impossible, and she found herself telling James Dacre about the attack in the repository, Werner’s clinic, Eric Blair’s account and the body at Well Cottage.
Finally she reached an end and fell silent.
He was regarding her with a look of mingled bewilderment and perplexity.
‘Well, that’s done it,’ she said in a wide miss at cheeriness.
‘Done what?’
‘You’ll be going to Mrs Fielding and asking for your money back.’
He smiled, then his expression became grave.
‘Trudi,’ he said. ‘Do you know what any of this means?’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Are you asking for my advice?’
She said, ‘I’ve no right to involve you. I’m sorry.’
He said, ‘How much of this will you tell Workman and the Austrian when they come back tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know. Most of it’s nothing to do with Astrid killing herself, is it?’
Her voice rose on the ‘is it?’ He regarded her steadily without speaking.
After a while, she nodded and said dully, ‘Yes, I can see that too. She wasn’t about to kill herself after I left. I know that. And they wouldn’t have sent a man all the way over here if it was simply a matter of suicide, would they?’
‘It doesn’t seem likely, Trudi,’ he said.
‘I’d better tell them everything.’
He considered this, then to her surprise shook his head. ‘No. I mean, at least sleep on it before you decide.’
He rose with a look of decision.
Alarmed, she said, ‘You’re not going?’
‘Only to the kitchen,’ he said.
‘And afterwards?’
What she sounded like, she did not know.
He said, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t leave you by yourself. Not tonight.’
She ate a little of the scrambled eggs, drank some tea. She screwed up her face when he told her no alcohol but did not make an issue of it. Her head was throbbing gently but she felt well at ease in his company.
Finally he gave her a couple of aspirin and a glass of water.
‘Get those down,’ he ordered. ‘And then get into bed. I’ll just be next door, so if you want anything, just shout. Good night.’
‘Good night, James,’ she said.
She didn’t anticipate a restful night, but in the event she slept soundly. When she woke up, there was a slight residual headache but nothing more. She rose and went to the bathroom. When she came out, Dacre was standing in the open doorway of the bedroom next to hers. He was dressed only in his underpants, with a blanket draped over his shoulders.
‘I thought I heard a noise,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. Did I wake you? I’m sorry,’ said Trudi.
‘No. It’s time to be up.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Nearly eight o’clock. I gave myself a generous nightcap of your Scotch last night. I’m afraid it did the trick!’
‘How was the bed?’
‘Fine. Only thing was, I couldn’t find any sheets and the blankets were a bit tickly.’
She said, ‘James, when I asked you to stay last night, well, I wouldn’t have minded if you’d really stayed. With me, I mean.’
He studied her carefully and suddenly she was aware that all she had on was a flimsy cotton nightdress. But instead of shrinking modestly, she forced herself to stand still and look at his deep chest with its crucifix of dark hair running down across a slightly thickening belly to join with the line of crinklier hair just peeping over the band of his Y-fronts. She recalled Janet’s joke about St Michael and smiled.
He said, ‘I wouldn’t have minded either, but not in those circumstances.’
‘Circumstances?’
‘You were unwell, upset.’
‘Chivalry, was it?’
She smiled.
‘I think I do like. Thank you,’ she said. ‘But that was last night. This morning I’m not upset and I feel fine.’
Is this really me talking? she asked herself in amazement. And if it is, why am I talking like this?
There seemed one possible answer, or at least an answer that might seem possible to Dacre.
She said, ‘I’m sorry. Look, I was forgetting what I told you last night. I shouldn’t have involved you like that. And I’m glad we didn’t get involved even more. Thanks for being such a help. Perhaps we can get in touch again when I’ve got all this nonsense sorted out, if you want to hear the end of the story, that is.’
He smiled and shook his head.
‘No,’ he said.
‘No?’
‘No, I don’t want to hear the end of the story. I want to be in it. For a while anyway.’
He stepped forward, the blanket fell from his shoulders and he kissed her passionately. When he stepped back, the Y-fronts were looking inadequate.
‘Your room I think,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to be tickled to death.’
There were no physical fireworks and the earth didn’t move, but when they finally drew apart, the residual headache had completely vanished and she felt a glow of relaxed well-being she had not known for months. Perhaps for years.
‘OK?’
He wasn’t asking for compliments, she realized, merely commenting on her self-absorption.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I imagined this, you know.’
‘When you said you’d pick me up last night. I started to imagine this.’
‘And did it live up to your fantasies?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said gravely. ‘I stopped myself imagining. It didn’t seem decent. But it feels good. Yes, at the moment I feel so good I’ve no room to feel guilty.’
‘What have you got to feel guilty about?’ he wondered.
‘Oh nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing special, I mean. But I know myself. Or at least I’m getting to know myself. And eventually I’ll start thinking about Trent and then I’ll feel guilty.’
She giggled, a sound almost as unexpected to herself as to Dacre.
‘What’s funny?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. This was my first time at this, you see, and it just struck me that probably rule number one is, don’t start talking about your husband two minutes after your lover has just, well, finished.’
He considered.
‘No. That’s rule number two.’
‘And what’s number one?’
‘Make quite sure that your lover has in fact finished before you start talking at all!’
It was corny, but when he embraced her again she realized it was true. This time their coupling pushed her far beyond well-being towards something fiercer, a journey she had begun to make that time with Trent on their last picnic in the Vienna woods. Perhaps if she had made that journey sooner, broken the pattern of domination and submission in bed at least, perhaps then they might have … Downstairs the doorbell rang.
‘Damn!’ she cried. ‘Why do policemen have to start so early?’
She sprang out of bed. It was absurd but she felt sure that Workman would pick the lock or smash the door down if she didn’t open it, and come running up to the bedroom in search of her. Dragging on her dressing gown she ran down the stairs. The bell was still ringing. Workman must be leaning on the button.
Bloody man! she thought, but not very angrily. She was feeling too good to be angry, too good to worry that she probably looked a mess.
No, not a mess. She probably looked like a woman who’d just got out of bed with a passionate man, and she found she didn’t care about that either.
She made herself slow down in the hallway. The bell stopped ringing as she started to unlock the door. Through the frosted glass panel she could see the outline of only one figure. Perhaps the Austrian had gone home.
She composed her face into an unwelcoming blank and began to open the door. The second the catch was free, the door was thrust back towards her with great force and a figure rushed in, forcing her sideways against the wall.
‘Where is she? Come on! Where is she?’
It was Frank Carter, his amiable face distorted with anger.
‘Frank! What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ she cried.
He did not answer but regarded her with an expression of disgust. She realized her dressing gown had fallen open and now she drew it tightly around her as Carter turned and, crying, ‘Janet! Janet! Are you there?’ went running up the stairs.
Doors opened and banged shut. Then suddenly there was silence.
Distantly she heard James Dacre’s voice say quietly but menacingly, ‘Can I help you, friend?’
A moment later, Carter came down the stairs, his anger clearly unabated.
‘What’s the matter, Frank? Has something happened to Jan?’ demanded Trudi fearfully.
‘Bitch,’ he said, ‘You came back into her life, that’s what happened. Bitch!’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Trudi. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Yes, why don’t you tell the lady what’s going on?’
James Dacre had slipped into his trousers and shirt and was halfway down the stairs, moving with great quietness for a bulky man.
‘Who the hell are you anyway?’ sneered Carter.
‘Frank, this is James Dacre, a friend of mine. James, this is Frank Carter, my friend Janet’s husband. Frank, where’s Janet?’
‘How the hell do I know?’ he demanded. ‘She walked out last night. I was sure she’d be here.’
‘What happened, Frank? Why did she walk out?’
The anger was beginning to slip from him, not because he wanted it to go, but because he did not have the kind of emotional machinery which could sustain a high head of rage for long. Twice he had spanned himself to fury point, once the previous night and again this morning. But the lasting imprint on his inner being was bewilderment and shock.
‘We quarrelled,’ he said. ‘She left.’
‘Why? What did you quarrel about? Why did you think she was here?’
‘Because of this,’ he snapped.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. From it he took a photograph and handed it to Trudi, reverse side upwards.
On it was scribbled, ‘What do you think your old lady gets up to when she visits her slag chum in Sheffield?’
Trudi turned the photograph over and looked at it.
Immediately she was back to the previous night with the air thickening and eddying round her reeling head like mist round a ruined tower. This time she forced herself back to light through the darkness, though leaning back against the wall for its needed support.
The photograph came back into focus.
It showed Janet, naked, leaning forward across a bed, her face twisted with pleasure but still instantly recognizable. Behind her, and apparently entering her from behind, was a naked man.
His face appearing over her shoulder was even more contorted with delight, but it was just as easily recognizable.
It was Trent Adamson.