chapter thirty-three

 

Guernsey 2011

 

For a moment Fiona was frozen, too panicked to move, her heart pounding in her chest. It wasn’t until Michael called her name that she came to, jumped out of bed and rushed onto the landing to find Michael, his hair tousled, waiting for her, looking ready for action.

‘I heard your phone. He’s on the way?’

‘Yes, I have to switch the cameras on.’ She ran downstairs to the study and switched on her computer before activating the cameras. Michael followed her.

‘You okay?’ He squeezed her shoulder, and she was glad to be reminded of his presence – and his strength.

‘I guess. Just a bit, um, nervous.’ The truth was she was scared stiff, but couldn’t admit it. If she did, then Michael might insist they cancelled the entrapment. And she owed it to Nigel to do her bit.

‘Should we go back to bed? Pretend to be asleep?’ She fought to control her body, starting to shake, feeling like the hapless Brian heading for his crucifixion.

‘I guess. I assume he’ll try and break in. But I’ll station myself in your bathroom, to be close. All right?’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak and they went upstairs to her room. They had just opened the door when her phone rang.

‘False alarm. He’s been here for a recce, walked up and down the street, presumably looking for signs of the police, went to the front of the house and checked the gate before going back to his car. The police are still tailing him, but I don’t think he’ll be back tonight as he’s on his way home. You two all right?’

Phew! ‘Yes. We’re fine. A bit jangled from being woken up and…expecting him to turn up. Do you think he’s given up completely?’

‘No, I doubt it. I guess he wanted to see you were home and there was no sign of police or anyone with you. Remember he only discovered this morning about you finding the owner. My gut instinct is he’ll be back tomorrow night. And we’ll be waiting. Try and get some sleep. Bye.’

She relayed what John had said, and Michael sat down and grabbed her hands.

‘Would you like a brandy? Your hands are shaking.’ The concern in his voice nearly unnerved her.

‘No, I’m fine. It’s the adrenaline rush – fight or flight, and then, puff,’ she clicked her fingers, ‘nothing happens. Shall I warm up some milk for us? Help us sleep, perhaps?’

He nodded, and they went down to the kitchen, and she heated up two mugs of milk and splashed a tot of brandy in them.

‘I’ll go back to bed with mine, though I’m not sure I’ll sleep. What about you?’ She took a sip and began to leave.

‘Yeh, I’ll do the same. You know, the good thing is, he took the bait. So we know we’ll get him when he tries for real. Right?’ Michael smiled encouragingly.

‘Right.’

 

Fiona had a restless night, full of weird dreams, waking on Tuesday morning full of foreboding. The memory of the previous night flooded in, and she groaned. Until the phone call from John warning her Duncan was on the way, she hadn’t fully accepted the reality of the police trap and what it would be like coming face to face with a killer. It was surreal. Something that happened in police dramas on the telly, not real life. But in that split second, it was real, and it had frightened her. Now today, it was likely to become even more real, when he actually turned up at the house. Sitting up, hugging her knees, Fiona sent up a silent prayer to Nigel, asking him to keep her safe. She’d hoped, now she was home, he would have made contact again, but nothing. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed him to appear, or give her a sign of his presence. Again, nothing. She dragged herself out of bed and into the shower, trying to wash away the heaviness in her mind and body. It wasn’t helped by knowing the vicar was coming round later to finalise Nigel’s funeral service. Not for the first time, Fiona wished she could disappear until it was all over.

‘You look awful. Bad night?’ Michael asked as she entered the kitchen. A pot of coffee was on the table, and he poured her a mug.

‘Thanks. Not great, horrible dreams. How about you?’

‘Didn’t sleep much, but I’m okay.’

‘It was some night! Still, as you said, it means Duncan’s about to walk into our trap.’ She took a swallow of coffee. ‘Did I mention the vicar’s coming at eleven?’ She popped bread in the toaster and leaned against the counter waiting for it to brown.

‘Yes, though I’d forgotten. Do you want me to disappear?’ He gave her a keen look as if searching for signs of distress.

‘No, I’ll see him in my study. Do you have plans today?’ The toaster disgorged the browned slices, and she carried them to the table.

‘I don’t think I can go anywhere.’ He brushed his hair back, scratching the back of his head. ‘Now Duncan’s shown his hand; I can’t risk leaving the house in case he’s in the area. I know the police are tailing him, but they might not be able to alert us in time. But there’s nothing to stop you going out.’

She had to agree; they didn’t want Duncan catching sight of him.

‘Sorry, it’s going to be boring for you, stuck here all day. I’ve got to do a grocery shop, can I pick up anything for you? A magazine or a newspaper?’ She ate her toast, slathered with butter and honey the way she liked it.

‘A national newspaper would be good, thanks. Otherwise, I could do some weeding for you, now I know which plants are weeds,’ he said, with a grin.

Fiona, her mouth full of toast, smiled. Her guest was proving to be pretty useful around the house, unlike some of the men she’d dated over the years. She assumed it was being an only child brought up by a single mother. He’d make someone a great husband one day. She nearly choked on the toast as the thought popped in, unbidden. Where did that come from? Although it was true, she acknowledged, she had no right dwelling on such things. Mind you, it was better than thinking about a possible tangle with a killer.

Finishing her breakfast she took her dishes to the dishwasher, telling Michael she was off to the supermarket, hardly daring to meet his eyes. She grabbed the shopping bags and left, glad of the excuse to get away for a while.

Forty-five minutes later she was back and carried the bags inside. There was no sign of Michael and guessed he was in the garden. After unloading the groceries, she went outside and found him surrounded by a pile of straggly weeds from one of the beds. She hadn’t the heart to tell him some were flowers, not weeds, and went to thank him.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and grinned.

‘The exercise is doing me good, and I’m glad to help. It’s quite a big garden for one person to keep tidy.’

‘Yes, it was fine when Nigel was…around. We shared all the chores. I might think about moving soon, something smaller and with a sea view. And a low maintenance garden,’ she added, with a smile. She glanced at her watch. ‘The vicar’s due any minute, I’ve left a paper for you in the kitchen if you want a break.’ Feeling a bit guilty at leaving Michael working in her garden, Fiona headed to her study for a quick tidy around before her visitor arrived. On her desk were the notes she’d made about the service. The familiar lump of lead settled in her stomach as she reread it. The doorbell jerked her out of a maudlin reverie and, taking a deep breath, she went through to welcome the vicar.

By the time he left an hour later, Fiona was emotionally drained. The man had been sympathy and kindness personified, and that was probably her undoing. At one time she had subsided into floods of tears, which he assured her was perfectly natural and to just ‘let it all out’, as he put it.

‘People are not good at dealing with grief, I find. The stiff upper lip idea is a load of nonsense. Causes all sorts of problems to hold it in,’ the vicar said, balancing a cup of tea on his knee. He was young but seemed wise beyond his years.

‘Thank you, I know you’re right, but crying can be so exhausting, and I have so much to do,’ she replied, blowing her nose.

He nodded.

‘When you’re ready, tell me more about Nigel. I always say a few words about the deceased, even though I’ve usually not met them. Mourners like the personal touch, I find.’

They had gone on to discuss her choice of hymns and poems and between them agreed on an Order of Service. She could now have it printed with a recent photo of Nigel, laughing to the camera. It was a favourite of hers, taken last year before the effects of the MS had created lines on his face.

Fiona found Michael in the kitchen making a cup of coffee which he pushed towards her.

‘Thought you might need that. You okay?’ His eyes searched her face, and she knew it was obvious she’d been crying.

‘Not too bad. At least it’s another step completed. I have to go to the funeral home this afternoon to give them this,’ she waved the sheets of paper, ‘and to see Nigel.’ She sat and took a sip of the coffee, her mind once more skidding back to her parents’ funeral. She and Nigel had visited the Chapel of Rest together to see their parents lying side by side in their coffins, and it had been harrowing. She remembered how her knees trembled at the sight even from the doorway, and Nigel saying she didn’t need to go in if she couldn’t cope. But, to her, that would have been disrespectful to her parents, and she forced herself to walk forward.

Someone had worked hard to hide the injuries they had suffered in the crash, and their faces bore a healthy colour and looked so peaceful they could have been merely asleep. Fiona had clung onto Nigel’s hand as they stood between the coffins and shed their tears. Too overcome to say more than ‘Goodbye, I love you’ she kissed their ice-cold foreheads and left. Nigel stayed a moment longer before joining her outside.

And now she had to go through it again, and she wasn’t sure if she could do it. Now truly alone, this would be much harder. Would someone have worked a miracle on Nigel’s poor face? He’d looked anything but peaceful when she found him…she took another swallow of coffee, willing herself to find the inner strength needed.

Michael came up to her, put the cup on the table and lifted her into a hug, not saying a word. Her initial reaction was to pull away, but it felt so good to be held in his strong arms that she allowed herself to relax and stood, semi-supported in his embrace. The deep rhythmic beat of his heart resonated in her ear pressed against his chest, and it was if his strength was flowing into her. Different to the experience with Paul, but equally positive.

‘Hey, you were somewhere else, weren’t you? Do you want to talk about it?’ He released her gently, his arms grazing her shoulders as if he was afraid she would fall if he let go.

‘I was remembering my parents lying in their coffins and how hard it was to deal with.’ She looked up into his warm brown eyes, seeing compassion and something else she couldn’t place. Sitting down, she finished her drink, barely warm.

Michael reclaimed his chair, saying, ‘Can’t a friend go with you today? I would, but it’s not worth the risk of being seen.’

Fiona shook her head.

‘It’s better if I go alone and anyway, the staff are brilliant. I’m not due to go until two, so how about lunch now? I bought loads of salad stuff.’ She rose to make a start, but Michael stopped her.

‘Hey, I’ll do it. You go outside and relax, and I’ll bring the food out shortly. You can let me know if I’ve missed any particularly aggressive weeds.’ He pushed her gently towards the door.

Secretly glad to escape outside, she went through to the garden and wandered around the newly dug flower bed. More poor flowers lay among the pile of weeds, but on the whole, he’d done a great job. A couple more hours and the garden would be weed free. Fiona slumped into a chair and closed her eyes, letting the sun caress her face with its gentle touch. The temperature was rising steadily with the longer days and with June arriving the next day, summer was truly beginning. Normally her favourite time of year, enjoying long, lazy days on the beach at weekends, this year would be different, and she couldn’t imagine herself returning to her old routine anytime soon.

The thought of the business loomed large and although Ken’s reports were encouraging on the sales front, she knew her heart wasn’t in it enough to carry on. ‘Sorry, Nigel,’ she whispered out loud. ‘It was your baby, not mine and I only came along for you. And now…’

A discreet cough from the doorway made her stop, flushing at the thought Michael might have overheard her talking to herself.

‘Here we are, salade niçoise with crusty bread, washed down with a cold beer.’ He began unloading everything onto the table.

‘Looks yummy, thanks. Is there no end to your culinary talents?’ she asked, a smile hovering around her mouth. She piled the salad on her plate and filled a glass with lager.

‘Let’s just say my repertoire might not last to the end of the week,’ he said, his eyes crinkling.

‘I am happy to cook, you know, so don’t feel obliged to be Master Chef,’ Fiona replied, spearing a piece of tuna.

‘Your turn tonight then.’

‘Fine by me.’ She didn’t mind cooking, particularly for someone else, but on her own, she tended to make simple meals with few ingredients. Nigel had loved his food, and she had made an effort to cook nutritious food to help him cope with his illness. It would be good to cook for Michael after being spoilt by Louisa, she thought.

After lunch, Fiona had time to make some calls before leaving for the funeral home. She phoned her closest friends about the funeral arrangements; a notice was to appear in the Evening Press the next day. While talking to Jeanne the question of what was to happen after the service arose.

‘I hadn’t given it any thought, but suppose close friends will come back here. There’s no family so won’t be many of us.’

‘Would you like me to ask Colette to rustle up some refreshments? Her restaurant’s closed on Mondays, and I’m sure she’d be willing to help out as well as attend the funeral.’

Colette was Nick’s sister and a successful young restaurateur she and Nigel had met several times socially as well as at the restaurant. Fiona liked the idea and agreed Jeanne could ask. She certainly didn’t want to do anything herself; they had employed caterers for their parents’ funeral knowing they’d be in no state to organise food and drinks. Hoping that would work for Colette, she then phoned Ken to say he’d be welcome at the wake as well as the funeral and he seemed touched by this. The business was closed on Mondays anyway, so that wasn’t a problem.

The drive to the funeral home passed in a blur. Fiona wondered afterwards how she’d managed to get there in one piece; her thoughts focused on the imminent sight of her brother. The woman supervising the arrangements, Angela, met her and led her to the Chapel of Rest before leaving her on her own.

Fiona took a deep, steadying breath, and walked over to the open coffin as soft music played in the background and a tall wax candle burned brightly at its head. Nigel’s pale face looked unmarked and his brown hair, slightly curly like hers, lay neatly combed on his head. She had chosen his favourite pale grey suit and matched it with a blue shirt and red tie. He could have been asleep, waiting for her to come and wake him. Tears rolled silently down her face as she took her last look at her beloved twin, a pain like a knife twisting in her gut at the unbearable reality of losing part of herself.

‘You weren’t meant to leave me so soon,’ she whispered, stroking his hair. ‘You were beating your illness. Oh, if only you hadn’t gone to the shop that night! We know who killed you, my darling, and we’ve set a trap for him. You’ll have justice, I promise. Please help me be strong when I face him. I know you can’t be by my side the way you used to be, but it would help if I knew you were around.’

She placed a hand on his and kissed the marble-cold forehead. The candle fluttered as if caught in a draught, and for a brief instant a smiling Nigel stood in front of her, his arms held out in an embrace. ‘I’m here.’ Uttering a cry, she moved towards him, her arms outstretched, but they met only air. He was gone.