8 #2
As Lyssa put the television on and settled down for the evening (a well-fed cat settled on her lap), in her own home Elizabeth was also sitting alone in front of the television, but she was not really concentrating on the antics of some rich youngsters on an island somewhere in the sun.
Instead, she was going over her recent visit from Lyssa Moore.
She thought she had played it well. The writer appeared to have risen to the bait as expected, and was now, hopefully, putting the question of who wrote the Cuckoos’ songs at the top of her list of priorities.
Elizabeth knew that she’d have to make sure to stay on top of that, of course, and whenever Lyssa got in touch, she’d push that aspect thoroughly.
But she must be careful not to overdo it.
The Oxford graduate was nobody’s fool and the last thing she wanted was for the biographer to start suspecting that her client had a hidden agenda.
She turned off the television and began to climb the stairs. A long hot bath, and then she’d read a few chapters of her book and get off to bed. She had a full day ahead of her tomorrow.
As she poured her favourite bubble bath into the water, she went over in her mind all the things that could go wrong with her plans.
Apart from the obvious one, of course – that even Lyssa Moore’s painstaking research didn’t bring to light the evidence that she was hoping for – there were several other hiccoughs that might arise.
She didn’t think that Lyssa would hold back on her and fail to reveal all that she might find out about Amelia. But she had put in place safeguards against that anyway, just in case.
And then there was just the remotest of chances that one of the Bannisters might get wise to what was going on – but surely that was so unlikely, the risk was negligible?
Elizabeth shucked off her silk dressing robe and slid with a sigh of appreciation into the warm, scented water.
She’d always been a bit of a gambler; with everything except money.
She’d gambled on her own talent as a designer, and that had paid off.
She’d gambled on both her husbands, and that too had paid off. Their alimony payments were lovely.
And now she was gambling on poor, long-dead Amelia. And something told her that was going to pay off too.
The next day, Lyssa decided to drive down to Hayling Island.
There was no real direct train link, and besides, the drive was a relatively simple one – driving more or less straight south, through the lovely Berkshire Downs, and on into Hampshire.
Best of all, she didn’t have to go anywhere near London, and so didn’t have to negotiate the various ring roads and the traffic hassles that would inevitably occur.
She set the satnav before leaving Oxford at just after ten o’clock.
She wasn’t the most confident of people behind the wheel and hated rush hour and never drove in it if she could possibly avoid it.
She didn’t much like really busy roads either, but she made it a point of honour to not let that stop her.
Of course, Kyle had always been the one to drive whenever they’d taken a trip anywhere together.
He’d loved being behind the wheel, and right from the start of their relationship, he’d taken it for granted that he would chauffeur her around.
It was one of the many things she’d loved about him – his courtesy.
Every Valentine’s Day there would be flowers, her favourite chocolates and a book.
He wasn’t much of a reader himself, but he knew how much she loved books, and he would scour Oxford’s second-hand bookshops and dealerships, trying to find first editions of the authors he knew she loved. Or signed editions.
Except for that last Valentine’s Day before his death, which he’d inexplicably forgotten.
She’d noticed he’d been rather distracted for a while and he had reluctantly told her there was a temporary shortfall in his client list which had him worried, so she’d made light of it.
Nevertheless, he’d been so upset that the next day flowers and chocolates were once more heaped upon her.
He’d cooked the meal too – nothing too challenging, but she didn’t care.
It was knowing that he cared enough about her to try not to burn some chops, or to cobble together a salad, that touched her heart.
He himself always ate so healthily that most of his food was raw, organic and brimming with nutrients.
It made the way he died so inexplicable.
Sometimes, she found herself wondering if the medical examiner had made some kind of mistake, because it just didn’t make sense.
Now, of course, Valentine’s Day meant nothing to her.
Realising where her thoughts were wandering, she quickly nipped the feelings of grief and pain in the bud, pushed them back before they could swamp her and concentrated instead on the task ahead.
The day was intermittently sunny, the sky was blue and she was off to the seaside! As a kid, she’d have been over the moon with excitement and happiness. She must remember her New Year’s resolution to live in the moment and enjoy it.
She turned on the radio and deliberately fiddled until she found a station that played 1960s pop – what could be more appropriate, under the circumstances? Who knew, maybe a Lucky Cuckoos song would make it on to the playlist.
She found what she was looking for, and listened to the Hollies asking someone to ‘Stop, Stop, Stop’ all the dancing, as she went along at a steady sixty miles an hour through the pleasant, rolling and green English countryside.
Naturally, all the cars whizzed past her at what seemed to her to be an excessive speed, all except for one – a nondescript dark-coloured hatchback that seemed to hang back behind her all the way.
When she left the motorway, she felt just a slight sense of foreboding when the hatchback did the same, but after she’d negotiated some roundabouts and got through some traffic lights, she couldn’t see it any more.
But the traffic was fairly heavy. Perhaps it was hidden behind the white van, three or four cars behind her?
Then she had to laugh at herself for getting carried away. Was she seriously thinking that someone was following her now?
‘Lyssa, girl, you really need to get a grip,’ she muttered to herself.
Janet Connor lived on a plot of permanent static homes or caravans on a site a little outside Hayling Island itself.
The beach at Hayling, Lyssa noticed as she drove past, was all pebbles and hardly the comfortable sand so beloved of holidaymakers.
But the farmer’s land where the site was based overlooked a sparkling sea, awash with pleasure boats and windsurfers’ sails.
Some of the residences were settled down in a hollow in the field, whilst others straggled up the inclines towards the better view. Lyssa suspected that those on the top rows had to put up with the winter winds as the price to pay for the splendour of the panorama.
She slowly trawled through the narrow little ‘lanes’ of the camping compound in search of Janet’s address.
The site was very pleasant, with lots of small, non-intrusive trees dotted here and there, and the homes were all painted cheerful colours and looked well maintained.
Small plots were full of plants – most of them in various tubs and planters – and several people, all of whom looked to be around retirement age, were out walking their dogs.
She had to stop to ask one of these – a slender man walking two vociferous Yorkshire terriers – where she might find Janet’s home, and he happily pointed the way towards Cherry Street.
Lyssa found the right number, parked and climbed out of her car – a mid-range, five-year-old Volkswagen that she had christened ‘Mary-Jane’ for no particular reason that she could think of.
She stood for a moment, stretching and looking around.
Janet Connor’s home was, like all of them, raised up on blocks, and had three wooden steps reaching up to the front door.
It was painted a pleasant mint-green, with white trim around the windows and doors.
Floral curtains gave it an even more chintzy appearance.
When she went up the steps and pressed on the doorbell, she could hear chimes ringing out somewhere inside. The tune was vaguely familiar – oranges and lemons, she thought, which, if her memory served her right, were the bells of St Clement’s?
The door opened slowly, and Lyssa found herself looking at a well-padded woman who was bent forward just a little, making her wonder if Janet Connor suffered with back pain.
She had a short cut of grey, straight hair, and blue eyes that might have been grey, or grey eyes that might have been blue, depending on the light.
She was wearing black trousers, black slippers and an oversize man’s check shirt in black and red.
‘Hello? Miss Connor?’ Lyssa said.
‘Yes,’ the woman said. ‘You must be the writer lady?’
Lyssa nodded. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Miss Connor.’
‘Call me Janet. Or Jan. Come on in,’ she invited.
She showed Lyssa into what felt like a surprisingly large lounge area.
The walls were painted a pale peach and there was dark brown carpet flooring.
One large settee and two matching armchairs faced each other over a small oval table, and a few landscape prints of famous paintings hung on the walls.
A sideboard was lined with family photographs, and the room smelled very faintly of fish, leaving Lyssa to suppose that the older woman had not long finished having her lunch.
‘Can I get you tea or coffee?’ Janet asked.
‘Maybe later?’ Lyssa said, settling herself on the sofa and pulling out her notebook and setting her device to record. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked, indicating the device.
‘Not at all. Not that I think I can tell you all that much – not really. Like I said to you when you first called, I can’t promise to have anything good enough to say that could go into a book.’