‘Questions?’ frowned Penrose.
‘You knew Miss Wallace well.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘We were together for a time if that’s what you mean. Why?’
‘I believe you were engaged, no?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘I don’t know, a month or two ago.’
‘Up here?’
‘Look, what’s this all about?’
‘In East Hampton?’
‘Yes, in East Hampton.’
‘This was the time you went swimming with her off the ocean beach.’
Penrose visibly stiffened. ‘You know,’ he said firmly, ‘I really don’t think I have time for this right now.’
‘Of course. We can do it later if you want.’
Penrose glanced around him. Cars were beginning to pull away from the verge, making for the reception at the Wallaces’ house. He turned back to Hollis, resigned to having the conversation.
‘How did she appear to you?’
‘Well, a lot better than just now.’ Embarrassed by his flippancy, Penrose added solemnly, ‘Look, she seemed well. Very well indeed.’
‘Were you worried about her? I mean, her leaving the city, coming up here over the winter?’
‘Yes, I was worried about her. We all were. But as I say she seemed very well, much better.’
‘Do you mind me asking why you broke off your engagement?’
Penrose weighed the question. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. I don’t see that it’s any of your business. In fact,’ he added, ‘what
‘I’m just trying to get a picture of her state of mind. It’s routine in cases of unattended deaths.’
That phrase again.
‘What are you saying?’ asked Penrose. ‘That you think she took her own life?’
‘Oh no, Mr Penrose, I know she didn’t.’
This was the moment he had been heading for. A guilty man would recognize it for what it was: Hollis laying down his hand. Penrose’s expression was impossible to read. A poker player, no doubt about it. And a good one.
‘Then why are we having this talk?’ said Penrose.
‘Like I say, it’s just routine. Thank you for your time.’
Hollis stood his ground, waiting to see if Penrose glanced back at him before climbing into the limousine.
He didn’t.
But Hollis did see Bob Hartwell observing him from down the far end of Cooper Lane. He turned away when Hollis caught his eye.
Thirteen
Conrad glanced at his watch. Unless they were running late, they’d be putting her in the ground about now. He had no difficulty picturing the scene, because he’d passed by the cemetery the previous day.
It was a large plot, shaded, pleasingly so, the earth heaped up beside the fresh hole. She would have approved of the headstone, nothing too ostentatious, no ornamental frills, just her name, date of birth and date of death carved into some kind of pale stone, softer than marble. He had frowned as he did the calculation. Twenty-six years old. She had lied to him about her age, adding two years. Why?
He had struggled with the question then, and he did so again now as he lay curled on his bed, fully clothed.
With time, no doubt, she would have offered up an explanation.
With time.
Did he really think their relationship would have continued on its course indefinitely? Had he ever allowed himself to believe that it could? It would have been easier to lie to himself and say no; but there had been signs from the beginning, almost from their very first exchange. They had discussed it later, or rather she had discussed it, pushing him to admit that he had sensed it too. And he had flatly denied any such immediate feelings.
That was their game. Their dance. On other occasions, he took the lead and she did her best to step on his toes. The truth was, they’d both known they would see each other again after that first chance encounter. And they had, a little less than a week later.
It was dusk, and Conrad was by the barn, tarring a fyke net in the old cauldron once used for trying-out whale oil, racing to beat the creeping darkness.
She materialized ghost-like from the gloom, clutching a bottle of whiskey.
