‘Oh, I understood a lot of what she was feeling. But there’s only so much understanding a busy working mother can give. And I didn’t want to let my own life and needs become completely subservient to hers. Of course there were lots of arguments.’
‘I did ask you about drugs.’
‘Yes, I was getting there, sorry. Marina told me she was taking drugs. She told me she was having sex too. Both things may have been true, but the way she said them to me, it was more a kind of defiance. As if she was challenging me, seeing how far she could push me before I snapped and said something unforgivable to her.’
‘Something unforgivable?’
‘Yes. Like that I didn’t love her. That’s what she wanted to hear from me. She kept telling me she hated me and she wanted me to hit back in the same way. She said I couldn’t love her — not properly — because I wasn’t her real mother. According to Marina, the only reason I’d taken her on was because I wanted a baby, any baby. It wasn’t her specifically. And the love I gave her was the love I would have lavished on whatever baby I happened to end up with.’
‘It sounds exhausting even just to hear it described.’
‘Believe me, Carole, it was. The same arguments time after time, sawing away like a serrated knife through broken flesh. I was dead on my feet by the time she finally disappeared.’
‘And what caused that? Why did she finally go? Did you have some even more enormous row?’
Susan Holland was silent. She’d been swept along by the momentum of her narrative, but now her grief and bewilderment caught up with her. ‘No. I wish there had been something. I wish there had been one enormous flare-up, a bigger one than all the others, something I could have looked back to and said, “That was it. That’s where I went wrong. That’s what did it.”
‘But I don’t have that satisfaction. Oh God, I’ve asked myself that so many times. What did I do? What was the trigger? In what Marina would have regarded as the long catalogue of my offences what was the one thing that pushed her too far, the one thing that made her go?’
‘And you’re sure she did go of her own accord?’
‘As opposed to what?’
‘As opposed to being abducted. If you are thinking of Marina being the Lady in the Lake, then you’re thinking of a murder victim.’
‘I see what you mean. No, she left home of her own accord.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘There was a note.’
‘Had she ever done anything like that before?’
‘Left a note? Oh yes, she was always doing it. I’d come back from an evening shift, find a note on the kitchen table saying she hated me and she’d left and she never wanted to see me again. The first few times I panicked. After that I got used to it. She was always back within twenty-four hours. Back when she was hungry. Or needed clean knickers. Very fastidious Marina always was about personal hygiene.’
‘And where do you think she went those nights when she was away?’
‘Slept over at a friend’s house.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘I don’t think so. That’s what she wanted me to think. She wanted me to be shocked. But I think it was probably just one of the girls from school.’
‘And then there was this one time when she didn’t come back.’
‘Yes, Carole. At first I thought it was the same routine as usual, but as the days went by, I realized this was different.’
‘Was the note she left that time any different?’
‘God, I’ve asked myself that so many times. I’ve looked at it and looked it, trying to find some secret message. You try, by all means. A fresh eye may make all the difference. You see if you can find what I’ve been missing for the past eight years.’
Susan Holland reached into her handbag and produced a transparent plastic folder containing a much-creased sheet of paper. She handed it across.
‘May I take it out?’
‘Be my guest.’
A piece of A4 copy paper, worn and frail along its folds. The writing in blue ballpoint was pitifully faded but in a tidy, firm hand. And it read:
Carole observed, ‘The last sentence sounds pretty final.’
‘She wrote that every time. If I hadn’t thrown them away, I could show you another dozen notes with virtually identical wording.’
‘And you sure it’s Marina’s handwriting?’
‘Yes. That’s one of the things that I thought too — that someone had abducted her and forged the note. So I went to a graphologist who checked it against other stuff Marina had written and yes, it’s hers. She wrote it.’
‘Hm.’ There was a long silence, then Carole Seddon said, ‘You’ve been very open with me, Susan.’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Well, as you said right at the beginning of our conversation, there are a lot of strange people out there and you don’t know me from Adam — or should that be Eve?’
‘No, but you do seem to be genuinely interested in what might have happened to my daughter — and it’s a long time since I’ve met someone with that qualification.’
‘It’s the only qualification I do bring to the table, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t worry about that. If you think you really can find out something about Marina. .’
‘I don’t know whether I can. But I’m prepared to try.’
‘Well, it’s probably hopeless. It all happened so long ago, and the few trails there ever were have gone very cold. But if you would like to pursue it further, Carole. .’
‘I would, Susan.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I’m just nosy.’
Susan Holland grinned. ‘Nosy is good,’ she said.
THIRTEEN
‘Ah, hello. Is that Tom Ruthven?’
It was the Friday evening. Jude had tried the number Oenone Playfair had given her a few times before, but this was the first time she’d got more than an answering machine.
‘Yes, it is,’ the precise elderly voice at the other end of the line confirmed. ‘Who is it speaking?’
‘My name’s Jude. We met on Wednesday with Piers Targett at the Lockleigh Arms after your game of doubles.’
‘Oh yes, of course. And after that morning’s terrible shock.’
‘Mm.’
‘Well, it’s delightful to hear from you. You’re not ringing to say you’d like to join us next Wednesday, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. We’re one short. Jonty Westmacott has injured his toe. At least he says he’s injured his toe, but I rather think it’s a recurrence of his gout.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. But why did you think I might be offering my services?’
‘Well, I’ve tried ringing round a few of the usual suspects, but without any luck, so I asked George Hazlitt if he might try to fix us up with a fourth. I thought he might have asked you.’
‘But I don’t even know how to play the game. And I’m not a member of the club.’
‘Not yet,’ said Tom Ruthven.
