The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [189]
A second text arrives immediately: And forgive me for being crass yesterday afternoon
I buy Fran essentials–nightdress, pants, comb, toothbrush–and a newspaper from the WRVS shop, then go in search of food. John’s in the coffee shop, at the till with a laden tray. He doesn’t immediately see me. The light from the window behind leaves his face in shadow, hollow cheeks and deep eyes momentarily sinister, until he looks up and his face splits in a smile. Indy–want something to eat? I’ll pay for it,’ he says to the woman at the till.
We sit at a table near the back of the room.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks immediately.
I play for time. ‘How did it go at the police station?’
‘How you’d expect. They haven’t anything on me, so they took samples, blustered a bit and told me I’d be hearing from them.’
‘What’s this about an ABH conviction?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ John puts down his fork, his eyes chips of flint. ‘Don’t tell me you believe I had anything to do–’
‘No, of course I don’t,’ I say. ‘Jennings wrong-footed me, that’s all. I didn’t know what to say.’
‘You were there–1985, Battle of the Beanfield. I gave a policeman a black eye.’
‘Oh.’ The picture comes back to me, the one in the paper, a startlingly young John being led away by cops with riot shields, blood streaming down his face. ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten.’
‘Given you were four at the time, that’s forgivable. So now you see why I don’t rate too highly with the Wiltshire constabulary. Jennings was probably there too, as a sprog copper.’ He chews another mouthful of battered fish. ‘Anyway, that’s irrelevant. He’s trying to set us at odds.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Jennings put it to me that, at two o’clock, he had only my word for it you weren’t at Trusloe. That these things are almost always family, and you–young, stressed out by the responsibility of caring for your senile gran–are much more likely than me to have belted her one in a moment of frustration. He good as said I’m covering up for you. Because, of course, I’m only a drugged up old hippie, aren’t I?’
‘Oh, my God.’ Under the table, my legs have started to shake. ‘He can’t–’
‘Don’t panic. He hasn’t anything else so he’s trying for a reaction from one of us.’
My egg sandwich has become inedible. ‘Look, if that’s the way they’re thinking, it’s a bad idea for me to stay with you. I’ll go back to Trusloe tonight.’
‘You can’t. The locks haven’t been changed.’
‘So? Let’s call out a twenty-four-hour locksmith. By the way, Jennings told me you left the back door unlocked last night.’
I didn’t.’
I stare at him. ‘You must have. That’s how the SOCOs got in to fingerprint this morning.’
‘I remember locking it. Come on, you were in the kitchen.’
He’s right. I was. I can picture him turning the key. His key, of course…
‘John, you should tell them about those missing keys.’
‘You think I’m going to tell them anything voluntarily after this morning?’ He glares at me defiantly.
‘Anyway, you’re right.’ I push my chair back and stand up. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t sleep at Trusloe. But I don’t have to go to yours. Martin said I could stay at the cottage the Trust’s lent him. The filming’s finished but he’s not leaving until the stone’s cemented in next week and they backfill the trench.’
John seems uneasy. ‘You sure?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I don’t know.’ His fingers are drumming on the tabletop, itching for a roll-up. ‘Doesn’t feel a good idea, that’s all’
‘Finish your lunch.’ I look around for a bin to chuck my uneaten sandwich. ‘I’d like to catch a doctor, and find out what they think about Fran.’
He follows me out of the cafeteria and taps me on the shoulder while I’m waiting for the lift. ‘You left your stuff behind.’ It’s the bag holding the nightdress I bought for Frannie, and my newspaper.
‘Thanks.’
‘Listen, stay at my place, after all. Don’t you think it’s better to be together, in case–’ He stops abruptly.
‘You did…find her guardian, didn’t you?’ I know this stuff