Robert Goddard - Dying to tell

Dying to Tell by Robert Goddard

Also by Robert Goddard

PAST CARING

IN PALE BATTALIONS

PAINTING THE DARKNESS

INTO THE BLUE

TAKTi NO FAREWELL

HAND IN GLOVE

CLOSED CIRCLE

BORROWED TIME

OUT OF THE SUN

BEYOND RECALL

CAUGHT IN THE LIGHT

SET IN STONE

SEA CHANGE

DYING TO TELL

Robert Goddard

BANTAM PRESS

LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND

TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS

61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

a division of The Random House Group Ltd

RANDOM HOUSE AUSTRALIA (PTY) LTD

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New South Wales 2061, Australia

RANDOM HOUSE NEW ZEALAND LTD 18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

RANDOM HOUSE SOUTH AFRICA (PTY) LTD Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa

Published 2001 by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers

Copyright Robert and Vaunda Goddard 2001

The right of Robert Goddard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBNs 0593 047583 (cased)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by and means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk

DYING TO TELL

SOMERSET

CHAPTER ONE

That day started just like any other for me: late and slow.

I didn't draw the curtains full back at first. There looked to be too much sun out for me to face before a shower and half a gallon of strong coffee. It had no business being so bright towards the end of October. In duller weather, the bills lying on the doormat wouldn't have been so obvious. Nor would those shadows under my eyes I found myself studying as I shaved.

With my thirty-seventh birthday only a few weeks away, I wasn't looking bad for a forty-five-year-old. The fact was that I needed to take myself in hand. Or find someone to do the job for me. Neither eventuality seemed very likely. If the turn of a millennium couldn't magic some improving resolution out of me, what could?

My problem's always been that it doesn't take much to make me feel better. A bacon sandwich and a clean T-shirt were enough to put me in a goodish mood that morning. I left the flat and went round to Magdalene Street to buy a paper. The Abbey car park was already full. Half-term, was it? There were certainly enough kids around. One of them managed to shout to a mate of his so loudly and piercingly as he roller-bladed past me that I jumped from the shock of it much to his amusement.

The bar of the Wheatsheaf a few minutes before noon was a blessedly child-free zone, though. And dark to boot. I slid onto my usual stool under the photo-montage of the pub's last fancy-dress night, sipped a healing Carlsberg Special and applied my mind to the quick crossword as a tune-up for trying to pick a winner from the afternoon races at Chepstow and Redcar.

Les, the landlord, was gently gearing up for the day with some polishing of pumps and checking of optics. The only other customers were a couple of aged regulars not given to talking much called Reg and Syd. It was quiet and soothing and safe. It was absolutely normal and very far from memorable.

But I do remember it. In every detail. Because that was the last time my life was quiet and soothing and safe. The door of the pub was about to open. And normality was about to slip through the window.

I didn't know that, of course. I had no idea. It happened as it happened. It didn't feel like fate or destiny or anything very significant. But it was. Oh yes. It most assuredly was.

I didn't recognize her at first glance. Winifred Alder had to be pushing sixty and didn't look much better for her age than I looked for mine. She was spare and gaunt, with iron-grey hair cropped jaggedly short like she'd done it herself with scissors in need of sharpening. There was no trace of make-up. The red patches on her prominent cheekbones were windburn, not blusher. And make-up would hardly have been in keeping with her clothes coarse grey sweater, brown shin-length skirt and a mud-stained mac. It was her shoes that gave her away. Clarks seconds, unpopular colour (purple originally, now faded to a murky mauve), circa 1980. They were what joined up the memories. It had to be her.

Or her sister, of course. Mildred was a pea from the same pod. A couple of years younger, though that was unlikely to amount to much of a visible difference at this stage in their lives. But, just as my mind dithered between the two possibilities, Winifred's direct, stern-eyed gaze made it up for me. Mildred had always been more of a flincher.

"Come in out the rain, have you, luv? asked Les, grinning at her as the sunlight twinkled on his swan-necks.

"Are you looking for me, Win?" I put in. (There didn't seem to be any other way to account for her presence; she wasn't likely to have dropped in for a port and lemon.)

"The waitress in that cafe you live over reckoned I'd find you here," Win replied, advancing a couple of cautious steps towards me.

"A lucky guess."

"One you could have put money on, though," said Les.

"Would you like something to drink?" I ventured.

"I'd like a word with you."

Talking's allowed here," said Les. "But I don't have a dancing licence. You ought to know that."

"A private word."

"Don't worry," said Les. "I'm noted for my discretion. And Reg and Syd have got their hearing aids turned off."

Win's gaze wasn't getting any softer. In fact, it was a deal more eloquent than her tongue. "We could go into the garden," I suggested. "If it's open."

"Oh, it's open," said Les. "Shall I bring the drinks out to you?"

"What drinks?"

"Well, you'll soon be needing another. And for the lady ... ?"

Win looked round at him, then ran her eye along the bar. Nitrokegs and alcopops were clearly a mystery to her. "A small cider," she finally announced. "Not fizzy."

The garden was open in the sense that the door to it wasn't locked. It was actually a cramped backyard accommodating two rusty tables divided by a washing-line sagging under the weight of half a dozen drying bar mats.

"It could be worse," I said. "At least it's not Les's day for washing his smalls."

Win looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language and made no move to sit down. "Have you heard from Rupert?" she asked abruptly.

"Rupe? No, I ..." Rupert was her youngest brother. More than twenty years separated them, Rupe being something of an afterthought on his parents' part. He was in fact a few months younger than me. We'd been friends at school and university and while we'd both been working in London. But I hadn't seen much of him in recent years. Contrasting fortunes shouldn't separate the best of friends and in some cases maybe they don't. But they had us. While he'd gone on going up, I'd gone the other way. And, to prove it, there I was, out with the empties in Les's so-called beer garden, while Rupe ... Well, yes, what about Rupe? "I haven't heard from him in a long time, Win."

"How long?"

"Could be ... a couple of years. You know how '

"Time flies when you're having fun," said Les, his last orders baritone bouncing back at us from the walls of the yard. He plonked a bottle for me and a cloudy glass of cider for Win down on the table between us.

"Thank you, Les."

"Want me to pick in these mats?"