The Woman on the Cliff Page 7

  “I’m coming back to St Andrews in three weeks to see Izzy,” I tell him. “Perhaps we could meet and discuss how I can help you find out what happened to Moira?”

  “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” The call ends abruptly, leaving me doubting whether he really does want me to become involved. It’s a little over a fortnight since our meeting on the beach. I wonder what he has managed to uncover in that time. I don’t know whether I can assume that he would keep me updated of any new discoveries, but I check my texts frequently, just in case.

  After the call, I don’t feel much like working. I’ve been finishing off a portrait in oils of a Pyrenean Mountain Dog, with silky white fur and wonderfully expressive eyes. He’s a lovely creature and reminds me of the dog in my favourite childhood TV programme, Belle and Sebastian, about a little boy and his dog living in the French Alps.

  With a sigh, I set my brushes aside. I don’t feel I can do justice to Polo the Pyrenean Mountain Dog this morning. There are other commissions waiting — dogs, cats, even a cockatoo with the unlikely name of Spartacus. I don’t lack for work, but none of my subjects are inspiring me today.

  Feeling restless, I decide to give the house a good clean, but it doesn’t take long. Now that I’m alone here, there isn’t a lot to do. Even Izzy’s bedroom is spotlessly tidy. I linger a while in her space, looking at her books and knick-knacks, indulging in nostalgia. I miss Sebastian resting on her pillow, miss the clothes strewn across the floor and the film of make-up on her glass-topped dressing table. I knew it was going to be hard to let her go, but this is almost like grieving.

  I know that if I continue in this vein I’ll start thinking about Doug, so I grab my coat and go for a walk. I’m privileged to live in a leafy part of Chiswick, only a few minutes’ walk from the Thames Path. Doug and I bought the house, a three-bedroom Victorian end-of-terrace, in the early nineties. His parents gifted us a lump sum to help with a deposit, and the mortgage is now paid up. I don’t know exactly how much my house is worth, but like most people, I look on Zoopla whenever a nearby property is sold, and marvel at the price. Sometimes I wonder why I’m still here.

  Part of the answer to that is provided when I reach the lovely stretch of footpath at the Strand on the Green and look across to Oliver’s Island, a tiny forest afloat in the middle of the river. On the wide bank of sand by the water’s edge, a heron picks its way through the silt to the river in search of fish. There’s the sound of gulls cawing and a taste of brine in the air that reminds me of the seaside and, inevitably, of Innes Nevin.

  It’s not just the view, which is lovely and surprisingly peaceful on this late October morning. It’s all the memories of my life here that would be so hard to leave behind.

  “Tosh,” Izzy would say.

  “Maybe when Izzy finishes primary school,” I’d say. Then it was, “When she’s finished her A levels.” But here I am still, and Izzy’s gone. Even if she gets a job in London when she finishes her degree, she won’t necessarily want to move back home. Besides, how likely is that? She’s told me countless times that she’d like to live and work in Edinburgh after she graduates. Visits to her grandparents in Edinburgh as a child have imbued her with an incurable love of the city.

  The walk clears my head and gives me an appetite. I warm up last night’s leftovers — an unimaginative pasta dish — for lunch, and eat at the kitchen island, watching a squirrel steal some nuts from the bird table before disappearing into next door’s garden. I wash up, resolving to spend the afternoon working on Polo’s portrait, but when I sit down my enthusiasm wanes and I can’t seem to concentrate on the task at hand.

  I wonder if I’m coming down with something. My head aches slightly and I feel shivery, but the latter could be because the central heating isn’t timed to come on for a couple of hours and there’s no heat in the house.

  It’s an endless, wasted day. No, not entirely wasted.

  By the end of it, I have come to a decision.

  The following morning, I call an estate agent and tell them I’d like to put my house on the market.

  Chapter Ten

  My introduction to Stuart Brogan took place in the New Year after we all moved into North Street. He arrived at our house on a cold January evening to take Moira to the pictures. There was an adventure film showing at one of the local cinemas, but Moira wanted to go to a French language film that the film society was showing in the students’ union.

  Stuart looked like someone who worked outdoors a lot. Young as he was, his face already had a weathered look, and there were patches of dry skin on his cheeks. It gave him a rugged attractiveness. He looked strong and lean. I could sort of see why Moira thought him beautiful.

  While Moira was getting ready, we chatted for a bit. He was quite shy, but I managed to find out that he had left school at sixteen to go to work on the boat owned by his father and his uncle, that he had an older sister, and that he liked playing golf. Well, he was in the right town for that.

  “Stuart?” Moira’s reappearance put paid to further conversation.

  “Has Ros been bombarding you with questions?” She kissed him on the cheek, but Stuart wanted something less chaste. He pulled Moira to him and kissed her hard on the lips, while his right hand strayed to her breasts. I looked away, embarrassed. I was about to go upstairs when Moira called to me, “Come with us, Ros.”

  “No thanks,” I said, but curiosity got the better of me. That, and the fact that everyone else was out and I didn’t relish the thought of spending the evening with only my textbooks for company. Also, despite her entreaties, I had a hunch that Moira was teasing me. She didn’t really expect me to say yes. I changed my mind.

  “Actually, alright. I’ll just nip upstairs and get my hat and gloves.” I was rewarded with a look of hastily disguised surprise from Moira, and one of outright annoyance from Stuart.

  Moira linked arms with me as we walked along Market Street, which clearly irritated Stuart. He scowled, lit a cigarette, and walked in front of us all the way to the students’ union.

  As soon as the film started, Stuart put his arm around Moira and pulled her close to him. I tried to ignore them, but when Moira uttered a series of quiet moans, I sneaked a glance. Stuart’s hand was between her legs, moving rhythmically. I swallowed and looked away, embarrassed again. I couldn’t help thinking of the night I’d caught her and Andrew Kelso on our living room sofa.

  When the lights came up, I excused myself and went to the toilet. I told Moira and Stuart not to wait for me but when I left the building, they were standing a short distance from the entrance, both blowing smoke rings into the frosty evening air.

  As we walked back to North Street, an argument broke out between them. Moira had just asked if Stuart had enjoyed the film and he remarked that he thought it was ‘shite.’ Moira accused him of thinking that everything that wasn’t a Hollywood blockbuster was ‘shite,’ and he accused her of being a ‘stuck-up snob.’

  “And you’re a philistine,” Moira retorted, irritating him further. He pushed her away — a little roughly, I thought. He strode along in front of us, fuming inarticulately, until Moira caught up, took his arm and leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Whatever she said, it broke the ice between them. Stuart’s anger was replaced by a lustful smile.

  “Let’s get a drink,” Moira suggested. “You coming, Ros?”

  “I think I’ll just get back,” I said, tired of being the odd one out. Moira nodded. She took Stuart’s arm and steered him away. I walked home, thinking that Moira would be breaking up with Stuart very soon.

  Shona was home when I got back. When I told her about my evening, she scowled. “I don’t know what she sees in either of those men she’s involved with.”

  “Well, they’re both good-looking.”

  “Are they? Not that I’d noticed,” Shona said. At the time she was seeing a second-year theology student called Alan. He was madly in love with her, but he was a devout Christian who didn’t believe in sex before marr
iage. None of us thought the relationship would last. Not because Shona didn’t have a religious bone in her body, which she didn’t, but because we all thought the ban on sex slightly ridiculous.

  “I suppose Andrew’s more her match intellectually.”

  “Maybe so, but their politics aren’t in tune. Moira doesn’t even make a pretence of being left wing,” Shona said. Andrew Kelso was a committed socialist. He’d spent a year studying in Leipzig in the early eighties, on an exchange programme with Edinburgh University. He claimed that the experience had modified but not altered his views. “In fact, I think she’s apolitical.”

  “Unlike Elspeth,” I commented. Elspeth’s views were more in tune with Andrew’s. Sometimes when Andrew was round, he and Elspeth would discuss politics. Their exchanges were often fiery, with Andrew playing Devil’s advocate, but never confrontational. Unlike Moira’s discussions, political or otherwise, with Elspeth, which frequently ended up with them squaring up to each other on the rug in the middle of our sitting room, like two feral dogs ready to tear each other to shreds.

  It wasn’t just politics that led to these arguments. If Moira said black, Elspeth would say white and off they’d go again.

  Moira returned somewhere around midnight, minus Stuart Brogan, and sporting a bruise on her cheek that would probably be a black eye by the morning.

  “It wasn’t Stuart,” Moira assured us, seeing our questioning looks. We were all gathered in the sitting room, playing cards. Shona was incensed.

  “Stuart Brogan hit you?”

  “I walked into a lamp post.” None of us believed her.

  “Crap. You have to stop seeing him, Moira.”

  “Well, I’m intending to, just not quite yet. He’s so good in bed. And I can handle him.” Shona shook her head in apparent disbelief. Lucy stared in shocked silence, as did I.

  Elspeth, shuffling the deck of cards, commented sourly, “Then you deserve whatever he gives you.”

  “Elspeth!” For once, even I couldn’t support Elspeth. Moira ignored the comment. She turned to Lucy.

  “Luce, is there any of that gorgeous chocolate cake you made left? I’d love a piece with a cup of tea.” Eager to please, Lucy trotted off to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  “What’s everyone doing at the weekend?” Moira asked.

  Elspeth, Shona and I gave a collective shrug. “The usual,” Shona said, and Elspeth and I nodded. The usual consisted of the pub followed by a film at one of the local flea pits on Friday evening, the students’ union bar followed by the disco on Saturday evening, and most of Sunday recovering from a hangover.

  “Thought so. You’re all so boringly predictable.” She yawned widely. “I’m going to Aviemore with Andrew. His wife and kid are going away to her mother’s, so Andrew and I have a whole weekend together for once.”

  “What will Stuart think about that?” Shona asked. She’d been lying stretched out on the sofa, and now pulled her knees to her chest to let Moira sidle up next to her. Moira gave a throaty laugh.

  “He can think what he pleases. I’ve told him I’m not available, and besides, he’s going to Glasgow for the football.”

  There had been other occasions when Andrew and Moira had gone away together. Andrew attended a lot of conferences and talks at other universities. He was specialising in something to do with Eastern European politics and economics. When Moira went with him to these events, she would sneak into his hotel room, or meet him in whatever town or city they happened to be visiting, always being careful not to be seen with him in public areas.

  “Why Aviemore? I mean, what are you going to do there at this time of year? It’ll be freezing,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t expect we’ll be out that much,” Moira said with a wink. “Andrew’s booked us a room at a five-star hotel. He’s going to meet his German cousin for a few hours on Saturday afternoon. Apparently, he’s over for a walking holiday and it’s a convenient place for them to meet.” Moira pulled a face. “Apart from that we’ll have the whole weekend together. Ooh thanks, Luce.” Lucy handed her a mug of tea and a slice of cake. “I’ll think of you all, downing your pints at the union bar and queueing up at the chippy after the disco while Andrew and I are drinking champagne, and making love in front of a roaring fire.”

  Elspeth was unimpressed. “I hope the pair of you get your bare arses burnt.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The morning after my momentous decision to put my house on the market, I receive an early morning call from Innes Nevin.

  “I’ve located a relative of your friend Lucy Parry. She lives in Norfolk, in a place called Aylsham. Do you know it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. We had some family holidays in Norfolk when Izzy was little, so I know it quite well.”

  “Well, the person I’ve tracked down is a cousin of Lucy’s. Her name’s Cathy Sharp. I have an address and phone number. Have you got a pen and paper handy?”

  “Just a minute.” I grab what I need, then ask Nevin to fire away.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he says after reading me the details. “Maybe it would be worthwhile you paying her a visit.” Does this mean that he’s changed his mind about the significance of Lucy’s failure to return to St Andrews, and her subsequent disappearance?

  “Sure. I’m not doing anything this weekend. I’ll give her a call and see if she’s willing to talk to me.” As soon as he ends the call, I phone Cathy Sharp. She’s somewhat surprised to hear the reason I’m contacting her, but agrees to a visit readily enough.

  My restlessness does not abate. Over the next couple of days, I force myself to complete the portrait of Polo and deliver the finished work to his proud owners, who are overjoyed with the result. They are hanging his likeness above the fireplace before I’ve even left their house.

  On Saturday morning, I leave Chiswick at half past eight. The satnav tells me I’ll arrive at my destination around noon, but it doesn’t factor in any breaks (I take two), so it’s almost one by the time I park outside Cathy Sharp’s house in Aylsham.

  A woman roughly my age answers my knock and invites me inside. I follow her into a pleasant kitchen at the back of the house. One wall is made entirely of glass and offers a view of an expansive garden, with mature trees that are almost bare at this time of year, though the lawn is unraked and ablaze with colour in the late autumn sunlight.

  “This is a beautiful location,” I comment. “Blickling Hall is just a mile or so from here, isn’t it? We took our daughter there once when she was little. There was a National Trust treasure hunt with a pirate theme. She loved it.”

  Cathy smiles. “My kids used to love those family days at Blickling too. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

  “Thanks. Tea would be good.”

  “You said that you knew Lucy when she was at St Andrews?” Cathy asks as she puts the kettle on.

  “Yes. We shared a house with some other girls — Elspeth, Shona and . . . and Moira.”

  “The girl who was murdered. And now you’re trying to get in touch with Lucy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any reason in particular? It must be what? Nearly twenty-five years or more since you all left university?”

  “Yes. My daughter’s just started her first year at St Andrews. I was up there recently, and like you do, I got to thinking about the past. I’ve always wondered about Lucy.”

  “It’s taken you rather a long time to get around to wondering what became of her, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Cathy’s tone isn’t hostile. She places a mug of tea in front of me.

  “We did keep in touch for a bit after she dropped out. We were all concerned about her. I suspect now that she was heading for some sort of breakdown. I wouldn’t have thought that at the time, though. That sort of thing wasn’t really talked about much back then, so the signs wouldn’t have been apparent to us.” Cathy nods. “I know about Lucy’s parents. They died in a car accident, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. Such a tragedy,” Cathy
says.

  “How awful. Lucy must have been devastated.”

  “She was. She flew back for the funeral. She was a wreck. My mother tried to persuade her to stay, but Lucy was determined to return to Australia. Maybe she thought there was nothing left for her here.”

  “Poor Lucy,” I say, genuinely sad to learn of this tragedy in her life. “Were you and Lucy close?”

  “As children, yes, but we grew apart. Lucy became quite opinionated as a teenager. She tended to see everything in black and white. No shades of grey. I don’t think she always believed the things she said. She just liked to shock. She was so . . . what’s the word? Mercurial. She’d flit from one cause to another, randomly. One minute it was animal welfare, then it was the Palestinians or CND. She was forever looking for a cause to devote her life to. I think she was really just trying to find a way to fit in somewhere.”

  “Yes, that sounds like Lucy,” I say, recognising the troubled young woman I knew. “I never really understood why Lucy never returned to St Andrews for her final year. She was very upset over Moira, but to throw away three years of study . . . She would have been allowed to defer sitting her exams for a year, I’m sure. It seemed like such a waste.”

  “Yes. It upset my aunt and uncle that she dropped out like that. But Lucy was ill, you know. Depression. I think what happened to her friend was a sort of trigger.”

  I nod, sad that I failed to reach out to Lucy more. Especially as I had had some experience of being depressed in my first year at St Andrews.

  We are both silent for a few moments. Cathy sips her tea and gazes out at the garden. “I really must get out there one day and rake up those leaves. But they look so pretty, don’t they? I can’t bear to do it until the damp weather comes.” I get the feeling that she is being evasive. With a sigh, she gets up and goes over to a Welsh dresser and pulls out a drawer. After a bit of digging, she seems to find what she’s looking for, and sits down again, holding an envelope, which she passes to me.