Mrs Thomson's old, tumbledown house lay just outside town, surrounded on three sides by green fields, cattle and a green knoll that rose in a rounded hump from the Somerset levels. A flock of sheep and three or four horses speckled the slopes.
Libby peered up the lane. A few stray leaves, hardy enough to withstand the recent gales, still clung to the branches of a row of trees – horse chestnuts, perhaps. The tracery of branches framed a neat, white-painted building. That must be Max's place. Libby whistled. Max Ramshore lived in style. Mr Lord of the Manor.
What was it he did, exactly, that he could leave at such short notice to go to the States? He'd left the bank, but he was way off retirement age. Or, was he going to America for some other reason, using Susie as an excuse?
Beyond Mrs Thomson’s' house, dunes led down towards the golf club and beach. The nine legged lighthouse must be nearby. Libby dragged on the brake, eased out of the car, tugged the battered boot until it opened with a screech, and rescued a box of walnut brownies. Tucking it under one arm, she scanned the net curtains for signs of occupancy.
She thumbed the doorbell and waited. No answer. She rapped on the wood of the door and leaned harder on the bell. No one in. Maybe she'd do some snooping round Max's house, as he was away.
As she stepped back, Bear bounded around the corner, greeting her with the enthusiasm of a long lost friend. With a super-human effort, she kept her feet, pushing the dog's wet nose away from her face. The door creaked open.
An aged head appeared in the gap between door and frame, hearing aid peeking from behind each ear. Libby recognised the old lady's Victory Roll hairstyle, popular at the end of the Second World War. Her great aunt used to wear one. ‘Mrs Thomson?’ Libby raised her voice. Deafness must be a blessing to anyone who lived with this sheepdog and his ear-splitting bark, but it was going to make conversation difficult.
The lady of the house screwed up her eyes. ‘Are you the dog walker for Bear?’
So far, so good. ‘Max Ramshore sent me. He said you'd like me to come and help with Bear while he's away. I've brought some brownies.’
The door closed. A chain rattled and Mrs Thomson pushed the door wide, beckoning with one hand as she untied her apron with the other. ‘Come in, come in. I'll make a cup of coffee and see if we've got any biscuits. You must be hungry, coming all this way.’ She led Libby through the house, talking all the time.
All this way? From Exham?
‘I've brought brownies,’ she repeated.
‘Yes, we get a lot of townies here. They like to walk on the Knoll.’
10
Annie Rose
Mrs Thomson's long, low sitting room looked out over the dunes. The windows were small and wooden, long overdue an update to double glazing. Libby shivered. The wind from the sea must blow straight through the crumbling wood. She could smell the salt from here.
Mrs Thomson shook her head at Libby's bawled offer of help in the kitchen, pointed to the sofa and went out. Libby tried to remove dog hairs from the tapestry cushions decorating the sofa, changed her mind about sitting down, and stepped over to the window. It took an effort of will to make herself look to the right, along the beach to the lighthouse.
The view encompassed the whole beach, from the pier to the lighthouse and beyond. The tide was out again, leaving the building's stumpy legs exposed in the mud. Libby released her breath in a relieved sigh. There was no body in sight, today.
Mrs Thomson returned, balancing a tray painted with cats. China cups and jugs rattled as she lowered it to one of the side tables. Vases, silver framed photos and dog-shaped ornaments teetered on the piano. Pictures of Bear standing alongside a bent, aging man hung on the walls. Mr Thomson?
His widow poured coffee and brought a cup to Libby at the window. ‘We've got three lighthouses in Exham, you know.’
‘Three?’ Libby sipped the hot coffee.’ It seemed the three lighthouses were a source of pride to local people.
‘Yes.’ Mrs Thomson stretched knobbly, arthritic fingers. ‘There's one on the beach, up there,’ she nodded to the right. ‘That's where they found Suzanne, the other day.’ Libby set her cup and saucer down on the table nearest to the hairy sofa and sat. She could brush her jeans later.
Mrs Thomson took a brownie. ‘These are nice, dear. Did you make them yourself?’
Libby smiled. ‘You've heard about Susie Bennett, then, Mrs Thomson?’
Her companion shook her head, her brow folded into a criss-cross of lines. She looked about to burst into tears. ‘Oh, yes. Such a shame, a lovely girl like Suzanne.’
Libby bit her lip. Mrs Thomson was old and widowed. Maybe asking questions, getting her to relive the past, would be cruel.
Before she could decide, Mrs Thomson was talking. ‘I knew her before she was famous, when she was a little girl, singing at the Christmas parties the vicar used to put on over there.’
She pointed through the window to a small, squat church that lay almost on the dunes. ‘Suzanne, we called her. I don't hold with shortening names that were given at a proper Christian baptism. The young people do it all the time, these days. You never know who's who. My name's Marjorie, and I never let anyone call me anything different, not even my Eric.’
‘Did you know Suzanne well?’ Libby steered the conversation back to the past.
‘My Eric used to play the piano while Suzanne sang. Such a pretty little thing, she was, all curls and a big smile.’ There were tears in the old lady's eyes.
What had she thought when Susie grew up and developed a taste for boys and fast living? ‘Did other children go to the parties, too?’
‘All the boys and girls were there. There'd be dancing and games, Suzanne would sing, and Maxwell would play the saxophone. You know Maxwell, don't you? Calls himself Max, nowadays. Of course you know him. What am I thinking? It's Maxwell sent you round to walk Bear.’ She leaned on the arm of the chair, pushing down for support and staggering to her feet. ‘I'm getting forgetful, that's my trouble. Where did I put Bear's lead, now?’
Libby cut in. ‘Please tell me more about Suzanne.’
Mrs Thomson narrowed her eyes. ‘Why do you want to know about her? From the press, are you?’ She pursed thin lips. ‘I know the girls from the local paper. You're not one of them. Are you from the Western Daily Press?’ Her voice rose. ‘Nosey people, those reporters. That Jeremy Abbott from Weston super Mare barges his way in without so much as a by-your-leave. He came yesterday evening, but I didn't open the door to him. Never do, after six o'clock, not at my age. I like to settle down in front of my telly.’
She gave Libby a hard look, as though trying to remember who she was. ‘Anyway, I've nothing to say to you, so you'd better be getting off.’
11
Photographs
Judging by the unhealthy, deep red in Mrs Thomson's face, the elderly lady could be on the verge of a stroke. Libby held out her hands. ‘No, no. I'm not a reporter. It's just that – well, I found Susie's body, Mrs Thomson. Suzanne's, I mean. I was walking my friend's dog on the beach.’
‘Hm.’ Mrs Thomson stopped in mid-gesture. She stared hard at Libby, suspicious. Satisfied, she sank back into the chair, the livid colour slowly ebbing from her face. ‘I suppose Maxwell wouldn't have sent you round here if you were with the papers. He has his faults, that one, but at least his heart's