Brian Freemantle - A Mind to Kill

And he missed Jennifer. He told himself in the beginning that it was unavoidable, his having been thrust into such close proximity with her for so long and for such a reason. But gradually he changed his mind. It wasn’t the situation he missed it was Jennifer herself. He felt responsible for her, worried about her. He appreciated the guidance he got during his daily calls to Mason and Cox and even the priest – calls he always routed through them, so there would apparently be a reason for his later speaking to her – but he wasn’t entirely satisfied Jennifer was yet ready to leave the safety of the clinic.

Which today they’d insisted she was. So the final moment had come and he’d consciously – intentionally – intruded himself into it. Right that he should. Seeing a case through to its proper conclusion: earning the exorbitant fee demanded by Bert Feltham.

He had Geoffrey Johnson alert the security company greatly to increase the manpower at the mansion and ordered the helicopter to fly her from the clinic directly into the grounds of her home. He telephoned Annabelle several times after she got back from Paris with Emily, initially disappointed but then accepting the nanny’s subdued reaction.

‘She’s been medically and psychiatrically declared totally recovered,’ he insisted.

‘It can’t be a moment too soon for Emily.’

‘Have you told her?’

‘Of course I have! She needs as much preparation as Mrs Lomax. More maybe.’

Hall wasn’t interested in debating the greater need. ‘How’s she reacting to all the security?’

‘I’ve tried to make it into a game. Told her they are her soldiers and a lot of them are nice enough to go along with it. It’s not brilliant but it’s the best I could think of… I’m running out of things to think of.’

‘Is she excited?’

There was a pause before Annabelle responded. ‘She says she doesn’t want her mummy to be nasty again.’

Hall briefly considered driving to Hertfordshire to fly down with Jennifer but decided against it for the sake of the clinic: it would have been poor recompense for the way they’d protected Jennifer’s anonymity to lead the media of the world to whoever else was seeking privacy.

It was a wise decision. By the time he came off the M3 towards Alton – ironically following, he realized, the same route Gerald Lomax had taken on the night he’d murdered Jane – he headed a line of at least fifteen identifiable press and television vehicles. Most, during the journey, pulled out of the convoy to draw level to photograph and attempt to talk to him through their open window. Worryingly, by the time he did turn off, there were two helicopters fluttering overhead.

He was glad he’d had the forethought personally to speak to Inspector Hughes before setting out that morning. The scene outside the mansion was reminiscent of the road-blocked approach to St Thomas’s Hospital. It required a police Range Rover front and back and walking policemen either side for him to cover the last hundred yards to the mansion entrance and a squad of security men had to come out to complete the wedge in the middle of which he was finally able to get inside.

Annabelle was waiting for him, at the entrance. Emily was beside her, curly hair loose, in jeans and Mickey Mouse sweater, a forlorn attempt by Annabelle to make it seem an ordinary day. The child held Annabelle’s hand and stood with one foot awkwardly on top of the other, twisting precariously.

‘Listen!’ demanded Annabelle, as he got out of the car.

There was an audible roaring hum from the road, like bees or maybe even the distant sound of approaching hooves. It was worsened by the hovering helicopters.

‘And the road’s more than a mile away,’ completed the girl.

‘Like the zoo,’ suggested Emily, with childlike prescience. ‘You were at the hospital with my mummy!’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s coming home! She’s better!’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t know about Daddy, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe he’ll come, too.’

‘Maybe.’ He looked helplessly at Annabelle who looked expressionlessly back, offering no help.

‘There’s another one!’ said the child, pointing up. ‘I’ve been in a helicopter.’ She pronounced it ‘elcopter’.

It fluttered down, far enough away for them not to be buffeted by the downdraught, but it didn’t save its passengers from that of the pursuing media machine. They came in low and their cameramen had ample time to picture Jennifer, who was hurried towards the house by Colin Dawson. By the time they reached it Annabelle had already carried the suddenly frightened Emily inside, away from the noise and the artificial gale.

Every effort Jennifer had made for the homecoming was totally wrecked. Her dress and jacket were in disarray, her hair churned into a bird’s-nest and her nose as well as her eye was running from the dust that had blown in, streaking her make-up: before she could even speak the priest had to pick out a piece of grit with a handkerchief tip. It did mean, though, that Jennifer had the perfect excuse for the real tears that started the moment she was able properly to look at Emily.

‘Hello darling,’ Jennifer said. ‘Mummy’s home.’

‘But not Daddy?’ said Emily.

‘No,’ said Jennifer. ‘Not Daddy.’

It was the unexpected presence of the wealthy priest, perfectly accustomed to such opulence and sincerely believing himself chosen to be God’s vehicle for miracle, who saved the situation.

No-one else knew what to do or say. Emily had instinctively started back when Jennifer moved as if to kiss and hug her – so she’d stopped – and Annabelle ran out of words after saying it was nice to see Jennifer back. Hall couldn’t think of any contribution at all. So Dawson sipped the Earl Grey and ate the triangle sandwiches served by Alice Jenkins as if afternoon tea there was a regular ritual and talked to Emily, who seemed to welcome the relief as much as the rest of them, playing up to it even.

‘Does your collar hurt like that?’

‘No.’

‘Daddy doesn’t have a shirt like that.’

‘This is because I am a priest.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘I work for God.’

‘Not for my daddy?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know God?’ she demanded, seemingly genuinely curious.

‘Yes.’

‘Does he really have a beard? He’s got a beard in the picture on Miss Singleton’s wall: she’s my teacher. G stands for God.’

‘The picture’s of his son.’

‘Do you know him, too?’

‘I know of him.’

‘But you haven’t met him?’

‘Not like I’m meeting you now.’

‘You’re very clever to know what G stands for,’ ventured Jennifer, as the tension eased.

‘I know all my letters now. Annabelle taught me while we were away. We’ve been away, while you’ve been ill. I saw Mickey Mouse…’ She plucked at her sweater. To Dawson she said, seriously, ‘He’s real, you know?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ said the priest.

‘He is. I met him. And Goofy and Pluto and Minnie. I met them all.’ She looked back to Jennifer. ‘But I’m glad I’m home now.’

‘I’m glad, too,’ said Jennifer, hopefully. ‘And I’m glad most of all to be home with you. Are you glad that I’m home?’

Hall saw the fleeting frown cross Annabelle’s face.

Emily remained serious for what seemed a very long time. Finally she said, ‘I think so. But I wish Daddy was here too.’

Jennifer’s face began to crumple more but she managed to stop it. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she blurted.

Emily didn’t say anything.

‘It’s getting late, darling,’ said Jennifer. ‘While everyone else is having their tea here why don’t we go and have ours in the kitchen? And after that I can give you your bath and then read you a story and you can show me all the letters you know, on the page?’