Nicci French: The Memory Game

‘Actually, Jane, you’re more a daughter than a daughter-in-law.’ She hesitated, then added: ‘Don’t let me down, my dear.’

What did she mean? How could I let her down?

Claud came out of the house carrying a neat suitcase. He started to walk towards us, then stopped. He would be dignified about all this. He’ll not give up, though, I thought as I looked at him: such a familiar figure. I knew where he’d bought his jeans, and in what order he’d packed his suitcase. I knew the music he’d put on in the car, and how he’d keep the needle just under seventy, and I guessed that when he got back to his small new flat in Primrose Hill, he would first of all phone me to make sure I’d arrived safely, and then pour a whisky and cook himself an omelette. Beside me, Robert sat quiet and tense. His pale, smooth face was quite blank. I put a hand on his for a moment, then lifted it to wave at Claud. He nodded.

‘Goodbye Jane,’ he called, and climbed into his compact car.

We left the Stead together, and for miles, as I drove through the Shropshire countryside, I could see Claud’s small blue car and his dark head in my mirror. When we got to the motorway Robert put some loud music on, I put my foot on the accelerator, and we left Claud far behind.

Cigarettes are wonderful. Every morning I showered and went downstairs in a dressing-gown, where I ground some coffee beans, poured fresh orange into a glass, and lit up. I’d study my plans for my new project with a cigarette. I’d smoke whenever I lifted the phone. I’d smoke in the car – God, how Claud would have hated that. I often smoked in the dark, at the end of a day, watching the glowing tip making lines in the air. I measured out my days in little tubes of nicotine. I smoked each morning when I thumbed through newspapers to see if there were any more references to the discovery of Natalie’s body now that she had been identified, solely through her dental record. ‘Tragic daughter of Angry Young Man,’ said the Guardian. ‘Martello Tragedy,’ the Mail. Alan gave interviews, and they were usually accompanied by library pictures of him as a younger and more successful man.

I returned to London on the Sunday and at the end of that week I was phoned by an officer from Kirklow CID. They wanted to interview me purely as a matter of routine. No, I wouldn’t have to come up to Kirklow, a couple of officers would be in London next week. I arranged a time and the following Tuesday morning at 11.30 sharp there were two detectives sitting in my front room. They were Detective Sergeant Helen Auster, who did all the talking, and Detective Constable Turnbull, a large man with red hair combed flat on his scalp, who sat with an open notebook not taking notes. I made us coffee and Turnbull and I smoked as well.

Auster was dressed in a businesslike grey flannel jacket and skirt. Her hair was light brown and she had startling yellow eyes, which seemed to be focused on something behind my head. She wore a wedding ring and she was young, almost ten years younger than me, I guessed. As we sipped our coffee, we exchanged trivial observations about how big London was. They didn’t seem in a hurry to get down to business and I was the first to raise it.

‘Are you doing the rounds of the family down here?’

Helen Auster smiled and looked at a notebook. ‘We’ve just come from your father, Mr Crane,’ she said. She spoke in a light Birmingham accent. ‘After lunch we’re meeting Theodore Martello at his office on the Isle of Dogs, then we’re going on to the BBC Television Centre to see your brother, Paul.’

‘You’ll spend most of your day in traffic,’ I said sympathetically. ‘Do you expect people to remember anything after all this time?’

‘There are a few questions we have to ask.’

‘Are you treating Natalie’s death as murder?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘Because she was buried, I suppose.’

‘No, there is some evidence that is consistent with strangulation.’

‘How can you possibly know that just from her bones?’

Auster and Turnbull exchanged glances.

‘It’s just a technical detail,’ said Auster. ‘Strangulation almost always fractures a bone called the hyoid bone which is at the base of the tongue. The hyoid bone of the deceased is fractured. But of course it’s been in the ground for a long time.’

‘Somebody must have buried the body,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Auster.

‘And that person must have killed her?’

‘Maybe. At the moment we’re just trying to collect information. As you probably know, it was assumed for some considerable time that Natalie Martello had run away from home. The last reported sighting was on the morning of 27 July 1969.’

‘On the day after the big party, yes,’ I interrupted.

‘It was only months later that statements were taken and the inquiry didn’t proceed very far. Natalie Martello remained registered as a missing person.’

There was a pause, which I leapt to fill as usual. ‘I’m afraid the trail must have gone awfully cold by now. How are you going to find out anything?’

‘What we’re trying to say to people is, if you remember anything, however small, let us know.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Auster looked down at her notebook once more. ‘The last sighting of Natalie was by a local man, Gerald Francis Docherty. He saw her by the side of the river that runs along the northern edge of your parents-in-law’s property. Obviously, we would like to hear of any later sightings.’

‘I think we were asked this at the time. I didn’t see her after the party.’

‘Tell me about the party.’

‘You must have heard about it from my dad. It was Alan and Martha’s twentieth wedding anniversary. They’d been away on a cruise somewhere and my dad met them off the boat at Southampton on the day of the party and drove them straight up to Shropshire. The family had arranged a large celebration. There were lots of guests, and dozens of them stayed the night, in the house or in nearby houses. Lots of them slept on the floor, I think, in sleeping bags. I mainly remember the preparations. Claud and I had been running errands, I remember that – collecting various things, food, glasses. Natalie had too, I think. The party itself was on a lovely evening, very warm with that baked feeling you get at the end of a summer’s day. We had a barbecue. Claud did that, with Paul helping him; why do men always do the barbecue, handle all the dead meat? Natalie was wearing a sleeveless black dress, I think. She always wore black that summer; I imitated her; so did Luke. That was her boyfriend, as you must know. They were very trendy; they were kind of skinny and sulky; they made me feel clumsy, rural, even though I was the one who lived in London. I’m rambling. What do you want me to tell you?’

Helen Auster looked a little blank and embarrassed. I don’t think she really knew what she wanted me to tell her.

‘Do you remember what Natalie was like at the party?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Did she seem depressed? Angry? Exuberant?’

I felt my cheeks flush. When I thought of the party, it wasn’t Natalie I remembered, it was Theo.

‘I don’t really remember seeing much of her. It was a very big party, you know. There were about a hundred people there.’

‘I thought you were her closest friend.’

‘I know, but it’s hard to remember with parties, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Helen Auster. ‘What happened on the next day?’

‘The party sort of continued, I think. Lots of the guests hung around, or returned. People went for walks and things, and then everyone started drinking champagne at midday.’

‘Were all the family there for the party?’

‘For the party itself, yes. Typically, having organised the whole thing, Claud left before dawn on the Sunday morning and went down to London with his best friend, Alec, to catch a flight to Bombay. He spent two months going round India with about twenty pounds in his pocket. Claud and I always meant to go there together. That seems unlikely now. I should explain that we’re getting divorced.’