Emma Page - Mortal Remains

But Lester had needed neither Edgar’s approval for the match nor his financial assistance. As soon as he reached the age of twenty-one he came into a substantial legacy, his share of their father’s estate; he could do exactly as he pleased.

In a secluded rural spot four miles from Fairbourne, Lester Holroyd put his car away in the garage and walked towards his house, well designed and soundly constructed, built by Tom Mansell as a wedding present for his darling daughter and her bridegroom.

Lester was as tall as his brother, somewhat better-looking than Edgar. He had a rangy, athletic figure, a fine head of fair hair. Where Edgar closely resembled their father, Lester in some respects took after the other side of the family, inheriting his mother’s colouring, her eyes and smile.

Whatever Tom Mansell’s motives had been for encouraging the match, he had come increasingly over the last few years to value his son-in-law’s services, to rely on him as an able assistant and deputy. Lester was now indisputably Mansell’s right-hand man; he had hopes of more formal promotion before long. He had a shrewd notion changes were in the wind; he was certain they would be to his own advantage. Mansell always kept his cards close to his chest until the last possible moment but Lester believed he knew the next objective Mansell was contemplating: the opening of a second yard.

He let himself into the house. Diane would soon be home. She was a trained nurse, employed in that capacity at a large factory in Cannonbridge. She was currently working the second shift, two till ten, she had done so for a few months and had found it suited her, she liked the long, free mornings.

Lester went into the sitting room and settled himself down to watch the news. But it had been a long day, his eyes began to close. Before long he was asleep, slipping shortly into a spell of vivid dreaming.

He was driving an open sports car in sparkling sunshine, at tremendous speed and with great exhilaration, along a steeply twisting road, the wind whistling through his hair. He shouted in exuberance as he rounded a bend with a swooping roar. All at once he saw before him a precipitous drop, down on to jagged rocks, into a boiling sea. He slammed on the brakes. There was no response.

The car whirled off the road, hurtling out through the brilliant air, describing a soaring arc before it began to fall. Down, down, faster and faster, towards the vicious rocks, the churning waves.

He started up in his chair, wide awake, his face running with sweat, his heart pounding. As he strove to steady himself he heard Diane drive up.

She came into the room a few minutes later, smiling cheerfully. She wasn’t unduly fatigued after her stint at the factory, she found it far less demanding than hospital work.

They greeted each other with affection. A little later, over coffee, Lester remembered something he had to tell her. ‘I ran into one of the Acorn committee today. He said the tickets for the dinner-dance will be ready tomorrow.’ The Acorn Club was a prestigious association, founded one hundred years ago by a group of local businessmen – among them Lester’s great-grandfather – with the aim of raising money for charity. The annual dinner-dance, always held on the last Friday in October, was the outstanding event in the Cannonbridge social calendar, a fundraiser on an impressive scale. There was always a rush for tickets; this year, because of the centenary, it was likely to prove a mad scramble.

‘I’ll get the tickets in the morning,’ Diane promised. They always looked forward to the event, they both enjoyed the big local social occasions. Diane had arranged some time ago to have the evening off work.

Her expression suddenly changed to a frown. ‘I suppose Edgar and Claire will be there?’

‘Yes, of course they will,’ Lester responded. ‘Edgar’s expected to go, in his job. And Claire’s gone with him every year since they’ve been married.’

Her frown deepened. She was three years younger than Claire, no small gap during the years of growing up; they hadn’t known each other in those days. Claire had married Edgar – much to everyone’s surprise, not least that of Edgar himself – twelve months after Lester’s marriage to Diane. The two women had never taken to each other. Relations between the households had teetered along on a shaky footing, finally petering out altogether a few months ago.

Diane’s tone was sulky. ‘If Claire’s going to be there, then I’m not going.’ Ill humour gave her face a tigerish look.

Lester was astounded. ‘Of course you’re going! Your father’s making a big donation this year. His evening will be ruined if you’re not there to see it.’ The donation ceremony, with its formal announcing of names and amounts, punctuated with drum rolls and storms of applause, was always the highlight of the evening. ‘If you don’t go, I can’t go. It would look very odd if I went without you.’

Her face remained mutinous.

He tried another tack. ‘Stuart will be there this year, now he’s old enough to go.’ Stuart was Diane’s younger brother, they had always been close. And Lester had always got on well with Stuart. ‘It would spoil all his pleasure in going if you stayed away.’

He detected a faint softening of her expression, his tone grew cajoling. ‘I honestly can’t see why it should bother you in the least if Claire’s there. The hall’s big enough in all conscience, there isn’t the slightest need for you to go anywhere near either of them all evening.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Diane grudgingly acknowledged.

He delivered his masterstroke. ‘You go out and get yourself something really stunning to wear, guaranteed to knock Claire’s eye out. Never mind what it costs, I’ll pay.’ Diane had always envied Claire her style of looks, her easy elegance.

She began to smile. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘You win.’

He jumped up, went over and flung an arm round her. He gave her shoulders a squeeze, bent his head and planted a jubilant kiss on her cheek. ‘That’s my girl! We’ll have a great evening! You’ll see!’

A mile or so from the dwelling he had built for his daughter and son-in-law, Tom Mansell’s splendid modern residence stood on the brow of a hill in a superb situation with magnificent views.

On Wednesday morning Mansell woke even earlier than usual. His brain, ever active with plans and enterprises, even during sleep, roused him to full wakefulness before five. He knew the moment he opened his eyes it was all settled, his mind was definitely made up.

He pulled on a dressing-gown and made his way silently from the room, along the corridor, past the bedroom of his son Stuart, eighteen years old now, learning the ropes at the yard – under his own careful supervision – since leaving school over twelve months ago. Past the flight of stairs leading up to the suite of rooms set aside for his housekeeper, a highly respectable widow, good-natured and motherly, in her sixties now. She had kept house for him for the past fifteen years, had ably and cheerfully assisted in the upbringing of his two children. The last ten of those years had been spent in this house, the house he had built for himself and his children, the kind of house he had always dreamed of.

He went down the stairs, towards the kitchen. He was a muscular man, forty-eight years old, a little over medium height, very striking in appearance. His hair was already snow-white, though still thick and wavy, but his heavy eyebrows had remained jet black. His skin was deeply tanned, his eyes a piercing sapphire blue. He exuded a feeling of raw power.

In the kitchen he made himself a pot of tea and carried it along to his study. He sat down at his desk and addressed himself to the matter that had been occupying his thoughts for some time now: the desirability of opening a second yard. Wychford, yes, that was definitely the place; he was getting more and more work these days over in that direction.