Fear in the Sunlight (2 page)

‘From his office, yes. I thought they might help jog your memory.’

‘And you said there was worse to come later in the footage. What did you mean?’

‘The most recent murders – the women on Hitchcock’s set. One of them was filmed as she died.’ He left the room without another word and closed the door softly behind him. Penrose walked over to the window and looked down into the street, waiting for the detective to emerge. The morning was oppressive; bland, grey cloud hung low in the sky as it did so often in July, daring the summer to show itself, offering heat but drawing the line at sun. Doyle loosened his tie and opened his shirt as he ran down the steps and out onto the Embankment, his jacket slung casually over his shoulder. He waited for a gap in the traffic, then crossed the road and sauntered off towards Hungerford Bridge, looking at the river with the unhurried eyes of a visitor. Penrose watched until he was no longer distinguishable in a crowd, then turned back to the room, where the rest of his professional life was waiting to be dismantled.

Half-heartedly, he stacked a few more papers and put some photographs in a box, unable to decide whether it was the warmth of the room or a more personal lethargy that made everything seem such an effort. There was a small pile of novels on a shelf next to his desk – he had always hated offices that bore no trace of the human being who worked in them – and he started to pack them away, but stopped when he got to a copy of Josephine’s final mystery, published after her death, its title page blank and impersonal. The book was barely touched, its pages as neat and new as the day he had bought it, and he still couldn’t bring himself to look inside. For Penrose, reading Josephine’s work had always been the next best thing to enjoying her company; it was like hearing her speak, so naturally did her voice come through in her prose. While
The Singing Sands
remained unread, it was as if there were one more conversation still to be had, one new thing to discover about her – and he wasn’t ready to run out of surprises yet where Josephine was concerned. He didn’t know if he ever would be.

Impatiently, he piled the rest of the books into a box with some other bits and pieces, abandoning any pretence at a system, and threw the box onto the floor by the door, then picked up the telephone and dialled another department. ‘Devlin? I want you to check all the information you gave me on Detective Tom Doyle. Find out how long he’s been in England and when he’s due back in Los Angeles. Talk to the Adelphi Hotel and see if he’s met anyone while he’s been staying there, or if he’s talked to anyone else here. And give North Wales a call – find out if he’s been asking questions about Portmeirion in 1936. If he has any connections at all with this country, I want to know about them.’ Penrose replaced the receiver and sat down at his desk, where the only items left now were Doyle’s files and a cup of coffee – cold and bitter, the only way he ever seemed to drink it. He opened the file and scanned the summary at the beginning of the report, then began to read the first few pages, astonished that – after eighteen years – he could still recall a voice that had been so brief a part of his life.

‘They say you always remember your first, but I wonder if that’s really true? You want me to tell you what happened, where it all began – and I’ll do as you ask, because it costs me nothing. But please don’t think it’s a burden I’ve carried all these years, or that confessing it now will be some sort of relief. It hasn’t kept me awake at night, and it doesn’t haunt my dreams. I can bring it to mind, of course I can, but it’s not forever with me in the way you seem to think it should be. Always remember. Never forget. It’s not
quite
the same thing.

‘It was summer, certainly; the air was sweet and warm and hopeful – a South of France sort of day. The headland was covered in trees, much as it is now, and they seemed to flaunt their own extravagance in a rich tangle of greens, unfolding for acres, all the way back to the old ferryman’s cottage. Even the trunks of long-dead pine trees – scattered along the shoreline, and slowly drained of their colour by the wind and sea – shone white and brilliant in the sunlight. The year had come of age, you might say – everywhere you looked, there was a tiny celebration of its beauty. We walked together along one of the paths that led up from the terrace, past the back of the old mansion house – faded and neglected then, a far cry from the rich man’s toy it is now. In those days, a long snarl of depressing laurel bushes lined that path, making any view of the sea impossible, but sheltering you from the eyes of the house long before you left the grounds. It was like a tunnel between two worlds, one restrictive and suffocating, the other exotic and adventurous. “Y Gwyllt”, they called it. “The Wild Place”. But for me, it was the safest place on earth. When I left it – when I was forced to leave – I carried it with me in my mind, a
small pocket of silence and darkness to retreat to whenever I might need it. That interests you, I suppose. I wonder what you think it proves?

‘Anyway, it was a route we’d taken many times before. We both knew it by heart, and turned instinctively towards the densest part of the wilderness, deeper and deeper into the tight knot of woodland, he always a few steps ahead of me. There were some old hides in the woods, built originally for pheasant shoots, and I stopped by one for a moment to take a stone out of my boot; he looked back impatiently, and I felt a sense of power that was both daunting and exhilarating. The path grew narrower still as we moved forward, but eventually we reached the small circle of ground which they now call the cemetery. Everything was weed-choked and overgrown, a place where sunlight was a stranger, warmth an impossibility. There were only one or two graves there then, of course – or perhaps I should say only one or two that were marked. Still, the ground was covered with a carpet of fallen rhododendron petals, blood red and sinking slowly into the earth; a rehearsal, almost, for what was to come.

‘Did I know what I was going to do? That’s harder to answer truthfully after all these years, but yes, I think I knew. Not because I’d planned it, but because it had always been there – the violence, I mean. Let me make it easy for you: I wanted to hurt something; it didn’t much matter what or whom.

‘At first, he thought I was playing. I pushed him to the ground, but he twisted away and came back for more, eager to please and confident in our friendship. Then I kicked him, and I saw the first hint of confusion in his eyes, the first flicker of genuine fear. A second blow, harder this time, and he cowered in front of me, scarcely able to believe the betrayal.
Looking back now, I think it was his refusal to struggle that made me so angry – somehow, it was all too easy. I grabbed his throat and slowly tightened my grip, breathing in the scent of damp leaves as I held him against the ground, scanning his face for an acknowledgement of the pain. It was over in seconds, and if the excitement had been more intense than anything I’d ever known, the disappointment was even greater. You see, it wasn’t just about the killing. It never has been. It was about the fear – the fear and the pain, and later the humiliation. And you know, they never last long enough. I suppose that’s what makes them precious.

‘Afterwards, his body disgusted me. I just wanted it out of my sight, and I looked round for the best place to get rid of it. Then, and only then, did I realise that she was watching me. She smiled. Actually, that’s what I remember most clearly of all. She smiled.’

Josephine laughed, and lifted her sunglasses for a moment to look at him. ‘If that’s
really
what you think, I’m amazed they promoted you at all.’

‘It’s all right – they’ll never know.’ Archie smiled and poured them both another drink, and Josephine glanced beyond him to the end of the terrace. The lawns – dry and brittle with the heat, despite the gardener’s best efforts to defy the weather – culminated in a formal cascade, where water trickled lazily over rock-cut steps, exotically draped in mimosa, azalea and ferns; at the top, poised between two ornamental pillars, a man was operating an unwieldy-looking camera, and she watched him warily as he panned left to right, back from the estuary to the hotel and shoreline.

‘If I’d known we were going to be filmed all weekend, I’d have gone to Bournemouth,’ she said. ‘Aren’t there laws against that sort of thing, Chief Inspector?’

He lay back in his deckchair and closed his eyes. ‘He’s only doing location shots, apparently; they’re not for public consumption. Anyway, don’t knock it: most people would move heaven and earth to have their fortieth birthday immortalised by Alfred Hitchcock.’

‘Only a man would say that,’ she replied, a little tetchily. ‘No woman would want forty immortalised at all – we all hope to glide quietly through it while everyone’s looking the other way. But what have I got? The director of the moment closing in on every grey hair.’

‘It doesn’t really bother you, does it?’ Archie asked, surprised. ‘You barely look a day over thirty-nine.’

She laughed again, and moved her deckchair back so that Archie blocked her from the camera’s view. ‘No, I don’t suppose it does, but I’d rather not have to talk to the man and I’m certainly not in a negotiating mood. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder what Marta’s got me into.’

‘How is it her fault? I thought Hitchcock approached you through your publisher?’

‘He did, but only because Marta gave Mrs Hitchcock a proof copy of the book. Otherwise,
A Shilling for Candles
could have passed beautifully into oblivion like ninety-five per cent of the other crime novels published this year.’

‘You must be excited, though? He wants to put your novel on every cinema screen in the country.’ He lit a cigarette and looked at her in disbelief. ‘Even you can’t be immune to that, surely? You love films.’

‘I
am
excited about walking into the Playhouse in Inverness and seeing something I’ve written come to life on the screen. What worries me is everything that the book and I will have to go through to get there.
The 39 Steps
was barely recognisable by the time he’d finished with it.’

‘Good film, though, and I read somewhere that Buchan said Hitchcock’s was a better story.’ He grinned, unapologetic for being provocative. ‘I know it’s daunting: new opportunities always are. You’ve every reason to be scared.’ She glared at him, but didn’t argue. ‘Seriously, Josephine – everything Hitchcock touches at the moment is a triumph and it won’t be long before Hollywood lures him away. Think of what that could open up for you. You don’t have to get involved in the nonsense – just take the money and run if you like. But this could be a wonderful adventure. Grab it while you can and enjoy every minute. It doesn’t happen very often and it might never come your way again.’

‘You’re not working undercover for my agent, are you?’ she asked. ‘He’s terrified I’m going to be difficult about it. I can hear the panic in his voice every time I speak to him.’ She paused for a moment, absent-mindedly watching as a flock of wildfowl flew low over the water. ‘You’re right, though – about the adventure,
and
about my being scared. It just feels so alien. At least theatre is familiar.’

‘It is now, perhaps, but it wasn’t always like that. When
Richard of Bordeaux
went into rehearsals, you sat in the stalls and trembled every time Johnny looked at you. Eighteen months later, he was virtually begging you for a role and you gave it to someone else. It’ll be the same with this. God help Hitchcock or any other director once you’ve found your feet. I don’t think you’ll be seeing the film in Inverness, though,’ he teased, knowing how much she hated any hint of publicity. ‘It’ll be a London premiere with the great and the good.’

Josephine grimaced. ‘Then trust me – I’ll be seeing it in Inverness. There’ll be chewing gum on the seats, a slightly unwashed air about the place and people talking constantly in the row behind. You can come with me if you like. It’ll give Mrs McPherson something to talk about while she’s selling the Kia-Ora. My solitary visits are always a disappointment to her.’ She drained her glass, savouring the sharp, cold tang of the lemonade. ‘Anyway, it might never get that far, and I don’t want to think about it at the moment. My idea of a birthday is not to move a muscle – no, not even an eyelash – until I have to. That’s why I chose to come here: laziness is almost a requirement.’

And one that was surprisingly easy to comply with, Archie thought, glancing round at the other guests. It wasn’t just the heat of late July that made everyone so reluctant to move far: there was a pleasantly languid atmosphere about Portmeirion that made it very easy to do nothing, and even he – who made restlessness an art – was seduced by it. Relaxing on the white-railed terrace with the sun on his face and the water flowing gently past, he could almost believe he was on board a transatlantic liner. ‘We may as well make the most of it,’ he said. ‘It won’t be long before our peace is shattered. I love my cousins dearly, but neither of them could be described as restful.’

Archie’s cousins, Lettice and Ronnie Motley, were two of Josephine’s closest friends, but she knew what he meant: although still in their early thirties, the sisters were among the most successful theatre designers in the West End, but they had a habit of carrying the drama of the stage with them wherever they went. She shaded her eyes with her hand and peered at the clock on the Bell Tower over to her left, which obliged her by striking two. ‘What time are they due?’ she asked.

‘Lettice promised to be here for tea. They’re driving down.’

‘All the way from London? It’s a full day’s journey by car.’

‘No. They stayed overnight at the Mytton and Mermaid, just outside Shrewsbury. You know – the pub Clough bought as a halfway house for people travelling here from town.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard Ronnie mention it. Isn’t there a cocktail waiter she’s particularly fond of? She told me she admires his French 75.’

‘Quite. So we’ll be lucky if they arrive at all. What about Marta and Lydia?’

‘I’m not sure now. They changed their plans to go to Stratford. Lydia wanted to catch up with some old friends of hers who have connections with the Swan. I think she’s hoping to do a rep season with them in the autumn. Marta had obviously resigned herself to a long week. I never knew it was possible to sound so weary in a telegram. And you can imagine the pressure she’s under to arrange an introduction to the Hitchcocks. Lydia’s never quite forgiven Johnny for landing that role in
Secret Agent
and not squeezing her in through the back door.’

‘Johnny might call the shots in the West End but that doesn’t give him any clout at Elstree.’

‘I know, but Lydia’s not inclined to see reason where work’s concerned. I suppose I’ll know how Johnny feels when
A Shilling for Candles
comes up for discussion.’

‘What role could you offer her if the negotiations go well? Christine Clay?’

‘A dead actress? With friends like that, who needs agents?’

Archie laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose she would be hoping for a speaking part, at least.’ He held up her empty glass. ‘Another?’ She nodded. ‘Same again or something stronger?’

‘Same again. It’s too hot for anything else.’

He walked back to the hotel and Josephine watched as he picked his way carefully between the tables on the crowded upper terrace, envying the way he seemed to acquire a tan by simply glancing at the sun. Across to her left was Portmeirion village, set slightly apart from the hotel but close enough to feel enclosed within the same enchanted world. The Bell Tower stood majestic as the skyline’s crowning glory, and other buildings – self-contained cottages or serviced rooms which acted as an extension of the main hotel – gathered round its base, each one strikingly but subtly coloured. Not for the first time, Josephine admired the way in which the man-made buildings followed the natural contours of the rocks, as though a small pocket of Italy had been casually sewn into the Welsh landscape. She had spent a lot of time on the Continent, and the attempt to recreate it in North Wales could easily have been grotesque or vulgar, but somehow it avoided being either. Instead, Portmeirion remained unashamedly quixotic and dreamlike, partly because it refused to be embarrassed by its own romanticism, and partly because its architect, Clough Williams-Ellis, had managed to recreate the essence of Italy as well as its aesthetics: even the sun seemed to shine straight from the Mediterranean.

Uncomfortable though it made her to be involved, Josephine was not surprised that Hitchcock had decided to capture Portmeirion’s beauty for the screen. The village was its own film set and had everything that a director with flair and vision could ask for: beautiful architecture, rich in eccentric detail, with an open expanse of water on one side and the statuesque splendour of the Snowdonian mountains on the other. She looked back to the camera and saw that the man had begun the laborious task of taking it down. Relieved, she settled back to wait for Archie, strangely unbothered by the way in which several complex aspects of her life threatened to collide over the weekend. Perhaps a fortieth birthday came with unexpected bonuses; if that was the case, she should have done it years ago.