Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 1-3 - Frances Evesham - Страница 15

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 in the right place.’

Libby hesitated. She didn't want to risk hurting the old lady, but she needed to know more about Susie. ‘You must have been proud of Suzanne?’

‘Mr Thomson used to keep all the cuttings from the newspapers when she went to the States. Who'd have thought little Suzanne would make such a big name for herself?’

Libby took a shot in the dark. ‘Did she keep in touch after she left Exham?’

‘Oh yes, she used to send me all her records. Albums, they call them nowadays, of course.’

‘Or downloads.’

‘Pardon?’

Libby wished she'd kept her mouth shut. ‘Nothing.’

Mrs Thomson was talking again, ‘She sent a card at Christmas, as well, every year, regular as clockwork. All except for that one year.’

‘Which one was that?’

‘The year the little girl died. It must have been, let me see, the little girl was seven, so that was back in the early nineties. She wrote and told me about it, but no cards that year. Not surprising. Poor Suzanne, it broke her heart.’

Coffee scalded Libby's throat. ‘Little girl? She had a daughter? That explained the pink ring. Libby had been sure there must be a child.

‘Oh yes, she had a daughter in America. With Mickey what's-his-name. Big record executive, he was, or some such. Annie: that was the little girl's name. Annie Rose. Pretty little thing, she was, just like her mother. Here, wait, I've got a photo, somewhere.’

She pattered from the room; old green slippers soundless on the patterned carpet. Drawers opened and closed in a different part of the house. Mrs Thomson returned, clutching a red photo album and Libby shifted along on the sofa, making room. Heads together, they flipped through pages of photos: babies, houses, older children.

‘Here we are.’ Mrs Thomson pointed at four photos protected by a filmy, plastic sheet.

A neat, handwritten date and caption accompanied every image. ‘My Eric put all our photos in an album, labelled and everything. He was like that. Always neat and tidy.’ Mrs Thomson peered round the room, maybe half hoping to see the late Mr Thomson in his usual chair. ‘The farm was the best in the county. Our Herefords won prizes.’ Her shoulders slumped. She sighed, misty eyed. ‘All sold, now.’

Afraid the old lady was slipping into reminiscing about the farm, Libby tapped a finger on the photo at the top left of the page. ‘Is this Suzanne?’

‘That's her. Still at school, then.’ Libby caught her breath, shocked to see a young Susie smiling in the photo, very much alive. Under the lighthouse, she'd been wet, bedraggled and dead. Nevertheless, this was the same person, no question. There was no mistaking the neat nose and arched eyebrows.

Mrs Thomson moved on to the other pictures. ‘Here she is, on stage in America.’ Two tall youths, one bowing a violin, the other behind a keyboard, each young face taut with concentration, dwarfed the singer. Despite her tiny stature, Susie's personality sprang from the photograph. She glowed, alive with the joy of performance, an enormous guitar slung round her long, white neck.

‘This one's her wedding photo.’ Mrs Thomson's voice jerked Libby back to the present. ‘And this—’ one gnarled finger touched the last photograph, light as a caress, ‘is little Annie Rose.’

Libby let her eyes slide down to the image of Susie's little girl. The child was a miniature of her mother. Hair so fair it was almost white, she struck a dancer's pose, toes pointed, arms in the air, delicate in a tiny version of her mother's fringed skirt and full-sleeved blouse.

Libby dragged her gaze from the dead child's enchanting dimples and looked at the wedding photo. So, that was Mickey, the husband. He loomed over Susie, heavy arm pulling her off balance, crumpling the puffed satin wedding dress. The bride gazed up at her new husband adoringly, while he smirked at the camera, stealing the moment like a spoilt child.

Still, being self-centred and arrogant didn't mean he was responsible for Susie's lonely death. If Mickey was in Los Angeles on the day she died, he couldn't have killed her. Libby hoped Max would take a good look at the man's alibi. ‘Mrs Thomson, do you know how Annie Rose died?’

‘Oh, dear. I'm afraid the poor thing drowned.’

Libby's head spun. Perhaps Mrs Thomson was confused. ‘No, I mean Annie Rose, not Suzanne.’

‘That's right. She fell in the swimming pool.’ Mrs Thomson's eyes were very bright. ‘They all have swimming pools, out in California. It's so hot, you see. It broke Suzanne's heart.’ Her smile trembled. ‘We never had children, Eric and me. Suzanne was like the daughter we never had. We'd been so happy for her, with her little girl, doing so well, and then, Annie Rose died. It was quite dreadful. Eric never got over it.’

Libby's stomach lurched. Had she jumped to conclusions? Maybe Susie had drowned herself, after all, still heartbroken, choosing to end her life as Annie Rose had lost hers. Perhaps the police were right.

She struggled for words. ‘How did you find out?’

‘They rang, from America. Mickey's secretary, I think it was, said Suzanne was too upset to talk but she wanted us to know.’ Mrs Thomson took out a tiny white handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘There, it still upsets me, dear. I'm sorry to make a fuss. You see, it all happened so far away. And now this…’

She blew her nose again, pocketing the scrap of cotton, standing, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Well, these things happen. I'll make more coffee.’

Mrs Thomson clattered in the kitchen. Libby flipped backwards through the pages of the album. She found a photo of a Christmas tree, piles of presents and rows of kids. They were about eleven or twelve years old, Libby guessed. The vicar beamed in the centre of the back row. She looked closer. There was Susie – Suzanne – in the front row, a brace running along her teeth.

The tall, gangly boy standing beside Susie looked familiar. Yes. It was Max. Mrs Thomson returned, tray in hand, and leaned over Libby.

‘Look, there they all are. Most are still here, or hereabouts. There's Maxwell, of course, and Benedict who's married to Samantha. The one with the broken tooth is Alan – Alan Jenkins. Oh, look, there's Angela…’

She broke off as the doorbell rang. Libby jumped to her feet, glad of an excuse to avoid more coffee. Her insides were awash. ‘Don't worry, Mrs Thomson. I'll open the door.’

An elderly woman on the doorstep wrinkled her forehead, perplexed to find an unexpected stranger in her friend's house. ‘Oh. Is Marjorie in?’ A cake shaped parcel, wrapped in tin foil, peeped from her basket. Libby ushered the newcomer in, made her excuses to Mrs Thomson, grabbed Bear's lead and left them to their memories.