Missing Joseph Part 14

He followed her to the front door. It still stood open, and the March air was crisp with a breeze that lifted her hair. Across the courtyard, the Hall stood empty-broken windows boarded, old rainpipes rusted, stone walls chipped. She said, "Second chimney pot from the right, I think. Its left corner." She lifted her arm, aimed the gun, and fired. A wedge of terra cotta shot off the second chimney like a missile launched.

She said once again, "If I had wanted to hurt someone, I would have done, Mr. Shepherd." She returned to the sitting room and placed the gun on its wrapping which lay on the dresser top, between a basket of sewing and a collection of photographs of her daughter.

"Do you have a licence for that?" he asked her.

"No."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't necessary."

"It's the law."

"Not for the way I bought it."

She was standing with her back against the dresser. He stayed in the doorway. He thought about saying what he ought to say. He considered doing what the law required of him. The weapon was illegal, she was in possession of it, and he was supposed to remove it from the premises and charge her with the crime. Instead, he said: "What do you use it for?"

"Target practice mostly. But otherwise protection."

"From whom?"

"From anyone who isn't warned off by a shouting voice or a shotgun blast. It's a form of security."

"You don't seem insecure."

"Anyone with a child in the house is insecure. Especially a woman on her own."

"Do you always keep it loaded?"

"Yes."

"That's foolish. That's asking for trouble."

A smile flickered briefly round her mouth. "Perhaps. But I've never fired it in the company of anyone other than Maggie before today."

"It was foolish of you to show it to me."

"Yes. It was."

"Why did you?"

"For the same reason I own it. Protection, Constable."

He stared at her across the room, feeling his heart beating rapidly and wondering when it had begun to do so. From somewhere in the house he heard water dripping, from out-of doors the sharp trill of a bird. He saw the rise and fall of her chest, the V of her s.h.i.+rt where her skin seemed to glisten, the stretch of blue jeans across her hips. She was gangly and sweaty. She was more than unkempt. He couldn't have left her.

Without a single coherent thought, he took two strides, and she met him in the centre of the room. He pulled her into his arms, his fingers diving through her hair, his mouth on hers. He hadn't known that such hunger for a woman could even exist. Had she resisted in the least, he knew he would have forced her, but she didn't resist and she clearly didn't want to. Her hands were in his hair, at his throat, against his chest and then her arms encircled him as he pulled her closer, cradling her b.u.t.tocks and grinding grinding grinding against her. He heard the snap of b.u.t.tons falling away as he pulled off her s.h.i.+rt, seeking her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. And then his own s.h.i.+rt was off and her mouth was on him, kissing and biting a trail to his waist where she knelt, fumbled with his belt, and pushed down his trousers.

Jesus G.o.d, he thought. Jesus Jesus Jesus. He knew only two terrors: that he might actually explode into her mouth, that she might release him before he could do so.

CHAPTER NINE.

HE COULDN'T POSSIBLY have been less like Annie. Perhaps that had been the initial attraction. In place of Annie's soft, willing compliance, he had put Juliet's independence and strength. She was easily taken and eager to be taken, but not easily known. During the first hour of their lovemaking on that March afternoon, she'd said only two words: G.o.d and harder, the second of which she repeated three times. And when they'd had enough of each other-long after they'd moved from the sitting room up the stairs to her bedroom where they'd tried out both the floor and the bed-she turned on her side with one arm cradling her head, and she said, "What's your Christian name, Mr. Shepherd, or am I to go on calling you Mr. Shepherd?"

He traced the faint lightning bolt of skin that puckered her stomach and was the only indication-besides the child herself-that she'd given birth. He felt there wasn't sufficient time in his life to come to know every inch of her body well enough, and as he lay beside her, having had her four times already, he began to ache to have her again. He'd never made love to Annie more than once in any twenty-four-hour period. He'd never thought to try. And while the loving of his wife had been tender and sweet, leaving him feeling at once at peace and somehow in her debt, the loving of Juliet had ignited his senses, unearthing a desire that no amount of having her seemed to sate. After an evening, a night, an afternoon together, he could catch the scent of her-on his hands, on his clothes, when he combed his hair-and find himself wanting her, driven to telephone her, saying only her name to which her low voice would respond, "Yes. When."

But to her first question, he merely said, "Colin."

"What did your wife call you?"

"Col. And your husband?"

"I'm called Juliet."

"And your husband?"

"His name?"

"What did he call you?"

She ran her fingers along his eyebrows, the curve of his ear, his lips. "You're terribly young," was her reply.

"I'm thirty-three. And you?"

She smiled, a small, sad movement of her mouth. "I'm older than thirty-three. Old enough to be..."

"What?"

"Wiser than I am. Far wiser than I've been this afternoon."

His ego replied. "You wanted it, didn't you?"

"Oh yes. As soon as I saw you sitting in the Rover. Yes. I wanted. It. You. Whatever."

"Was that some sort of potion you had me drink?"

She raised his hand to her mouth, took his index finger between her lips, sucked on it gently. He caught his breath. She released him and chuckled. "You don't need a potion, Mr. Shepherd."

"How old are you?"

"Too old for this to be anything more than a single afternoon."

"You don't mean that."

"I have to."

Over time, he'd chipped away at her reluctance. She revealed her age, forty-three, and she surrendered time and again to desire. But when he talked of the future, she turned to stone. Her answer was always the same.

"You need a family. Children to raise. You were meant to be a father. I can't give that to you."

"Rot. Women older than you have babies."

"I've had my baby, Colin."

Indeed. Maggie was the equation to be solved if he was to win her mother, and he knew it. But she was elusive, a sprite-child who had watched him solemnly from across the courtyard when he left the cottage on that first afternoon. She was clutching a mangy cat in her arms, and her eyes were solemn. She knows, he thought. He said h.e.l.lo and her name, but she disappeared round the side of the Hall. And ever since then, she'd been polite-a very model of good breeding-but he could see the judgement on her face and he could have predicted the manner in which she would exact retribution from her mother long before Juliet realised where Maggie's infatuation with Nick Ware was heading.

He could have interceded in some way. He knew Nick Ware, after all. He was well-acquainted with the boy's parents. He could have been useful, had Juliet let him.

Instead, she'd allowed the vicar to enter their lives. And it hadn't taken Robin Sage long to forge what Colin himself had been unable to create: a fragile bond with Maggie. He saw them talking together outside the church, strolling into the village with the vicar's heavy hand at rest on the girl's shoulder. He watched them perched on the graveyard wall with their backs to the road, their faces towards Cotes Fell, and the vicar's arm arcing out to ill.u.s.trate the curve of the land or some point he was making. He noted the visits Maggie had paid to the vicarage. And he used these last to broach the subject with Juliet.

"It's nothing," Juliet said. "She's looking for her father. She knows it can't be you-she thinks you're too young and besides you've never left Lancas.h.i.+re, have you-so she's trying out Mr. Sage for the role. She thinks her father's out searching for her somewhere. Why not as a vicar?"

Which gave him the opening: "Who is her father?"

Her face settled into the familiar, firm lines of withdrawal. He sometimes wondered if her silence was a way she maintained his level of pa.s.sion for her, keeping herself more intriguing than other women and thus challenging him to prove an entirely nonexistent dominance over her by cooperatively continuing to perform in her bed. But she seemed unaffected by that as well, saying only, "Nothing lasts forever, does it, Colin," whenever his desperation to know the truth forced him to allude to leaving her. Which he never would, which he knew he never could.

"Who is he, Juliet? He isn't dead, is he?"

The most she had ever said, she said in bed one June night with a wash of moonlight against her skin, making a dappled pattern from the summer leaves outside the window.

She said, "Maggie wants to think that."

"Is it the truth?"

She closed her eyes briefly. He lifted her hand, kissed its palm, rested it against his chest. "Juliet, is it the truth?"

"I think it is."

"Think...? Are you married to him still?"

"Colin. Please."

"Were you ever married to him?"

Her eyes closed again. He could see the faint glimmer of tears beneath the lashes, and for a mindless moment he couldn't understand the source of either her pain or her sadness. Then he said, "Oh G.o.d. Juliet. Juliet, were you raped? Is Maggie...Did someone-"

She whispered. "Don't humiliate me."

"You were never married, were you?"

"Please, Colin."

But that fact made no difference. Still she wouldn't marry him. Too old for you was the excuse she gave.

Not, however, too old for the vicar.

Standing in his house, his head pressed against the cool front door, the sound of his father's departure long faded, Colin Shepherd felt Inspector Lynley's question bouncing round his skull like a persistent echo of all his doubts. Was it likely she'd take on a lover after so brief an acquaintance?

He squeezed his eyes shut.

What difference did it make that Mr. Sage had gone out to Cotes Hall just to talk about Maggie? The village constable had merely gone out there to caution a woman about discharging a shotgun, only to find himself tearing off her clothes in a fever to mate after less than an hour in her company. And she didn't protest. She didn't try to stop him. If anything, she was as aggressive as he. When one considered it, what kind of a woman was that?

A siren, he thought and he tried to turn away from his father's voice. You got to take the upper hand with a woman, boy-o, and you got to keep it. Right from the first. They'll make you a ninny, give 'em the chance.

Had she done that with him? With Sage as well? She'd said he was visiting her to talk about Maggie. He meant well, she said, and she ought to listen. She'd declared herself at the end of her rope when it came to reasonable discussion with the girl, so if the vicar had ideas, who was she to turn a deaf ear to them?

And then she'd searched his face. "You don't trust me, Colin, do you?"

No. Not an inch. Not a moment of being alone with another man in that isolated cottage where the solitude itself was a call for seduction. Nonetheless, he'd said, "Of course I do."

"You can come as well, if you'd like. Sit between us at the table. Make certain I don't take off my shoe and rub my foot against his leg."

"I don't want that."

"Then what?"

"I just want things settled between us. I want people to know."

"Things can't be settled in the way you'd like."

And now they never would be, unless and until Scotland Yard cleared her name. Because all her protests of their age difference aside, he knew he couldn't marry Juliet Spence and maintain his position in Winslough while so many doubts filled the atmosphere with whispered speculations whenever they appeared in public together. And he couldn't leave Win-slough married to Juliet if he hoped to keep peace with her daughter. He was caught in a trap of his own devising. Only New Scotland Yard CID could spring him.

The doorbell rang above his head, so shrill and unexpected a sound that he started. The dog began barking. Colin waited for him to trot out of the sitting room.

"Quiet," he said. "Sit." Leo complied, head c.o.c.ked to one side, waiting. Colin opened the door.

The sun was gone. Dusk was drawing quickly towards night. The light on the porch which he'd switched on to welcome New Scotland Yard now shone on the wiry hair of Polly Yarkin.

She was clutching a scarf twined between her fingers and pinching closed the collar of her old navy coat. Her felt skirt dangled overlong to her ankles which were themselves encased in battered boots. She moved uneasily from foot to foot. She offered a quick smile.

"I was finis.h.i.+ng up in the vicarage, wasn't I, and I couldn't help but notice..." She cast a look back in the direction of the c.l.i.theroe Road. "I saw th' two gentlemen leave. Ben at the pub said Scotland Yard. I wouldn't have known except Ben phoned-him being a church warden, you know-and told me they'd probably want to have themselves a poke through the vicarage. He said for me to wait. But they didn't come. Is everything all right?"

One hand squeezed her collar more tightly, and the other grappled with the loose ends of the scarf. He could see her mother's name upon it, and he recognised it as a souvenir advertising her business in Blackpool. She'd gone through scarves, beer mats, printed matchbook covers-like she was running some posh hotel-and she'd even given out free chopsticks for a while when she was "purely truly positive" that tourism from the Orient was about to reach an all-time high. Rita Yarkin-aka Rita Rularski-was nothing if not a born entrepreneur.

"Colin?"

He realised he was staring at the scarf, wondering why Rita had chosen neon lime green and decorated that colour with crimson diamonds. He stirred, glanced down, saw that Leo was wagging his tail in welcome. The dog recognised Polly.

"Is everything all right?" she asked again. "I saw your dad leave as well and I spoke to him-I was sweeping the porch-but he didn't seem to hear because he didn't say anything. So I wondered is everything all right?"

He knew he couldn't leave her standing on the porch in the cold. He'd known her from childhood after all, and even if that had not been the case, she'd come on an errand that at least wore the guise of a friend's concern. "Come in."

He closed the door behind her. She stood in the entry, balling up her scarf, rolling it round and round in her hands before shoving it into her pocket. She said, "I've got these muddy old boots on, don't I?"