What Lies Hidden Page 3

  Isobel walked back outside and headed down the other side of the street. Obliquely across from Mrs Bank’s flat there was a café and she decided to go in and have some lunch. It was around three o’clock so she got a salad sandwich and sat down at the window table. While she ate she jotted down in her notebook the key impressions that had struck her during the meeting earlier. Gazing at the building across the road, she tried to decide what to do.

  In the end the only thing she could come up with was to talk to the lady in the clothes shop and see what she could find out. Finishing her lunch, she crossed the road and entered the shop. As she did a bell tingled and a dark-haired glamorous woman of about sixty looked up. Her face was narrow with high cheekbones and her eyes were bright. This was a woman who was perceptive and would be hard to fool.

  Based on the premise that most people are helpful if you ask, Isobel said, “I was wondering if you could help me?”

  Politely the older woman inclined her head.

  “I’ve noticed a woman walking around who maybe lives near here. She’s about five foot seven with lovely blonde hair and is a beautiful dresser. I really admire how well she looks and dresses and –”

  The woman lifted an eyebrow as she openly surveyed Isobel’s height and shape.

  “Oh, it’s not for me!” said Isobel. “A friend of mine is a similar size and shape to the lady I described, and she’s been going through a rough time and I thought a makeover, a change of style, might help her.”

  She paused, wondering where this elaborate story sprang from and also if she had gone too far.

  “Oh, that will be Mrs Banks. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? And, funnily enough, not that interested in clothes.”

  Isobel affected a surprised but interested demeanour and, knowing that most people feel responsible for a silence and rush to fill it, she waited for her advisor to go on.

  “She came in one day and wandered round and you would think, looking so well, that she would know what to go for – but she was lost. In the end she showed me a photograph of herself and her husband all dressed for a night out and asked me if I could advise her on something more dramatic than the more conservative things she had for everyday wear, something in a similar style to the evening dress. At the time I had nothing suitable but I said I would order some things in for her.”

  “It sounds like you’re her stylist and personal shopper now, helping her with dress choices and styles?”

  The lady smiled and leant forward. “You wouldn’t believe how much of that I do.”

  Isobel frowned and waited.

  “More and more people come in now with pictures of celebrities in outfits or Kate Middleton at a function and want something similar. They all just show me a photo on their phone.”

  “How do you keep track of the different people and their size and style and colour?”

  “Oh, I use my phone too. Sometimes I can bring up images of other dresses to show them. It’s very handy.”

  Isobel hoped that she wasn’t pushing too hard now. “Could you show me the sort of thing that would suit that lady I mentioned . . . and hopefully my friend too.”

  “Well, like most people she texted me a photo. In fact, she only sent one – most people want to send a number.”

  With some deft swishes on her phone she proffered it to Isobel.

  “What a lovely couple!”

  “That’s what I thought but unfortunately they’re getting divorced.”

  “You certainly couldn’t tell from the picture.”

  “No, and she said it was very recent.”

  “Really? That dress is gorgeous on her. Have you been able to find similar things for daywear then?”

  “Yes, a similar shape which flatters her figure.”

  “I do think my friend would look good in this sort of style.”

  “The new stock should be here later this week.” The assistant paused expectantly.

  Isobel thought quickly. A photo of Anne Banks would be handy but she hadn’t thought to get one earlier.

  “Perhaps I could have a copy of the photo?” she said. “Just to show my friend what I’m suggesting for her and how well she could look?”

  No reaction, no response.

  “And when the stock comes in we could come back . . .” She tailed off then and waited, looking as innocent as possible, despite her lies.

  The dress advisor looked at her speculatively and then conceded, “Well, that photo was taken at some event they were at so it’s probably on the internet. I suppose it would be OK to let you have it.”

  “Thank you so much!” Isobel made a mental note to get Patricia to see if either Mr or Mrs Banks had an online presence with more photos.

  Quickly, the photo was texted to Isobel’s phone.

  “That delivery will be in this Friday. Hopefully you can come back with your friend at the weekend.”

  “Yes, hopefully.”

  On this mutually beneficial note Isobel took her leave.

  Isobel’s next port of call was the family home in Wimbledon. At the nearby Tube station she got a taxi and asked to be driven past the Banks’ address. “I’m looking for a house and my friend thought that this one, or something similar, might float my boat – apparently it’s beautiful.”

  “I think you’re wasting your time, but I’ll take you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Er, thank you.” Maybe she’d pushed it too much with the beautiful house story.

  She looked out the window as she travelled through the busy streets of London. There were so many people, all so busy, all going somewhere, such a contrast to the inactivity she had become used to. She could feel a tension in her stomach just being around all of this activity.

  Before long the taxi driver pulled up at an address.

  “That’s it there, love. I reckon she was taking the piss.”

  Isobel looked at the elaborate gates and high walls and the hint of a rooftop. No wonder he’d been dubious about her story.

  Isobel laughed. “I think you’re right but since I’m here I’m going to explore the area. Maybe I can find something and have the last laugh. Just drop me further up.”

  Isobel walked back past the Banks’ property. The gate was solid metal and had a see-through panel high up. Standing on tiptoe, she could see that the garden was sizeable and the house detached. This was a very affluent area and each property was unique. Isobel was perturbed. Surely in this amicable agreement Mrs Banks could move to a house nearby rather than rent a flat? Maybe the rental was a temporary step until they decided where was best for her to live or something suitable came up.

  She decided to call on the neighbours and see if she could glean any information.

  The house next door appeared more accessible, with lower walls and gate and an abundance of flowers which softened it. There was a silver car parked in the drive and Isobel hoped that meant that there was someone at home. While she waited for the door to be answered she admired the roses in bloom, wafting a delicate fragrance into the air. Planters with a profusion of violas, pansies and petunias abounded, making a rainbow of colour and giving a cheerful look to the front. An orchestra of insects gave a steady hum as they danced amongst the flowers.

  Hearing the door open, she turned around to face the short, white-haired lady framed in the doorway. She was maybe seventy but her spritely welcome gave the impression of someone younger. Her eyes were direct and Isobel suspected that her diminutive stature was matched with a formidable intelligence.

  Filled with genuine enthusiasm, Isobel said, “Oh, your flowers are beautiful!”

  Immediately the older lady smiled back at her. “Thank you.” She waited with her hand on the door surround.

  Isobel decided to take a risk based on a shared love of flowers. She knew also that sometimes you had to give a little bit of information to get some.

  “Hi, my name is Isobel McKenzie. I’m a friend of Anne’s.” She smiled. “From Irelan
d.”

  “I gathered as much from your accent.”

  Isobel could feel her smile faltering. “I’ve been concerned about her and her husband and son. I know she’s moved out and I’m worried about how she’s doing, how they’re all doing really.” She winced.

  “I haven’t seen you around before visiting Anne . . .”

  Isobel grimaced. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

  “But then they never were fond of visitors.”

  Isobel smiled. “No, they weren’t.” She tried again. “I’ve spoken to Anne very recently and while she has told me all about the divorce and her problems –” she made a face, “I saw her yesterday and I find myself very concerned . . .” She could feel a real lump in her throat and she gave a wobbly smile. “I’m sorry, I’m probably not making much sense . . . you see, I was in London for some business and, after seeing Anne and feeling worried, I thought that if I spoke to someone else who knew her it might reassure me . . . I’m not just being nosy . . . I’m genuinely concerned.”

  There was a silence as the older lady regarded her.

  Isobel shook her head. “I’m sorry, this was a bad idea. I’ll just go. Please forgive me for disturbing you – and please don’t mention to Anne that I called as it would only upset her. It was silly of me.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait!”

  Isobel turned back.

  “You’re a friend of Anne’s?”

  “Yes.” Isobel wondered how far she could stretch the truth.

  “And you’re worried about her?”

  “Yes. I suppose I thought if I talked to someone who knew her on a more daily basis, not just from the phone or Skype, and who might understand her better, that it might help me when I’m talking to her . . .” And that was literally the truth, Isobel thought.

  With a small nod the older woman gestured to her to come in.

  “I’m Grace Allen and I’m worried too.”

  Isobel stepped in, feeling a mixture of anxiety and relief.

  Turning, Grace Allen led the way down the hall into a big and bright kitchen at the back of the house with open doors to a sunroom. The view of the back garden was stunning, with more colourful flowers and shrubs and an area for growing vegetables in beautifully raised beds.

  Isobel crossed to the windows of the sunroom, absorbing the wonder of the garden. “Oh, wow! This is amazing. I am so jealous. My garden never looks as tidy as this.”

  Grace smiled as she poured water from a jug with floating mint and lemon. She handed Isobel a glass and gestured for her to sit down.

  Isobel suspected that she had struck gold – a precise lady who was lonely and therefore eager to talk and, if she was to be believed, was worried too.

  Grace stared into the distance and then she straightened her shoulders,

  “I first met Anne Banks ten years ago when they bought next door. I’m old-fashioned so I called over to meet them and take them an apple tart I’d baked. Anne invited me in. We had a cup of tea and some tart and chatted. She was unpacking and was all excited, telling me about her wonderful husband, their honeymoon and how happy she was. Then we heard the door opening and Anne suddenly jumped up and ran out into the hall. I was surprised. I heard some whispers and then her husband came in with Anne beside him. She seemed different. She was all apologetic, explaining that we’d lost track of time and so the dinner wasn’t ready. It could’ve just been a new wife fussing about housework, but I was a bit uncomfortable. I left shortly after that and the next day I bumped into her as she was coming back from the shops. She set down her bags to say hello and we chatted briefly and when she picked them up again she winced. I asked her if she was in pain and she passed it off as having hurt her back, lifting boxes. She was a different woman from the open chatty one I had met the day before. I asked if she was all right and she told me that she was tired from all the unpacking. A week later I called over but she was on her way out. I tried a couple of times more but she was always busy or there was something on.I was never in the house again.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. Oh, I bumped into her sometimes at the shops and, would you believe, we even used to go for coffee? She chatted away about the house and decorating.”

  “So she was happy to meet if it was elsewhere?”

  “Yes, in fact I would say that she was lonely and was glad to have some company. Very soon she fell pregnant and she talked openly and excitedly about being a parent, about motherhood. I’m a retired social worker so she was keen for me to tell her anything that would help her to be a good mother. But she never said anything about her marriage or about Thomas.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Of course I did. Initially I asked too many questions and she just used to say, ‘Oh, let’s talk about ourselves not men.’ After a while I realised that I learned more if I slipped in subtle questions like, ‘Is Thomas pleased about the baby?’. She might let something slip then but never if I asked directly about him. The conversations she was having with me were the ones you have with your girlfriends, or family. She wouldn’t plan any coffees with me but if we bumped into each other she would have one. She seemed so lonely that I used to pretend to bump into her.” She paused. “When she had the baby she was ecstatic. I decided to call to the house and deliver a present. She chatted on the front doorstep, thanking me and saying how happy she was but she didn’t ask me in. I got the message. I was welcome but not inside.”

  “How odd.”

  Grace nodded. “Her mother and sister did come when the baby was born. They stayed in a hotel nearby for a few days. I happened to see them all when they were having coffee in the shopping centre nearby. I stopped to say hello. Eventually Anne went to the mothers’ room to change little Tommy’s nappy and her sister told me that she was worried, that they never got to see her, and that Anne had changed. At a later stage I asked Anne about her family and she said that they weren’t close and so she didn’t see them very often.”

  Isobel frowned.

  Grace nodded. “I know, but families are complicated and it is hard to know what is really going on.”

  Isobel raised her eyebrows and almost smiled. “Ain’t that the truth?”

  Grace gave a half-smile. “When Tommy was about ten months old I saw her out in the front garden. I was walking past and the gates were open. I called out and when she turned I saw that she had a black eye. Needless to say, I enquired about it and she said that she’d banged into an open kitchen cupboard. Well, that’s such a cliché, so eventually one day when I’d bumped into her in town and we were having coffee I asked her outright if she was being beaten or bullied.”

  Isobel leant forward. “What did she say?”

  Grace shrugged. “She denied any problems and was shocked that I would even think of asking her that. Oh, she still met me and talked about Tommy, but she wouldn’t hear a word against Thomas. In fact she went out of her way to drop in facts that showed how good to her he was. In the end I wondered if I was imagining the few things I’d seen or if I had been misinterpreting them. Sometimes, when you’re too long on a job like mine, you start seeing problems everywhere. But, on the other hand, there was a child involved and so one last time, when Tommy was older, I did bring the subject round to Thomas and how he treated her and asked if he was ever controlling or – well, I didn’t get any further. Anne was so upset that I could even suggest such a thing. That kind of put the tin lid on it. She just avoided me after that or kept things to a minimum.”

  Isobel chewed her lip.

  “Over the years, Thomas always saluted me and was pleasant but somehow always made it clear that I should keep my distance. He was never rude, just unwelcoming. In the end I accepted that they were very private people. Then, out of the blue, a few months ago, he arrived at my door one evening. He asked if he could talk to me and seemed agitated and upset. Needless to say, I said yes and invited him in. That night he confided that Anne had a secret drink problem that he’d just found out about. He claimed that so
metimes she had bruises and when he’d ask she’d say she’d bumped into things but he now realised that it happened when she was drunk. He said that he’d thought she was happy and she seemed to be functioning, but that actually during the day when Tommy was at school she drank. She drank vodka so he had never smelt anything. The school isn’t far away so she walked round to pick up Tommy. She wasn’t aggressive or falling-down drunk, but her drinking was escalating and she was more and more depressed. He had noticed that and so he came home from work early, because he was concerned, and that’s when he found Anne at lunchtime, passed out on the sofa, with the vodka bottle on the floor. Apparently this was her pattern, to drink all morning, then sleep it off and so be hungover collecting Tommy.”

  “Were you shocked?”

  “Well, yes, I was. All along I wondered if he was off in some way and suddenly here I was hearing that Anne was the one who had been causing problems. He said that they rowed for weeks but eventually they both admitted that there was a problem and he persuaded Anne to go into rehab for a month. Apparently she did well there but their marriage had been badly damaged and Thomas felt that he just couldn’t cope with things any more. When she left rehab she moved into a flat so she could have the space and time to focus on her recovery. Thomas said they were going to divorce as he’d had enough. Anne was going to aftercare and AA meetings but, as far as he knew, it was going to take time. He said that at the moment Tommy wasn’t seeing her but hopefully, in the future, Anne would be ready and able for that.” She paused.

  Isobel nodded and waited.

  Grace took a deep breath. “Well, the first thing I said was that Tommy must miss his mum because they were always so close. Thomas got upset and said he was very worried about Tommy and how he’d been affected by Anne and her drinking. He said they were giving Anne a chance to get sober and find her feet and then they were hoping to have visits so that Tommy could get used to the new arrangement.”

  Isobel said, “So they’re making plans for the future and are trying to balance everything.”

  Grace made a face. “Maybe.”

  “Go on.”