A Dish Served Cold Read online

  “At least you’ve got the money from the safe,” Sylvia pointed out. “And he owed you that.”

  “I know,” agreed Pam, “that’s what I thought. But it’ll have made Roger even angrier, and it won’t last for ever.”

  “Look,” said Sylvia, “I love having you here, so you don’t have to worry about somewhere to stay.”

  “That’s very kind,” Pam began, “but I wouldn’t want to impose…”

  “You’re not,” Sylvia said firmly. “Now, term ends next week, and I shall have two and a half weeks holiday. At least stay till I break up, and then we’ll set to work to get you sorted. I’ve a good friend who’s a solicitor. I’m not sure he handles divorce work, but he’ll certainly be able to put us on to someone who does. We can go and see him together if you don’t want to go alone, and we can make sure he has all the details about your mum’s house, and about how you stayed at home to help bring up Roger’s daughter.”

  “I couldn’t have done anything else,” Pam pointed out sadly.

  “Of course you could,” Sylvia said roundly. “Don’t be such a wimp! You could easily have trained for something or gone to university or college if he hadn’t tied you down. Don’t worry, any good divorce lawyer will know the sort of things to mention. As soon as I break up, we’ll go to see David Watson and set things in motion. In the meantime you just let yourself relax and begin to enjoy life. Let dear Rog stew in his own juice.” She smiled across at her friend. “I know you’re worried your money will run out, but you do need to spend a little. You need some more clothes for a start. Why don’t you go into Belcaster and do some retail therapy.”

  “Retail therapy?”

  “Shopping, Pam! Go to Marks and buy some more underwear. If you wash the two pairs of knickers you’ve got with you any more they’ll fall to bits. And you need a decent pair of walking shoes…another pair of trousers…and a sweater. You don’t need to spend a fortune, but you’ll be amazed at the lift some new clothes will give you.”

  Pam decided to take Sylvia’s advice, and the very next day she caught the bus into Belcaster. Apart from when she’d arrived at the station she had never been there, and when the bus deposited her at the Crosshills Shopping Centre, she entered it with a feeling of anticipation.

  For a long time she simply wandered round the centre, window shopping. It was so lovely to be able to take her time looking and not to have to account for every minute she was away. There were indoor fountains playing at either end of the mall, and she sat down at a little chromium table beside one of them and had a cappuccino and a Danish, an extravagance she would never have allowed herself before. Sitting there, watching the people moving purposefully about her, she began to feel purposeful too. She made herself a list of what she thought she might buy, and by the time she had drunk her coffee, the list was quite long and she set off into the shops with real intent.

  When Pam arrived back into St Jude’s Cottage that evening loaded with carrier bags, Sylvia hardly recognised her.

  “Wow,” she cried as she surveyed her changed friend, taking in the slim-fit blue jeans, the red silk shirt and the newly-styled and coloured hair, “You bought more than some new knickers!”

  Pam laughed. “Well, once I got going there seemed to be so much to do. Sorry I’m so late back, I missed the bus and had to wait for the last one.”

  “You should have rung me,” Sylvia said as she opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. “I’d have picked you up after school.”

  “Not using my mobile,” Pam reminded her, “and anyway I’m quite happy using the bus.” She dumped the rest of her parcels on the kitchen table and flopped into a chair. “I’ve had a lovely day,” she said. “I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun.”

  Sylvia poured them a glass of wine each and then sat down across the table. “Come on,” she said, “let’s see what else you bought.”

  Pam opened one of the bags and pulled out some underwear, three matching sets in silky navy, frothy cream and slinky black.

  “Roger always insisted I wore white underclothes,” she said as she spread them out on the table for Sylvia to see. “One time I bought some black lace panties and he threw them on the fire.”

  “He what?” Sylvia was incredulous.

  “Threw them on the fire and called me a tart.” She stood up and stretched out a denim-clad leg. “How about these? My first ever jeans,” she said. “Mum never let me have any, and nor did Roger.” She grinned, “I nearly told that to the stick-insect shop-girl, but she’d have thought I was batty.”

  “I love you hair,” Sylvia said. “It looks really great. Where did you have it done?”

  Pam shrugged, “I didn’t notice the name, some salon in the shopping centre.” She touched the hair lying smooth on her forehead. “It’s called mink. The girl there, Sandra, said I should cover up all the little grey tell-tales and I’d look much younger.”

  “She was right,” Sylvia said. “Not a grey tell-tale in sight. You look fantastic, Pam.”

  When she had admired the nightie, the sweater, the jacket and the trousers and the shoes, Sylvia said, “You really have had a spree. Good for you.”

  That night, as Pam lay in bed in the room with the deep-set windows that overlooked the orchard, she thought about the things she had done that day, things which she had not done since she was a child…or ever. She’d eaten an ice cream in the street, banned by her mother as ‘common’; she’d bought and worn jeans; she’d had a McDonalds; she’d coloured her hair; she’d bought a lottery ticket; she’d had a cappuccino and a sticky Danish pastry; she’d bought delightful underwear and she’d spent almost all day in a shopping mall. Thus she started a new and delightful game, a game she came to play with spiteful glee, doing things to infuriate Roger.

  “I know it’s very petty, really,” she admitted to Sylvia when she told her, “it’s not even as if he knows.”

  “But it’s revenge, of a sort,” Sylvia supplied. “Do you want revenge?”

  “No,” laughed Pam. “Not really.” But if she were honest with herself, she found she did. Roger had controlled her, bullied her, on occasion terrified her, and made her life hell for eighteen years; the hatred that had crystallised within her the day that she left was still there, still at the centre of her being, cold and hard; a core of ice.

  Chapter 6

  Roger came home one evening to find a strange woman waiting for him. As he turned into the drive she got out of a car that was parked in the road and followed him to the door. She was tall, built on Amazonian lines and she towered over him. He disliked her on sight.

  “Good evening,” she said, her voice deep and resonant. “Are you Roger Smith?”

  “Yes, I am,” Roger’s tone was decidedly discouraging. “Who wants to know?”

  The woman extended her hand and said, “I’m Marilyn Ross, Pam’s friend.”

  Roger ignored the outstretched hand and said rudely, “So, what do you want?”

  “I want to see Pam,” she replied simply. “Is she at home?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I know that,” Marilyn agreed equably, “because I’ve been knocking on the door on and off since lunch time. What I meant is, will she be in soon?”

  “No.”

  “Mr Smith,” Marilyn began patiently, “where is Pam?”

  “If you’re the busybody who keeps ringing up,” growled Roger, “I told you the other day. Pam doesn’t live here anymore. Got that into your head? Pam does not live here. I don’t know where she is and I don’t care. Right?”

  Marilyn’s eyes narrowed a little at this answer, but she stuck to her guns and said, “When did she move out? When I rang last week your daughter, - Karen is it? - said that Pam was in France.”

  Roger scowled. “My daughter was mistaken.”

  “So where is she?” persisted Marilyn.

  “I really haven’t the faintest idea,” Roger replied dismissively. “She left several weeks ago and I haven’t heard from he
r since. Pam doesn’t live here anymore, OK? There, now you know, so you can get lost.” He opened the front door and going inside, slammed it in Marilyn’s face.

  Marilyn was not surprised to have it confirmed that Pam had left. Having had no contact with her since the day they had planned to meet in London and receiving no answers to her calls and messages, Marilyn had begun to be concerned for her.

  “I really am worried about her,” she confided to her husband, Paul. “That man she’s married to is a bastard…”

  “Hang on, Marilyn, you don’t know that…” he began, but she cut him short.

  “Yes, I do. She has one hell of a life. I told her she should leave, but she always said she had nowhere to go. I said she could come to us in the short-term and that’s what worries me. She seems to have disappeared, but she hasn’t come to us. I know we aren’t round the corner any more, but she hasn’t even phoned me. I’ve rung lots of times to her home number but there is never any reply and her mobile seems to be permanently switched off. I don’t like it, Paul.”

  “Look, if you’re that worried,” Paul had said, “Go down to Bristol and see her. Set your mind at rest. She may not have had any of your messages, you know.”

  “I know. But what I can’t understand is why she isn’t there at some part of the day. She always used to be.”

  “Well, go and see,” repeated Paul.

  When she’d arrived in Cardiff Road, Marilyn rang the bell and knocked on the door of number 12 for some time before she was convinced that there was no one inside. She stood looking up at the windows that faced blankly on to the street, her face held high so that if Pam were looking out, she would see clearly who her visitor was, but there was no sign of life. As she turned away she was addressed from next door.

  “There’s no one in,” said a woman who was standing in her own porch, watching her.

  “No, so I gather,” Marilyn said and moving over to the fence she said, “I’m looking for Pam. Have you seen her?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, not for weeks now. She’s gone and left him, and about time too, if you ask me.”

  “Left? When did she go?”

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t know exactly,” she said, “but the last time I heard them rowing was back in February. Twenty-sixth to be exact. I know that because it was our wedding anniversary and I was making a special dinner, like. I said to my Harry when he came home, I said ‘Another ding-dong next door. Shouting and slamming doors and that. That Roger doesn’t half bellow at her, poor thing.’ I said, ‘If you shouted at me like that I’d be long gone’ I said. He’s a nasty bit of work.” The woman came out of the porch and leaned on the fence. “We tried to make friends when we moved in here, and though she was a bit shy she was friendly enough at first. Him though, he wouldn’t have anything to do with us and then she began to keep herself to herself, like. You know her well then? Are you a relation? She ought to have help from her family, you know.”

  “No, I’m not family, just a friend, but I am worried about her,” Marilyn replied as the woman paused for breath. “I’m Marilyn Ross. I met her at a computer class a couple of years ago.”

  “Margaret Hillier,” said the woman, holding out a hand. “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee or tea. You’ll be waiting for Roger I expect.”

  It was indeed what Marilyn had decided to do and she accepted both the hand and the offer of tea. Perhaps this woman could tell her more about Pam’s disappearance and Marilyn wanted to know as much as she could before meeting Roger. She had never met him and wasn’t looking forward to it. She had considered trying to find his shop, but had decided against it. The shop wasn’t the place to ask Roger questions about his wife.

  They sat at the table in Margaret Hillier’s kitchen with cups of tea and chunks of fruit cake and Margaret happily poured out all she knew about the Smiths and their married life.

  “He threatened to kill her once, you know,” she confided. “I heard him. It was in the summer and they had their windows open. I was in the garden and heard him, calling her awful names he was. Then he said, ‘You stupid cow! How could you be so stupid? I’ll kill you for this, I swear I will.’”

  Marilyn was unimpressed by this and said, “But that’s the sort of thing anyone might say.”

  “So they might,” agreed Margaret conspiratorially, “but then she screamed and there was banging and crashing. I was all for ringing the police, but my Harry said it was nothing to do with us and better not to get involved. So I didn’t ring and then the noises stopped. But next day I did see her, Pam, as she was going to the shops. She had dark glasses on, but it wasn’t sunny, you know? I think she was hiding the bruises he’d given her. Anyway, I asked her if she wanted to come in and have a cup of coffee, but she said no she hadn’t got time. I didn’t press her,” Margaret said righteously, “if she didn’t want to confide in me that was up to her, wasn’t it? Though I think she did need a friend. Did she confide in you?”

  Marilyn, who could quite see why Pam hadn’t chosen this garrulous woman as a recipient of her confidences, said that she didn’t think that Pam had confided in anyone.

  “No, that’s what I thought,” agreed Margaret. “Still, it makes you wonder where she is now, doesn’t it? I reckon she’s got away from him at last and good luck to her, that’s what I say. Unless of course,” she added ghoulishly, “he has killed her. His first wife disappeared as well, you know; simply vanished.”

  Marilyn, who was just about to say that Roger actually killing Pam was highly unlikely and not a story Margaret should put about, looked startled at this last comment and said, “Did she? How do you know that?”

  “Oh, common knowledge,” Margaret replied airily. “Everyone round here knows that. I heard about it when we moved in, from neighbours further down the street. Don’t blame her, from what I’ve heard. Roger Smith has lived in his house for years, since before his daughter was born. And she’s another thing, right little madam she is, roaring around on that motor bike.” Margaret Hillier sniffed her disapproval. “Most unsuitable. Karen, her name is. Treated her step-mother like dirt, she did.” Margaret leaned over and refilled the teacups. “You know why I think Pam finally went? That day someone slammed out of the house, and I looked out of the window, you know as you would, and there was this blond walking away from the house. You know what I reckon?”

  Marilyn didn’t ask, she knew she was going to hear anyway.

  “I reckon he had his fancy piece in there with him when poor Pam came home, that’s what I reckon, and I don’t think I’ve seen her since then. Pam, I mean. That must have been the last straw for the poor soul. That’s why she left and I, for one, don’t blame her.”

  Marilyn didn’t have to ask any questions, the information such as she knew it, came flooding out of Margaret Hillier like a river bursting its banks. When at last this dried up Marilyn had heard all the details of what it was like to be the Smiths’ neighbours, about the dominance of Roger Smith over his wife, about the time the Hilliers did actually call the police and how nothing had come of it, and Margaret’s various theories as to what might have happened to Pam since she disappeared.

  “The thing is,” Margaret said finally, “I didn’t see her leave the house that day.”

  “Well, you might not have,” Marilyn pointed out. “You said you were cooking a special dinner for your wedding anniversary, I expect you had your mind on that.”

  “Maybe,” conceded Margaret, “but suppose she never did leave.”

  Marilyn made no comment to this but asked, “Which day was your anniversary?”

  “Twenty-sixth of February,” replied Margaret. “So, it was some time ago, wasn’t it?”

  Marilyn agreed it was, realising that it was the day when she and Pam had been supposed to meet in London; the day her mother had been taken ill and she’d rung Pam to cry off; the last time she had spoken to Pam.

  She looked at her watch and said, “I’m hoping Roger will be home from the shop so
on. I think I’d better wait in my car. I don’t want him to think I’ve been checking up on or gossiping about him.”

  Margaret looked shocked. “Oh no,” she said, “I never gossip, but I did think as a friend of Pam’s that you ought to know what had been happening.”

  “Thank you,” Marilyn had said as she picked up her handbag. “And thank you for the tea.” She smiled across at Margaret and walked to the door.

  “You will let me know if you find her, won’t you,” Margaret said, following her into the hall. “I’ve been very worried about her you know.”

  “Certainly,” Marilyn lied. “As soon as I know anything.”

  “Here’s my phone number,” Margaret said, scribbling it onto a piece of paper and pressing it into Marilyn’s hand. “Just so you can keep in touch.”

  Marilyn made her escape to the car and sat thinking about what she had heard. Most of it was pure speculation on Margaret Hillier’s part, but there must be elements of truth in her gossip. Marilyn had heard little about Pam’s home-life, but it was enough to confirm that she was afraid of her husband and from what Margaret had told her it sounded as if she were right to be.

  When she saw Roger pull into his drive Marilyn got out of the car and followed him to the front door. He was not what she had imagined at all. He was older than she had expected, and smaller. He stood not much higher than her shoulder, and his sallow face had the lines that discontent had etched onto it over the years. However, it was his eyes that she noticed most. From the moment she mentioned Pam they were alight with malevolence, and when the front door was finally slammed in her face, she found herself wondering how Pam could have stayed with such a man for so long. She even wondered briefly if Margaret had been right in her suggestion that he might have killed her. Though Marilyn was physically bigger than Roger, she had known a stab of fear as he’d faced her down and told her to get lost. She went back to her car and as she drove back to London, her brain was seething with all the information she had received that afternoon. Far from setting her mind at rest, her visit to Cardiff Road had alarmed her still further and she decided that she would discuss the problem with her brother, who still lived in the Bristol area, Inspector Gavin Crozier of the Avon and Somerset police.