Hidden Depths by Ann Cleeves Page A

from her and looked up into her face.
    ‘Mum,’ he said, his voice quite controlled now, just a little unsteady as if he was struggling for breath. ‘What’s Miss Marsh doing in the pond?’
    And that was when she saw quite clearly that it was Lily.

 
Chapter Eleven
     
    They were all sitting at a long table on the veranda at Fox Mill. It was dark and the scene was lit by fairy lights, which Felicity must have strung up along the outside of the house earlier in the day, and one fat candle, almost burned down now. Gary was feeling seriously weird. He thought this could be a stage set. Opera. The whole evening had that sense of melodrama. He could imagine some fat lass wandering in and belting out a tune, arms outstretched towards the dark garden. He sometimes did the sound for opera at the City Hall. Bits of it he quite enjoyed, but it was so over the top that you could never pretend it was real, could you?
    He was drunk. He’d made an effort to cut down lately. It wasn’t like the old days, just after Emily had left him. Then, the only time he was properly sober was when he was out birding. But tonight he had an excuse. Peter’s birthday. And being involved in a murder. He pictured the body, spread out like a starfish just under the water, covered with flowers. It made him think of a collage, something you might see hanging on the wall in the Baltic Art Gallery in Gateshead. Bits of net and lace cut into pieces, seaweed and shells. Beautiful. If you liked that sort of thing. He reached out and topped up his glass from a bottle of red, pleased that his hand didn’t shake and none of it spilled.
    Felicity served the meal and it was amazing, just as it always was. A big pot of chicken smelling of lemon and herbs. He didn’t know anyone else who could cook like her. Since he’d met up with Peter, he’d thought this was what he wanted – not just the food, of course, but the family, the wife. That was what he’d imagined when he’d proposed to Emily. Now he wondered if it was all too good to be true. It was as though they were part of a show. The Calvert family at home. I could do the sound, he thought, and imagined clipping the mic into the top of that simple black dress she was wearing. Her skin would still be warm. He’d be close enough to smell her perfume, the shampoo she used. He thought they’d all had dreams about Felicity, especially when she was younger. Even now they all fancied her. Sometimes he caught Clive staring at her, his mouth slightly open. He wondered if Clive had ever had a woman. Gary had offered to take him into town a couple of times, but Clive always refused. Perhaps he preferred fantasies of Felicity to the real thing.
    It was late to be eating, even for him and he was used to meals at strange times. They’d had to wait for the police to arrive at the lighthouse, explain who they were, give their names and addresses. Then there’d been the walk home. Across the table from him, James, Felicity’s son, was almost falling asleep over his food. The boy roused himself at one point to talk about the dead woman.
    ‘What do you think happened to her?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Felicity said. ‘Some dreadful accident.’
    Gary knew that wasn’t true. All the adults knew it was no accident. The flowers showed this death had been intended.
    ‘If she’d come to live in the cottage,’ James said sulkily, ‘she’d have been able to help me with my homework.’
    Gary didn’t know what lay behind that comment and was too pissed to work it out. Felicity persuaded James to bed then. She put her arm around him, almost carried him into the house, and the men were left alone. Somewhere behind them a tawny owl screamed in the tall oaks up the lane. The dark shadows of bats flew in and out of the light. Other occasions, other birthdays, this was the time Gary loved best. The four of them sitting together after the meal, relaxed in a way he could be with no one else, sometimes quiet, sometimes