Shadows of the Past Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  SHADOWS OF THE PAST

  LEAH HOPE

  Copyright © Leah Hope 2018

  Leah Hope has asserted her right under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2018.

  A CIP catalogue record for his book is available from the British Library

  Cover design by ebook-designs.co.uk

  Chapter One

  Bridget Honeyman and her brother Gil were enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning in their kitchen in Whytecliffe-on-Sea. Remnants of a fried breakfast remained on the plates stacked near the dishwasher, ready for loading later. Their usual Sunday newspaper, which now ran to a mind-boggling seven sections, was spread over the entire surface of the pine table. Gil poured over the sports pages, making tut-tutting noised as he ran his eyes over the cricket scores. Bridget knew better than to ask about the cause of his disapproval as history had taught her that where cricket was concerned, things rarely went smoothly.

  “Top my coffee up would you please Gil, there’s a love” said Bridget idly, without looking up.

  Gil looked up at his sister over the top of his reading glasses that were perched precariously near the end of his nose. The look on his face spoke volumes and he needed no words to convey his irritation.

  “I only asked because you’re much nearer the pot than me!” said Bridget, less than pleased with her brother’s response.

  Without speaking and turning his attention back to his paper, Gil reached out an arm and placed the coffee pot in front of Bridget.

  Filling up her mug, Bridget settled herself down to tackle the crossword. The omnibus edition of The Archers was on in the background but, not content with carrying out two tasks at once, thoughts of their evening meal were also running through her head. The secret of a roast was in the timings Bridget always said, so although an accomplished cook, she liked to have a schedule to work to. She and Gil usually ate between seven and eight, depending on whether her brother would be spending any time on garage business or not. Although the garage was closed on Sundays, he always liked to look over the accounts at the weekend.

  “Half seven ok for you tonight?” she inquired.

  “Yes fine, I need to spend an hour or so on the figures but I should be done by then.”

  Gil had built up his successful garage business from scratch. It had given them a comfortable standard of living in recent years and he was now in the enviable position of being able to choose how many hours to put in. He owed his semi-retirement to Mick Sumner, his senior mechanic and manager, to whom he had now largely handed over the day-to-day running of the business. A mechanic at heart though, Gil felt he hadn’t done an honest day’s work unless he got grease on his hands. The accounts however were another matter. Whilst Mick was fully capable of dealing with all aspects of the business, Gil liked to study the figures himself. He put this down to advice his and Bridget’s bank-manager father had instilled into them both from an early age. Although this could be summarized by “look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves” it was advice that had served brother and sister well. A match for Gil’s financial prudence, Bridget ran the household with a rigour that any finance minister would be proud of. She would however have taken serious issue with anyone who interpreted this as frugality. She saw to it that she and Gil ate well, but not extravagantly. Her mother would have described it as “keeping a good table”. Preferring to shop daily at the local market and small independent shops rather than at supermarkets, Bridget knew where, and when, the best bargains were to be had. Gil was in awe of her financial acumen.

  “It’s no good” said Bridget half an hour later as she put down her empty mug, “I’m going to have to get the dictionary.” Regarding herself as a crossword purist, she fervently believed that using any form of reference book was tantamount to cheating and resorted to them only rarely. “Fourteen across is the key to the whole puzzle and if I can’t get that, then I’m stuck.”

  Still wearing her dressing-gown and slippers, Bridget padded across the hallway to the study which lay across from the kitchen at the back of the house. Little did she know that she was about to set in train a series of events which would reveal far more than the solution to fourteen across.

  *

  The house, or “villa” as her mother Sylvia had rather grandly preferred to call it, was handily located half way along The Esplanade, just a few minutes’ walk from the beach and Whytecliffe’s main shopping area. Built in the Edwardian style, it had a living room and dining room at the front and the kitchen and study at the back, overlooking the garden. The upstairs layout matched downstairs giving three equally sized bedrooms and a much larger than average sized bathroom. As befitted houses of the period, all the rooms benefited from high ceilings. Bridget was undecided if these were a blessing or a curse as while they gave the rooms a light and airy feel, in winter they were decidedly difficult and expensive to heat.

  The study had, in Bridget’s memory, always been a very male domain. Used first and foremost by her father, Frederick, and now by her brother. Why she had allowed this state of affairs to continue unquestioningly, she didn’t know, or more importantly, didn’t care. It was such a dark and unwelcoming room that she seldom spent any more time there than she had to. When Bridget looked back at how it had all started, she wouldn’t quite be able to recall exactly what it was that made her view the room that morning with fresh eyes. Since it made for an amusing anecdote, she would however tell anyone who listened that it was the enormous spider in the corner above the window that first attracted her attention. Bridget hated dust, and spiders and their cobwebs with a vengeance. Experience told her there was rarely just a single cobweb; there would be others that must be tracked down and dealt with.

  Picking up the dictionary from one of the lower bookshelves adjacent to the fireplace, Bridget flopped down on the old leather chesterfield opposite and scanned the room for evidence of spider activity. Satisfied that she had spotted them all she made a mental note of the position of each cobweb for removal later. In the short time that it took her to cross the hallway from the study to re-installing herself once more at the kitchen table, Bridget had an epiphany moment.

  She glanced across at her brother who had by now finished with the sports pages and had moved on to the financial section. Sensing that he was paying only cursory attention to the pages in front of him, Bridget seized her moment. When she needed to have a serious conversation with Gil, a lifetime had taught her that timing was everything. Pick the wrong moment and all she would get would be a series of grunts, or even worse, patronizing “yes dears” or “no dears”. So it wasn’t so much that she feared a negative response from Gil but rather that she would get no response at all.
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  Here goes, she told herself, folding her arms on the table. “We really must do something about the study Gil, it’s such a dreary, depressing room.”

  “What’s that?” said Gil, without looking up, clearly oblivious to what Bridget had said.

  “Gil, could you please put your paper down for a few minutes, there’s something I want to run past you.”

  “Sounds serious” said Gil as he folded his paper and looked up at his sister at last.

  “No not at all, far from it. I said that we need to do something about the study, or rather I would like to do something about the study.”

  “It looks ok to me, besides, you hardly ever spend any time in there.”

  “Exactly, that’s my point. It’s so depressing I can’t wait to get out. It hasn’t been touched for years and looks just like it did when Dad was alive, apart from your computer of course. I was thinking when I popped in just now that maybe we could move things round a bit to make room for a TV. The room’s big enough and I’m sure we could make better use of the space. I know I tend to read or listen to the radio rather than watch TV but there are times when you’re watching something that I have absolutely no interest in, or I would prefer to watch something else. A separate room would solve that, either you or I could use the study. So what do you think?”

  “Yeah, I suppose, that would make sense, but if it’s just another TV you’re after I could pick one up this week. Problem solved!”

  “It needs a full make-over Gil, sticking a new TV in the corner won’t improve the ambiance, or whatever the word is, it would still be a dreary room. It needs brightening up, painting, new curtains, or maybe blinds, and as for that old carpet….”

  “Mum and Dad paid a fortune for that, it’s 100% wool you know.”

  “Yes but over 50 years ago! I agree it’s lasted well, you get what you pay for with some things, but it’s almost threadbare under the desk where feet have been. Besides, dark green isn’t my favourite colour. We could……”

  “Ok, ok, I agree, just do what you want with it Bridge. You’ve got a better eye for this sort of thing than me. You choose the colour scheme, as long as it’s not pink!”

  “I thought Henry Ford said black?”

  “Same difference.”

  *

  Bridget’s mind was abuzz for the rest of the day with ideas for the makeover. Gil had been at great pains to point out that since the room faced north, there was very little that could be done to warm it up. Bridget loved a challenge and she spent hours thumbing through magazines and on-line websites looking for inspiration to prove her brother wrong. After changing her mind for the umpteenth time, she finally settled on a colour scheme. The walls would be repainted a sunny yellow and the woodwork would be brilliant white. The green carpet, along with the matching heavy velvet curtains would be replaced with stripped floorboards and roman blinds. This would give the room a light, contemporary feel, or at least she hoped it would.

  That’s the easy bit done though, she thought, but the tricky part would be deciding on what to do with the furniture. She didn’t want to make this decision on her own, not this one; she and Gil would need to be in complete agreement. Bridget glanced at the clock, time to get the roast in the oven she thought to herself as she got to her feet. Bridget wasn’t sure if a huge Sunday roast and the best part of a bottle of wine between them was conducive to harmonious discussions but this wouldn’t wait. She needed a decision; a way forward after all these years.

  Chapter Two

  Frederick Honeyman, husband of Sylvia and father to Gil and Bridget had been the victim of a hit-and-run accident on Christmas Eve almost thirty-five years ago. He had been knocked down by a vehicle on his way home from work at the bank. He had died instantly. The event changed all their lives for ever. Sylvia was never the same again and neither was Bridget, who unhesitatingly gave up a promising career as a pastry chef to look after her mother. Gil’s life changed too, ironically for the better, after Sylvia gave him the money to start up his own garage business. What use was money to her now? She had said.

  But what had haunted the family most after the initial shock was where the accident had occurred. Fareham Place was a small terraced street on the outskirts of Whytecliffe and almost as far from The Esplanade as it was possible to be. Frederick’s usual journey home from the bank shouldn’t have taken him anywhere near Fareham Place. All sorts of explanations had been discussed and almost immediately discounted as being totally out of character for such a pillar of respectability. Frederick had been a creature of habit and the only variation to his commute was whether he walked (his usual preference), or whether he took the car. The weather usually solved this dilemma for him. As far as his family were concerned, his route never altered, it never needed to. If there was anything he needed from the shops, he would pop out in his lunch-break, usually for cigarettes, peppermints or both. As manager of the Whytecliffe branch, Frederick sought to lead by example and resolutely remained in his office until precisely six o’clock every day; half-days due to a bank holiday being the exception. Consequently everywhere was shut by the time he left for home so a spot of shopping was an unlikely explanation for his sudden detour. On the day he was killed, the bank was due to close its doors at midday, along with most of the shops and businesses in the town. Each of the six members of staff who had been working that day recounted exactly the same chain of events to the police. Mr Honeyman had locked the door to his office as the town hall clock struck twelve. The last anyone had seen of him was when he ushered them through the bank’s outer doors, wishing them all a merry Christmas as he did so. To all intents and purposes he would follow them out to spend the festive season with his family.

  But was this a bluff, did he retreat back into the now, empty bank? If so, what could have been his motives? Gil and Bridget had driven themselves almost to breaking point trying to make sense of it. But the harder they tried, the worse it got. None of it made any sense at all. There had been witnesses to the accident but regrettably for the police investigation, they hadn’t even been able to agree on the colour of the car. Despite a thorough search, including extensive enquires made by Gil himself through his contacts in the motor trade, no damaged vehicle was found; no suspect was ever identified. Whilst the police never officially closed the file, Gil and Bridget were reluctantly forced to accept that the mystery might never be solved and that they should let it go, for the sake of their sanity if nothing else. Sadly for their mother, it was already too late.

  After the funeral, Sylvia took to her bed, a broken woman who would never be the same again. Since Frederick had left the family finances in an order befitting his profession, Gil concluded that the logical step would be to employ a full-time carer for her. After all, they could comfortably afford it. Bridget, however, had other ideas. She refused point-blank to allow a “stranger” to do what she saw as her duty as a daughter. What’s more, she would continue to work full-time. However, after a few months Bridget had to admit defeat, worn down by Sylvia’s increasingly demanding behaviour. At the tender age of twenty-five, she gave up the job she loved at the Regent, Whytecliffe’s most prominent hotel, to become her mother’s full-time carer. Gil would forever be in his sister’s debt.

  Chapter Three

  Bridget couldn’t wait to get started on the study. Gil left early the following morning on a trip to Southampton with Mick to buy some badly needed new diagnostic equipment for the garage. Bridget took advantage of being able to get breakfast out of the way by eight. With Gil gone, she threw open the door of the study and looked around the room. She now had a clear picture in her mind of how she wanted the room to look but there was a lot to do before she could get to the “fun bit”, as she put it.

  The previous evening’s discussions had gone remarkably well, despite Bridget’s earlier apprehension. Gil would however later insist that Bridget plied him mercilessly with whisky to dull his reasoning powers. His sister of course insisted that nothing could be further from the
truth. Surprisingly, they had common ground. Both agreed that they would keep Frederick’s oak desk, used now as Gil’s “work station” for his computer. It was a solid piece of furniture and despite a couple of scorch marks from their father’s numerous cigarettes and the odd scratch or two, it was still very serviceable. The same went for the leather chesterfield sofa. It had barely been used and whilst clearly not new, it remained extremely comfortable. Whilst Gil had some doubts about hanging on to it, Bridget had sounded very convincing in her argument that it was the epitome of “shabby chic” and even though he had no idea what that meant, Gil went along with her decision.

  The sticking point however had come when they came to the question of Sylvia’s piano, as Bridget feared it might. The subject had come up several times over the years but it had never been resolved. It hadn’t needed to be. Although neither Gil nor Bridget played the instrument, it wasn’t taking up valuable space and besides, where else would they put the family photographs? Sylvia had been an accomplished, but not a naturally gifted pianist. Like everything else in her life, she’d had to work hard for her achievements. Her love of opera was very dear to her heart and Gil and Bridget grew up to the sounds of their mother’s favourite arias ringing in their ears. Sylvia had desperately wanted at least one of her children to learn to play. Gil flatly refused, despite the promise of a new bike, tempting as it was. Whilst not exactly brimming with enthusiasm for piano lessons, a seven year old Bridget had bravely agreed to give them a try. Although eminently suitable, not only as a pianist but as a primary school teacher, to instruct her daughter, Sylvia wisely decided to opt for a qualified piano teacher. However, any expectations she may have held that her daughter had inherited at least some of musical ability, were short-lived. Whether it was down to Bridget’s chubby fingers, or, more likely, her sheer terror when she spotted Mrs Franks striding briskly up the front path on Sunday afternoons, the lessons ended abruptly four short weeks after they had begun. All hadn’t been quite lost however. Sylvia had been thrilled that Bridget inherited her love of opera, even if she did prefer to listen to it on the radio.