The Anna McColl Mysteries Box Set 1

by Penny Kline

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘At least if they keep him in a day or two it’ll give us some breathing space.’

  What did I mean by ‘breathing space’? What was there to do during the next few days? Tell Luke’s parents what had happened, or was that none of my business? I needed to talk to Howard Fry. Road accidents were hardly the concern of the CID but a quick word with Uniformed Branch and he would be able to reassure me that the facts had been sorted out and a report written and filed. The inquest would be a formality. There was nothing to worry about except Luke’s state of mind and how best to help him come to terms with what had happened. If I said this to myself enough times I might almost believe it was true.

  The doctor arrived. She was young, in her late twenties, with very short hair and large dangly ear-rings. I showed her up to Luke’s room, trying to explain the situation as she raced up the stairs ahead of me.

  Luke sat bolt upright on the edge of the bed which he had pushed against the far wall. He was smiling to himself and gazing into his cupped hands as though they held something delicate, alive.

  ‘Hallo, Luke. My name’s Dr Overton.’ Her tone of voice raised my hackles immediately but Luke gazed at her as though she was the one person in the whole world he really wanted to see.

  She sat beside him on the bed. ‘How are you feeling? Managed to get any sleep?’

  Luke leaned across and lifted a tooth mug from the window sill, offering it to her as though it were a precious gift. Ignoring the mug she tried again.

  ‘You’ve had a very unpleasant experience and it’s understandable you’re feeling upset. I’m going to give you something that’ll calm you down.’

  She rested her black attaché case on the bed, clicked open the catch and hunted through the various pockets. Eventually she found a prescription pad, took a ballpoint pen from her inside pocket and started writing at breakneck speed.

  ‘He was awake during the night, was he?’

  I nodded. ‘He stayed up here most of the time but I could hear him walking about.’

  ‘You live here, do you?’

  ‘No, I explained on the phone. Luke’s my client. I’m a psychologist. He lodges here with Mr and Mrs Hargreaves. They rang me last night after the police had brought Luke home.’

  ‘Following a road accident.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you stayed the night here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stared at me for a moment as though what I was telling her sounded highly implausible. Then she handed me the prescription, closed her case and stood up, ready to leave.

  ‘Get this made up at the chemist.’

  Luke started laughing, stuffing his hand in his mouth to muffle the sound. ‘This place is on the move,’ he giggled. ‘Microbes go up and down and talk through your head. Heading south. I was there in May only I may not because the rays are absorbed in water.’

  Dr Overton hesitated with her hand on the door.

  ‘Has he been in hospital before? I couldn’t find his notes. I came out in a rush and — ’

  ‘Only overnight. He took some paracetamol back in April.’

  ‘OD’d. Right, so someone’ll have to take charge of the tablets.’

  ‘Charge the earth,’ said Luke, ‘going round the sun and sky for the time being he said.’

  Dr Overton’s face remained expressionless. ‘All this — when did it start?’

  ‘Yesterday evening. I left him up here, lying down. When he came back downstairs — ’

  ‘And the same when you saw him first thing this morning?’

  ‘Yes. Once, during the night, he came down to the lounge where I’d made up a bed but he didn’t say anything, just went round touching the walls and — ’

  ‘Right, I get the picture.’ She stood up and left the room. I heard her run down the stairs and ask Elaine if she could use the phone.

  ‘Luke,’ I said, ‘this is crazy. I know what you’re doing and there’s no point. What happened to Paula was an accident. It was terrible, a tragedy, but it wasn’t your fault.’

  He stared at me, still smiling faintly.

  ‘The doctor’s ringing the hospital,’ I said. ‘If there’s a bed they’ll keep you in for a day or two, but there’s no need to pretend you’ve gone off your head. I’ll have a word with the consultant. He’ll understand.’

  He climbed up and sat on the window sill with his knees up to his chin, rocking backwards and forwards quite gently, then increasing the speed until I was afraid he was going to lose his balance and crash on to the floor.

  ‘Early one morning when the ash can,’ he said. Then he held his hand to his ear. ‘There it goes again. And there’s more where that came from so they say.’

  *

  The sky had clouded over and as we drove through Long Ashton a few large drops of rain splashed on the windscreen. Luke sat beside me, humming under his breath, the palms of his hands pressed together, as though in prayer, his expression a parody of an unctuous priest. He was putting it on. I was certain he was. In the months I had known him there had been no sign of schizophrenia. He was terrified. His worst fear had become reality — almost as though he had predicted it. Almost as though he had made it come true.

  On the back seat lay a zip-up bag containing his toothbrush and some clothes.

  ‘All right?’ I asked. It was a ridiculous question but I wanted to sound as relaxed as possible. That way I might trick him into a normal spontaneous response.

  Some hope.

  ‘All right. On the night.’ He wound down the window and stuck out his arm.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I said angrily.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he repeated. ‘Oh, no, not that.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Luke, it’s a waste of time spouting all that rubbish. They’ll give you drugs, sedatives, then they’ll realize you’re just putting on an act.’

  I wanted him to say ‘Yes, I know’, to start crying, to shout at me. Anything. Instead he stared down at his upturned hand, writing notes on it with an imaginary pen. He was still writing when we turned into the gates of the hospital and when I parked the car and climbed out he stayed put in the passenger seat, waiting for me to open his door.

  I tried one last tack. ‘Luke, I want to help you, I really do. Were you very fond of Paula? Is it worse than just the shock of seeing someone you know … ’

  He might not have heard. As soon as I opened his door he jumped out and started following the arrows that pointed to Reception. At each arrow he paused for a moment, placed his feet together, turned outwards like a ballet dancer, then ran on.

  When I caught up with him inside the building he was sitting on a metal-framed chair, waiting politely for someone to come and attend to him.

  A nurse approached us, smiling. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Luke Jesty,’ I said. ‘Dr Overton rang earlier.’

  ‘That’s right. My name’s Henry. Henry Anayake.’ He shook hands, first with Luke, then with me.

  ‘Anna McColl. I’m a clinical psychologist, I’ve been seeing Luke once a week for the last couple of months.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ He had a label pinned to his white short-sleeved shirt, with his name in red ink.

  Luke’s eyes were darting from side to side. He bent down to retie his shoe lace, then scuttled down the corridor, coming to an abrupt halt and studying a notice on one of the doors with rapt attention.

  ‘Toilet,’ he read out, using the deadpan voice he had adopted ever since he had appeared in Elaine and Doug’s kitchen the previous evening. ‘I want a pee.’

  ‘Sure.’ Henry Anayake smiled at me briefly. ‘Hang on, I’d better go with him. Don’t go away.’

  I waited, leaning against the wall. My headache was worse. I rested my forehead on the coldness of the white wall and wondered if one of the consultant psychiatrists would see Luke today or whether he would just be kept under observation and given a sedative if he seemed very agitated. Supposing he wasn’t faking. Perhaps Paula’s acci
dent had ‘tipped him over the edge’. I should have referred him for a psychiatric assessment a month ago instead of thinking I could play God, instead of convincing myself I knew best.

  A doctor I had never met but knew by sight was strolling down the corridor. He looked at me suspiciously.

  ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

  ‘I’ve just brought in a patient. Luke Jesty.’

  ‘And you’re … ’

  ‘Anna McColl. Dr Overton spoke to you on the phone.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Look, I’m fairly certain Luke’s symptoms aren’t genuine but I couldn’t really expect the people where he lives to — ’

  ‘As long as we had a bed. Dr Overton seemed to think it was some kind of schizophrenic episode.’ He was pushing open the swing door at the end of the corridor. He had barely stopped walking.

  Luke and the nurse came out of the bathroom. Luke stared at me as though I was a total stranger, then started jogging on the spot. Henry Anayake took hold of his arm and started leading him along the corridor.

  ‘You know Luke pretty well?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. No. I thought I did.’

  ‘I’m from Sri Lanka,’ he said. ‘Still getting used to the place.’

  ‘It must feel strange. How are you liking it over here?’ It was a relief to have a snatch of normal conversation.

  ‘It’s OK. Good. But not so easy for my wife.’

  ‘No, I can imagine.’

  ‘She’s expecting a baby in October.’

  ‘Oh, lovely. Your first, is it?’

  He nodded. We had reached a side ward. Henry Anayake pushed open the door and I followed, placing the zip-up bag on a chair and standing well back as Luke moved quickly round the room, inspecting everything, including the space under the bed.

  ‘Mr Jesty’s had a bad shock? A road accident, I believe.’

  I glanced at Luke but he showed no sign that he was listening.

  ‘A friend of his was killed.’

  ‘A close friend?’

  I hesitated. ‘Yes. Look, he’s pretty anxious at the best of times but … ’

  ‘OK, we’ll look after him, don’t you worry. Dr Stringer’s at home today, but tomorrow — well, I’m sure you’ll be getting in touch.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I know Dr Stringer.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll fetch you both some coffee. Won’t be long.’

  After Henry Anayake had left Luke stared through the window for a moment or two, then lay on the bed and closed his eyes. His lips moved as though he was having a private conversation with a voice inside his head.

  ‘Luke, I’ll have to go quite soon but I’ll be back later on.’

  He murmured something I couldn’t catch. I moved closer.

  ‘What is it, Luke? Is there something you want to tell me?’

  ‘Death’s a pushover,’ he whispered.

  I was certain that was what he’d said.

  *

  The place looked clean enough but smelled of dust and unwashed bodies. Leaning on the counter, pen poised, the desk sergeant listened carefully to what I was telling him about the accident, and the witness, Luke Jesty, currently in a psychiatric hospital but likely to be out in a few days’ time.

  ‘Right you are, miss.’

  ‘I think the statement was just a formality,’ I said, ‘I expect there were other witnesses.’

  ‘I couldn’t say, miss. Sergeant Waters will have all the details.’

  A voice behind my shoulder made me jump.

  ‘Anna? Didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘Sergeant Whittle.’ I recognized him at once but was surprised he remembered my face. ‘There was a road accident yesterday evening,’ I explained. ‘One of my clients. A friend of his was killed.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I was just telling the desk sergeant — ’

  ‘Come and tell me.’ And when I hesitated, ‘We can use Howard’s office, he’s in Cardiff today.’

  I followed him down the narrow, brightly lit passage. A broad-shouldered man, slightly under six foot tall, long arms and legs, a little uncoordinated. I remembered him telling me he was fanatical about Bristol City. I couldn’t imagine him playing football himself. Perhaps he preferred to sit and watch.

  Why did he want to talk to me? Did he know something about the accident? Surely it hadn’t become a matter for the CID?

  ‘Sit down, Anna. I could probably rustle up a cup of something.’

  ‘No, don’t bother. Is there something you wanted to ask?’

  ‘Not really.’ He sat at his superior’s desk, swivelling the chair from side to side, smiling but not speaking, waiting for me to elaborate on the reason for my visit.

  Recognition is easier than recall.

  Although I would have known him anywhere, until today I could never have described the way he looked. Wavy brown hair, dark, almost black, eyes — he had told me once that he had an Italian grandmother — and a slightly hooked nose. The general impression was of someone almost the complete opposite of Inspector Fry. A friendly, gregarious person, whereas Howard Fry, unlike the majority of police officers, was something of an introvert.

  ‘I just thought you looked a bit upset,’ he said, lifting a chain of red paper clips out of an arrangement of plastic tubes designed to hold pencils and pens. ‘All in, as a matter of fact. When did this accident take place?’

  ‘Last night. About ten thirty. Outside the Hippodrome, near the pedestrian crossing. At least, I think that’s where it happened.’

  ‘Don’t expect you’ve had much sleep.’

  ‘No. My client — I’ve just returned from taking him to hospital. He took an overdose a couple of months ago and — ’

  ‘You don’t want him taking another. Are you sure I can’t ring for some coffee?’

  I shook my head. ‘The police took him home last night. Apparently they wanted him to come in today and make a statement.’

  ‘No urgency about it, was there?’

  ‘No.’

  I noticed a small scar where part of his right eyebrow was missing. It was an old scar but the hair would never grow again. An injury received in the course of duty — or had he fallen off his bike as a child, braked too hard and pitched over the handlebars on to the road?

  He seemed quite pleased to see me. I was surprised, flattered. Still, the first time we met had been in fairly dramatic circumstances and meeting someone when the two of you are in a state of high tension tends to create a lasting bond.

  He moved his chair so his knees were out of the way of the desk drawers. ‘Throat sweet?’ he said, tearing back the paper and holding out a tube of blackcurrant and glycerine pastilles. ‘I don’t know about you but this summer the hay fever’s really taken a hold.’

  I accepted one and put it in my mouth. He smiled and I smiled back, avoiding his eyes, pretending to look round the room as though to remind myself of a previous visit.

  ‘It’s been redecorated, hasn’t it? I seem to remember the walls were green before, or am I just imagining it?’

  He looked at me curiously. ‘Good memory you’ve got. Ought to join the Force or branch out on your own as a private investigator.’

  He was trying to soften me up. In a moment or two he would throw out a question that caught me off guard. This client of yours, he would shout, I hear he’s unstable, prone to violent thoughts. Am I right?

  But he knew nothing about Luke. Tiredness was making me edgy. I wasn’t thinking straight.

  He replaced the packet of throat sweets in his pocket. ‘How’s life been treating you since we last met?’

  ‘Oh, all right. Fine. What about you?’

  ‘Busy. Too much overtime. Not that it bothers me that much but my wife’s had plenty to say about it. We’ve moved. House in Knowle.’

  ‘Your wife’s still working as a nurse?’

  ‘What did I tell you — memory like a tape-recorder. Yes, still at the Infirmary. Quite interested in your line of country at the moment. Reading a bo
ok about different personality types, that kind of thing.’

  He just felt like a chat. Nobody was in any doubt that Paula Redfern’s death had been an accident. Talking to me was better than writing up reports.

  ‘It must be hard,’ I said, ‘with you and your wife both doing shiftwork.’

  ‘Can be.’ He stood up. ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re all right. Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help and as for the statement, just bring in the young man when he’s feeling up to it, OK?’

  ‘Yes, I will. Thanks. What will happen next? I suppose there’ll be an inquest.’

  He nodded. ‘They were crossing the road, were they?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure. As far as I can tell the pavement was very crowded. People coming out of the Hippodrome and others joining them from the Watershed.’

  ‘And the pedestrians started pushing forward. I get the picture.’

  We strolled down the passage, Graham Whittle’s shoes squeaking loudly on the shiny grey linoleum. My headache had eased. I was starting to relax.

  ‘Shake you up, these things,’ he said. ‘I expect you think we get immune. Maybe we do, in a way, but is that such a good thing?’

  ‘Essential, I should think.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t think we need you psychologists for a spot of that group therapy stuff?’

  ‘If you really had to face up to all the things you see you might feel you couldn’t carry on with the job.’

  ‘Is that right? Well, you’re the expert. Anyway, I’ll tell Howard you called in. He’ll be sorry he missed you.’ He paused. ‘Oh, by the way, there wasn’t anything particular you wanted to tell us about, was there?’

  I flinched. He showed no sign of having noticed, but I knew he had.

  ‘No, just about Luke Jesty being in hospital.’

  ‘Right you are. Any time we can be of help.’

  Suddenly I longed to go home. Back to the safety of my flat where I could have a bath, change into some clean clothes, be by myself, think.

  Later, during the afternoon, I would drive out to the village where Luke’s parents lived. It shouldn’t be too hard to find. Their address would be in the phone book or if not I could ask around the village. I wondered if I should have asked Luke’s permission to visit, but he was in no fit state to answer and would almost certainly have pretended not to hear. In any case his parents deserved to know what had happened.