The Anna McColl Mysteries Box Set 1

by Penny Kline

  ‘The Bryan Sealey?’

  ‘His new play’s opening in a week or two. I expect you’ve read about it. Actually they’ve been in the flat a couple of months, first on holiday, now for the rehearsals.’ He held open the inner door for me to pass through, then took hold of Aaron’s lead and started leaping up the stairs, two at a time.

  They were not the usual dingy back stairs once used by the servants. When the house was converted it had been carried out in style. A banister rail ran up to a small landing with another round window, this time with orange and yellow glass. On the sill stood a green parrot with black beady eyes and claws that looked surprisingly real. I picked it up, nearly dropping it when it turned out to be much heavier than I expected, made of lead by the feel of it.

  The stairs curved round again, finally arriving at a kind of entrance hall with a passage at either end and an open door straight ahead. I could hear Aaron’s claws skidding on the polished wood floor.

  ‘In here, Anna,’ called Sandy and I entered a high-ceilinged room with two large windows with their shutters folded back. Aaron had jumped on to an armchair.

  Sandy saw my face and laughed. ‘Let him stay where he is. We don’t mind, do we, darling?’

  Then I saw Geraldine Haran. She was sitting near the fireplace and she made no attempt to stand up. Sandy went and stood beside her. ‘Darling, this is Anna.’

  ‘How kind of you to come.’ She leaned forward a little, as though she wanted to do the right thing but was too weak to move from her chair. Her hands kept touching her hair, which was light brown and wavy but held in place stiffly with some kind of lacquer. Although she was sitting down I could see that she was tall, elegant. Her large eyes were oddly expressionless, her nose slightly pointed but with wide, finely shaped nostrils. In spite of the warm weather she was dressed in a navy pleated skirt with a white sweater over a pale blue shirt. A matching jacket hung over the arm of a large leather sofa nearby. She reminded me of a personal assistant to an extremely high-powered executive, the kind of woman who lives through her boss and makes sure no unwelcome visitors pass through to the inner office.

  ‘I’ve been walking my neighbour’s dog,’ I said. ‘He fell down his basement steps and twisted his ankle.’

  ‘Poor man.’ Her voice was almost a whisper. Her carefully made up face seemed drained of all vitality. She was someone who had always taken good care of her appearance, whatever else was going on in her life, someone who rarely smiled, let alone permitted herself to laugh out loud or lose control in any way at all.

  I held out my hand and she squeezed it lightly, gazing into my eyes for a moment, then turning towards Sandy although her words were still addressed to me.

  ‘Sandy’s told me so much about you. He found your lectures very interesting, didn’t you, darling?’

  ‘Certainly did. Have a seat, Anna. I’m afraid my wife’s been unwell.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t realize.’ The room had an almost museum-like feel. Table lamps with blue and white striped shades were spaced at intervals but there was no overhead lighting. A second sofa had biscuit-coloured loose covers over which had been draped an exotic-looking quilt, embroidered in greens and blues, with five or six small matching cushions. On the wall directly opposite a picture of an over-stuffed pig with tiny pink trotters shuddered a little as a breeze blew in through the open fan light.

  ‘I went to the wrong door,’ I said, trying to lighten the slightly oppressive atmosphere. ‘I met a woman with a baby.’

  ‘Rona Halliwell,’ said Sandy. ‘When Helen was a child Rona was her nanny. Then when they adopted the baby Rona came back to look after her.’

  ‘Helen’s Bryan Sealey’s wife?’

  He looked surprised, as though he thought the couple so famous everyone must have heard of them. ‘Helen used to be a model. For a year or two she was on the cover of all the glossy magazines.’ He opened a glass-fronted corner cupboard containing a range of bottles and glasses. ‘The pale and interesting type, a woman with her head screwed on, not one of those vacant-looking — ’ He broke off, wondering if he had said something offensive when what he had intended was exactly the opposite. ‘Now, what are you having? Sherry, gin, whisky, or would you prefer a glass of wine?’

  ‘Wine, please.’

  ‘In the fridge.’ He turned towards Geraldine. ‘Your usual, my love?’

  She nodded, her eyes following him until he disappeared through the door, then she turned towards me but looked down at her hands.

  ‘I thought you’d be older,’ she said, ‘I don’t know why.’

  On the mantelpiece a clock in a black wooden case struck the quarter. The grey marble fireplace looked cold but a brass jug filled with orange and brown dried flowers had been placed in the empty grate. Above the mantelpiece an oval-shaped mirror with a carved frame reflected most of the room, making it seem twice as long as it actually was. Every surface seemed to be covered in ornaments, some china, some glass, some wood, all of them birds.

  ‘It’s a lovely flat,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, we’re very lucky.’ She glanced at the black Bechstein piano to my left and I followed her eyes and saw what she wanted me to notice — a studio photograph of a boy of about seven, dressed in a shirt and tie with his hair neatly parted on the left. He was smiling stiffly as though he loathed having his picture taken but knew the session would continue until he obliged with the right expression.

  ‘My son,’ she said. ‘It was taken nearly a year ago. He’s nine now, nine and a half.’

  I stood up to have a better look. ‘Sandy told me you had a son. Thomas, isn’t it?’ She nodded, blinking several times in quick succession then touching the comer of her eye with her fingertip as if there was something in it. ‘He’s out at the moment, at his music lesson.’

  ‘He plays the piano?’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Oh, no, the violin.’ Then she started talking very fast but still in the same light, artificial voice. ‘You’re a psychologist, aren’t you, that’s not quite the same as a psychoanalyst. People are referred to you by their doctor, are they, or do you see hospital patients?’

  ‘Most people are referred by their GP,’ I said. ‘Or it could be a social worker or some other agency.’

  ‘Sandy’s told you about me, I expect. My doctor’s given me tablets but I’m afraid they don’t seem to be doing me any good.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry about that.’ I had no idea what was wrong with her and it seemed rude to ask.

  We sat in silence for a few moments, then she looked up and did her best to smile. ‘Sandy’s fascinated by anything to do with the mind so I suppose I’m a gift from Heaven, not that he’s unsympathetic, far from it, but I believe it’s a difficult thing to cure — agoraphobia.’

  ‘You’re agoraphobic?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Oh, didn’t you know? It came on a month ago. Since then I haven’t been able to leave the house at all.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ She made it sound like something infectious. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.’

  She smiled, a brief twitch of her mouth, more like a nervous tic, then she picked up a pair of tinted glasses that were lying on a low coffee table and started swinging them round in her hand. ‘You’d know all about phobias, I suppose. Fear of snakes, spiders, Siamese cats.’ Her flat, lifeless voice continued listing all the phobias she could think of, expressing mild amazement that people could be so silly, so irrational.

  I felt irritated. So this was why Sandy had invited me to the house. He could at least have warned me, although if he had I would have stayed well clear of the place. When he returned, carrying a tray of drinks, I frowned at him, conveying my disapproval but he avoided my eyes. There was something different about him. Not his clothes — he was wearing the same green cord trousers, check shirt, and black trainers he had acquired part way through the counselling course. His balding head had turned brown during the last couple of weeks and I noticed for the first time that the f
ringe of hair above his ears was flecked with grey. His moustache, that was what made him look different; he had shaved it off.

  ‘Last vestige of my old life,’ he said, putting down the tray and rubbing his upper lip. ‘Not that physical appearance has anything to do with spiritual well-being but I looked in the mirror the day before yesterday and decided it had to go.’ He grinned and I remembered how one of the first things I had noticed about him was that his front teeth were rather long and sloped back a little, like a guinea-pig or hamster. For some odd reason they made what was a rather nondescript face look quite attractive.

  ‘I’ve been telling Anna about my illness,’ said Geraldine. ‘I thought she knew already.’

  ‘Left that up to you, my love.’ He placed two glasses of wine on a small circular table. ‘If you want to talk about it that’s good, isn’t it, Anna?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He swung round, picking up the coolness in my voice. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, now you think I’ve asked you round on false pretences. Obviously we’ll welcome any idea you might have but I can assure you — ’

  I turned to Geraldine. ‘So far you’ve just been given tablets?’

  She opened her mouth to speak but Sandy interrupted. ‘Not right, is it. I tried talking to the GP but got nowhere at all. He seems to be treating it like a mild panic attack whereas — well, I don’t have to tell you: there’s a world of difference between feeling a little anxious and being unable to leave the house.’

  ‘Perhaps Geraldine could ask her doctor for a referral.’

  ‘What use would that be?’ he snapped. ‘She’s agoraphobic, she can’t go out to see someone.’ He sat down heavily. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just such a worry.’

  Geraldine was searching in her handbag. She produced two bottles of pills and held them up for me to read the labels. ‘These are for if I can’t get to sleep and the others are tranquillizers, aren’t they? Sandy says they’re addictive.’

  ‘Only if they’re taken long-term.’ I put my glass down on the table and Aaron made a move to jump off the chair then closed his eyes and went back to sleep. ‘How did it begin,’ I said, ‘this fear of leaving the flat?’ I would ask a few questions, making it clear I was only talking as an interested friend, then suggest Sandy look for some professional help. ‘Did something happen or was it just a gradual process?’

  They were staring at me as though my question was incomprehensible.

  ‘The shock,’ said Sandy quietly. ‘I thought you realized. An innocent man brutally murdered less than a mile away. Isn’t that enough to make anyone lose their nerve?’

  When I left Sandy insisted on accompanying me. ‘At least as far as the Suspension Bridge, Anna. It’s a lovely evening and I don’t often get a chance to walk in that direction.’

  We were standing in the garden, only a few feet away from the grey Morris Minor. Sandy patted the roof and began explaining how the car had been restored by a garage in Bath, how he had given it to Geraldine a couple of years back since he knew she was someone who would really appreciate it.

  ‘She likes old cars?’

  He laughed. ‘Not as such, but her parents had a Morris, it was the first car she ever drove.’

  He was talking fast, afraid he had angered me, wanting to make amends. As soon as we were away from the house he started apologizing. ‘Look, I’d hate there to be any bad feeling between us. I suppose I just wanted to know what you thought. Would you say Geraldine’s a typical agoraphobic? Is it usual for agoraphobia to be set off by a traumatic event?’

  ‘In most cases the person already has a fairly anxious personality.’

  ‘Oh, not Geraldine, she’s tough as a horse.’

  A small boy had come round the corner. He was carrying a violin case and a briefcase, both in the same hand so that his body was tilted to one side.

  ‘Good,’ said Sandy, rubbing his hands together, ‘now you’ll have met the whole family. Have a look at him, he’s the image of his mother, hardly a trace of me apart from the ears and the large size in shoes.’

  It was true. As Thomas drew closer I recognized the same wavy brown hair, although in his case it had been cut very short, the same light brown eyes and slightly pointed nose with flaring nostrils.

  Sandy introduced me, rather formally I thought. ‘Thomas, this is Anna McColl. You remember, I told you how she gave a series of lectures on my course. She just dropped by to meet your mother.’

  Thomas put out his hand to touch Aaron, then withdrew it nervously.

  ‘He’s friendly,’ I said, ‘won’t bite.’

  He glanced up at me then placed his hand on the dog’s head and started kneading the fur with his fingers.

  ‘Thomas has always wanted a dog,’ said Sandy, ‘but unfortunately he’s allergic to the hair, aren’t you, old son?’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ I watched as the little boy gently lifted the loose skin above Aaron’s mouth and bent down to study his teeth.

  ‘He’s nine,’ I said, assuming dogs must be like horses. It was possible to tell their age from their teeth. ‘Quite old for a retriever but he’s very fit.’

  ‘Same age as me,’ said Thomas, then the colour rose in his face and he picked up his cases and started running down the road.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Sandy, ‘he’s rather shy. His age I expect, and of course he’s worried about his mother.’

  ‘Did the murder frighten him?’

  ‘Oh, not at all, took it in his stride, but Geraldine’s reaction — he wants to make her feel better but doesn’t know how, neither of us do.’ I knew what was coming next. ‘I know it’s a bit much to ask, Anna, but I thought if you could talk to her, just informally.’

  ‘She must have talked to you.’

  ‘Not much, you know what it’s like, confiding in people close to you can be the hardest thing of all. And besides, you’re an expert, you know how to go about it, use the right techniques.’

  ‘Thomas is musical, is he?’ I said, playing for time.

  ‘Seems to be. Good at most things as a matter of fact. Can’t think where he gets it from. Funny things, genes.’

  I nodded. I was wondering if Sandy had told the truth about Geraldine’s normal state of mind. Was she just a highly neurotic woman, who had used the murder as a means of gaining everyone’s attention, or was her response quite out of character? I tried to remember if I had read any case studies where a single traumatic event had led to agoraphobia. But even if this did happen occasionally why had Geraldine found the murder so shocking? It was not as though she had found the body, not as though the victim was a personal friend.

  ‘You didn’t know the murder victim, did you?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps you knew of him.’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that. He lived in Abbot’s Leigh, off the A369. I’ve been there once but there’s no through road, you have to turn round and go back the way you’ve come.’

  ‘And before the murder Geraldine was perfectly all right? No worries, problems, psychosomatic symptoms?’

  He thought about this for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think so. The odd headache but no more than the rest of us.’

  ‘Had anything happened to her before? Something similar? A violent death, an accident?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was wondering. She never talks about her childhood, says she can’t remember before the age of eleven or twelve. Her father was a strange man, quiet, almost withdrawn, but with occasional outbursts of anger that seemed quite out of proportion to whatever it was had upset him. Of course, he never approved of me, thought I wasn’t nearly good enough.’

  We had reached the bridge. Sandy gave the man in the toll box a couple of coins and we started across. I never look down for more than a moment or my legs turn to jelly, but a quick glance confirmed that the tide had risen, covering most of the mud. When Sandy leaned over the parapet to watch a boat coming up the river I kept on walking, still trying to recall everything I knew about agoraphobia. The re-evo
cation of a fear of separation from an attachment figure in childhood? Anxiety about inter-personal relationships? Displacement: a defence against a wholly different fear?

  Sandy interrupted my thoughts. ‘I’d be happy to pay, whatever’s the going rate. More, since you’d have to come in the evening so it would be like overtime.’

  ‘I’m on holiday next week.’

  ‘Oh, I see, you’re going away.’ He sighed deeply. ‘You see the trouble is I can’t think who else to ask. You suggested the GP but he’s the kind who closes his mind to anything in the form of psychological treatment, believes drugs are the cure-all, especially for his female patients.’

  We were waiting to cross the road. I expected Sandy to turn back but as soon as there was a break in the traffic he shouted, ‘Now!’ and made a dash for the grass on the other side.

  ‘So you’ll think about it?’ he said, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Just an hour or two should do the trick, I’m sure it would.’

  ‘No, I can’t, Sandy, I’m sorry.’

  His shoulders sagged. ‘Fair enough. Right, well, I’d better go back. Geraldine likes to eat at eight o’clock sharp.’

  ‘She still does the cooking?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I help her of course but she’s fine as long as she doesn’t have to leave the house. We have a girl who does the shopping, a strange creature who seems too bright to be working as a kind of mother’s help but I dare say she’s filling in time, waiting to do a course or something.’ He smiled briefly. ‘No hard feelings? I shouldn’t have asked, I can see that now.’

  *

  Back in the flat I poured myself another glass of wine and sat looking out of the window. Janos had wanted me to go down to his basement for a cup of coffee but I had declined the offer, explaining that I was leaving for Wales first thing on Saturday so had clothes to wash and packing to sort out. His ankle was no better but while I was away Pam, who lived in the flat below mine, would take Aaron out now and again.

  A truck, piled high with lengths of scaffolding, was coming down the road. The driver stuck his head out and I watched, holding my breath, as he steered past my car with barely an inch to spare. Still, anyone mad enough to live in Cliftonwood had to get used to scratches on their paint work and scrapes on the front and back bumpers. The road was too narrow to have cars parked on both sides, but what else could people do? I thought about the immaculate Morris Minor parked in Sandy’s garden, contrasting it with my friend Chris’s considerably newer but badly beaten-up Vauxhall estate, and wondered, not for the first time, why I had agreed to go on holiday with her and Bruce. It was kind of them to ask but part of me would have preferred to stay in Bristol, go out for day trips, take the dog for walks on the Downs. And why had Chris been so keen for me to join them? Because her relationship with Bruce couldn’t take a whole week together with no one except the kids to relieve the tension?