by Penny Kline
But it didn’t turn out that way. Bryan, who had insisted on buying more drinks although our glasses were still full, sat down and immediately started complaining about his re-writes. Owen seemed surprisingly interested, encouraging him to talk about previous plays, even managing to remember the name of one he had seen a year or two back.
Helen looked at me and jerked her head in Bryan’s direction. ‘As long as he’s under pressure, running out of time. Deadlines, that’s what he likes, the closer the better.’ She was wearing a dusty pink shirt, open at the neck so the sharp ridges of her collar bone were clearly visible. As she talked she stroked the back of her hand and I noticed that her nails were surprisingly short and her hands rather large and square. I remembered, uncharitably, how the hands shown in close-up for washing-up liquid commercials belong to models hired specially for the purpose, not to the beautiful creature standing at the sink.
‘How’s the photography?’ I said.
‘Sorry? Oh, that.’ She glanced at Bryan, who was laughing at something Owen had said. ‘My camera, I’m going to have to change it. It’s supposed to be the best but nothing turns out — ’ She broke off. Someone was coming into the pub, a girl with long fair hair that hung down her back, reaching almost to her waist. Helen watched her, like a cat watches a bird, with her head perfectly still but her eyes moving between Bryan and the girl.
‘Someone you know?’ I asked, and she jumped slightly, then turned to face me.
‘No one important. You’re on holiday, aren’t you? It’s very good of you to see poor Geraldine. I hope she’s getting better.’
‘I’d planned a week in Pembrokeshire but it fell through.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ She had no interest in my ruined holiday. ‘I used to go abroad all the time but after a bit one country seems much the same as another.’ As she talked she edged towards Bryan until her body was only a few inches from his. Suddenly he stood up and moved his chair round the end of the table.
‘Sorry, my darling, not a lot of room in this place.’ He smiled at her, then at me, then resumed his discussion with Owen, something about the Arts Council and the way they allocated resources.
Owen’s sweater had a splash of ice cream down the front. I wanted to lick my finger and rub it off but that would give the impression that the two of us had a close relationship. Helen was running her finger round the rim of her glass. I dredged my brain for something to talk about, something to break the tension, and came up with the subject women always fall back on. ‘Chloe’s a lovely baby, isn’t she? I expect she’ll be crawling soon, I’m not sure what age they start.’
She stared at me and her hand returned to her throat. ‘Bryan says we’ll have to have gates fixed at the top and bottom of the stairs — when we go home.’
‘To Wimbledon?’
The muscles in her face stiffened. ‘Oh, you know where we live.’
‘I expect Rona told me.’
‘What else? What else did she say? Did she tell you I go back much too often? It’s only to see friends. If you don’t keep in touch people soon forget you exist.’
Bryan was listening in on the conversation. ‘Helen wishes we were back in London, don’t you, my darling?’ He ruffled her hair in a way which would have irritated me considerably and seemed to have the same effect on her. ‘She finds it difficult being away from home for so long.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said angrily, ‘as a matter of fact I prefer it in Bristol, at least during the summer.’
Bryan laughed. ‘You live in Cliftonwood, don’t you, Anna? I haven’t discovered it yet. There’s such a maze of streets to the south of Clifton Village I daren’t venture too far.’
Helen curled her lip. ‘I shouldn’t think your great ugly vehicle would get between the parked cars, would it, Anna?’
The effort the Sealeys had made when they first sat down was beginning to collapse. I looked at Owen, willing him to finish his drink so we could make an excuse and leave. But he was staring at Helen, with a stupid smile on his face, so I spoke to Bryan instead.
‘You’re pleased with the new play?’
‘Never pleased,’ he said, ‘but it’ll do.’ He pushed back his chair, almost knocking into an old man who was dragging a Jack Russell terrier across the floor. ‘I hear you’ve been having a chat with Rona. She seems to have taken a liking to you.’
‘Really? I thought she disapproved of psychologists.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she does. Speaking professionally, would you say she’s coping all right — with the baby and everything?’
Helen had asked the same question, yesterday in the garden. If they were worried about Rona why didn’t they ask her themselves?
‘Seems to be,’ I said. ‘I’m not an expert in that kind of thing.’
‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean the day to day care. What I meant, is she happy?’
I thought about it and he waited impatiently, as though my reply was of the utmost importance. ‘It’s possible she’s finding it hard to come to terms with the death of her sister,’ I said, ‘I really don’t know.’
Owen was talking about the murder. I could hear him asking Helen how close to the house the body had been found, whether the police had made house-to-house enquiries.
She looked flushed, uncomfortable. ‘Oh, it was at least half a mile away. I’m not sure exactly, I don’t know the woods very well, only the path that leads down to the Gorge.’
‘What about it?’ Bryan picked up the end of her sentence. ‘Amazing, that Gorge, used to be a cliff railway, shame it doesn’t run anymore.’
‘Owen was talking about the murder,’ said Helen coldly. ‘He wondered if it took place close to our flat.’ She smiled at Owen, turning on the charm. ‘Bryan likes to pretend it never happened. He thinks I’m of a nervous disposition.’ Beneath the table Bryan was gripping his knees. ‘I don’t suppose it’s something any of us want to dwell on too much. Lynsey’s the one who can’t leave it alone. She’s the one responsible for all those nightmares you’ve been having. Wouldn’t you say that’s right, Anna, wouldn’t you say that’s the most likely explanation?’
*
Out in the street a man dressed in track suit bottoms and a Bristol City football shirt was bending over the gutter, wiping the vomit off his lips. Owen didn’t seem to notice. He had his diary out again and was holding it under a street lamp, trying to decipher a few squiggles on the back page. I walked on ahead, pausing outside the theatre to look at the posters for Bryan’s new play and the photographs in framed cases, one of a fairly well-known actress who was playing the lead.
‘Interesting man,’ said Owen, shoving the diary in his jacket pocket. ‘Bit full of himself but I suppose you have to be if you want anyone to take you seriously.’
‘What did you think of Helen?’
He frowned. ‘She’s rather beautiful, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, but pretty neurotic.’ I turned away, angry with myself for my pathetic attempt to diminish her good looks by casting aspersions on her personality.
‘I don’t think she’s happy,’ said Owen, studying one of the photographs, then bending down to hoist up one of his socks.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh, nothing in particular, just a feeling you get. Did she give up modelling or did modelling give her up? I know they like them young but with a face like that I would have thought she’d be in demand all over the world.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, ‘maybe she just tired of the life.’
He laughed. ‘Slow down, I’m obviously not as fit as you are. What time is it?’
We walked down King Street in silence and crossed the road without looking at each other. Did Owen expect me to invite him back to the flat or would we go our separate ways, him up Park Street, me across College Green? As we turned the corner I noticed a figure sitting on the pavement, with her back leaning against the statue of Neptune.
‘Lynsey? What on earth are you doing?’
‘Same as you, I expect, passing the time.’
‘On your own?’
‘That’s a crime, is it?’
I introduced Owen and she jumped up and held out her hand. ‘Welsh, are you? Owen Glendower, we did him at school.’
‘We’ve been to the Odeon,’ I said, ‘then we ran into Bryan and Helen.’
‘That was a treat for you.’ She lifted her bare foot and studied the sole, picking off pieces of dirt. ‘This statue was erected in 1949 and over there it tells you all about John Cabot and how he sailed to America, discovered it or something. He had a son — Sebastian. D’you like the name Sebastian? If I had a kid that’s what I’d call him and if anyone called him Seb I’d do them in.’ She took hold of my arm. ‘Look, Samuel Plimsoll, the one that invented the plimsoll line. Before him ships got overloaded and like sank to the bottom of the sea with all hands on board.’
‘You’re a mine of information,’ I said. ‘I’d no idea you were so interested in Bristol’s history.’
‘Yes, well, there’s plenty you don’t know about me.’ She waved to two men who were walking towards the Watershed. ‘Did you give the money to Deb?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing much, I told her you’d probably be in touch quite soon.’
She stared at me. ‘I might.’
‘Right then, we’d better be off. See you tomorrow, I expect.’
As we crossed the road she shouted after us. ‘Hey, Anna?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
I turned to wave and she looked as pale and lost as the first time I had seen her on the bridge.
Chapter Twelve
‘It’s the kind of hammer you can buy in any ironmonger or DIY place,’ said Howard, ‘costs about a tenner. Everything rested on whether the traces of paint were the same as those taken from the victim’s skull.’ He closed his eyes for a moment.
‘And?’
‘They match exactly.’
‘But that doesn’t prove … ’
‘On its own it doesn’t prove a thing but you must admit it’s something of a coincidence. Incidentally, a friend of Walter Bury’s has just returned from New Zealand. They used to watch cricket together, meet up occasionally for a coffee.’
‘He only found out what had happened after he got back?’
Howard nodded. ‘There’s a cafe in the museum, at the back behind the fossils and stuffed birds. The friend’s name’s Colin Elliot. Mean anything to you?’
‘Should it?’
‘Not really. He lives quite near you, one of those roads off Clifton Vale.’
As usual Howard’s office was spotlessly tidy. A place for everything, and everything in its place. I found myself comparing it with Owen’s room at the university, where papers lay in unsorted piles on the desk, filing cabinets, and floor. I had called in at the police station to try and find out the latest developments on the Dean Koenig case, not that it was any of my business but Geraldine seemed obsessed with what was going to happen to him. Obviously, after what Howard had just told me there was no need to ask if Dean would be kept in custody. Still, there were other questions I wanted to ask, although it could be difficult, persuading Howard to provide me with the answers without letting him think I was becoming too involved in the case — and possibly keeping something back.
‘Dean Koenig still insists he found the hammer lying in the grass, does he? But you don’t believe him.’ When Howard made no comment I tried again. ‘Who’s going to leave a murder weapon in a place where it can be spotted so easily?’
‘We don’t yet know if it was the weapon that killed Walter Bury. Koenig panicked. First he said he didn’t even know there’d been a murder, then he said he might have read something in the evening paper but he didn’t know where it had happened.’
‘So he’s a liar.’
‘Wouldn’t you lie in his situation?’ Graham Whittle’s head came round the door. ‘Just going to check on — ’ He broke off, seeing me but failing, for a couple of seconds, to take in who I was. ‘Anna, didn’t expect to see you here. Oh, the break-in. Howard says you’ve been working at the house even though you’re supposed to be on holiday. Never switch off, eh, just like us lot.’
He hovered in the doorway for a moment, wondering if Howard was going to suggest he join us. When no invitation was forthcoming he nodded in my direction, then left, pulling the door shut behind him.
‘This friend of the victim,’ I said, ‘how much does he know about Walter Bury’s past life?’
‘Elliot? Why d’you ask? Very little, as it happens. Apparently Bury used to work part-time for an organization that provided outings for the handicapped. Days at the sea-side, you know the kind of thing.’
‘Yes, I’ve a neighbour, paralysed from the waist down. A minibus collects him — ’
‘Oh, it wasn’t in this area. That was when he lived in Kent. His sister in Canterbury’s been interviewed again but nothing came up of any significance.’
‘And the hit-and-run accident — his wife?’
‘Happened in Richmond — not Yorkshire, the one in south-west London. According to Elliot — he couldn’t be certain but he had an idea Bury was on to something. Apparently he’d seemed happier than he’d been for ages, was even planning a holiday in the Dordogne.’
‘By himself?’
‘That we’ll never know.’ He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. That was all he was going to tell me, unless I had some information to give him. ‘I haven’t ruled out Koenig altogether,’ he said, ‘but there’s no motive.’
‘Robbery? A mugging that went too far?’
‘And he used the same instrument for a petty break-in? As unlikely as Graham Whittle’s hypothesis that the killer was the kind of person you’d know about, someone who should have been kept locked up permanently instead of returned to the community.’
‘Don’t blame me,’ I said sourly.
‘I wasn’t.’ He opened the door but blocked my way out. ‘My son’s coming to stay at the weekend.’
‘Good.’
‘It’ll give me a chance to have a talk with him — or it would have.’ He fiddled with the knot in his tie. ‘His mother’s bringing him. Her friend appears to have cleared off, returned to his wife.’
‘Really?’ My first reaction was surprise. ‘I thought your wife had remarried.’
‘Not as such.’ He crossed to a filing cabinet, pulling open one of the drawers and taking out a thick folder of notes.
‘Any chance of the two of you getting back together again?’ I said. ‘Not that it’s anything to do with me. I was just thinking about Stuart.’
He had his back to me. ‘I know you were,’ he said.
*
I phoned Chris. It rang for a long time and when she answered she was still talking to one of the kids. ‘It’s broken. I said — it’s broken! Yes. What?’
Was she speaking to me? ‘It’s Anna.’
‘I know that.’ In the background someone was making a noise like the mating croak of a natterjack toad. ‘If you’re ringing to find out more about that bod who does photography forget it. It was Bruce told me and I wasn’t even listening properly. Anyway he’d only heard of Walter Bury, never met him. Actually it was just a way of trying to lure you round to the house. I’m bloody bored, can’t you come now?’
‘Soon. I promise. Listen, you know that friend of yours who adopted a baby not long ago. How much do they go into the parents’ backgrounds?’
‘Why? You’re not thinking of … No, I don’t blame you. They were interviewed dozens of times — well, at least six — and the social worker talked to relatives and had a look at the house and where the baby was going to sleep and all that kind of crap. Anyway you don’t need me to tell you the procedure.’
‘But they can’t find out everything — about the adoptive parents.’
‘No, of course not.’ She broke off to yel
l up the stairs, threatening someone with no television and nothing to eat for a week. ‘Why should they unearth all the skeletons in the wretched people’s whatsits? The most Godawful people have kids without anyone asking for references or making them fill in questionnaires. Anyway why d’you want to know?’
*
Lynsey and Thomas were playing boules on the lawn. Thomas was complaining that she had thrown the jack into a patch of rough grass and Lynsey was laughing as she tossed a heavy metal ball in the air.
‘No good making excuses. Let’s face it, you’re hopeless at ball games, too uncoordinated.’
Presumably she had completed her duties for the morning — or perhaps one of them was keeping Thomas amused. I had no idea how many hours she worked but the house seemed to have become a second home for her and if all she had was a small badly furnished room in Southville I could understand why. The two of them seemed such unlikely companions, Lynsey so wild and uncontrolled, with her black clothes and white-blonde hair, Thomas so neat and silent, dressed in red shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of Rupert the Bear. These days most boys his age wore great baggy trousers, covered in pockets, and oversize trainers with the laces trailing on the ground — or was it just the ones who lived near me? I couldn’t see Thomas fitting into the local comprehensive but for all I knew Sandy and Geraldine had different plans altogether. A place at the cathedral choir school, or was he already too old?
The sky had cleared but thundery showers were forecast for later in the day. My shirt stuck to my back uncomfortably and a horsefly bite on my ankle had swollen up and started to itch.
‘Talking about you,’ said Lynsey. A long piece of dried grass stuck out of her mouth and her hands were smeared with earth.
‘Oh, yes?’
She grinned but said nothing. Thomas wandered away in the direction of the garden shed.
‘Funny kid,’ said Lynsey. ‘I read in a magazine that shyness is just being selfish, thinking about yourself instead of other people. Cobblers. People can’t help being shy. Anyway, how many people d’you know who don’t spend most of their time thinking about themselves?’