by Penny Kline
‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’ The spaniel jumped to the ground and started scrabbling at my leg. I felt its wet nose on my skin and the soft warmth of its fur.
‘A phone,’ I said, my voice coming out in a croaky sob, ‘where can I find a phone?’
Chapter Twenty
I took a different route back to Bristol, skirting the edges of Nailsea then on through Long Ashton and back up Rownham Hill. The police would be on their way to the cottage. I wanted to avoid them, make sure I reached Geraldine before they did, break the news to her as gently as possible. In her present state of mind a police officer speaking into the intercom at the bottom of the stairs would be enough to tip her over the edge.
The nausea that had rendered me almost incapable of rational speech had been replaced by a kind of clear-headed numbness. I thought about the woman in the lane, how she had led me into her house, sat me down with the dog beside me, leaning against my shoulder, then dialled 999, explaining as best she could about the discovery of a body — by someone called Anna McColl. The body of Sandy Haran. She had been instructed to remain where she was — and for me to do the same. I had accepted her offer of tea, gulped it down, made an excuse to leave the house for a moment to check the handbrake on my car, then driven off without explanation.
Later I would go back and apologize, tell her about Geraldine — just enough for her to understand. With a nasty lurching sensation in my stomach I realized that by ‘escaping’ from the scene of the murder I had set myself up as suspect number one.
*
Geraldine’s white bath robe came open an inch or two revealing her smooth hairless legs, still red from the bath.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘I thought I heard someone on the stairs.’
‘Come and sit down.’ I opened the living-room door and steered her towards the smaller of the two sofas. ‘I’m so sorry, Geraldine, I’m afraid it’s bad news, very bad.’
She sat perfectly still. ‘About Sandy?’ Her voice was steady. She could have been enquiring about the weather.
‘I’ve been to the cottage,’ I said. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’
She stuffed her fingers in her mouth then withdrew them and turned towards me, smiling politely. ‘Yes, I thought he’d be dead.’
‘That’s not all, I’m afraid. It wasn’t an accident.’
‘Heart attack?’
‘No.’ I searched for the right words.
There were none. ‘He’s been murdered.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, I see.’
People often respond to extreme trauma by appearing to feel nothing. Something happens in the brain so that normal emotions are anaesthetized. They allow themselves to be interviewed for the news bulletin and everyone is astonished at their courage. Later they can’t understand how they could have sounded so calm, detached. Someone ought to tell the media, explain the psychology of it — not that it would make any difference.
‘Is the cottage locked up properly?’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should ask a neighbour to go round and check.’
‘The police are there.’ I touched her hand but she made no response. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I repeated, ‘it’s such a shock, almost impossible to take in. The police will be here quite soon.’
She placed her feet together and folded her hands against her stomach. ‘You found him, did you, Anna? What did he look like? I’d rather know the truth.’
I pictured the body, sprawled on the bedroom floor. The slightly parted lips. The half-open eye. ‘He was lying near the fireplace,’ I said, ‘in one of the bedrooms. He’d been hit on the forehead, near the temple.’
‘Yes, I see.’ She patted her hair, almost as though she was touching Sandy’s injury. ‘The police — what will they want to know? I don’t really see how I can help.’
‘Just background stuff, I expect. Sandy’s friends, acquaintances, anything he might have mentioned that would throw light on the — ’
‘Oh, he never told me anything.’ She yawned, leaning her head against the back of the sofa. ‘I don’t know why but I feel terribly sleepy. To tell you the truth I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘Why don’t you lie down for a bit? Perhaps you’d like one of your tablets.’
‘You are kind.’ She stood up, holding on to the arm of the chair to steady herself. ‘Actually, there is one thing you could do for me. The washing … Lynsey hung it out … must be two days ago, more.’
‘I’ll fetch it now. No, stay where you are, I won’t be long.’
Out in the garden the air was full of midges. There was no sign of the Sealeys. I wondered if Rona had gone to collect Biddy from the home so she could take her back to the flat in Sutton. But surely she wouldn’t leave that quickly. She had been so exhausted and, in any case, she would want to stay with Helen until someone else had been found to look after the baby.
Geraldine’s washing hung on a line at the back of the house, stretched between two trees. It didn’t amount to much, just a couple of white shirts, some underpants, bath towels, and three blue seersucker table napkins. I gathered them up and started back to the house, then realized one end of the towel was trailing on the ground and stopped to hitch it up. If it hadn’t been for the towel I might never have noticed. Geraldine’s grey Morris Minor was parked in its usual place but the film of dust that had settled on it during the weeks she had been housebound had been wiped clean at the bottom of the door and along the edge of the wings.
Dropping the washing on the grass I approached it, wondering if the clean areas were a trick of the light. They weren’t. Perhaps Thomas had decided to wash the car, then changed his mind or been called away to practise his violin. But when I inspected it more closely I could see that the hub caps had been wiped clean too. I peered through the smeared glass next to the passenger seat, then walked round to the other side. The driving seat had one of those backrests made of wooden beads. I tried the door and it came open with a loud creak. The keys had been left in the ignition. A map of the British Isles lay on the back seat, its cover bent back by the weight of a pair of brown lace-up shoes. The seat belts, which must have been installed when they became compulsory, looked at odds with the rest of the interior. One half of the driver’s belt had slipped down the side, the other lay across the red vinyl of the passenger seat. I stared at it and my heart began to thump. Caught on the rough webbing of the belt were unmistakable traces of blue and pink wool. The pale colours of Geraldine’s blue birthday sweater with its pink birds — one crouching, one strutting.
Backing out of the car I looked up at the windows of the top-floor flat. There was no one there but when I raised my eyes higher, to the floor above, to Thomas’s attic bedroom, the evening sun caught the lenses of a pair of binoculars.
I could have run round to the front of the house and jumped in my car. By now the police would be on their way to the house. If I drove towards the cottage I might pass them or we might take different routes. Why was I so reluctant to leave? Because I was afraid Geraldine would escape from the flat? Because I wanted to protect her? Or because I had to know the truth?
The outside door had swung shut. I put my key in the lock, gave the door a shove and stepped noisily into the narrow hallway.
‘Geraldine?’ My voice sounded unnaturally loud. ‘I’m coming up — so we can have a talk. It’s all right. Just stay where you are.’
Removing my shoes I started up the stairs, listening for the smallest sound, pausing on the landing then continuing on up to the top. Thomas’s penguin was still propped up on the bottom step leading up to his room. When I moved it to one side its head sagged limply where the stuffing had leaked out of the threadbare material.
‘Geraldine, are you up there? It’s all right. I just want to talk.’
I held my breath but the whole place was silent and there was an odd smell I had failed to notice before, like a mixture of dried herbs and toothpaste. At the top of Thomas’s steps the door had been closed, cutting out most of the light. Turning the handle I pull
ed it open and stepped inside, my eyes darting round, searching for any tiny movement. The bed cover was caught up at one end. I pulled it off and bent down all in one movement but the divan base had drawers that reached to the ground. There was no space to hide.
A fitted cupboard with a long mirror was partly concealed by a jogging suit that had been left hanging over the door. I snatched at the trousers and the door swung open, revealing a solitary grey duffle coat hanging on a metal rail.
If Geraldine wanted to escape now would be her chance, while I was in Thomas’s room and out of sight of the stairs. But why would she want to? Apart from me no one need ever know she had been out in the car. If she could kill once she could kill again. I ran down the steep attic steps, knocking my head on the ceiling, calling her name, but more to break the silence than because I expected any reply.
There was no cupboard under the stairs, just an empty space. Stupidly I wondered where the vacuum cleaner was kept. It was a problem in my flat, I had to shove it at the back of the wardrobe. In a flat like this there could be hiding places I could never imagine. She could be close by, inches away, waiting, poised, with a kitchen knife or a heavy tool. When they found me the weapon would have disappeared and she would describe how she had left me in the living-room while she went to lie down. Later she had heard someone breaking in, then a scuffle, shouting. She had run out of the bedroom and found me. It had been too late.
But just at this moment I doubted if she was thinking that far ahead. I doubted if she was thinking straight at all.
Suddenly a muffled sound came from somewhere on my left — like someone trying not to cough. I stood still, listening, but it was so quiet I thought I must have imagined it. Then the same sound again but this time it seemed to come from a different place. Running from room to room, I turned my head in all directions, pulling open cupboards, looking under beds, behind chairs. Nothing. Then I remembered. Halfway down the stairs, below the window-sill with the green parrot I had noticed a small brass knob on the wooden panelling. It was one of those pieces of information the brain absorbs, almost without consciousness, something unimportant, unlikely to be of any future use. I started down the stairs.
The parrot was in its usual place, staring at the orange and yellow stained-glass window. I picked it up, feeling its leaden weight, and with my other hand I took hold of the brass knob and wrenched open the door, almost pulling it off its hinges.
She was curled up in a foetal position with her arms round her head, half covering her face, and she was so still I had to edge closer to make sure she was breathing. Even then I couldn’t be certain until one of her knees suddenly gave an involuntary jerk.
‘It’s all right,’ I said softly. ‘I won’t hurt you.’
Slowly, painfully she uncurled her body and sat, still half inside the cupboard, looking up at me with the same blank expression I had seen the first time we met.
‘You wanted me to go out,’ she said, speaking so quietly her words were barely audible, ‘that’s why you told me the story about the man who drove to the cliff top.’
‘Tell me about it, tell me what happened.’
The tears began to slide down her cheeks. She made no movement to brush them away, just sat with her legs stuck out in front of her like a small child, staring straight ahead, with her eyes focused on my legs.
‘He killed him,’ she said. ‘He killed my Walter.’
‘Walter Bury?’
‘He thought we were going away. And Thomas, I wouldn’t leave Thomas. He hates me. He’s hated me for years.’ Her voice was louder now. ‘Ever since Thomas was born.’
‘Come on out,’ I said, ‘then you can tell me all about it.’ I held out my hand and she took hold of it but made no effort to raise herself up.
‘He’s not Thomas’s real father,’ she said. ‘Sandy can’t have children. Artificial insemination by Donor, you’ve heard of it I expect. Sounds like something they do to farm animals. Well, it’s just the same, I suppose.’
We sat on the stairs. It was cold, colder than it had been for a long time. ‘Sandy must have agreed to it,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, we had counselling, it was all done properly.’ Her voice was a little shaky but having started to talk she seemed more in control of herself. ‘At the best of times men don’t like babies very much and Thomas was the kind that sleep all day and cry all night. I didn’t breast feed so that meant we could share the bottles although quite soon he took over most of the feeds.’
‘Sandy did? I thought you meant … because Thomas wasn’t his own … ’
‘Oh no, just the opposite. Thomas was to have everything he could ever wish for.’
‘So what went wrong?’
She shivered, turning towards me, her face contorted with the effort of trying to explain. ‘You see I was never allowed any say in how Thomas was brought up. If I made the slightest suggestion Sandy said I was trying to undermine his authority because he wasn’t the biological father.’
I thought about Thomas, listening outside the door, overhearing part of a discussion about the nature of his birth and assuming, quite understandably, that he must have been adopted. Then I thought about the music lessons, the judo, gym club, drama group. I had blamed Lynsey for interfering, and all along Thomas had been only too willing to give up some of his out-of-school activities and play in the woods like a normal little boy.
Geraldine’s eyelids were drooping. ‘He never loved me,’ she said. ‘But I was useful, as a hostess. Then later when I became depressed I was a patient for him to practise on.’
‘Tell me about Walter.’
‘Walter?’ The tears returned. ‘I met him at the French class. He was terribly unhappy — people who go to classes often are. We didn’t speak to each other for several weeks, then I plucked up courage and asked if he’d like to join me for a cup of coffee.’
‘In the cafe at the museum.’
‘Oh, you know it.’ For some reason this seemed important to her. ‘Very occasionally you meet someone and it’s as though you’ve known them all your life. He loved the countryside — plants, birds. There are dormice in Leigh Woods. I think you call them dormice or is it dormouses?’
‘How did Sandy find out — about you and Walter?’
‘He must have followed me. I was so careful, so discreet, but he must have become suspicious.’
‘Perhaps because you seemed happier.’
‘Yes, I suppose that could be it. Later he found out where Walter lived and how he used to walk in the woods in the evening. You see more at that time of day, even in the summer when it’s still quite light.’
‘Sandy told you he knew — about you and Walter?’
She nodded. ‘He said one day I was sure to leave him and he couldn’t live without me. I think he meant it. You can depend on someone without actually loving them.’
‘Perhaps he did love you?’
‘He needed me,’ she said flatly, ‘and Thomas. People he could control, people who made him feel part of a proper family.’
‘But no one knows for certain that he killed Walter Bury.’
‘Oh, it was him all right. He used the club hammer, the one Thomas spilled blue paint on when Sandy was teaching him how to use tools. After Walter died I found it in the shed.’
‘But you couldn’t have known … Surely he’d have got rid of it, thrown it away.’
‘The best place to hide something is where it’s supposed to be. A knife in a kitchen drawer, a hammer in a tool box. It was spotlessly clean, as though it had been wiped all over. There were still a few traces of paint of course but it smelled of bleach, that’s how I knew. Then I did a very stupid thing.’ She stared at me and her eyes looked almost amused. ‘Later, much later, when the house was empty, I crept downstairs and threw the hammer over the hedge, on to the grass verge by the side of the road. I suppose I wanted someone to find it, pick it up.’
‘Dean Koenig.’
‘Wasn’t it unfair? I couldn’t let the young ma
n take the blame for what Sandy had done. Sandy had to be stopped. We never talked about it, not a word, but he knew.’
‘That you’d guessed. So yesterday, when Rona and Lynsey had gone missing and the Sealeys were in Cornwall, you drove out to the cottage and killed him.’
Her teeth had started to chatter. I heard a car pull up in the road, then turn into the drive.
‘You see Walter loved me,’ she said.
I went downstairs and let the police into the flat.
‘She’s up there,’ I said. ‘Look, before you go up … ’
Howard Fry strode past me, speaking over his shoulder. ‘The head wound was relatively superficial, there’s no way anyone could have died from it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He paused, three steps up. ‘Someone’ll have to identify the body. If you’d stayed at the cottage as instructed … The doctor’s ninety-nine per cent certain the victim died from an overdose.’
‘Overdose? But — ’
‘Probably a mixture of sleeping tablets and alcohol. We found an empty container in the bathroom. The drugs themselves would be unlikely to be fatal, even in fairly large amounts, but combined with a bottle of Southern Comfort … ’
‘But the head wound,’ I said, holding the door open to let in Graham Whittle.
‘He must have hit it on the edge of the grate,’ said Howard. ‘Stood up when he was already pretty groggy and — ’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Who knows? To find more alcohol, write a suicide note?’
‘You found one?’
‘No. Now where’s the wife? According to the doctor the victim had been dead for some time. He was cold but flaccid, rigor mortis had already worn off.’
He turned away but I grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Listen, if Sandy had fallen the gash would have been underneath.’
He hesitated. ‘Not necessarily. What are you getting at?’