‘Miss Farrell — ’ it was a note of warning.
‘You can’t keep me here, can you?’ she asked with an interest so detached, so gracious, that just for an instant she got the better of him.
‘Er — no.’
‘Good. Then I really must go. I apologise for coming in here like a volcano. Good morning.’
*
DS Collier came upon Hunter standing in the corridor looking through the window on to a side road of parked cars.
Hunter said, ‘Those early Bette Davis films. The way she walked.’
Collier, wondering if he might have a place in the conversation, looked out of the window for help. He saw a golden-haired young woman, head up, striding into a stage set of mulberry clouds dazzled by silver. She wore slim trousers, cowboy boots, fringed jacket. She was stunning. A surreptitious sideways glance revealed his DCI suitably stunned.
Collier had no intention of jeopardising his career by asking Why have you come out of your office to stand in the corridor and watch a golden woman walk away?
Hunter said, ‘That’s Willoughby’s niece.’
Collier’s gaze returned with new interest. ‘She’s been to see you?’
‘Ye — es,’ Hunter murmured, retiring for a fraction into a private place where the young Bette Davis might or might not feature. ‘She thinks we’re victimising him. Come on, I’ll tell you about it.’
They went into the office. After listening to Hunter s account of Liz’s visit, Collier said, ‘The majority view. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘One dissenting voice.’
‘The anonymous phone call.’
‘Mmm. But I’ll tell you what. Miss Liz Farrell, thick in the bosom of the Willoughby family and adoring them — Miss Farrell knows something.’
‘About Willoughby?’
‘I’m sure of it.’ Hunter brooded. ‘But if she believed it was relevant to the investigation, she wouldn’t hold it back. She’s too responsible. She’s too bloody impulsive. There’s something, though.’
It was out of the question to return to Paula’s, to be skewered on her curiosity. If she went anywhere else in Hambling, Paula, given time, would track her down. She was tiresomely knowledgeable about where Liz was to be found on a Saturday. If she had no success she pestered Liz’s friends, who couldn’t stand her and had been known to hide in shop doorways when they saw her in the street.
So Liz went home, the instinct of the animal to creep into its cave. She made coffee and went up to her workroom. In Paula’s house the clutter was threatening; here it soothed, turning the mind gently to creative thoughts.
She was still aghast at the thought of the anonymous telephone call. Who could be so malicious — so cowardly? But if she didn’t do something soon, Paula would be round; she would catch Liz off balance and, with infallible instinct, know she was hiding something. Liz knew that — nagged, stared at — she had no hope of keeping the phone call to herself. And once Paula knew — Helen would know. Hambling would know. Given time to reflect, get her defences into place, Liz would be able to cope; in the meanwhile, an edited version of her visit to Hambling police station was manageable only at one remove. She went next door into her bedroom and picked up the phone.
Paula, eager to the point of sharpness, snapped, ‘I thought you were coming back here. I was starting lunch for us. Well, what have they found out?’
Things were looking up — she had escaped one of Paula’s meals — tasteless, shapeless plates of — stuff. ‘Well, the name of the woman — it’s Beattie Booth.’
If there was such a thing as the sound of someone thinking furiously, Liz could hear it.
Eventually, Paula said, ‘Never heard of her. Have you?’
‘Of course not, and I’m sure Reggie hasn’t, either.’
‘Where was she from? Do they know? Not from round here, that’s for sure.’
‘Chatfield. One of those tower blocks.’
‘Oh, well... ’ In the derogatory tone How could we possibly know someone who lived in one of those places... Liz heard an echo of her own voice, of Helen’s. She felt ashamed. They might just as well have made an unspoken pact to agree that Beattie Booth had a right to existence, yes, but only in places suitable to her — and that did not mean Hambling.
‘Did they say why they’d got on to him in the first place?’
When you’re lying, keep it brief. ‘Only what they said originally. They had reason to believe he was in the area and might have seen her. Or seen someone.’
‘What do you mean — “had reason”? What reason?’
‘Oh, God, Paula, I don’t know.’
‘And who’s “someone”?’
‘I can’t exactly recall what they meant by that.’
‘Well... You haven’t got much, have you?’
‘I don’t think there is anything else.’
Paula made a rude, disbelieving noise. ‘Did they assure you they won’t bother him again?’
— No, of course not. How dare she hang around the police station, demanding assurances, when she’d almost put her foot in it disastrously. ‘They’re satisfied with his alibi.’ Were they? Had anyone mentioned it?
‘How did they treat you?’
She thought of a man built like a gun-slinger, with a watchful, determined face; eyes with the light of a winter sea; grey in his dark hair, an air of immovable calm.
Oh, God, fate throws Burt Lancaster at me and I make a complete ass of myself... I emptied my handbag on his... I called him a... She curled herself into a ball and moaned softly.
‘Liz,’ Paula yelled.
‘What? Sorry, I — er just knocked something over.’
‘You haven’t answered my question. What was their attitude?’
‘Um... polite. Helpful.’
Repetition of rude noise. ‘And told you sweet f.a. What’s their next move?’
‘Good God, Paula, I’m not in their confidence. And why on earth should they tell me anything? It’s nothing to do with us any more.’
‘Well, maybe that’s what they said — it doesn’t have to be true. I wouldn’t trust the swine as far as I could throw them. So, what are you going to tell Helen?’
‘Er — what I’ve just told you.’
‘Not much help, is it? You might as well not have gone.’
Liz could no longer remember why she had; a flood of irritation was causing a log-jam inside her head. ‘Paula, we’re not going to get any further with this and I have a lot of things to do — ’
Paula was inclined to persist, but only so far as Liz’s patience stretched. Gauging its exact limit, she rang off.
Liz gave herself time to calm down; there was no point in phoning Helen with nerves shredded by Paula. She could only hope Paula didn’t phone in the meanwhile, it was much better Helen receive her sensible version instead of something alarmist Paula had decided to make up.
She had a cup of tea, thought about things, phoned Helen. ‘I went to see Paula this morning.’
‘How good of you, darling. Do tell.’
‘Well, she was upset on Reggie’s behalf, that’s what it was, really. That the police were making enquiries — ’
‘What enquiries?’
‘Oh, just general things — backing up his alibi. But what Paula was getting so aerated about, she thought that, as his family, you — we — ought to know about the enquiries. Oh, well, the long and short of it is, I went to the police station.’
‘The police... I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t think I do now. It must have seemed like a good idea at the time. Perhaps I wanted to give myself up.’
‘Liz,’ Helen said with gentle reproof.
‘I’m sorry. Two doses of Paula this morning — one at her house and one on the phone — and I can’t seem to make much sense of anything.’
‘Tell me about it.’
They talked for a while, Liz feeling herself soothed, explaining what had happened, reassuring Helen — who in turn reassured h
er — ‘It’ll all blow over, don’t worry about it. I can’t think of anything more noble than taking Paula and the police on in the same morning. Do you feel like doing something else noble this evening?’
‘Of course, what is it?’
Helen had forgotten (an indication of her distraction over Reggie, she was scrupulous about social engagements) that some time before she had invited two neighbours, the Dalrymple sisters, for whist — ‘and as Reggie’s still away... ’
‘I’d love to,’ Liz was hopeless at bridge but she could manage whist. And the plump little Dalrymples were adorable, very mischievous for two old spinster ladies. ‘And it’ll keep Paula away, to know we’re there with you — she thinks whist evenings are too unbearably middle class.’
‘You are naughty. Come early and we’ll have supper together.’
*
The Dalrymples arrived under umbrellas and, after a delightful evening, left under them. They had been gone no more than five minutes when the front doorbell rang. ‘They must have left something behind.’ Liz cast around in the hall for a scarf, a handbag, while Helen switched the porch light back on and opened the door.
She screamed. Once, abruptly.
Liz flung herself at the front door, expecting to see somebody — somebody menacing standing there. At first, nothing, then, her gaze drawn down and to the side. Her heart thumped in her chest; without knowing what she was doing she had pushed Helen behind her. But Helen had already seen...
The sprawling figure. Rain slanting through the carved columns of the porch, rain streaming off red plastic raincoat and white boots. ‘Oh, my God. Helen, it’s all right — I mean, it’s not real — It’s a sort of dummy.’
Helen’s voice, faint and shaking, ‘It’s disgusting.’
‘Yes, yes, it is... But it can’t hurt you. And whoever put it there must be... ’ Liz stepped into the porch, past the shiny, bloated thing. She peered down the drive, although there was little point. Whoever had dumped this had been away like lightning and, on a night like this, with the shelter of the bushes and the shrouding rain, there would be no hope of following and finding them. She wasn’t sure she wanted to. Besides, she couldn’t leave Helen.
She went back into the hall, where Helen stood at the open door, she seemed unable to move. Liz put her arms round her, felt the fragile body quaking. ‘God knows why anyone should do this, it’s cruel and disgusting, but I’m here with you — ’
‘It’s her, isn’t it? It’s meant to be that woman. Get it away from here, please.’
‘Yes, yes.’ She went to the threshold, indicating what she would do. ‘We certainly can’t leave it there, it’s just too... At least it’s no weight to carry. I’ll take it through here to — ’
‘Not in the house!’ Helen cried.
‘Only through. Listen, dear, please. I’m going to take it straight through and out the back. You — don’t look, go in to the sitting room or — ’ Without waiting for further argument, Liz crossed the porch, grasped the slippery, cold thing and went at top speed; hall, corridor, kitchen, back door. Out into the night, but under cover, in again to the old wash-house. There was a light, she put it on, stood getting her breath back, looking at the thing she had carried.
Apart from its effect of shock and disgust, the simulacrum conveyed with savage insult a judgement — or opinion — of the character, the conduct, the totality of the dead woman. The plastered-looking, painted-on hair, the round eyes, the vacant face, the open O of the mouth grossly connecting her with the furtiveness and isolation of substitute sex.
Liz, nowhere near as calm as she wished Helen to believe, felt shaken, angry and very uneasy. It could not be possible that what it was and why it had appeared were any way relevant to the woman’s death — but someone was sick enough, and vicious enough, to bring it right to Helen’s door and Liz wondered whether it would be wise to call the police. She switched off the light, locked the wash-house and went back into the house.
Helen was still standing in the hall, white-faced. Liz steered her into the sitting room, sat her down. There, incongruously, everything was as it had been from their gentle evening’s entertainment: the satiny spread of light; the harmony of velvet, mahogany, gilded wood. She made for the oak sideboard, on whose splendidly gleaming surface reposed a collection of brilliant-cut Victorian glass: bowl and basket shapes deeply incised with the most extravagant ornamentation. She knew Helen particularly favoured it; she knew it was valuable; she considered it insanely awful and was always terrified of breaking bits of it — especially now, with hasty hands, reaching for the decanter, pouring two brandies. ‘Come on, Helen, drink this, it’ll help. I certainly need it.’ She had said it before, but she needed to say it again. ‘That thing can’t hurt you.’
‘Have you locked it in?’
‘Yes.’ As if it could get up and walk about in the night. Poor, poor Helen. ‘It’s terrible you should be persecuted like this — by someone very sick, very malicious. Don’t you think it would be a good idea if we told the police?’
‘Liz — no. Absolutely not. I forbid it.’
‘All right, all right,’ soothingly.
‘This is nothing to do with anyone else, we must keep it to ourselves. I want your word, Liz, you will never speak of this to anyone. We must not let them know — this person who gets some kind of perverted pleasure out of doing this — that we have been in any way affected by it. We must get rid of it — it contaminates everything merely by being here.’ She spoke fast and urgently. Liz thought — she hasn’t pulled herself together yet, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. Thank God I was here.
‘We must get rid of it, Liz. But where, where? There’s nowhere to burn it — ’ her voice, caught on something like a sob, rushed on, ‘It won’t fit in the dustbin — unless we — we chopped bits off it — besides, we couldn’t put it there — when the men come and open the bin — they’ll see it and — that would be frightful. If we wrapped it — but then, when they got to the tip, the wrapping could come off, and everyone would see — and know we’d tried to hide... Can we somehow — dismantle it, Liz? Oh, could you? I couldn’t touch it. But then — what... where?’
Her suggestions for disposal continued wildly and for a time unstoppably. Liz saw this was necessary: Helen must talk her way out of her shock, out of her obsession that this awful thing might be traced back to her — it would do no good asking who on earth would go to that kind of trouble and why should they?
At last, when Helen showed positive signs of calming down, Liz said, ‘All I need to do is deflate it.’
‘Deflate? How can you? Isn’t it a model of some sort — a lay-figure?’
The term was horribly appropriate. ‘No. I’m afraid it’s something obscene. It’s an inflatable woman.’
Amazement had a bracing effect on Helen — if only temporarily. ‘Liz, don’t be absurd. Whatever could it be for? Who would want something like that?’
‘A man.’
‘Why?’
‘To use as a substitute for a real woman,’ Liz said sensibly. ‘We’re somewhere very sordid with this, Helen. The person who could use such a thing as a means to terrorise you has to be pretty sick. I don’t want to frighten you any more than you are, but I shall never stop worrying, knowing how vulnerable you are when I’m not here. That’s why I’m telling you the truth about this. Helen, you must get Reggie to come back home. You shouldn’t be here alone, you need his company and support.’
Every particle of Helen’s fastidious nature must have been revolted by Liz’s explanation; and yet in spite of her evident disgust there was, in an extraordinary way, something like a world-weary acceptance. Helen — who had no knowledge of the world — insensibly, wearily communicated — oh, what next? She had, Liz realised in that moment, unsuspected strengths. There was also, in the reminder of Reggie, the reminder of her responsibility to him, a lifelong habit nothing would dislodge. ‘Liz, you’ll never tell him, will you? I know you’re sophisticated about these t
hings, and he might be, too, but I would find it all too hideously embarrassing.’
‘No, I won’t tell him.’ Liz didn’t know about Reggie and sophistication, she suspected that one look at the revolting object would frighten him speechless.
Helen went on. ‘This was directed at him — through me. Sheer vindictiveness. That is why we mustn’t show we have given in to it in any way.’
‘Yes, I understand. But I mean it, Helen, he must come back and keep you company. Now, I’m going to make us a cup of tea and we’ll work out how to dispose of that damn thing in the morning.’
They sat and talked, Helen more herself yet still brittle with nerves. Eventually, they decided that Liz, after deflating the lay-figure (the neutral term Helen insisted on ) would cut it into little pieces, make up separate bags of the pieces, seal them with sticky tape, take them to the tip and distribute them amongst various skips.
At last in bed, Liz found it difficult to sleep. Out of her jumble of thoughts one surfaced that kept her awake for some time. Suppose the intruder had not used the front gate and drive for fear of being observed? Although there would have been few people about on such an evening, no one could carry anything more conspicuous. Suppose he — she — had used the path behind the houses — knowing the shrubs concealed a gate in the fence — and made their way through the garden. It would have been easy enough to creep round the side of the house, unbolt the wrought-iron gate...
She had no idea why the thought should occur to her, or why it should disturb her so much, but she couldn’t shake it off and knew that in the morning she would have to go and check the back gate. The last thing she wanted was to alarm Helen by putting the thought into her head; and she could not think of a single, convincing reason why she should walk the length of the garden without explaining herself. Before she fell into an exhausted sleep she had worked out what she must do.
*
They were both up early. Helen looked as if she had been awake all night. It was a glowering day, dark as an old engraving, with squalls of the everlasting rain. Liz took herself off to the wash-house with far too many plastic bags, sticky tape, Helens craft shears and a Stanley knife. Disposing of the lay-figure took a great deal of time and made her hands ache. But at last the job was finished. She stowed the bags in the boot of her car, acutely aware that every move she made was watched by Helen from inside the house.
Cruel as the Grave Page 7