As Healey eased forward, they moved aside, pushing their bottoms into the heads of those sitting at the tables and their breasts into Healey as he passed.
‘Well done, Richard,’ said Farrell, as Healey set the tray down on the narrow table. ‘Budge up, ladies,’ he added, sliding along the bench seat that backed onto the window, and patting the space he left behind him. Sam, the course assistant, and the Italian woman, Silvia, followed him along, leaving Healey a small space at the end, next to the door to the deck at the stern. Healey took off his jacket and sat down beside Silvia. He poured Guinness from the bottle and held up his glass. ‘Cheers!’ he said.
‘Cheers!’ said the other three.
‘Glad you could come,’ said Farrell.
‘Thanks for letting me.’ Healey waved his glass in the direction from which he had come. ‘You’re just about full.’
‘That’s not a problem. Can always make room for an extra one. If we want to, that is. Funnily enough, the British Council woman asked me yesterday if she could come too, and I said no, we had a full complement.’ Farrell made a grimace. ‘I probably shouldn’t have, but she’s such an awful wet blanket.’ He paused. ‘And I don’t like her.’ He sipped at his Guinness. ‘Luckily, she doesn’t seem to like me either. It’s poor old Sam here who has to deal with her.’
‘She’s not too bad,’ said Sam. ‘It’s just that she’s always worried that something is going to go wrong, and she gets stressed.’
‘Tell Richard about the toilets,’ said Farrell.
‘Do I have to?’ asked Sam.
‘All right,’ said Farrell, ‘I’ll tell him. There was a bit of trouble last year. The toilets got in a mess because some of the ladies didn’t sit on the seat, they crouched over it somehow, and weren’t very accurate. The cleaners complained, naturally, and she put up notices telling them how to use the toilet. Fair enough, I suppose, though it did cause ill feeling. So what happens this year? The day before the course begins, she gives Sam a set of notices to put up, telling them how to use a toilet. Sam tells me about it, and I say don’t do it. The woman comes to me and talks about uncivilised and unacceptable behaviour. I tell her that putting up notices before anything happens is unacceptable.’
‘And?’ asks Healey.
‘No notices and no trouble. Stupid cow!’
Healey wondered what then was the problem Farrell and Sam had had the previous morning, but he said nothing.
The boat chugged on along the canal, between parched looking fields. A little grey-haired woman walking a Dobermann along the towpath stopped and watched the boat as it went by, doubtless wondering at the noise coming from it. Farrell had begun to talk to Sam about arrangements for the following day, and Healey found himself asking Silvia about her life in Italy. She lived in Padua, she said, and taught English at the university there. She loved all things English. Even after being married to the Englishman who had left her. ‘I still like Englishmen,’ she said, looking directly into Healey’s eyes over the wineglass held to her lips.
Healey said nothing, and she went on to ask him about his life. He told her he was married, forgetting that she already knew, and had two children.
‘What do they think? That you are a policeman, I mean.’
‘They don’t mind.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, I doubt that the children think about it. And my wife accepts it.’
‘But she doesn’t like it?’
‘Not very much.’
‘Neither would I.’
‘Why not?’
‘You are too sensitive to be a policeman.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘I know you a little. And …’
‘And what?’
‘I shouldn’t say this.’
Healey’s throat was dry and his voice thick. ‘Go on.’
She remained silent, still looking at him.
‘What were you going to say?’ he asked.
She put down her glass and placed her hand on his. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said.
The boat bumped against the side of the canal at Burghfield Bridge, where stood the promised pub, The Cunning Man. Named after some local magician, Farrell had told them. As he climbed ashore, Healey was met by the two Bulgarians. ‘I hope you will let Mike come to the party tomorrow,’ said Ludmilla.
‘The party? Oh, yes, the party.’
‘And you, of course, Inspector.’
‘We’ll have to see.’
‘Yes, we’ll see you. That’s good. Now, you’ll have a drink with us.’
‘Erm, thank you,’ Healey looked round anxiously, ‘but I have to have a word with …’ He caught sight of Mary Walters walking towards the door of the pub but separate from the general stream of people moving in that direction. ‘With Miss Walters.’ He smiled apologetically at Ludmilla and strode towards the door. He caught up with Ms Walters, as he remembered she preferred to be called, according to Rita at least.
‘Could you spare me a minute, do you think?’ he asked.
To his surprise, she smiled. ‘Of course, Chief Inspector. But let me buy you a drink first. What would you like?’
A minute later, Healey was sitting on a bench outside a pub in rural Berkshire, drinking a glass of draft Guinness with Mary Walters, watching the sun go down. It seemed a very unlikely event. Unreal. She was wearing jeans and a stone washed denim shirt. The snood had gone and her sandy hair hung loose. ‘Where’s your friend?’ he asked.
‘Helga? She’s already left. She couldn’t get a flight tomorrow or Saturday, and she’s going on holiday on Sunday.’
‘Oh.’
‘With her kids.’
‘Her kids? But I thought …’
Ms Walters laughed. ‘Don’t look so surprised. It’s not that unusual.’
‘It’s just that …’
‘Of course.’
It suddenly occurred to Healey that the indiscretion she was showing was probably not unconnected with having drunk more than she was used to, and that this was his opportunity to get a less carefully considered view of what had been happening. ‘So, you don’t work with the others during the year, do you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m at the University of London. Peter Farrell asked me to teach on the summer school.’ She took a quick sip of the large whisky she had bought herself. I used to teach with them, though.’
‘Here in Reading?’
Before answering, she gulped down what remained of the whisky. Healey sensed that she was wondering how much to tell him. ‘No,’ she continued, ‘I worked with Neville and Tim in Manila.’
‘When was that?’
‘About a year before Neville came back to England, and then three years after that with Tim.’
‘So you know Mrs Crouch too?’
‘Oh, yes, I certainly do.’
‘You don’t sound very approving.’
‘Approving?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘She doesn’t need my approval. She’s got everything that she wants. Especially now, with Neville gone. You know she was a bargirl?’
Healey nodded.
‘Well, compare the life she has here with the one she had then. I’ve only got admiration for her.’
‘But you don’t like her.’
‘I wouldn’t want her for a friend. I certainly wouldn’t trust her.’
‘Did Neville trust her?’
‘I don’t think he had a choice. He idolised her. And she did whatever she wanted.’
‘Like go to the Philippines with Dr Farrell?’ Healey ventured.
‘You know about that?’
‘I heard about it, yes. What happened exactly?’
‘Not a lot.’ She guffawed. ‘He only got her pregnant. That’s not much, is it?’
‘Did she have the baby?’
‘Of course.’
‘Gia?’
‘Yes. Gia.’ Ms Walters looked down at her empty glass. ‘I don’t suppose you could get me another one, could you?’
>
By the time Healey got back with her whisky and his Guinness, Ms Walters had been joined by the two Bulgarians. He had wanted to ask her if Crouch knew that Farrell was the father of Gia but he couldn’t now. Putting down the whisky, he made his excuses and went back inside the pub. Arriving at the bar, behind which were a Union Jack and the flag of St George, as well as framed photographs from what he guessed must have been the Falklands War, he sat down on a stool and looked around. Most of the course members were outside but a small group of men, central Europeans, he thought, or were they Scandinavians, were sat around a table, dourly drinking lager.
In an alcove two young men in camouflage jackets silently surveyed the scene; in another alcove was Farrell, deep in conversation with Sam. In the far corner was another couple: Silvia was sitting with what looked a lot like Tim Wright, who was holding a book. Could it be Wright? He hadn’t seen him on the boat. As he watched them, they eventually fell silent. Silvia looked up, saw Healey, and said something to Wright, who didn’t respond but continued to look at the glass in front of him. Silvia gave a small wave to Healey and he held up his hand in acknowledgement. Silvia said something else to Wright, stood up, and walked over to Healey. ‘I’m just getting a drink for Tim,’ she said. ‘Can I get one for you?’
Healey gestured towards his still almost full glass. ‘No thanks,’ he said.
Silvia ordered half a pint of shandy and stood beside the seated Healey, tapping her fingers on the bar. She smiled briefly but neither of them spoke. When the burly, shaven headed barman, whose arms were heavily tattooed with patriotic emblems, placed the drink in front of her, she paid, picked up the glass and turned as if to go. Then she turned back.
‘Come and join us,’ she said.
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’
‘I would like it. Please come.’
Healey was reluctant. He was getting more involved than he probably should, and he had already been warned by the Super. Still, it was a chance to learn more about Wright. He just had to be careful. He eased himself from the stool. ‘All right,’ he said.
‘Wake up! Richard, wake up!’ In his dream Healey heard the voice and felt his shoulder being shaken. And shaken again. But it wasn’t a dream. He opened his eyes and saw Farrell leaning over him. He was still on the coach. Painfully, his hand gripping the seat in front, he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled along the aisle, down the steps, and onto the pavement outside the Hall.
Back at the pub he had followed Silvia from the bar to the table with a sense of unreality and the growing conviction that he was making a mistake. How was he going to learn anything useful while the woman was there to listen to them? Again and again in this case he had found himself questioning people in circumstances that favoured them rather than him. And it hadn’t helped that he hadn’t prepared properly.
Wright had been pleasant enough. He had put down his book, which he explained was a guide to Italy, where he was going to spend much of the summer, staying part of the time in Padua. Hearing the name of the city where Silvia lived, Healey felt a pang of jealousy, but asked politely when Wright would be leaving and was told that it would probably be Monday. He had already decided not to ask Wright where he had been during the day, but instead asked Silvia how she had enjoyed the course. Very much was the answer. And the lectures – Healey had attended the one on Othello – how were they? Variable – that Othello lecture she thought was dreadful, almost sent her to sleep. And today’s, Healey asked, what was that about? The future of English language teaching, a large topic by a small man with a big reputation, very disappointing, she said, all about himself really. Much Ado about Nothing, the Italian course members had renamed the lecture.
Healey asked Wright whether he thought the same. Smiling, as if amused at Healey’s clumsy effort, Wright replied that unfortunately he was unable to give an opinion as he hadn’t been there to hear the great man speak. He’d gone to London first thing, for an interview for a job at the Institute of Education, but the Chief Inspector wouldn’t be interested in that, would he? He continued to smile as Healey asked him how the interview had gone, and he said that, thank you, it had gone rather well actually.
Healey wondered who had taken Wright’s class after the lecture, and why Farrell had let him go to London when he was already one tutor short.
The three of them were still talking, now about their holiday plans, when the arrival of the coach which would take the group back to Reading was announced by three loud hoots of the horn. Wright said he had his car there and asked if he could drive either of them back to the Hall. Silvia refused, as did Healey, who carried their three empty glasses to the bar and then stood at the door of the pub watching everyone else boarding the coach in the fading light.
When he climbed on himself, he was at once confronted by the sight of Silvia sitting by herself immediately behind the driver, looking straight ahead. If she had turned her head towards him then, he would have sat with her, but she didn’t, and he made his way down the coach, until he found a seat near the back where he could be alone and think. The bus lurched forward and he sat down with a bump.
He was tired. It had been a long day. It had begun with the visit to Falstaff Avenue; then there was the awful interview at Gatwick; the flat in Hampstead; back to Reading; and now three hours on the canal and in the pub, listening to too many people talking, and drinking more than he should.
As he reflected on this, he remembered that Silvia had said she was going to tell him something. What could that be? He could go and sit with her now at the front of the bus, but she hadn’t looked at him when he passed, and anyhow to do it now would be to make a statement to everyone else. He wouldn’t do it. But what did she want to say? Something personal? To do with the case? Perhaps he could catch her when they got back to the Hall.
And then there was the Walters woman telling him about Farrell and Teresa. Was it true? If so, could it be connected with Crouch’s death? He wondered how Teague had got on, whether he had been able to get into the rooms and, if so, whether he had found anything. He hoped that he would still be at the Hall. It was warm in the coach and the lights were dim. He had quickly fallen asleep.
Farrell walked with Healey as far as the main door of the Hall. ‘I think that’s it for me,’ he said, yawning. ‘I’m beat. I’d better get home.’
‘All right, Peter,’ said Healey, ‘I need to check on a couple of things. See you tomorrow.’
He walked through the reception area and along the corridor to the incident room, where he found a constable, not Gifford, who handed him a message. The message, written in Teague’s looping, rather childish hand, was brief: Sir, W left in car and F on bus with you. Gained entry to there rooms Will report findings first thing, M.T. Healey sniffed at his sergeant’s misspelling (or was it bad grammar, he wondered) and the superfluous information about Farrell, handed back the slip of paper, told the constable to close up, and went in search of the toilets.
After washing his face and drinking water from cupped hands, he felt better. Nothing more to do here, he thought. He would start tomorrow by discussing everything with Teague. In the meantime he should get some sleep. He’d leave the car where it was and walk; it would do him good, and anyhow he’d had too much to drink. No point in risking it. He had just reached the entrance to the playing fields, when he remembered his briefcase, which he’d left in the boot of his car.
Walking back to where Teague had parked it, he glanced towards the hall and saw that there was a light on in one of the rooms on the top corridor. Whose room was it? Not Crouch’s, surely. No, it was the one farthest from the stairs. Whose was that? What had the cleaner said? Sam’s. That was it, Sam, the course assistant. As he watched, the figure of a man came to the window, stood there for a few seconds, and then drew the curtains.
‘My God,’ Healey uttered. The person who had closed the curtains was Peter Farrell.
FRIDAY
‘Wake up … Wake up! Dick! Wake up.’
/>
Healey struggled to break free from the deep sleep that enshrouded him.
‘It’s five past seven. Here’s your tea.’
When he had got home, his wife had been asleep so he had left a note asking her to wake him at seven. Now he put out his two hands to clasp the mug of tea she was holding in front of him. Once he had taken it from her, she climbed onto the bed and over him to reach her cup of coffee (she had always claimed to loathe tea), which she sipped while nestling against his back. ‘You got back late,’ she said.
‘About one.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Not bad. We’re getting there.’ He paused before adding, ‘At least I think we are.’ The tea was good, just what he needed for his parched mouth, but his head ached. ‘Have we got any paracetamol?’ he asked.
His wife leaned away from him and pulled open the drawer of her bedside table. ‘Here,’ she said, passing him a sheet of tablets. ‘I suppose you want water now.’
‘Do you mind?’
Before he left, Healey looked in on the children, both still in bed. His son was fast asleep. ‘Daaad!’ said his daughter in a way that he knew meant she wanted to engage his sympathy before she asked for something.
‘Yeah?’
‘Are we going on holiday?’
He had said a week ago that they would, but that had been before he was given this case. ‘As soon as we can, love. I’ve got to finish what I’m doing first.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Soon.’
Downstairs he collected the mini-cassettes from his desk and put them back in the supermarket bag which Mrs Crouch had given him. He walked from the house out onto Beech Lane and immediately thought of Peter Farrell. He wondered where he had spent the night. He looked at the Farrells’ house as he passed it but saw no one. It was another hot day and he was already beginning to sweat. As he walked into the cool shade of the Wilderness, his head began to clear. He felt better. Perhaps he had made mistakes this week (he could imagine Teague telling people that he’d been ‘all over the place’) but he had learned more than he would have if he’d simply followed routine. What he had to do now was sit quietly, order what he knew, then make a plan of action. Yesterday he had felt he was nearly there; today he wasn’t so sure – the Reyes interview had thrown him. But still, he couldn’t be too far away.
The Pursuit of Truth Page 19