Once Too Often

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘The bad news is that there’s usually a long waiting list for places, and that they don’t often come up.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You have to wait for someone to die, I suppose.’

  Thanet pulled a face. ‘Quite.’

  ‘However, the other piece of good news is that they’re hoping to open a new Abbeyfield House in Sturrenden in the spring of next year. Apparently they’ve found suitable premises and the sale is going through at the moment.’

  ‘That’s a bit of luck. So it might be possible to get your mother’s name down on a waiting list.’

  ‘Exactly! Meanwhile, I’ve got the number of the Maidstone house to arrange a visit if Mum would like one. I must say, they were very pleasant and helpful.’

  ‘Good.’ Thanet couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself. There was a long way to go, of course, before the matter was settled. Meanwhile one of the main obstacles, he felt, was going to be the attitude of Lineham himself. ‘Look, Mike,’ he said, ‘before you broach the subject with your mother I think you have to settle in your own mind what you feel about this yourself. If you really do think that having to share a roof with her is out of the question, you’ll just have to bring yourself to be honest and say so. For one thing it’s unfair to her to keep her dangling, and for another, well, to put it bluntly, as there seems to be no way of pleasing both your mother and Louise, however painful it might be you’re going to have to disappoint one of them. Otherwise you’re going to end up pleasing neither.’ Thanet was thankful he himself had never been in that position.

  ‘I know. I do realise that and I’m well aware that I’ve been burying my head in the sand because there just didn’t seem to be any way out. But this really does sound a possible solution.’

  ‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed,’ said Thanet.

  Back at the farm they ran Covin to earth in the packing shed, which was filled with the rich, fruity aroma of ripe apples. The packers had gone home for the day and the grading machine and conveyor belt had been switched off. The shed was a high-ceilinged structure divided to provide office and communal rest room along one side. The internal walls were glazed above waist height and a light burned in the office where Covin was busy with paperwork. Predictably, he was smoking.

  ‘Let’s try and get him outside,’ whispered Lineham as they knocked at the door.

  Covin raised his head, saw them through the glass and beckoned them in.

  The room smelled almost as bad as the man’s sitting room but Thanet had no intention of giving Covin a psychological advantage by asking him a favour right at the beginning of the interview. Lineham would have to grin and bear it. The sergeant had left the door open and remained standing nearby. Wisps of smoke curled past him into the huge empty space beyond.

  ‘Is this important, Inspector?’ Covin hadn’t got up. ‘I don’t want to be unhelpful, but I’ve been out most of the day and I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on.’ He gestured at the littered desk.

  ‘Yes, I know. We came out to see you earlier.’

  Covin frowned. ‘Oh?’ He removed a strand of tobacco from the tip of his tongue and wiped his finger on his trouser leg. ‘What’s so important?’

  ‘We think you’ve been less than frank with us, Mr Covin.’

  He stubbed the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray and stood up, leaning against his desk. He folded his arms defensively. ‘What are you talking about?’

  An acrid smell of burning filter drifted up between them. Thanet suppressed the urge to point out that he hadn’t put his cigarette out properly. The stink really was disgusting. Unobtrusively he edged away a little. ‘Your sister-in-law, sir.’

  There was a flicker of some emotion in Covin’s eyes which, frustratingly, Thanet couldn’t read. What had it been? Relief? Anger? Fear? Or perhaps it had merely been irritation?

  ‘When we asked you why she hadn’t stayed on at school to take her A levels as everyone seemed to expect, you told us she was simply fed up with school and wanted to start work, earn some money of her own.’

  ‘So?’ Covin was wary now.

  ‘That summer, the summer she was sixteen, we understand she went to stay with an aunt in Bristol.’

  ‘That’s right. Yes.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Covin shrugged. ‘It was twenty years ago! How should I know?’

  ‘You’re saying you can’t remember?’

  ‘I imagine she felt like a change.’

  ‘But she didn’t come back afterwards, did she?’

  ‘So? She liked it there. They got on well together.’

  ‘I want you to think very carefully before you answer my next question, Mr Covin. I strongly advise you to tell the truth this time. Otherwise . . . Well, you do understand that when we discover someone has been lying to us we tend to look rather more carefully at that person the second time around. And if he lies again . . .’

  Covin said nothing.

  ‘So what I want to ask you is, was there another reason why Jessica did not go back to school that autumn? The reason why she didn’t return to Sturrenden until the following spring?’

  Covin’s lips tightened.

  ‘Make no mistake about this. We are determined to find the answer, and we can, of course, do so ourselves, with a little research. But it would save time if you were prepared to be frank with us.’

  Covin still remained silent but now Thanet read uncertainty in his eyes.

  ‘Very well. If you’re not prepared to volunteer the information, perhaps you would just confirm or deny what I suggest to you. But do bear in mind what I said. The truth will emerge, sooner or later.’ Thanet paused. Covin’s arms were still folded and Thanet saw the tips of the man’s fingers whiten as he tightened his grip in anticipation of what was coming.

  Thanet’s conviction that he was right was growing by the second. ‘We believe that Jessica left school unexpectedly because she was pregnant, and that she went to stay with her aunt in order to have the baby out of the area.’

  Covin abruptly left the desk and blundered across the room to the window. There he remained with his back to them, staring out into the fading light.

  Thanet and Lineham exchanged victorious glances.

  ‘Mr Covin?’ said Thanet.

  Covin apparently came to a decision. He squared his shoulders and turned. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, with a sigh. ‘You’re right, of course.’ He went back to his desk, shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, inhaling as greedily as if he been deprived of nicotine all day.

  ‘And the baby was adopted.’

  A long plume of smoke. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sex was it?’

  Drag, exhale. ‘A boy.’

  ‘And which adoption agency was used?’

  Another drag. ‘I’ve no idea. Madge arranged it all. With Jessica, of course.’

  ‘Why were you so reluctant to tell us?’

  A shrug. ‘I promised.’

  ‘Who? Jessica?’

  ‘No. My wife. Well, it came down to Jessica in the end, I suppose. I expect she went on at Madge to get me to promise.’

  ‘But they’re both dead now,’ said Lineham. ‘What does it matter?’

  Covin cast him a scornful glance. ‘A promise is a promise. Or it is in my book. Anyway, the kid’s not dead, is he?’

  Point taken, thought Thanet. ‘Who was the father?’

  ‘She wouldn’t tell us.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, why didn’t she have an abortion?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Hearts to heart with Jessica weren’t exactly my line, as you might have gathered last time. I just didn’t want to know.’

  And that, it seemed, was as much as he could tell them. But Thanet was satisfied. It was enough to move them on one step further and that was all that mattered. He was as glad as Lineham to get back into the fresh air. They lingered beside the car, breathing deeply.

  ‘Hope that’s the last time we ha
ve to interview him,’ said the sergeant, ‘or I’ll be claiming danger money. Anyway, it looks as though you were right.’

  ‘Partly, anyway,’ said Thanet. ‘We still don’t know if Kevin is the son.’

  ‘So what next?’

  ‘We go and see his adoptive mother again for a start. See what she can tell us.’

  TWELVE

  ‘What if Kevin’s there?’ Once again Lineham had to shout to make himself heard over the roar of traffic thundering past as they waited for Mrs Barcombe to answer their knock. ‘He should be home from work by now.’

  It was six o’clock.

  ‘We’ll have to play it by ear.’

  Mingled scents of furniture polish and frying onions wafted out to compete with the reek of exhaust fumes as the door opened. One of the two men was home anyway, Thanet noted: there was only a single pair of men’s slippers just inside the door.

  Mrs Barcombe wasn’t too pleased to see them. ‘Is it important? I’m just cooking the tea.’ She was still wearing the crossover apron.

  ‘We won’t keep you long.’

  ‘Who is it, Mary?’ A shaft of brighter light shone along the passageway as a door at the far end opened and the silhouette of a man appeared. The smell of frying onions intensified.

  She half turned. ‘It’s the police again.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Then with a muffled exclamation she darted along the passage and brushed past him into the kitchen.

  The man advanced. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said with an apologetic smile. He was in his fifties, with thinning brown hair carefully brushed to conceal incipient baldness. The subservient forward tilt of his head was probably habitual, the result of years of deference to customers. He was still dressed for work in striped shirt, discreet tie and the trousers of a suit, held up by braces. Bentall’s was a good-quality shop and would expect its salesmen to uphold certain standards. They would no doubt have frowned upon the woolly carpet slippers, which looked distinctly incongruous.

  Although it was still light outside the sitting room was gloomy and Barcombe put the overhead light on. In the sickly glow of a low-wattage bulb the antiseptic room looked more unwelcoming than ever. Introductions over, the three men sat down.

  ‘Just got there in time,’ said Mrs Barcombe, bustling back into the room. ‘You could’ve kept an eye on the onions, Al. Couldn’t you smell they were starting to catch?’ She plumped down beside him on the settee.

  ‘Sorry, dear.’

  Thanet decided to go straight to the point. They had wasted enough time and Kevin could arrive home at any minute. He wanted to talk to the boy again, but not until he’d clarified the issue with the Barcombes.

  ‘When we were here yesterday, Mrs Barcombe, you told us that Kevin was adopted.’

  Immediately deep frown lines appeared between her brows and she exchanged an uneasy glance with her husband. ‘That’s right. What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Mary!’ said her husband nervously. ‘Just listen to what the Inspector’s got to say.’

  ‘How old was he when he came to you?’

  ‘Six weeks. But I still don’t see –’

  ‘Bear with me, will you? When was this, exactly?’

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘February 10th, 1978.’ But despite her swift, almost automatic response, she was becoming agitated. Her bony fingers moved restlessly, rolling and unrolling a corner of her apron.

  Thanet experienced a spurt of triumph and he caught Lineham’s eye. You see?

  ‘So he would have been born towards the end of December 1977.’

  ‘Yes. Look, I think we’ve a right to know what all this is about.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to tell you at the moment. Were you living in Sturrenden at the time?’

  ‘We were living here, in this house. We’ve always lived here.’

  ‘Which adoption agency did you use?’

  She shot to her feet. ‘That’s it. That’s enough. You have no right to come here poking and prying like this.’

  ‘Mary.’ Barcombe was on his feet too, a restraining hand on her arm.

  She shook him off. ‘Don’t “Mary” me! I’ll say what I like! Kevin’s done nothing wrong!’

  Thanet rose too. ‘Look, Mrs Barcombe, I’m sorry. I can understand your getting upset –’

  ‘Oh, you can, can you? I don’t suppose you’ve ever had to put up with people coming into your home and asking questions about your private life, have you?’

  The answer to that, of course, was that no, he hadn’t. None of his family had ever been in trouble with the law, thank God, unlike those of other policemen he knew. ‘We don’t enjoy upsetting people, you know.’

  ‘But you don’t let that stop you, do you!’

  And again, she was right. In his job you had to learn to put personal feeling aside. He had one last question to ask before giving up. ‘Mrs Barcombe, has Kevin ever tried to trace his natural mother?’

  Bullseye. He could tell by the agonised glance at her husband, by her sudden stillness.

  ‘No!’ she said wildly. ‘I told you this morning. He’s never given us a moment’s worry.’

  Thanet remembered the shadow behind her eyes when she had said this and now he understood it. Adoptive parents, especially those who dearly love their adopted child, as she did, must always dread the moment when the questions about the natural parents start to proliferate, must always be afraid that sooner or later the tug of blood will win over the years of unselfish devotion.

  In the ensuing silence the sound of a key in the front-door lock could clearly be heard.

  ‘There’s Kev,’ she said, starting towards the door.

  ‘We’ll need to speak to him,’ said Thanet.

  She ignored him and went out, shutting the door firmly behind her. There was a murmur of voices.

  Thanet nodded and Lineham went to open the door. ‘We’d like a word, Kevin,’ he said.

  The boy came in, stripping off the anorak he was wearing. His mother put out her hand and he gave it to her. ‘What’s up?’ he said, jauntily. But his eyes belied his tone.

  ‘We’d like to speak to Kevin alone,’ said Thanet.

  ‘No!’ said his mother.

  ‘Yes,’ said Thanet.

  ‘We have every right to stay. We’re his parents. Tell them, Al.’

  Barcombe, who had remained silent through most of the interview and was clearly used to letting his wife rule the roost, looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think we can do that, Mary.’

  ‘Your husband’s right, Mrs Barcombe. Kevin is no longer a minor. If you prefer, we could take him away and interview him at the Station.’

  ‘No!’ she cried. Her eyes moved in desperation from one to another, seeking a way out of the dilemma and failing to find it. Then the muscles of her face sagged and her shoulders slumped as she acknowledged defeat. She turned away, hugging Kevin’s anorak to her chest for comfort. ‘I’ll go and get your tea ready, Kev.’

  ‘That’s right, dear,’ said Barcombe, putting an arm across her shoulders. ‘I don’t suppose they’ll be long,’ he murmured as they went out.

  Now all that agonised emotion had been removed the room seemed very quiet. In unspoken agreement they all sat down and Kevin at once took out a tobacco pouch, extracted a packet of cigarette papers and a few strands of tobacco and proceeded to roll a cigarette. Lineham cast a glance at Thanet in which triumph at being right was mixed with despair at the prospect of being trapped in yet another smoke-filled room.

  Thanet was equally certain. In his opinion, this clinched it. So few people rolled their own cigarettes these days that he simply couldn’t believe that it was a second person involved in the case who had stubbed out those butts behind the hedge opposite the Manifests’ house. No, Kevin had been the watcher, he was now sure of that. But how to get him to admit it?

  ‘Well now, Kevin,’ he said. ‘We’ve been doing a bit of checking up.’


  ‘I’d’ve thought you had better things to do than waste your time on me.’

  ‘It always pays to be thorough, doesn’t it, sergeant?’

  ‘Certainly does, sir.’

  Lineham deserved full marks for not flinching as Kevin blew a long stream of smoke in his direction, Thanet thought. ‘And in this case we’ve come up with one or two question marks. Now, you claim that you left home on Tuesday night around 8.15 and went straight to Sally’s. But your mother says you left at 7.45 –’

  ‘No she doesn’t. She was mistaken. You ask her.’

  So Kevin had persuaded his mother to change her story. ‘And the doorman at Sally’s said you arrived at 8.30.’

  ‘So? What’s a few minutes here or there?’

  ‘A few minutes here or there, as you put it, may be very important indeed. You know the Green Man in Charthurst?’

  The sudden change of subject caught Kevin unawares. He blinked and leaned forward to stub out his cigarette. ‘I know where it is, yeah.’

  ‘Been there lately?’

  ‘How should I remember?’

  ‘I’m not asking you to go back very far, Kevin. Only to Tuesday night.’

  Kevin clamped his lips together, clearly in a dilemma. He didn’t want to incriminate himself further by lying, nor did he want to admit to anything he didn’t have to.

  ‘You see, the landlord of the Green Man has been getting pretty fed up lately because people who aren’t customers keep using his car park.’

  Kevin ran his tongue over his upper lip.

  ‘So he’s been keeping a record of the registration numbers of offenders. Er . . . You did say you borrowed your father’s car on Tuesday night, Kevin?’

  Kevin’s eyes were taking on the hunted expression of a rabbit hypnotised by a stoat.

  ‘Because one of the cars parked at the Green Man in Charthurst around eight p.m. last Tuesday night was a red Nissan.’ Thanet glanced at Lineham who read out the registration number. ‘That is the number of your father’s car, isn’t it?’

  The boy licked his lips again, his freckles now in stark contrast to the pallor of his skin.

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Thanet persisted.

  ‘I . . .’ Kevin croaked.

  ‘Yes?’