‘I will try. But it’s true, what I said. I can’t seem to help it. It’s an inner compulsion which says Go and look, go and check, and I just can’t not do it.’
‘Well, I hope you’re not going to worry yourself sick when we have to leave someone else in charge.’
‘I don’t think I will. I honestly believe I’ll feel better about it with every day that passes.’
‘We’ll have to try and fix up some kind of rota for next week.’
Doctor MacPherson had apparently said that Joan’s mother ought to have someone around for the next week or two, and Joan had volunteered to keep her with them for that period. Joan had been given a few days’ leave, but next week would be difficult. There were various things arranged at work, including a three-day course at Canterbury which Joan was running. It had been fixed for months and she really didn’t feel that she could back out at the last minute.
They discussed possible arrangements for a while and then Joan said, ‘It’s all very well talking about the next couple of weeks, but it’s what happens afterwards that’s worrying me. I know Doctor MacPherson says that she will quickly get back to normal, but I keep thinking about what happened this time because she was living alone. What if they hadn’t happened to be going shopping and Mrs Parker hadn’t found her when she did? Mum’d be dead by now. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘What are you saying, love?’ Though Thanet could guess.
She hesitated, flickered a brief, assessing glance at him. ‘I was wondering how you’d feel if I suggested she come and live with us.’
Now it was Thanet’s turn to hesitate. He should have seen this coming, earlier, have given it some thought. But he’d been so busy today, there really hadn’t been time … ‘I certainly don’t think it’s something we ought to rush into.’
‘Well we wouldn’t, obviously. But that’s not telling me how you feel about the idea.’
Thanet considered. ‘It certainly doesn’t fill me with dismay, if that’s what you mean. I’m very fond of your mother, as you know, we’ve always got on very well together. I think that what I’d find hardest is the lack of privacy. There’d always be someone else around. I know that Ben still is, at the moment, but in a few years he’ll be gone too, no doubt, and I must admit that for me the only consolation for losing both the children would be that we’d have more time to be together again, just the two of us. That’s pretty selfish, I suppose …’
‘No, I feel the same. But we wouldn’t have to sacrifice that, you know. I was thinking … We could always sell both houses, ours and hers, and buy a larger one, with a separate granny annexe.’
‘You have been putting your mind to this, haven’t you? Yes, that would be a possibility. But would it be the answer?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, consider. We’re not talking about having your mother to live with us because she’s lonely, or because she can’t look after herself. She has plenty of friends, leads a very active, busy life, and until now her health has been good. And the doctor says she’ll get back to normal quite quickly. The only reason for having her live either close to us or with us is that there’d be someone to keep an eye on her all the time, so that in an emergency help would be close at hand. But it wouldn’t be, would it? She’d be alone all day during the week, and without the advantage of neighbours who know her and care about her.’
Joan sighed. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. That’s true. And I wouldn’t want to give up my job. Though that’s pretty selfish, too.’
‘Not at all! Can you imagine what your mother would say if you even suggested it? She’d never agree, you know that.’
‘True … What d’you think we ought to do then?’
‘Wait,’ said Thanet firmly. ‘As I said, there’s no need to rush into anything. Let’s see how she is, in a month, three months, and then reconsider. I’m certainly not against the idea in principle, but I think that in any case we have to wait until she’s well enough to discuss it with her, see how she feels. Because whatever we do, it’s got to be a solution which is acceptable to her as well as to us.’
‘You’re right, of course. All right, that’s what we’ll do. Thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘For being prepared to consider the idea seriously. A lot of men would have been horrified at the prospect.’
‘And a lot wouldn’t. The reasonable ones, anyway.’ He grinned. ‘And I, of course, am a reasonable man.’
‘Modest, too.’
‘Of course.’
The phone rang. He got up, careful of his back. When he returned Joan took one look at his face and said, ‘What is it, what’s wrong? It’s not Bridget …?’
He shook his head. ‘No. That was the hospital. I asked them to let me know if there was any radical change in the condition of Perdita’s mother. She died an hour ago.’
He sat down and put his head in his hands. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have interviewed her yesterday morning. I told you how ill she looked, didn’t I? When I saw the state she was in I should have left her alone.’
‘But you said she insisted on going on with the interview.’
‘I know, but …’
‘Luke. Use your commonsense. You’re not seriously suggesting that the fact that you interviewed her yesterday had anything to do with her death, are you? Because if so –’
‘You didn’t see how ill she was, Joan. If you had … Anyone in that condition should be left in peace.’
‘I still don’t think you can blame yourself. If you ask me the blame lies with her husband. In his position I think I’d have insisted that she wasn’t even told about her daughter’s death. She was in no fit state to hear news like that.’
‘Maybe it’s because he knew she was dying that he felt she should be told, that she had a right to know.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s so difficult … But in any case, I think he should have warned you just how ill she was. And he didn’t, did he?’
‘No.’
‘And I suppose, if I’d been her … I think I’d have wanted to talk to you, to feel I’d done all I could to help you find out who’d killed my daughter. In fact, I think I’d have been pretty angry if I’d been prevented from seeing you, just because I was ill.’
‘Terminally ill.’
‘All right, terminally ill … Do you think she knew she was dying?’
Thanet sighed. ‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised. And I suppose you’re right. She was very determined to tell me everything I wanted to know.’
‘Well there you are, then. Stop blaming yourself. You talk about my conscience, but yours is just as bad!’ Joan stood up. ‘Come on, it’s time we went up. I’ve got to give Mother her last dose of pills and settle her for the night. And I think you ought to have a hot bath, for your back.’
She was right. A hot bath would help. Thanet ran the water as hot as he could stand it and relaxed, staring mindlessly at the ceiling through clouds of steam. Unbidden, an image of Perdita’s body floated into his mind, that pathetic, almost child-like figure, the face disfigured by the unnatural sheen of plastic. He’d read a novel once called Little Boy Lost. That’s what Perdita had been, despite her actual age. Little Girl Lost. Although he could never recall seeing her in life he pictured her vividly now, a solitary figure in playground or classroom, bent over her sketchbook, absorbed in her drawing. Strange that she hadn’t gone to Art School, had insisted instead on ignoring her abiding passion and following a completely different career. And sad that she had never had children of her own. Or perhaps not. Perhaps, together with the lack of joy in her marriage, it was her childlessness that had enabled her to channel all her creativity into her work and produce such haunting paintings, paintings with the power to imprint themselves on the mind of the beholder and linger in the memory. He could visualise them now, especially the one that hung in the Harrows’ sitting room, the one of the garden of lilies at night. Why had it had such a powerful impact upon hi
m? he wondered.
The water was cooling now and he sat up, ran some more hot, lay back again, still thinking about this. If the mind of an artist is revealed in his work, what did Perdita’s tell him about her? What were the emotions which animated it? Anger, for a start, he realised, remembering the explosion of colour in the painting in the drawing room at her house. Anger against what, or whom? he wondered. And, of course, sadness. Sadness, melancholia, pessimism, whatever you chose to call it. But Perdita’s pessimism had not been ill-founded. She had indeed died before her time, as she had always thought she would.
Doomed to die. It was almost as if she knew that she was doomed to die … Mrs Harrow’s words wreathed and twisted their way through his thoughts like the wisps of steam which hovered just below the ceiling above him. Had Perdita known? Could she have known? Or was it possible that because of the strength of her conviction she had somehow, subconsciously, manoeuvred herself into the position where an early death was not only likely but inevitable?
He shook his head. No. He was becoming fanciful.
But the thought lodged in his brain, stayed with him. He had lain so long in the bath that by the time he got to bed Joan was already asleep. He yawned, stretched, relaxed. It shouldn’t take long to get to sleep tonight. He was tired. So tired …
But perversely his brain refused to switch off. There had been so much to absorb over the last couple of days, so many people to see, so many assessments to make. Snatches of conversation kept swirling through his brain interspersed with fleeting, vivid images: Vanessa Broxton as he had first seen her on Monday night, huddled in a corner of the settee, then staring bleakly at her husband this afternoon: Don’t you see? I made it so easy for him, I’m as guilty as he is; Giles Master’s mother grasping her son’s arm, red talons digging into flesh: Why did you have a fight? And Master: Perdita and Swain were having an affair. Perhaps now you’ll be satisfied; Victoria Swain: For God’s sake stop looking at me like that, Howard! I had a right to know where you were going, didn’t I? I am your wife. And Swain: You mean, you actually followed me? Then the Harrows: Stephanie, pale and frantic, sister dead, mother dying, (dead, now, Thanet reminded himself. Poor kid): How long do we have to go on being patient? Until Mum is … Harrow himself: My wife can’t stand the cold. And Mrs Harrow, her emaciated body encased in thick woollen dressing gown, woollen bedjacket draped around her shoulders: It’s almost as if she knew that she was doomed to die.
Doomed to die …
The words echoed along the corridors of Thanet’s brain. Desperate by now for sleep he turned over and snuggled up to Joan’s comforting warmth, tried to fill his mind with soothing images of country walks, days at the seaside, anything to slow down his thought processes and take his mind off the case. Gradually it worked and he began to drift. Far far away at the end of a long tunnel was a tiny spot of light. He allowed himself to float towards it. When he got there he would, he knew, make an important discovery. Water suddenly began to flow through the tunnel towards him, carrying him backwards, away from his goal, and he began to swim, to strike out strongly. He had to get there, he had to. Water was getting in his eyes and his nose and his arms and legs were beginning to ache. But he couldn’t give up, he couldn’t, wouldn’t. He was at the point of despair when suddenly the thrust of the water began to diminish, to ease. Suddenly he was on his feet staggering towards the end of the tunnel, the light increasing with every second, searing his eyeballs and zigzagging into his brain.
Someone was shaking him. ‘Luke, wake up.’
He opened his eyes. Joan was leaning over him, her face full of concern. A gentle light from the bedside lamp played on her hair, outlined the soft curves of her breasts. ‘You were having a nightmare.’
He smiled up at her, shook his head. ‘Not a nightmare.’ He put his arms around her and pulled her close.
He felt marvellous, invincible.
At last he knew why.
And who.
NINETEEN
‘So what d’you think, Mike?’
Thanet awaited Lineham’s verdict with eagerness. He had just finished propounding his new theory. The sergeant had listened intently, frowning with concentration, fiddling with a paperclip which he had unbent and twisted until now it snapped in his fingers. He tossed it on to his desk and shook his head. ‘It’s a bit of a long shot, isn’t it, sir?’
Thanet was disappointed. He had hoped for a more positive reaction than this.
‘I don’t think so, no, not particularly,’ he said stiffly.
‘But with respect, sir …’
‘Oh, not again, Mike! I’ve said before, if you disagree with me, why not come straight out with it?’
Thanet was being unreasonable and he knew it. Another time he would simply have teased Lineham, as he often had on this particular subject.
At this point Lineham would usually look sheepish but now, stung perhaps by Thanet’s tone he said, ‘D’you really want to know, sir?’
Thanet had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear, but if he wasn’t to lose face he had no choice but to say, ‘Of course.’
‘It’s because I know that if I do – come straight out with it, that is – I’ll get my head bitten off.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Isn’t it, sir? Be fair. You really don’t like it when people disagree with you.’
It was true that he did like to be right. It was one of his major faults, Thanet knew. ‘Oh come on, Mike. I’m always ready to listen to someone else’s opinion, you know that.’ He wasn’t that unreasonable, was he? Surely not.
‘Eventually, yes.’ Lineham’s grin took the sting out of his words and recognising the justice of them Thanet grinned back.
‘All right, all right, so you’ve made your point. Can we now get back to what you were going to say. “With respect …”’
‘Just that we’ve got no actual evidence. It’s all, well, guess – er, surmise.’
‘I’ll ignore that attempt to be tactful, Mike. Yes, there is a certain amount of guesswork, I agree. Personally I’d prefer to call it intuition. But then, there always is, in police work, you know that as well as I do. The important thing is that it should always be based on fact and you have to admit that this theory does fit the facts as we know them.’
‘Maybe.’ Lineham still sounded doubtful. ‘But as far as proving it is concerned, everything depends on matching that sample.’
‘Exactly. So I want you to concentrate on that. Go and get hold of another sample to compare it with and then take it straight to Aldermaston. I’ll give Bob Farley a ring, tell him how urgent it is that the tests are done immediately you get there, and he can get everything set up.’
Detective Sergeant Farley was the Police Liaison Officer at the Aldermaston lab and Thanet knew him well, having worked with him for several years.
‘How long do you think it will take you?’
Lineham glanced at his watch. ‘It’s half-nine now. Say half an hour to collect the sample, an hour and a half to get there, half an hour to get the tests done, an hour and a half back … Four hours or so, I should think.’
‘I’ll expect you between 1.30 and 2, then. Fine.’
‘I could always ring you from the lab with the result, then you needn’t wait for me.’
Thanet knew how much it must have cost Lineham to make this offer and he appreciated his generosity. The sergeant would be bitterly disappointed not to accompany Thanet when he made the arrest. Provided, of course, that the tests came up with the expected result. But he wouldn’t think about that. He was right, he knew it, he felt it in his bones.
‘No, Mike, I’ll wait. I expect –’
The telephone rang.
Thanet lifted the receiver, listened. ‘Put her on.’
Lineham raised his eyebrows interrogatively, but Thanet did not respond. All his attention was directed at what he was hearing. It was some time before he spoke. ‘Yes. Yes, I see … No, I’m not surprised, I suspecte
d as much … No, you can leave it in my hands now, I’ll make all the necessary arrangements … Yes, of course, we’ll do our best … That’s an exceptionally generous offer, I’ll tell them that … I should think it will be late afternoon … Yes, I agree … Could you? That would be excellent … Yes, I think that would be best … Meanwhile, I’ll ring you back later to let you know what’s happening … Yes. Thank you. Goodbye.’
He replaced the receiver and sat gazing at it for a few moments deep in thought, his face sombre. Then he looked at Lineham. ‘I was right, Mike. Not that it gives me much satisfaction.’ He recounted the conversation to Lineham, watching the sergeant’s face change, become as grim as his own. At the moment this vindication of his theory meant very little to him. It was one thing to have suspected, another to have those suspicions confirmed. So much suffering, past, present and future …
‘So it’s all the more urgent to get that confirmation on the sample.’
Lineham rose. ‘I’m on my way. I’ll give you a ring from the lab in any case, when we know the result.’ He hesitated. ‘What are you going to do meanwhile, sir?’
Thanet was already reaching for the telephone. ‘Make some phone calls. I want to get all this sorted out before you get back, if I can, so that we know exactly what the position is. But I want you with me when I make the arrest, so I will wait for you, as I said.’
‘Thanks. I’d hate to miss that.’
There was much to discuss, much to arrange, and the rest of the morning passed swiftly. By twelve Thanet was waiting for Lineham’s call, satisfied that he had done everything that could possibly be done at this juncture.
Now all he needed was confirmation from the lab. With that evidence he should be home and dry. Without it – well, things would be very much more difficult. Surely they should have finished the tests by now? He stood up and began wandering restlessly about the office, picking things up and putting them down without really seeing them. He became aware that the sky had cleared and the sun was shining. He had been so preoccupied he hadn’t even noticed. He was crossing to the window when the telephone rang. In his haste to answer it he banged his knee on the corner of his chair. He snatched the receiver up, rubbing his kneecap.
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