by Anne Morice
“Really? I’d guessed that you came from much further off.”
“Oh, you mean my accent? Well yes, I’m American and I guess it shows. Drew, that’s my husband, is in the U.S. Air Force.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Only four, five months. Seems a whole lot longer sometimes,” she added wistfully.
“Is that all?” I asked.
“What’s so surprising?”
“That it should be a newcomer like yourself who bothers about one of the neighbours. Especially as I gather Mrs Parsons is hell bent on keeping herself to herself.”
“Is she ever? But her husband wasn’t at all like that, was he? He was real nice to us when we first moved in here. It was wonderful really because we’d had it well beaten into us how difficult it was to establish any kind of relationships with the British, and the rest of the neighbours certainly acted pretty snooty. But Mike was different. He went out of his way to help us all he could and he and Drew got to be real good friends in the end. That’s why when I heard what people around here were saying, I felt I owed it to Mike to take a hand.”
“What are they saying?”
“Oh, you know; about her being an alcoholic and keeping the place like a pigsty, so that he had to set to and clean it up himself very often. So they’re not surprised he couldn’t take any more and did himself in. That’s what they call it. It didn’t seem right, somehow, just to put all the blame on her and forget about it. Not that I’ve done any good.”
“All the same, it was kind of you to try. Are you sure you don’t want a lift? That pushchair will easily fit in the boot.”
“No, I’ll be fine. Maybe you should see what you can do with Mrs Parsons. And I hope you have more luck than I did. Bye for now, it’s been nice meeting you.”
Contrary to expectations, her hope was realised, for the bell had hardly whispered its first chime than the front door was pulled aside, just far enough to reveal Barry’s head and shoulders.
“Mum wants to see you,” he announced.
“It’s mutual, but you’ll have to open up a little wider than that if I’m to get through.”
Reluctantly, he gave me an inch or two more, then slammed the door shut again as soon as I had squeezed past. Drink-sodden slattern or not, Brenda certainly had her children squarely under her thumb.
She was seated in an armchair, apparently staring at one of the cream walls, although it was impossible even to be sure that her eyes were open, for she had retreated behind the sunglasses again. Nevertheless, she greeted me in a fairly steady voice and the mystery of her gruesome reputation remained unsolved, although a tentative explanation for it now began to take shape somewhere at the back of my mind.
“Has she gone?” Brenda demanded.
“Who?”
“That American creature who was snooping around here.”
“Yes, she’s gone. I think she only wanted to help, you know.”
“I can do without her help, thank you very much. I’ve no time for people like that. All I want is to be left alone.”
In view of her implacable hostility to almost everyone around her, I did not consider this requirement to be over-ambitious and I said:
“Does that include me?”
“No, you’re different. More of an outsider, as you might say. Besides, it was me who came to you in the first place. I wouldn’t have done that if I’d known he was dead all the time. There wouldn’t have been any point, would there? But it never entered my head he’d do such a thing. I still can’t bring myself to believe it. Him killing himself, I mean.”
Since it was not an idea she would need to adjust to for very long, I ignored this and passed on to a more practical problem:
“I’m afraid there may be something wrong with your telephone. Naturally, I wouldn’t have chosen to burst in on you like this without warning, but the trouble is that it sounds as though your bell was ringing, but obviously you don’t hear it.”
“Oh yes I do.”
“You mean you’re purposely not answering it? That did occur to me too, but why, Brenda? What’s the point of barricading yourself like this?”
“I’m not. I let you in, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but what’s wrong with answering the telephone? It couldn’t possibly do any harm.”
“That’s what you think,” she retorted, removing the glasses at last, although perhaps only because they had become so misted with tears that she could no longer see, for, keeping her head lowered, she began scrubbing away at the lenses with the hem of her dress.
“What are you afraid of, Brenda?”
“I’ve been getting anonymous phone calls, if you must know.”
“Who from?” I asked, then seeing the inanity of the question amended it to:
“Man or woman?”
“Both.”
“Oh come now, you’re not seriously suggesting they’re a team?”
“I don’t know who they are, or how many of them. I don’t know what it is they’re trying to do either, and that’s what frightens me. It’s as though I was surrounded by all these enemies and I’ve no idea who they are or what I’ve done to make them hate me so.”
“Aren’t you dramatising it a bit? I mean, what did they say exactly? Can you remember?”
“The first time they didn’t say anything at all. It was about three o’clock in the morning. Day before yesterday. It woke me up and I lay there in a sort of daze, hearing it ring. It went on and on and then it dawned on me that the only person who could be phoning at that hour was Mike. This was before they told me he was dead, you see. So I tore out of bed and downstairs to the hall to answer it.”
“And?”
“Nothing. I kept saying: ‘Hello! Who’s there?’ but no one spoke. Just this kind of heavy breathing, like you hear about.”
“So you hung up?”
“No, I couldn’t bring myself to. I was still clinging to this mad idea that it must be Mike. I know it sounds silly, but he did sometimes play practical jokes, and I didn’t realise at the time how late it was. I’d gone to bed early and I hadn’t stopped to look at my watch when the phone went, so it might not have been more than eleven or so. But then, just as I was getting desperate, this caller, whoever he was, gave a kind of giggle and rang off. It made me feel really ill, I can tell you.”
“And looking back on it, do you still believe it was a man?”
“Couldn’t say, but it wasn’t Mike, that I do know. I’ve never heard him laugh like that.”
“What about the next time?”
“That was only a few hours later. I hadn’t managed to get off to sleep again and in the end I got up and went out to the garden, thinking a breath of air might calm me down. I was on my way back indoors again to make myself a cup of tea and just as I got to the patio the phone rang again. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I was too frightened even to move at first, but it went on and on, just like the first time and I was afraid one of the boys might hear it and come down, so I forced myself to go inside and pick it up.”
“What happened? Same thing again?”
“Oh no, this time it was some woman. She started talking as soon as I lifted the receiver, but I couldn’t take anything in at first. There was something about how she’d heard the news and wanted to warn me before the papers came. It was all pouring out of her so fast that I couldn’t get a word in edgeways, but at last I managed to say that I didn’t understand what she was talking about and then she turned very sharp all of a sudden. She kept repeating, ‘Who is this? Who is this?’ in a sort of cross way, and I couldn’t make that out either. It was as though she was asking me to say who she was, instead of the other way round. In the end it turned out she’d got the wrong number. It wasn’t even the same exchange as ours. Or at any rate, that’s what she pretended.”
“And it could have been true, you know. I can understand how the two calls coming on top of each other must have been unnerving for you, but it sounds to me like a very unlucky
coincidence. The first one was probably some drunk who thought it would be amusing to pick out a few numbers at random and give people a scare, and the second could easily have been a wrong number, as she said. I daresay you wouldn’t have given it a thought in normal times.”
“But these aren’t normal times, are they? And it’s all tied up with Mike’s death in some way, I’m convinced of it. You haven’t heard about the third call yet.”
“No, when was that?”
“Soon after nine. I’d just got back from taking the boys down to the bus. It was a man’s voice that time, and he didn’t ask me who I was or anything like that. He just said: ‘Mike’s dead, you know, so that makes you a murderess! How do you like that?’ Or it may have been: ‘How do you care for that?’ I was so shocked I can’t remember exactly. Anyway, since then I haven’t dared answer the phone at all.”
“Let me get this straight, Brenda. You said this call came through yesterday, soon after nine, but wasn’t that before you, or anyone else except the police knew that Mike was dead?”
“That’s right, it was getting on for lunch time when they brought me the news. They were very kind, you know, and sympathetic. Made it all sound like I would be doing them a great favour if I’d go with them to the mortuary and identify him, but I could see that it would be a fat lot of use to refuse. They said it would only take a minute and that part was true, but it’s not a minute I’m likely to forget in a hurry.”
“No, I can imagine. Did you tell the police about these calls?”
“No.”
“Not even the last one?”
“I was too upset about Mike to remember anything else. And they didn’t ask me any questions. Only things like whether there were any friends or relations I’d like them to notify; or whether there was some neighbour they could ask to come over and sit with me for a bit. I gave them Mike’s parents’ address in New Zealand. That’s where he came from, you know, and I’ve never set eyes on them. My own are both dead, but I’ve got a sister living up North and I rang her myself. She and her husband are coming down for the funeral. And I certainly don’t want any of the neighbours poking their noses in. The less I see of that lot the better. That’s why I kept the boys home from school today.”
“You won’t be able to keep that up indefinitely.”
“I know, but it’ll be their holidays soon and my sister did offer to have us up to stay with them for a week or two. She didn’t sound too pressing about it, but I suppose she thought it would look funny if she didn’t invite us. Her husband’s done quite well for himself and they’ve got a biggish place near Halifax, so it isn’t much trouble for her.”
“Then I should certainly go. It might do you good to get away for a bit,” I said, reflecting that it might also do me good if she were to get away for a bit.
“Of course I shan’t be able to leave until after the funeral, and then there’ll be the inquest. What’s likely to happen there, do you know?”
This was dangerous ground and I gave her a vague answer, which luckily seemed to satisfy her and then, to push the subject still further into the background, I said:
“By the way, to go back to that last telephone call, you didn’t by any chance get a clue as to who it might have been?”
Brenda sighed deeply: “I’ve been thinking about it ever such a lot, but the trouble is the more I go back over it the harder it is to remember what I thought at the time and what I’ve imagined since. I suppose that’s partly why I didn’t mention it to the police. I knew I’d get all tied up in knots and start contradicting myself, so where would be the use?”
“That rather sounds as though you did recognise him?”
“Yes. Mind you, I only heard his voice once before, but he sounded to me like the one who called himself Sandy. You remember I told you about him ringing up on the morning Mike disappeared.”
“Yes, I do, and it reminds me that no one at A.I.P. seems to know him. I asked several people when I was there the other day.”
“Well, there you are then! What’s the point of saying anything to the police?”
“Although presumably it could be a special nickname which only his closest friends call him by? That’s a thought, isn’t it?”
“Oh, what’s it matter, anyway?” Brenda asked impatiently. “It’s over and done with now and finding out who this Sandy is won’t bring Mike back, or help me to understand why he killed himself.”
The conversation had taken another dangerous turn and mistrusting my discretion to last out indefinitely, I made an excuse to leave, reminding her to let me know if she ever wanted my help.
“Don’t get up,” I added. “I’ll see myself out.”
Most likely the offer was superfluous, for she had folded back into inertia again and my last image of her was of the white face behind the dense black circles, staring at nothing.
There was a smart blue van parked in the lane, with Briggs & Cox. Provisions, Wines Spirits painted in gold letters on its side, and as I was getting into my car a small, grim-faced young man with a red beard emerged from the back of it, staggering under the weight of a brown cardboard box.
“You going out, Missus?” he called.
“Not exactly. I don’t live here, as it happens.”
“Sorry, dear! Seeing you from the back I took you for the lady of the house. She in?”
“Yes, but she may not open the door to you. There’s been some trouble in the family and she’s not feeling well.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he answered laconically. “Only I still got to get this lot signed for, if they want me to leave it.”
“What’s in it, anyway?” I asked, moving closer to the box, which he had now slid on to the bonnet of his van.
It was divided into a dozen compartments, each one containing a bottle. There were six of whisky and six of gin.
“Can’t see me leaving that lot without a signature, can you?”
“I should think there must be some mistake, though. Are you sure these were ordered?”
“Name of Parsons?”
“That’s right.”
“No mistake then, dear. Got it all down here, if you want to look. Parsons. Number 32. Standing Order. Account number 5401. Anything wrong with that?”
I was half inclined to warn him that account number 5401 might now be closed, but he was not such an endearing character as to make me eager to save him trouble, and, furthermore, there was always the chance that I was wrong.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“To change to a less controversial subject,” Robin said to me at dinner that evening. “What can you tell us about this mysterious Sandy?”
The ‘us’ in this context referred to himself and Toby, the latter having driven to London with me after my call at Hill Grove, in order to dine and spend the night at Beacon Square. He and I were the possessors of coveted tickets for a memorial service at St Martins-in-the-Fields the following morning to mark the passing, a few weeks earlier, of a distinguished actor manager. Speculation round the dinner table regarding this gala occasion had led to an acrimonious argument about the longevity of so many members of the profession, a subject on which we all held positive but widely differing views, and Robin’s request had probably been inspired more by a desire to end the resulting belligerent stalemate than from genuine curiosity.
“Why? Do you think he may be important?” I asked, nevertheless clutching at this rare opportunity to enlist his interest in the case of Mike Parsons.
“I wouldn’t go as far as that. I am just faintly puzzled by the fact that your new friend, Brenda, had apparently never heard of him until her husband went missing, after which he rarely seems to be off the telephone.”
“What’s puzzling about that? Presumably, he’s someone who worked with Mike at the studios and there wouldn’t have been any occasion to enquire for him at home until he disappeared. It’s true that of all the people I’ve asked only Chloe had vaguely heard of him, but what does that prove? The sound department is
a little ivory tower all on its own and it was probably simply a case of asking the wrong people.”
“Or the wrong questions?” Robin suggested.
“What were the right ones?”
“Well, to start with, are you certain that Sandy is a man?”
“I don’t see what else he could be.”
“Admittedly it’s a name one associates with that sex rather than the other, and perhaps Brenda did so automatically, but it isn’t always so. I once knew a model called Sandy, although I believe her real name was Sandra.”
“Is that so?” I asked. “You never told me about her.”
“There was no reason to. It all happened years before I met you.”
“All what happened?”
“Nothing. Figure of speech.”
“Where is she now?”
“How would I know? I keep telling you, I lost touch with her years ago.”
“What a pity!” Toby said, intervening at this point. “If she has a deep, masculine voice and speaks with an American accent, she could be the very one we’re looking for.”
“Why American?” Robin asked sharply.
“Isn’t that what you said, Tessa?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I seem to remember Brenda telling me so. Does it have any significance?”
“Probably not, although, funnily enough, among the odds and ends they found in the abandoned car there was a book on wild birds. It was an American edition, not for sale over here, so presumably it was lent or given to him by someone.”
“No ‘love from Sandy’ on the flyleaf?” Toby enquired.
“Not so far as I know, and I daresay there’s no connection whatever. After all, there must be quite a number of Americans around in the film industry.”
“And not only there!”
“That’s quite true,” I agreed, struck by another memory, but before I could put it into words Toby asked: “What else did they find in the car?”
“Nothing very helpful. I made a list, in case Tessa was interested, but after all she doesn’t seem to be.”
“I’ve been pursuing other trails,” I explained, “but I’d love to hear your list, if you’ve still got it.”