by Ruth Rendell
The third Carol Davidson Hannah tried was the right one. She was still a widow but she had moved from Lewes to Uckfield. Hannah had difficulties with her. She hadn't seen the Sunday Times, neither yesterday's nor the previous Sunday's, and the result of enlightening her was at first to arouse indignation. Hannah knew that this was the reaction of most people when they hear they have been mentioned in a newspaper without being asked for their permission. Carol Davidson assumed that something derogatory must have been written about her and her late husband. If this was paranoia it was very common and Hannah let her vent her anger for a full minute. At the end of it she assured her that Selina Hexham had written nothing but pleasant things about her parents' friendship with the Davidsons and gradually Carol Davidson grew calmer.
“What did you phone me for?” she asked in a sullen tone. “Apart from thoroughly upsetting me?”
“I'm very sorry about that, Mrs. Davidson.” Hannah particularly disliked addressing a woman by her wifely style and she disliked apologizing almost as much, but she gritted her teeth. “All I want is to confirm a few details with you.”
“Yes, well, he disappeared. I mean, Alan Hexham did. People said he went off with another woman, though it doesn't sound much like him. But you never can tell. I don't suppose Selina has anything to say about that.”
“She does, as a matter of fact. May I ask you for a few details?”
“I suppose so. Go ahead.”
“Mr. Hexham appears to have left your house at two p.m. Is that correct?”
“I can't tell you to the minute. It was something like that. It was the day of my husband's funeral-you want to remember that.”
Hannah controlled her rage. That husband had been dead eleven years and no doubt, like most if not absolutely all marriages, theirs hadn't been a bed of roses. “Can you tell me how far your house was from Lewes train station?”
“I really do resent the way we have to talk about train stations these days. ‘Railway station’ used to be the expression. How far was it? Not far. Ten minutes' walk?”
“Did Mr. Hexham walk?”
“I really don't remember. It's a long time ago. I do know he was going to the station.”
“There was a train at two-twenty.”
“Well, if you know, why ask me? He didn't tell me where he was going. Home, I imagine.”
Hannah had nothing more to ask. Consulting a street plan online, she found that the Davidsons' house was very near Lewes station. It would hardly have taken twenty minutes to get there but Hannah knew very well that some people like to be on the platform with plenty of time to spare before their train is due. Her mother was such a one, and as a child, Hannah had several times found herself and her parents waiting for three empty tedious hours in airport lounges. If Hexham's destination had been important to him, or rather what was to happen when he got there was important, he would have been very anxious not to miss that train.
Wexford phoned the Sunday Times himself. The literary editor referred him to Selina Hexham's publishers, Lawrence Busoni Hill, at an address in West London. He spoke to her editor, who hesitated when he asked her for Miss Hexham's address or phone number. It wasn't their policy to disclose addresses. Not even to the police? he asked. That would be all right, she said, if she could check and call him back. He hadn't much faith in her promise, but she did call him back, and he soon found himself in possession of a phone number and an e-mail address.
An answering machine responded. Selina-she gave no surname-wasn't available to speak to him now, but if it was important she could be called on her mobile. A number followed. He supposed she was at work, a lab somewhere. He hesitated about calling that number, but it was nearly one o'clock and perhaps she would be having lunch. Again she wasn't available, but on his third attempt she answered.
“Selina speaking. Will you hold please?” He held. Surnames were on the way out, he thought. Soon it would be like it had been in medieval times and people would be called John of London or Jane of the Green. And because it would be so hard to know whom you were referring to, in order to distinguish one person from another given names might become more and more outlandish and strange and… She came back on the line. “I'm sorry about that. What can I do for you?”
He explained who he was.
“You've found my dad?” She was quickly excited.
“No, no, Miss Hexham. Not that. I read the extracts from your book. I'd like to talk to you. I can't say more than that at the moment. Perhaps I could come and see you?”
“I'll come to you,” she said. “I can't believe it. They said if I wrote about what happened and it was in a newspaper it was a way of finding him, but I didn't believe it. When shall I come?”
That afternoon if possible, he said. Of course she would. She could take time off and she didn't want to wait. She wouldn't sleep if she left it overnight. All right, he said, any time you like, there are three trains an hour from Victoria. But he was appalled. In her book she had said she feared her father might be dead, her mother had known he was dead, yet here she was thrilled, jubilant, like a child looking forward to a promised treat.
Once upon a time, every town in Britain had among its streets one or perhaps two looked upon as the least desirable in which to live by those whose homes were in more salubrious parts. Just as they also had one or perhaps two which were the most desirable and vulgarly known as “millionaire's row.” This has changed now as housing estates have been built and new terraces and little detached boxes proliferate, but the worst and the best still remain tucked in among them and they are still the same best and worst. In Kingsmarkham the best had always been Ploughman's Lane-incongruous, Wexford sometimes said, that the most humble of rustic laborers should have given the name of his calling to an avenue of elegant and almost noble mansions, affordable only by the very rich-and the worst Glebe Road. Still, Glebe Road had been gentrified in parts and elevated, in more senses than one, by a couple of not very high tower blocks, cut off at ten floors, as if the architect had lost his nerve.
In the more attractive of these blocks lived Matea's parents, the Imrans, in one of a number of flats alloted five years before to successful asylum seekers. Karen almost felt her heart fail her as she and Lyn climbed the stairs, the Cremorne House lift being out of order. She had no problem with a rigid political correctness, but delicacy was a subtly different matter and was what would be needed here. Of that she hadn't much experience. The door was answered by a middle-aged woman wearing a long black gown and a hastily donned head scarf that she removed as soon as Karen and Lyn were inside. It had been worn, presumably, lest a man had been at the door. Mrs. Imran looked carefully at their identification, then indicated with a graceful gesture of her right hand that they should come into the living room.
On the tenth floor-Kingsmarkham Council dared to call it a penthouse, Karen had once noticed-a magnificent view of downs and meadows and Cheriton Forest presented itself beyond an in-adequate window. On a sofa with a boy of about ten beside him, Rashid Imran sat playing Monopoly with his son and a small girl who knelt on the floor.
As a general rule, Karen disliked children. She had been told this was because they frightened her, but Wexford believed this indifference was an advantage. It meant she could be detached and not become emotionally involved. Lyn, on the other hand, loved children, wanted to get married so that she could have half a dozen-well, three. She immediately squatted down beside the little girl and asked if she might play. It was apparent that Mrs. Imran had very little English, if any. But her husband spoke it well and his son had apparently learned it at school. The child Shamis had enough to say to Lyn, “Sit, please. You play.”
Adel Imran answered her in the same language and Karen saw that they had gate-crashed an English lesson. This was something of which she hardly knew whether she should approve or not. A past Home Secretary had said that it was necessary for all immigrants to speak English and at first she had agreed with this but then she had wondered. Would making thi
s a requirement of residency be to endanger people's human rights? She looked at Lyn who was already getting on famously with the children and said to their father, “Do you think DC Fancourt could take the children into another room for a while? There's something I want to say to you and your wife.”
Immediately Mrs. Imran began hustling the little boy and girl. Lyn said, “We could take the Monopoly with us and I'll play instead of your dad. How about that?”
Karen, who sometimes prided herself on her stony heart, came close to being moved by the sight of Shamis looking up into Lyn's face and shyly taking her hand. Appreciative of beauty, she thought she had seldom seen a lovelier child, her golden skin a little darker than her brother's, her eyes black as basalt. When Mrs. Imran had closed the door after them, she began. It was about to be the hardest encounter with the public she had had for a long time and she heartily wished herself out of it, but she could see why she, a woman, had to do it and not Barry Vine or Damon.
“Mr. Imran, I am sure you and your wife would not wish to break the laws of this country now it's your home.” Was that racist? Surely not. Karen would have been happier and have thought herself more politically correct to address the man's wife, but what was the use of that when Mrs. Imran's English was so limited? “The trouble is, isn't it, that we don't always know what the law is. Now we have a law in Britain that makes it an offense, a very serious offense, to circumcise a woman or a girl. To cut her, I mean. Do you understand me?”
The woman turned to her a blank face, obviously uncomprehending. Her husband, who had cast down his eyes, began speaking to her in his own language, a language Karen was ashamed to confess she couldn't identify. Was there one actually called Somali? Mrs. Imran nodded, said nothing.
“Do you understand me, Mr. Imran?”
“Of course. But why come to us?”
“Mr. Imran, we have reason to believe you plan to go on holiday to Somalia and while you are there to have Shamis-er, cut.”
“Oh, no,” he said very quickly. Too quickly. “We go on vacation only.” Again he whispered to his wife and this time she shook her head.
“No, no. This is vacation.” She stumbled a little at the word. “Children to see aunties.”
Karen nearly shuddered, seeing old women with razors in their hands, or broken glass or stones. “You must believe I don't want to frighten you or distress you.” Was that patronizing? “But I have to tell you that the maximum penalty…” They wouldn't understand that, they wouldn't have the faintest idea. “The biggest punishment-do you understand?-is fourteen years in prison for a person who breaks this law.”
They were silent. From the next room came a sudden peal of child's laughter. Rashid Imran lifted his eyes, said, “We cannot speak of this. It is not right to speak of it. You must know that we take the children just on vacation, nothing else. You should go now.”
She had no choice. Shamis came to the door with her to see them out. Lyn bent down and kissed her. “Well?” she said when they were on the stairs. Karen shrugged.
“I don't know. They didn't say a word about being against female genital mutilation, but they didn't say they were for it either. I'll have to see what the guv says.”
She tried it on him when they got back. “We could have Shamis examined before they go and again when they come back.”
Wexford shook his head. “You know it's not as simple as that, Karen. On what grounds would we have her examined? We've no grounds except her older sister's opinion. Is she being ill-treated, abused? Absolutely not. It seems like a happy home, good attentive parents, happy children. There's a risk she will be very seriously ill-treated in the future but no threat has been made and we've no proof.”
“And when they bring her back and she's been-mutilated? I won't say ‘circumcised.’ It makes it sound like what's done to baby boys and it's not.”
“Karen,” he said, talking to her as if she were one of his own daughters, “I'm very sorry to have to say this to you. Believe me, I hate this business as much as you do. But it's only if the child comes back here very obviously mutilated, if the parents have to take her to hospital because she's bleeding or she's got septicemia, it's only then that we can act.”
“And if she's not? If they get her done under hygienic conditions, then what?”
“Nothing. We won't know.”
“Matea will tell us,” said Karen.
“Will she? If telling us means one or both her parents go to jail for up to fourteen years? It was one thing to say what she said when it was only a threat, but it'll be very different when the child's been mutilated and nothing can change that. All we can do now is wait and see.”
The sister Vivien came too. They were so alike that they might have been twins, tallish slender young women, their faces bare of makeup, their fingernails trimmed closely, but Selina with her dark brown hair in a bob with bangs, Vivien's long and tightly coiled on the back of her head. Selina was in jeans and a shirt, Vivien in a long skirt and silk jacket. They sat down in the two chairs that had been placed to face him on the other side of his desk and he sent for tea.
“It's good of you to come,” he said.
“Oh, no, not good at all,” Selina said. Her voice was low and sweet. “I can't tell you how wonderful it is to find our father.”
He was aghast but did his best not to show it. To make this assumption she had taken a great leap over a dozen obstacles and traps. “Miss Hexham, you mustn't take it for granted this is your father. We have very little to go on as yet. All we have is that we have found the body of a man of your father's sort of age who seems to have died on or around the fifteenth or sixteenth of June, 1995. You're here to help us find the truth.”
“Please call me Selina,” she said, not at all downcast.
“Vivien,” said Vivien.
“We would like one of you to provide us with a DNA sample. That's a very simple procedure, involving taking a swab from the inside of your mouth. Only one of you need do it.”
“And you'll know at once?”
“I'm afraid not, Vivien. It will take a few days. We should also like to know the name of your father's dentist if you can tell us that. Eleven years is rather a long time and you may not know.”
“Yes, we do,” Selina said eagerly. “She's still in Barnes. That's where we live, Barnes. I don't think I told you that. We still go to her.”
She wrote down the name and address of this dentist in a strong upright hand. The tea came, a pot and three cups, brought in by Bal Bhattacharya's replacement, a pink-faced young man called Adam Thayer. Though perfectly respectful, he eyed both girls with a kind of greedy hopefulness. As he poured the tea, Wexford reflected that he had better teach him about custody of the eyes. Neither Selina nor Vivien took milk, an almost universal departure from custom in the young, he had noticed, and Vivien looked at the liquid in her cup as if she intended to drink it for politeness' sake but would infinitely have preferred rooibos or maté.
“I've brought you a proof copy of my book,” Selina said. “That is, if you'd like to read the rest of it. Those were very short extracts in the Sunday Times. I was very glad to have it, of course-well, I was over the moon. It's marvelous advance publicity for my book.”
She handed Wexford a proof copy of Gone Without Trace across the desk. He would have to make time to read it even if, he thought with an inner sigh, that meant sitting up to do so at night. “There are one or two things I'd like to ask you before that,” he said. “Do you feel up to that now?”
“Of course,” Vivien said. “Of course. We want to help all we can.”
“Then, to begin with, do you, over the lapse of years, have any more idea what it was your father occupied himself with in his study? You mention it quite briefly in the extracts, but you don't come to a conclusion. Perhaps there's more about it in the rest of your book?”
“No, there isn't,” said Selina. “Not really. We tried to find him, that is we tried to find what had happened to him-that's what a large part of
the rest of my book is about-we talked to everyone he'd known, all the teachers at his school, the ones who were willing to talk to us, I mean. Not all of them were. We even talked to some of the kids he'd taught. They were-well, contemporaries of ours. So they didn't mind talking to us as much as they might have done to older people. Nobody could tell us much, only that they thought he was studying for a postgraduate degree. This is all in my book.”
“Yes, but in the part I haven't yet read.”
“Right. Sorry. If he was he'd have had to have been in a master's program at a university. We went into all that, but we couldn't find any record of that anywhere. It's possible he was doing it only by correspondence, but we found nothing to support that idea either. He hadn't access to the Internet at home, only at school, and it was what he was doing at home we wanted to know about. One of the students in his A-levels group suggested he might have been conducting-well, some sort of biological experiments, but he hadn't seen the size of the room. And, you know, experiments in biology would involve living things, only plants maybe, but they'd take up space and they'd need water and-well, there was absolutely nothing like that. Dad was crazy about Darwin. He was utterly opposed to these fundamentalists who believe Genesis and God creating the world in six days and all that sh-all that rubbish.”
“Could he have been writing something?” Wexford watched their faces, but they showed nothing but their eagerness to know. “Could he, for instance, have been writing a life of Darwin?”
“If he was,” said Vivien, “he'd have had books about Darwin, lots of books, previous biographies, but he didn't. He just had Origin of Species. ”