Prey to All

by Cooper, Natasha

  ‘That’s very clear,’ Caroline said, when she’d got her breath back. Laura Chaze sounded like a right cow. If anyone was going to be shot, it should have been her.

  ‘Then she went away and my father made a pot of tea and opened some biscuits.’ Kate smiled suddenly, revealing a childishly open delight for a second. ‘They were called Chocolate Olivers. I asked where I could buy some because I’d like to take some back for Millie and the boys, and he told me to take the rest of the packet home with me. He was kind, you see. He let me tell him about the children, and he said he could see they really needed me. Even more than he did.’

  Trish leaned forwards. To Caroline’s surprise, she said, ‘Kate, did he ask anything about your legal father, about Adam?’

  ‘Yes, a bit.’ Kate looked as surprised as Caroline felt. All the delight had been extinguished. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just wondered. They’d known each other when your parents got engaged, hadn’t they?’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘OK. Never mind that now,’ said Caroline, glaring at Trish. This was not her interview and she should’ve known better than to interrupt. ‘And what did he say about your mother?’

  ‘Just that he hadn’t realised how much he loved her till it was too late.’ Kate rammed the hardened lump of tissue into her eyes again and sniffed. ‘I told Trish all this yesterday, Sergeant Lyalt.’

  ‘I know. But it helps me to hear it, too. And which day exactly was it that your mother phoned you and told you how he’d wanted her to have an abortion?’

  There was a stillness about Kate as she sat with her hands in her lap and her eyes slowly leaking. She said nothing. Trish looked surprised and as though she was about to intervene again. Luckily she held her tongue. They both waited. Kate was blushing and her long hair hung down, hiding her face as she stared at the floor.

  ‘Kate?’ said Caroline firmly. ‘You must tell me the truth, you know.’

  ‘It was Friday,’ she said, looking up at last. Her eyes were huge and hurt and the tears were falling faster. Caroline went out to find some Kleenex.

  ‘This last Friday,’ she said, when she came back with a small, unopened packet, ‘or the one before he was shot?’

  Kate’s blush betrayed her. Trish sat forward, but Caroline didn’t want her to protest.

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘The one before he was shot.’ She started howling then, like a child taking refuge from punishment in a sobbing fit.

  ‘Sergeant,’ Trish said firmly, back in her professional persona, ‘I think it would be a good idea if I had a chance to talk to Kate privately.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Kate sniffed. ‘It’s all right, Trish. I didn’t mean to lie. It just seemed easier not to go into details about it. I’m sorry, I really am. I rang him from the theatre because I was so upset by what my mother told me. That’s why I wanted to see him again.’

  Caroline saw that Trish was about to tell her not to say anything else, so she leaned forwards, smiling kindly at Kate, and said, ‘It’s much better to get the whole truth out in the open. You told him, did you, what your mother had said?’

  Kate nodded.

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘That I had to try to understand. That it wasn’t me he didn’t want, just any kind of baby. Like you said last night, Trish. That he’d never had anything to do with children, and hadn’t reached a stage in his life when he was fit to marry. He said he was incredibly immature and that he’d regretted it ever since. That’s why he was so glad I’d found my way to his house and why he wanted a chance to know me and help me now, to make up for everything he’d done wrong before.’

  ‘Did your father … I mean, did Adam know what your mother had told you?’

  Kate sat very still. Her lips didn’t move but her eyes looked as though she was working out a complex problem in her head.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Caroline didn’t believe her.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite positive.’

  Caroline looked at Trish, who wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘All right. I’ll get this typed up and then you can sign it.’ Caroline knew she would have to send someone to interview Adam Gibbert again before Kate got to him. She already had his work address and phone number and had talked to him several times.

  Kate was looking ill. Her eyes were dry again, for the moment, but her skin was the colour of uncooked potatoes and a few incipient spots showed up against the greyish pallor.

  ‘Would you like some tea, while they’re typing it?’ Caroline asked. Kate nodded.

  As soon as the sergeant had gone, Kate turned to Trish. ‘She thinks I killed him, doesn’t she?’

  Trish shook her head, and touched Kate’s shoulder again. It was a ludicrously inadequate attempt at comfort, but she couldn’t think of anything else to do. ‘No,’ she said, wishing there were words that could deal with Kate’s difficulties. ‘No one in their right mind would think that.’

  ‘Then it’s Adam. I know she was suspicious of one of us. But he wouldn’t kill anyone. I know he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.’

  Trish smiled and hoped it hid her thoughts. Whatever Kate knew or didn’t know about her stepfather, Trish was well aware how violent weak pleasers could become when driven beyond the limits of what they could bear. Kate’s pale beige skin flushed again. She was shaking. Her eyes were still red, but now they were quite dry. ‘I have to get home. How long is she going to be? I have to be back to look after Millie and the boys.’

  ‘It’s OK, Kate,’ Trish said, dreading the outcome of Caroline’s investigation. She couldn’t think of any solution that wouldn’t add to Kate’s distress. ‘When Adam gave permission for me to be the responsible adult with you when you gave your statement, he said he would arrange to have a friend look after the children. I can take you to the bus when you’ve signed the statement, if you like. Or you can stay up here another day with me. Get some proper rest without all that cooking and childcare.’

  ‘I need to get home. I need to talk to Dad.’

  ‘Kate …’ Trish stopped, wishing this could have been one of the occasions when the words fountained out of her brain without conscious control. Unfortunately today she was all too conscious and every word that suggested itself seemed worse than the last.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Kate said, ‘I’m not going to ask him if he killed my real father.’

  Trish watched her fighting for composure and had some idea of the maze Kate must be treading towards the ultimate discovery of who and what her two fathers had been all her life. ‘I know he didn’t. Just like I know Mum didn’t kill her father. But I have to talk to him about this. If he overheard my phone calls, he’ll know I was talking to my real father, and I don’t want him hurt any more. He’s been hurt enough already, Trish.’ Her eyes were welling again. ‘I have to get back.’

  ‘God, you’re brave!’ Trish couldn’t help the exclamation, but she was glad she’d made it as she saw Kate’s colour returning to normal and a tiny movement parting her lips. She shook her head, but she was – just – smiling again.

  Eventually Caroline brought the statement back. Kate grabbed a pen and pulled the paper towards her.

  ‘No. You must read it before you sign it,’ Trish said, horrified. ‘Kate, you must never – ever – sign something without reading it first.’

  ‘Particularly not a statement,’ said Caroline, joking to warm up the atmosphere a little.

  Even so, Kate looked scared and sat reading the typed sheets, stopping every so often to go back a line or two, as though she couldn’t concentrate with the two older women looking at her. Trish led Caroline to the corner of the room and started a quiet conversation about Caroline’s next planned holiday.

  Between sentences, she could hear Kate breathing more easily. After about five minutes, she said, ‘I’ve read it. It’s all OK. I’m signing it now.’

  Trish came back to sit beside her and insisted on reading the
statement herself. Caroline stood on the far side of the table watching. Trish thought she could read pity and admiration in Caroline’s expression, but that might have been just because she hoped they’d be there.

  ‘Terrific, Kate,’ Trish said, as she put down the Biro. ‘I take it you’ve finished with us, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for coming in, Kate. You’ve helped a lot. Try not to worry too much, and if anything else occurs to you that you think might help us, will you ring me?’ She handed Kate a slip of paper with all her phone numbers on it, then added, ‘Me, or Trish. She’ll keep us in touch.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kate said, gripping the piece of paper as though it was a safe conduct out of the police station.

  When she was already half-way out of the interview room, Caroline said, ‘Trish, could we have a word later?’

  ‘Sure.’ She trusted Caroline Lyalt. And in any case, she had no information to reveal and no client with something to hide. The more questions Caroline asked, the more Trish would learn and the easier it would be to protect Kate.

  As soon as they were out in the street, Kate said, ‘She seemed kind.’

  ‘She is,’ Trish said. ‘Now, would you like to come back to the flat, or shall I take you to the bus?’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘OK. The bus it is. The sergeant was right, you know, Kate, you shouldn’t let yourself worry too much. You can’t change any of the things that have happened by worrying and it’s hard enough for you already.’

  Kate stopped and turned. Her face was desperate. ‘But there is only me, now that Granny’s dead.’

  ‘Granny?’

  ‘My mother’s mother. She was kind, too, and she sort of took care of us all when my mother … when the police took her away that first time. She didn’t think my mother had done it either.’

  ‘Did she talk to you about your grandfather’s death?’ asked Trish quickly.

  ‘Not specifically, no. But I know she didn’t think Mum was guilty. And after she had to go home that time, when they let Mum come out on bail, she wrote to me every day.’

  Trish felt like a hound that has caught the scent of a fox. ‘Was that usual? I mean, had she always written to you, or did it start then?’

  ‘Oh, no, she’d always sent me letters, but only kind of like once every two weeks or so.’

  ‘Have you kept the letters?’

  ‘Of course.’ The big dark eyes were welling again.

  ‘Do you think I could see some of them? Some of the ones she wrote in the months before your grandfather’s death?’

  Kate stopped again. It was clear she didn’t like the idea.

  ‘It might give me ideas about how your grandparents lived, and that could help with the TV film,’ Trish said, carefully not suggesting that the letters might contain clues to the truth.

  ‘OK,’ Kate said at last. ‘But you will let me have them back, won’t you? They’re important.’

  ‘Of course. Now, we’d better hurry. I looked up the times of the buses and there’s one that goes in fifteen minutes.’

  Trish bought her a ticket and saw her on to the bus. There was a taxi outside the bus station, so she hailed it and was back in her flat twenty minutes later.

  Among the messages on the answerphone was one from Meg, tentatively asking for news of Paddy now that he’d been back in his flat for over a week. Conscience-stricken, Trish dialled her mother’s home number. It was her half-day, so she ought to be back from the surgery by now.

  ‘Trish, how lovely! Thank you for ringing back so soon. How is he? I don’t feel I can go ringing the flat. Or dropping in. It’s not like the hospital.’

  ‘You were so good to him, Mum. He seems fine. I don’t go in every day any more, or even every other. He’s threatening to go back to work, he feels so well. He swears he’s eating sensibly and getting enough sleep. I don’t see that there’s any more we can do.’

  ‘No. Probably not. Is Bella around at the moment? Or is she back in the States?’

  Trish couldn’t speak. She had no idea her mother knew anything about the woman.

  There was a laugh at the other end of the phone. ‘Oh, Trish. You don’t think I mind, do you? He doesn’t mind about Bernard.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘It’s a quarter of a century since he walked out. Of course I don’t mind. I’m only glad she’s around to look after him some of the time. I wish it were full-time.’

  ‘Why did he leave, Mum?’ Trish hadn’t known she was going to ask the question until she heard the words. It wasn’t one she’d ever put to her mother before.

  ‘That’s ancient history.’

  ‘But you were hurt?’

  ‘Of course I was. And humiliated. But that’s enough of Paddy. How are you, Trish-love? Still working too hard?’

  ‘Naturally.’ Trish felt better. ‘And getting ever more involved in this film project of Anna Grayling’s, in spite of all my attempts to get out of it. Look, Mum, I wonder if you could help me with something on that?’

  ‘If I can, I will. What d’you need?’

  ‘Some medical information. Anna’s being hopeless about getting it for me. D’you think one of your doctors might be prepared to look over some medical notes for me and see what he thinks about the condition of the people involved?’

  ‘They don’t like interfering in other doctors’ work.’

  ‘Even if it’s only to give me some advice to help stop Anna humiliating a practising doctor on screen?’

  ‘Maybe. I’d have to see. Mike Bridge would be the best. He’s a lovely chap, very kind and unflappable.’

  ‘Any good at geriatrics?’

  ‘He doesn’t do much. He’s too young to make the older patients feel safe. They prefer greyer hair and a few wrinkles in their GP and don’t see the benefits of recent training. But Mike’s the sort of doctor who asks or looks it up if he doesn’t know the answer and that’s worth a hell of a lot. Send me the notes, with a list of questions, and I’ll get him to have a look at them for you.’

  ‘Is your fax machine working?’

  ‘Is it really that urgent?’

  ‘Sort of. It would help enormously if he could produce some answers within the next few days.’

  ‘OK. Fax the questions through. I’ll give him a ring, see if he wants to drop in for a drink on his way home this evening. He occasionally does that.’

  ‘You, Meg Maguire, are a jewel among mothers. I’ll go and see Paddy and will ring with a report.’

  ‘I didn’t need a quid pro quo, but that would be kind. I like to know he’s all right. Thanks, Trish. We’ll talk later.’

  Trish put down the phone and sorted out the medical notes, switching on her computer to type out a list of questions to go with them. She wished her mother was on e-mail, but Meg always said that faxing was bad enough and that if anyone wanted to write to her they could do it in a civilised fashion with an envelope through the post. As Trish sat at her own computer, working on the questions, she realised that they boiled down to two:

  1. Could a woman in Mrs Whatlam’s state of health have had the strength and enough balance without her stick to suffocate her husband?

  2. Was there anything in Mr Whatlam’s galaxy of illnesses that could possibly have made him stop breathing or produced a cardiac arrest, and yet have left no evidence?

  Trish printed off the pathetic list, faxed it with all the sheets of medical notes from the case files, then set off to visit Paddy.

  Chapter 20

  Paddy seemed surprised to see Trish in the middle of the day, but pleased enough to let her in and offer tea.

  ‘That would be great,’ she said, following him into the kitchen. ‘I’m glad you’re not back at work. Meg wanted me to find out how you are.’

  Trish knew she’d made a mistake as soon as the words were out. The air temperature seemed to drop by several degrees. Paddy plugged in the kettle with an audible grunt, as though the force needed was immense. ‘She’ll be sendin
g me another bloody diet sheet next.’

  ‘Another?’

  He gestured to a pile of glossy leaflets beside his fridge.

  Trish shuffled through them, impressed all over again at her mother’s good sense and generosity. In the absence of any follow-up from the hospital or a visit from the community nurse, the leaflets should at least give him the crucial information about his condition and its management. ‘But these are great. She must have got them from the surgery. All this healthy diet stuff is just what you need and what that wretched hospital couldn’t be bothered to provide. I—’

  ‘Will you stop it, Trish? I had a heart-attack. But I’m better. I’m a grown man, for God’s sake, not a baby. Now will the pair of you leave me alone?’

  He banged down cups and saucers on a gold-bordered black metal tray. Trish looked more closely at the picture in the middle of it, to see lettuce leaves and flower petals, and a small, realistic slug.

  Paddy tipped the kettle over the open teapot, splashing boiling water over the slug. He shoved the kettle to the back of the worktop with a bang, cracked down the lid of the teapot and picked up the tray.

  By then Trish knew better than to offer to carry it for him, so she merely opened the door to let him take it through into the sitting room. He poured the tea, adding a good slug of whiskey to his own cup. Trish didn’t comment and was glad of the restraint when she saw him watching her. She stuck her tongue out.

  ‘That’s better. Now, Trish, it’s always good to see you, but I don’t want you here if you’re going to behave like my old mother – or spy for your own.’

  ‘Spy?’ Trish was outraged. ‘Meg wanted to make sure you were all right.’

  ‘That’s spying,’ Paddy said, definitely. ‘Now, tell me about your work or your fat lover. Anything but good advice on my health.’

  ‘Why did you leave Mum and me?’ She hadn’t meant to ask, but the question was out, and she couldn’t take it back. Listening to the silence, aware that she’d broken a taboo, she felt as though she’d been throwing stones on to a newly formed – and fragile – ice sheet.