‘Ahhh! How exciting we used to find black men in my young days!’
‘Mother!’
‘Oh, but we did, Alicia. There was that jazz trumpeter at the Savoy, Jerry “Hot” Sylvester. Sheer bliss in every way! Then the black servicemen here in Lincolnshire, over from America for the duration of the war. Absolute darlings. Do women still find black men exciting, Mr Peace?’
‘Some do, Mrs Boulting. Some definitely do.’
‘I’m so glad. It’s always good to find some things that don’t change.’ The unearthly cry came again from the direction of the wheelchair. Charlie felt that discomfiting mixture of compassion and unease that many feel in the presence of mental sickness. Alicia’s sister went over and put her hands comfortingly on the boy’s shoulders. The boy relaxed at once. ‘Is it time for his walk in the garden?’ the old woman asked.
‘More than time,’ said her daughter. She looked at her sister reproachfully. ‘He’s been upset by all the aggravation.’
‘Carol, if you would only see sense – ’
‘Well, Alicia,’ said their mother, struggling to her feet and aiming herself by sense rather than sight for the kitchen and the back door, ‘we’ll leave you to your chat with the nice policeman. We’d love to stay and hear what you’ve been doing, but I don’t suppose that we’d be welcome. Come along, Jeremy: it’s time for your turn around the garden.’
• • •
Oddie looked at the girl on the other side of the table. She was not particularly dirty, not dressed or decorated in the insignia of the homeless. And she was not particularly there at all. He could feel PC Gould – a no-nonsense woman – stir in her seat beside him in irritation. Rose seemed to be on cloud nine, and occasionally sent down monosyllabic messages therefrom. If she was not on drugs – and he assumed that Ben Marchant had investigated such an obvious possibility – then he wondered what it was afflicting her.
‘You’re in the front room of next door, number twenty-two, aren’t you?’
A pause, while the query seemed to be received, stored, then analysed for content. Eventually an answer was transmitted.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been coming to the refuge for long?’
Each question resulted in that same pause, the same dreamy analysis.
‘About two months.’
‘Where do you sleep when you’re not here?’
‘Near the parish church.’
‘How long have you been sleeping rough?’
This was a really difficult one, requiring a long session of consideration.
‘I don’t know . . . months . . . a year . . .’
‘Where was your home before that?’
‘Chester . . . near Chester.’
‘Are your parents still there?’
‘My father is.’
‘Won’t he be worried about you? Shouldn’t you contact him, maybe think of going back to live with him?’
Something like acute pain went across her face.
‘Not after what he did . . . not after that . . . And the police believed him, not me . . . I’ll never see him again.’
When they questioned her about the events of the previous night she just shook her head. She had noticed nothing, heard nothing. Oddie had expected this. She lived apart, shut off, enclosed. She needed psychiatric help. So did many, maybe most, of those sleeping rough. How did you ensure that they got it, even supposing there was anybody interested enough to try and give them what they needed?
• • •
‘Well, let’s get it over with,’ said Alicia crossly. She was unable to disguise it when she got cross. She sat down briskly and looked up at him. ‘It seems a great waste, coming all this way on such a trivial matter.’
‘Marchant may well die,’ said Charlie brutally, but her face showed no reaction. ‘I’m sure you don’t normally treat murder as something roughly on a par with illegal parking.’
There was still no shadow of concern. He sat down, and for the first time took in the room: shabby, much-used furniture, reproductions of favourite paintings on the walls, photographs everywhere, including some very old ones – from the thirties he guessed – of an extremely elegant lady who was also a decidedly sexy one. If he looked out into the garden he had no doubt he would see the lady herself.
‘What is your interest in Ben Marchant’s refuge for the homeless?’ he asked. Alicia pursed her tight little mouth.
‘The interest of any concerned citizen,’ she said. ‘Bramsey is not at all the right place for something like that.’
‘I see. But not everyone would be so active, when it’s not actually anywhere near your own home.’
‘Any concerned person would – ’ She pulled herself up. ‘Oh well, I suppose you know: I have a political interest in Bramsey. I’m hoping to be Conservative candidate for the ward on Leeds City Council. So people have started bringing all their worries about the area to me.’
‘I see. What sort of people are these?’
‘The old couple in the house opposite, for example.’
‘Anybody else? Has Mr Haldalwa been to see you?’
‘Well, yes . . . Yes, actually he has.’
‘So you’ve taken an interest in his daughter and her marriage?’
She shook her head vigorously, mouth pursed still tighter.
‘Not specifically. Naturally the last thing I would do is interfere in a personal, private matter. But of course that does show the sort of trouble that can arise if you collect together undesirables in the way Mr Marchant has been doing.’
‘Right . . . So last night you went round there.’
‘Yes. And of course there was trouble.’
‘Trouble? I understood the situation as being that the proposed bridegroom was there to give the news that he was withdrawing from the proposed marriage.’
‘You weren’t there,’ said Alicia dogmatically. ‘The whole refuge was at the two front doors, ganging up on this man – a very ugly situation.’
‘So you withdrew?’
‘It seemed best. I could hardly do anything useful in the circumstances.’
‘But not before you recognized Mr Marchant.’
She didn’t bat an eyelid, or pause.
‘That’s right.’
‘You didn’t recognize his voice on the phone, but you did in fact know him.’
‘Know him? I wouldn’t exactly say that. I knew who he was. I don’t suppose I’d ever heard his voice. He used to be estate manager for Sir George Mallaby.’
‘I don’t think I know the name.’
She looked scornful.
‘You ought to. He’s big locally. Has a big house and farm out past Otley. Basically he’s a businessman, self-made, and he always has a manager running the estate. Wife’s a bit of a snob, with no good reason.’
Charlie felt like asking her to go through the good reasons for being a snob. Instead he said:
‘And you met Ben Marchant there?’
‘Saw him. I was out there – now what was it about? Oh yes, it was a committee meeting of the Leeds Piano Competition Committee. Lady Mallaby had muscled in there, of course. And as we were all leaving, he and Sir George were talking in the reception hall of Belstone Manor.’
Charlie wondered about this story, but he remained inscrutable.
‘You have a remarkable memory for faces.’
‘I’ve always had at the back of my mind the thought that I might go in for politics – maybe in a small way at first. In politics a good memory is a sine qua non.’
‘So when you recognized – ’
But they were interrupted by a cry from the garden, then by another and another. Alicia responded as if on autocue.
‘Oh, that poor wretch. He’s having one of his really bad turns. Carol has no idea how to deal with him at all. Do excuse me – ’
And she rushed out, unable to let anything of moment happen that she didn’t play a principal role in. Charlie was glad. It gave him a chance to examine the photogra
phs around the room. In particular it allowed him to examine one he had earlier noticed which had been turned face down on the dark, chipped old sideboard. It could be chance or accident that it had been turned down, of course. But when he took it up and looked at it, he very much doubted if it was.
Because it showed – younger, more carefree, her face in particular much less lined – the unmistakable figures of Ben Marchant and Alicia’s sister Carol.
CHAPTER 12
Sisters
Charlie’s reactions thereafter were based on instinct rather than on normal police procedures. That is to say they were based on experience, judgement of character, assessment of situation, and flair. As uproar in the garden continued – not just the distressing cries of the boy Jeremy, but loud hostility between sister and sister – he replaced the photograph as he had found it, let himself silently out of the front door, slipped round and noted the number of the brick-coloured Volvo, then got into his car and drove away in the direction of Leeds.
There was a suitable pub, the George Washington, just before he got to the A15: it had parking out the back, was built directly on the road, and looked as if it served a good pint. Charlie ordered a half from a pot-bellied, genial landlord, immediately corrected that to a pint, then took up his position at the window. It was mid morning, and he was the only customer. The landlord was intrigued.
‘Watching for someone?’ he asked.
‘Someone in a car. I’m a policeman, by the way. Want to see my ID?’
‘No, mate. It’s all one to me. But if it’s going to be a shoot-out, warn me, because we’re not used to that kind of thing down this neck of the woods.’
‘No shoot-out, I promise. I’m just backing a hunch. Lovely pint this. I hope I don’t get interrupted . . . Know anything about the Boultings in Hartridge?’
‘Mother and daughter? They come in here now and then, mostly lunchtimes. Not big spenders, but pleasant. Mother’s been a goer in her time, but she’s a real character. Sad about the young lad. They’re devoted to him, both of them. I hope they’re not in any trouble?’
‘Not so far as I know. They’re just part of a jigsaw. Know who the father of the boy was?’
‘No idea. He was a toddler when they moved here. Village life these days, it’s all incomers. You wouldn’t find a farm worker who could afford a cottage in Hartridge, yet the people who move there are not rich by any means. I’ve heard say the Boultings lived in Lincoln before they moved here, so they’re not outright foreigners by our lights.’
Charlie stood there in companionable silence with the landlord for some twenty minutes or so. It needed no particular vigilance to recognize the car when it came. The brick-coloured Volvo could be seen driven peremptorily along the road from Hartridge, and, as it passed the George Washington, Charlie could spot Alicia by her hair alone, even though the driver’s side was furthest from him. He turned back to the bar, carrying the last half of his pint. He grinned at the host.
‘No particular point in hurrying, I suppose,’ he said. ‘The two ladies probably aren’t going anywhere.’
‘They’re nice people, even if the mother is a bit over the top,’ he said. ‘Go easy on them.’
‘Do I look like the sort of person who beats up old ladies and spastic kids?’
‘Hmm. You look as if you could take care of yourself.’
‘That’s another matter. I did used to manage a gym,’ Charlie conceded. ‘Though as I remember most of the customers were a right collection of cissies and show-offs.’
He finished his pint and drove back in the direction of the village of Hartridge. This time the person who opened the door was Carol Boulting.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, but not unwelcomingly. ‘I’m afraid Alicia’s gone.’
Charlie decided to come clean.
‘I know she has. I saw her driving towards Leeds.’
‘And you came back to talk to us?’ A grin lit up her heavy, lined face. ‘Well, do come in. But if it’s dirt on Alicia you’re after, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong people. We know very little about Alicia’s activities in Leeds. She only comes here once in a blue moon, when her compulsive itch to interfere has nothing better to exercise itself on up there.’ She led the way through to the living room. ‘Jeremy’s fine now. He reacts badly to any kind of disturbance or quarrel, so could we keep it nice and calm?’
‘Of course. No reason why it should be anything else.’
‘Mother, it’s Mr Peace again. The policeman.’
Mrs Boulting, sprawled limply in an armchair, perked up at once.
‘Oh, how delicious. You know where you’re appreciated. But I’m afraid we’re not at all au fait with what Alicia gets up to, if that’s what you want to talk about. It’s not men in her case, but power, you know. She always was an assertive kind of child. The head-girl type. My husband insisted the girls went to “good” schools, but in Alicia’s case they seem to have taught her nothing but snobbery and aggression. Why I took my husband’s advice on that I can’t think. I didn’t take it on anything else. We were separated by then, of course, and I suppose I thought that if he was willing to pay the bills, it would get her out of my hair.’
Charlie sat down on the other side of the hearth, while Carol remained standing, watching Jeremy.
‘What I’m actually interested in is your daughter’s connection with a man who runs a refuge for homeless young people in Leeds.’
The near-blind eyes almost sparkled up at him.
‘That wouldn’t be Ben Marchant by any chance, would it?’
‘Yes. He was attacked last night and very badly hurt.’
‘Poor Ben!’ said Carol. ‘He’s so kind and generous. People take advantage.’
‘This is worse than taking advantage,’ Charlie said. He was intrigued. There was no sense of bitterness or hatred in Carol’s voice. Yet Ben was presumably a former boyfriend – at the very least. ‘I saw the photograph,’ he said, gesturing to the frame.
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Boulting, peering at it, ‘someone’s turned it on its face.’
‘I could guess who did that,’ said Charlie. ‘Could you tell me how well you know or knew Ben Marchant?’
‘Knew,’ said Carol. ‘He’s Jeremy’s father. We haven’t seen him in years.’
‘When did you know him well?’
‘Jeremy’s eleven, so that gives you the rough idea.’ She sat down, still casting regular glances at her son. ‘We were living – Mother and I – just outside Lincoln then. I had a job – in a dress shop, can you believe it? Ben was at the Agricultural College nearby. He was a pretty mature student, but quite a lot of them were, so he wasn’t out of place. We had a bit of a fling and – ’
She gestured towards the wheelchair.
‘Was there never any question of your getting married?’
‘Oh no. He had always said “I’m not the marrying type”, but he didn’t even need to say it. I knew that.’
‘And accepted it?’
‘Yes, completely.’
‘And you don’t feel bitter now?’
‘No.’ She turned and directed at him an unswerving, challenging look. ‘What you mean is, because my son turned out to have cerebral palsy, I should feel bitter because he gives me so much work. Well, you’ve got it entirely wrong. I love my son, my life centres round him. It’s a lot better than having it centred on a dress shop, when you come to think about it, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. I’m sorry if I offended you. What happened when the relationship ended?’
‘It ended when his course finished at college. He got a job in Derbyshire and took off. I’d always known he would. I wasn’t the only girlfriend he had in this area, by the way.’
‘By then Jeremy was born?’
‘Oh yes – he was about one. In case you’re interested, we did talk about having an abortion and I wasn’t interested. When I knew there might be . . . medical problems, I still wasn’t interested. So please don’t see me as a victim, and ple
ase don’t start imagining any resentment on my part towards Ben. I loved him briefly, I liked him as long as he was around, and I’m sure I would still like him if I still knew him. I shall go and pray for his recovery at Evensong tonight.’
Charlie nodded, accepting.
‘I’d still like to know where you both were last night.’
‘Here. We’re always here. Mrs Marsh next door popped in to watch Coronation Street and The Bill because her television’s on the blink. Does that give us an alibi?’
‘Yes, it should do. I wasn’t very keen on the idea of a ten-year period of gestation for murder. Now – about your sister.’
• • •
The young man called Splat was a type that Oddie had had dealings with often enough before, but one that still made him feel strangely uneasy. Tattoos he’d been used to all his life, though Splat’s seemed unusually flamboyant and all-covering (where did he get the money for artwork of this complexity?), but rings on nose, ears and lips (wasn’t that horribly uncomfortable?) he still found repellent, as he did the brilliantly fluorescent colouring of the hair. It wasn’t just that Splat made him feel middle-aged, conventional, horribly safe and middle-of-the-road. It was that he seemed to represent some kind of challenge, and Oddie couldn’t quite put his finger on what, in himself, was being challenged.
He could almost have predicted Splat’s history, however.
‘I was in homes,’ Spat said. ‘I never knew me dad, and when I was six me mam just took off wi’ a bloke, so they told me. Don’t remember her, to tell you the truth – she’s just a voice, shouting at me, now. So I was in homes after that. Couple o’ times they got me a foster home, but it didn’t work out, and I went back to a home.’
‘Why didn’t it work out?’
‘I expect it was my fault. I wasn’t used to families – didn’t know what they were all about. I preferred what I knew. I could be king o’ the castle in a home, because I knew how they worked. In a family I was expected to co-operate with the others, and I didn’t know how to. Still don’t.’
‘How did you land up on the streets?’
‘Easy. Just took off, didn’t I? They were getting ready to chuck me out, so I did it for them.’
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