Turning Nasty (Anna McColl Mystery Series Book 4)

by Penny Kline

  ‘On the night of the fire?’ I said, watching Martin sit up straight and take notice.

  ‘It wasn’t a can,’ said Paddy, ‘more like one of those extra-large bottles of orange juice, the kind with a handle on the side.’

  ‘Has the boy’s father been in touch with the police?’

  ‘That’s just it. He’s someone who steers clear of the Old Bill, doesn’t like getting involved.’

  ‘The boy didn’t notice a strange car, did he?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Well, you wouldn’t, would you, not in an area like that where people are always coming and going. According to the lad the man carrying the container was wearing an anorak, a shiny one, green, with the hood pulled up even though it wasn’t raining that evening, wasn’t even particularly cold.’

  The restaurant Terry had chosen was upmarket Japanese. That meant slivers of raw fish and crispy fried frog’s legs.

  Terry was euphoric. His face kept breaking into a grin. It was the first time I had seen him minus the shapeless green sweater. Grace must have insisted they dressed up a little: he was wearing a jacket and a white shirt, buttoned at the neck, but without a tie.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said, joining him and Grace at a low table next to a large tank of carp. ‘People don’t usually get made a professor until they’re well into their forties, do they?’

  ‘Oh, it’s different these days. Far more of us about. Not like it used to be is it, Owen?’

  Owen smiled. He was studying the menu, trying to make tricky decisions about which starter to have. Seaweed with shredded meat or pork and noodle lettuce wrap.

  ‘You deserve it,’ he said, patting Terry on the shoulder, then returning to the menu. ‘Slaving away morning, noon and night. More publications than the rest of your department put together.’

  Grace looked happier than I had seen her for ages. She had made a special effort with her make-up and hair and looked younger, less dowdy, more of a person in her own right rather than Terry’s adoring slave.

  ‘Have you seen Ian?’ I asked. ‘I’m going round tomorrow but it won’t be till quite late. Probably about seven. Incidentally, I saw Bill.’

  Terry’s head shot up. ‘You’ve been to visit him in hospital? That was very good of you. Correct me if I’m wrong but I had an idea he wasn’t too keen on psychologists. Didn’t mind you helping Ian but wanted to keep well out of things himself.’

  ‘No, of course he doesn’t,’ interrupted Grace. ‘Terry always jumps to the wrong conclusion. Bill’s shy, doesn’t like talking about himself. No harm in that, is there, Anna?’

  A tiny woman in traditional Japanese dress was approaching. She gave a slight bow, then started reeling off the special menu that was on offer that particular evening. About five times as much as I could eat, even if I’d starved myself for several days, but Terry insisted on her repeating it again, more slowly. Then he decided against it.

  After knocking back two glasses of house wine in quick succession I could feel myself starting to relax. Terry was good company, one of those people who come into their own on social occasions. Whenever his professorship was mentioned he quickly changed the subject, talking about my work, or asking Owen about his latest PhD student, a Turkish girl who wanted to study attitudes to illness in countries that had a health service compared with those where medical treatment was private.

  ‘Studying attitudes is fraught with difficulties,’ said Owen gloomily. ‘Still, her English is pretty good so that’s a start.’

  ‘Well, I certainly can’t speak Turkish,’ said Grace a little too sharply. Then she buried her head in the wine list. ‘Now, does anyone have a special preference?’

  ‘Money’s no object,’ said Terry, determined to restore the atmosphere to its previous good humour. ‘Not that I’ll be getting much in the way of a rise in salary, but what the hell!’ He took off his glasses and started polishing the lenses on a piece of his shirt.

  I could hear Grace talking about how it was time Terry had his eyes re-tested but he kept putting it off, saying he was too busy, even though taking care of his eyesight was far more important than producing another research paper. My thoughts kept drifting back to the conversation with Jon Turle. Had he been telling me the truth and, if not, what was he hoping to achieve? In some ways his grief over Maggie Hazeldean’s death had been extremely convincing but perhaps he was just a good actor. To an extent all therapists are actors, some of the time. Pretending to be interested in other people’s problems when, on that particular day, their own seem considerably worse. On the whole I tried to be as honest as possible with my clients, but it didn’t always work. Earlier in the week, while searching in a drawer for a couple of pain-killers to ease my throbbing head I had been verbally attacked by a young man with a ring through his nose. ‘You can’t be ill. You’re not allowed to be.’

  By the time my scallops arrived I had lost my appetite. What I would have liked best was a king-sized cigarette, but I had only broken my resolve twice in the last three years, both times in moments of severe stress and even then only filching other people’s, never buying a packet myself. This particular evening didn’t qualify as one of those occasions. I thought about Imogen and wondered how she was feeling and if I should have done more to help. In spite of Rachel’s slip of the tongue, giving away the fact that Imogen had been out on the night of the fire, I was convinced she had nothing to do with it. Then something else Rachel had said came back to me. It was a Sunday. I remember because I told her she shouldn’t phone Jon on Sunday. A Sunday? The day after Maggie Hazeldean died? Had Imogen seen Jon with her? Was she so obsessed with him that she was prepared to go to any lengths to get rid of the competition?

  The starters had arrived. ‘How’s the leg?’ said Terry, trying to draw me back into the conversation.

  I glanced at Grace, expecting her to assume her nurse-like expression, but she had pretended not to hear. ‘Oh, hardly anything to show for it. Just a few tooth marks fading fast.’

  ‘You’ve no idea whose dog it was?’

  I shook my head. ‘For a time I thought it belonged to someone called Max, then I realized the tattoo on the man’s neck was probably his girlfriend’s name.’

  ‘So you told the cops.’

  ‘Not worth it. Actually it’s possible the owner could be called Rod. Someone phoned the office and left a message.’ I decided to keep quiet about the anonymous note. ‘Although I don’t expect there was any connection. I’ve decided to forget about the whole thing?’

  Terry frowned. ‘What kind of message? Rod was another tattoo, was it?’

  ‘No, just a name somebody mentioned.’ ‘On the phone?’ He was looking intrigued. ‘Was the voice male or female?’ ‘That’s just it, Heather, our secretary, said it was almost impossible to tell. Anyway, I don’t suppose it had anything to do with the dog. We get odd calls now and again. It’s an occupational hazard.’ Grace was looking at her watch. ‘I’m a little bit worried about Ian,’ she said. ‘I went round earlier and he assured me he was all right but his temperature was still up and he looked rotten.’

  ‘The nurse in her,’ said Terry. ‘If I was Ian I’d prefer to be left alone till I was feeling better.’ He pushed aside his plate and topped up his glass of wine. ‘Probably watching video nasties.’

  ‘Where would he get those?’ Grace was having trouble gripping a beanshoot and a king prawn between her chopsticks. ‘You do say some ridiculous things.’

  ‘Oh, there’s sure to be somewhere nearby. They take videos round in vans, deliver them to the outer reaches of the city. No doubt there’s a selection they keep under the counter.’

  ‘And hand them out to fifteen-year-old schoolboys? You can go to prison for that.’

  Grace was starting to get on my nerves. Terry wasn’t serious. All he wanted to do was to reassure her Ian was all right on his own, to stop her spoiling the evening.

  Owen smiled at me, a warning smile designed to preempt an argument. ‘Did Bill tell you,’ he sa
id, leaning across the table to kiss me on the mouth in an uncharacteristic display of affection. ‘It was Ian’s bike he was riding at the time of the accident. Apparently it’s a write-off so Ian’ll be getting a new one. That should cheer him up.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  A head teacher was on the line, wanting a quick word. Ian’s teacher, worried about his emotional as well as his physical state, and convinced he should have been informed that I was seeing one of his pupils.

  ‘Yes.’ I was all prepared for a fight to protect Ian’s privacy.

  ‘It’s about Bradley Baker,’ said the voice. ‘My name’s Michael Keys. Bradley’s a pupil in my school. I believe you’ve been seeing the parents.’

  ‘Oh. Bradley. Yes, that’s right but I haven’t — ’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to tread on any toes but I’m worried about the boy, wondered if we ought to exchange notes, pool any ideas we might have.’

  ‘I’ve never actually met Brad,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t seen Janice and Trevor for over two weeks.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was quite a long pause. He could have had someone else in the room with him, it was impossible to tell, but when he came back on the line his voice was too loud, as though he had been whispering to a colleague then over-compensated on the volume when he started speaking to me. ‘The thing is, Bradley’s rather a boisterous child. Well, boisterous might not be quite the word his teacher would choose. I expect Mr and Mrs Baker have told you there’ve been one or two problems.’

  ‘Yes, I know they’re worried about him.’

  ‘Are they? Well, I suppose that’s a start. As a matter of fact the last week or so he’s been uncharacteristically quiet, subdued. I’ve written to the parents — unfortunately they’re not on the phone — asking them to come and see me but so far there’s been no reply.’

  ‘Doesn’t one of them collect him from school?’

  ‘Apparently not. He walks to the end of his road with another boy and his mother, then they watch to make sure he gets home safely.’

  ‘Yes, I see. By the way, how did you know I was seeing the Bakers?’

  ‘Oh, they told me themselves. I mentioned something about the Child and Family Therapy Service, putting them in touch with a social worker, but they said there was no need, they were already seeing a psychologist.’

  ‘You didn’t think Bradley needed to see someone?’

  He cleared his throat. Did he think I was criticizing the school? It was the last thing I intended. I just needed to find out as much as possible about the Baker family. ‘He saw an educational psychologist several months ago but she thought the problem was his below-average reading age. He was falling behind some of the other children in his class and seemed worried about his progress. We arranged for extra remedial help and his reading’s improved dramatically.’

  I was thinking fast. I wanted Janice and Trev’s real address but I also wanted to avoid having to tell Brad’s headmaster that I had been given the wrong one.

  ‘I’m going to visit them at home,’ I said. ‘Actually I was planning to go round there this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, good. If they’re agreeable perhaps you could phone me tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Any minute now he was going to ring off. ‘Their address,’ I said, sounding as casual as possible. ‘I’ve a feeling my office has muddled up the number of the house. If you could just check.’

  ‘Hang on.’ He didn’t express any surprise. A few moments later he read out the number, and the name of a road that sounded vaguely familiar.

  ‘Thanks very much, I’ll be in touch.’

  Heather rushed out of the office and grabbed me by the arm. ‘Have you got a minute, Anna?’

  I glanced at my watch. ‘Yes, all right. Serena, is it?’

  She shook her head, mouthing the word ‘Kieran’. ‘Won’t take long. He’s been waiting ages. I think it’s something important.’

  Kieran was standing by Heather’s desk, looking distinctly uneasy. His crash helmet lay on Heather’s desk, along with a large pair of leather gloves and thick, woollen scarf.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘We meet again.’ I wasn’t going to mention how I had seen him by the cemetery gates, at least I wasn’t going to mention it straight away. First I wanted to find out what he had to say.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Sorry to turn up like this but I thought you ought to know — about Max.’

  ‘Go on.’

  He glanced at Heather but she looked away. I had no idea whether she had heard the story already but if the expression on her face was anything to go by I had a feeling she and Kieran had been arguing, then made it up, more or less.

  ‘When I heard you were looking for someone called Max I never made the connection,’ said Kieran, ‘not at first. The man with a tattoo, that’s Shaun. He’s a good bloke, he’s really sorry about what happened, felt terrible about it but the dog’s never done it before and he was afraid if he got in touch, to apologize, you’d report him and Sally’d have to be destroyed.’

  ‘Sally? That horrible creature’s a female? Yes, all right, I wouldn’t want that, but tell him to buy her a muzzle.’

  ‘Oh, he has,’ said Heather. ‘He’s not at all like you think, Anna.’

  So she knew what had been going on but had decided to keep it to herself. Still, wouldn’t I have done exactly the same in her position.

  ‘You’ve met him, have you, Heather?’

  She shook her head. ‘Kieran’s told me all about him. He doesn’t go out all that much, because of his wife, not unless Kieran or the woman next door can take over.’

  ‘She’s still in a wheelchair,’ said Kieran, ‘but just recently she’s started to feel some sensation in the lower part of her legs, for the first time since it happened. Only sort of pins and needles but the doctor says — ’

  ‘She’s the woman you told me about? The one who was pulled out of a car and injured her spine?’

  He stared at the floor. ‘Heather thinks

  I spend too much time with her, but the thing is, if Shaun didn’t get a break… ’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Heather protested, ‘only why couldn’t you have explained properly instead of letting me think you had another woman on the side.’

  I was thinking about Shaun, the man with the big boots and rolled-up jeans, the man I had decided was just the type that made life a misery for people like Paddy and Azim. Skin colour, style of dress, tattoos, what was the difference? I had made a snap judgement and let the idea that Max was a racist harden in my brain.

  Kieran was pacing backwards and forwards, putting his hands in his pockets, then taking them out again. In spite of telling me about Max, he still looked embarrassed, uneasy.

  Heather touched his arm. ‘Go on, tell her. Can’t do any harm and she might be able to — ’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ he said, irritated at the way Heather was treating him like a child. ‘I’m thinking of applying to train as a nurse. I wondered if you thought I’d stand a chance.’

  I wanted to laugh, not at the thought of Kieran in a nurse’s uniform, but because I had been so keyed up, waiting for the next revelation about Max. ‘I don’t see why not.

  Sounds like a really good idea.’

  ‘Heather’s not sure I’m the type.’

  ‘What type is that?’

  He grinned. ‘There’s something else. Shaun’s been making a few enquiries — about the fire in Bishopston. Asking around, people in pubs and that. From what he’s heard the usual lot had nothing to do with it. After it happened some kids round here stuffed burning rags through a couple of letter boxes, but only’cos the reports on the telly had put the idea into their heads.’

  ‘Shaun told you this? How come he’s so well informed?’

  ‘I told you.’ There was a hint of exasperation in Kieran’s voice. ‘He knows people, only knowing them doesn’t mean you have to share their opinions. He doesn’t want to go to the police himsel
f but if you wanted to have a word with him he’d be quite prepared to answer any questions. I guess it’s his way of making up for what happened to your leg.’

  It was just after four. The curtains in the front room were partially drawn but as I walked up the Bakers’ front path I could hear the television on full blast. There was no doorbell or knocker. I lifted the flap of the letter box, then let it go, realizing at once that the feeble click was no match for the voices of the cartoon characters inside. But someone had heard.

  ‘Who is it? What d’you want?’ I recognized Janice’s voice.

  ‘It’s me. Anna. Anna McColl.’

  There was a short silence and the door remained firmly closed.

  ‘What did you want?’ she repeated, and the sharpness in her voice had turned to something like fear.

  ‘I was just passing nearby, thought I’d look in and see how you were.’

  I expected her to ask how I had found the address but that would have meant admitting she had given me a false one.

  ‘We’re fine, thanks.’

  ‘Look, Janice, could you open the door? Please.’

  It opened a crack, enough for me to see the expression on her face. ‘We’re a bit busy just now,’ she said, and at the same moment a black nose appeared and the door was forced wide open by a sheepdog that came bounding towards me. Instinctively I leapt back, but the dog was a crazy, harmless creature, jumping up to try and lick me on the face, then turning circles on the patch of grass, trying to catch hold of its tail.

  Janice had disappeared into the house. I clicked my fingers, worried in case the dog ran out into the road, and it rushed past me, shooting up the stairs, then down again. The carpet in the entrance hall had been taken up and all that remained were a few scraps of pale grey rubber backing material. Upstairs a tap was running and I thought I could hear someone brushing their teeth.