Blood Lines

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Palliser jumped up angrily. ‘Oh shut up!’ he said, fists clenched by his side. ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ But he didn’t move, either to threaten Slider or leave the room. Slider had seen that rage before in his own son – the ineffectual rage of helplessness – of pain and guilt that can’t be escaped.

  ‘It all begins to make sense,’ Slider went on, ‘when a few other facts are added. The fact that you and Mrs Greatrex were fond of each other before her marriage, and that you went on being “devoted to her” – according to my source. You were always ready, even longing, to help her. You felt she demeaned herself by marrying Greatrex. You hated him for being unfaithful to her. When she ran away from him that one time, you went to her to comfort her; and it was after she returned to him that she announced she was pregnant—’

  ‘Shut your mouth! If you say one more word—!’

  Slider ignored him. ‘I’m not sure whether you really thought you were the father of the child, or if you only wished you were, and gradually convinced yourself. But at all events, you liked to keep an eye on the child, and on Mrs Greatrex. Letters, phone calls, little presents. And any slight to either the boy or Mrs Greatrex from Roger Greatrex you regarded as a cause for anger on your part.’

  Palliser was trying to regain control of himself. He sat down, facing Slider but not meeting his eyes. ‘You seem to have quite a talent for fiction. Well, as long as you’re enjoying yourself—’ he said, trying for lightness and managing only to sound brittle. The muscles of his mouth were trembling. ‘Though I can’t imagine where you think it will get you, or what you think your fairy tale has got to do with Roger’s death—’

  ‘Well, you see, I had to account to myself for two things in particular,’ Slider said helpfully. ‘Your quarrel with Greatrex on Thursday, and the telephone call you said you made. They were the two things you wouldn’t tell me about, so I couldn’t help wondering whether they were connected. Fortunately, you used your mobile phone, and all calls on mobile phones are logged by the phone company. It was quite simple for me to find out what number you called.’ Palliser was definitely yellow now. ‘Didn’t you realise that? Oh dear. Well, it turned out to be a Petworth number – the number of a home for retarded children.’

  Palliser said nothing. He looked at his clenched hands which rested on his knees, and he looked very, very old. Slider felt almost sorry for him.

  ‘One other telephone call I made added the last bit of information. It was to St Catherine’s House – that’s where they keep the register of births and marriages nowadays, what used to be Somerset House when we were younger. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it? Anyway, it turns out that Thursday was Jamie Greatrex’s birthday, one of the three occasions during the year when Roger always went to visit his son. Went rather reluctantly, according to Caroline, but still, he did his duty. Only last Thursday he didn’t go. He called it off. Told the lad he was too busy. But he wasn’t, was he?’

  Slider had hoped for but not expected an answer, but Palliser gave him one. ‘No, he wasn’t busy,’ he spat. ‘He was with a woman. His new one – not that pathetic Parsons cow – even she didn’t know about her. He boasted to me about it – boasted! He—’

  Palliser stopped abruptly, and Slider said, ‘Oh, it’s all right, you haven’t told me anything I didn’t know. That’s what you quarrelled about, wasn’t it? You were furious that he’d let the boy down. He told you to mind your own business. You asked how he would make amends. He laughed and said one day was like another to Jamie, that the boy wouldn’t notice whether he visited him or not. You were interrupted before the argument could go further. Later you went out of the room to get a little privacy to telephone Jamie, though you’d already phoned him earlier in the day, your usual birthday call – oh yes, the lady I spoke to at the home was most helpful. And you discovered that Jamie was very upset about the missed visit – she told me that, too.’

  Palliser put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. He seemed almost dazed. ‘You’ve been busy,’ he said. ‘You don’t really need me to tell you anything. What did Caroline say?’

  ‘That Jamie was Roger’s child,’ Slider said. ‘That you had no reason to think otherwise.’

  His face sharpened. ‘There was reason,’ he said quickly. Then he sighed. ‘It was only the once. She was desperately unhappy and turned to me for comfort; but she never forgave herself, or me. It was the only time she was ever unfaithful to Roger. She’s of the old school, and very strict with herself. Ironic, really, when you think what she married. But Jamie was the only child she ever had, and he was born nine months after our – our one time. What would you think?’ Slider declined to answer. ‘I don’t care what Caroline says, Jamie’s mine – and she knows it, though it doesn’t suit her ideas to admit it, not even to me – perhaps not even to herself. He’s mine – but for her sake I’d never say anything, or let the boy guess – of course I wouldn’t. I’m just his Uncle Sandy,’ he said bitterly, ‘and that bastard Roger was Daddy. I’d have given him a home – Phyllis would have accepted him for my sake – but bastard Roger shut him up in an institution, and only spared him three visits a year – and even then only if it didn’t interfere with his pleasures. I hope he rots in Hell!’

  ‘Yes,’ Slider said. ‘It’s no wonder you were angry. Especially after you found out how upset the boy was. I expect you wanted to kill him, didn’t you?’

  Palliser looked at him, and bared his teeth in what might have passed for a smile in a different culture. ‘Oh no you don’t! I’m not simple-minded. I can see where you’re going, but it won’t wash. Besides, I’ve got my alibi now, conveniently ferreted out by yourself: I was on the telephone. You’ve established that.’

  Slider shook his head. ‘The call was logged from seven-oh-three to seven-fifteen. That still left you time to find Greatrex and kill him, I’m afraid. Unless you want to tell me where you were after you rang off?’

  ‘I – don’t know. Not exactly. I walked about a bit. I was very upset, I needed time to compose myself.’ He seemed suddenly to have come to a realisation of danger.

  ‘Where did you walk?’

  ‘Just – around. Along the corridors. I don’t know exactly.’

  ‘And did you see anyone? Did anyone see you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’ The game had been abandoned, the pretences put aside. He looked at Slider helplessly. ‘Are you going to arrest me?’

  Slider let him wait for a long minute. Outside, the birds shouted in the tangled garden. He thought of Mrs Palliser’s complex web of pain, of how much she must know and how much guess about her husband’s obsessions; and he made it a good long minute. Then he said, ‘No. But don’t leave the country, will you?’

  Palliser saw him out in a rather depressed silence. At the door, Slider said, ‘When you told me you were not of your wife’s religion – you’re a Catholic, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why should you think that?’

  ‘Oh, a guess. If Lord Chirnside is a devout Catholic but found you an acceptable companion for his children, it seems likely that you were one too.’

  Palliser studied Slider’s face, seeming almost puzzled. ‘You’re oddly perceptive for a policeman,’ he said.

  ‘We’re not all Mr Plod, sir,’ Slider said, parodying. Palliser was silent. ‘Well, are you?’

  ‘Lapsed,’ he said tersely.

  Philip Somers still lived with his parents, a little to Atherton’s surprise, in a house in The Fairway in East Acton. The door was opened to him by a smart, pretty young thing of around twenty, framed by a narrow hallway with unforgivable wallpaper and a carpet which was obviously new and must therefore, hard though it was to believe, have been intentional. There was the sound of a wireless in the background and a level of voices and clashing crockery which suggested a large number of people somewhere inside; and the air was heavy with a complex of roast beef, roast potatoes, Bisto gravy and cabbage.

  Atherton showed his ID and introduced himself. The
girl smiled brightly, like a well-trained receptionist. ‘Hakkun a hip yey?’

  ‘I would like to speak to Philip Somers, if he’s in. Would he be your brother?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m Mandy. I s’pose you’d better come in.’ She turned her head to yell, ‘Mu-u-um!’ on three cadences, and then stepped back from the door and almost bowed. ‘Do come in.’

  Atherton advanced far enough to see through the first door a sitting-room crammed with furniture and knick-knacks, a brown cut moquette suite of early seventies vintage, another new carpet with swirls of brown and cream on a coffee background, and a television the size of a Fiat Uno dominating the corner beside the imitation York stone fireplace. A second door just beyond presumably led to the dining-room, for it was from there that the sounds of voices and clashing came, and straight ahead was a narrow kitchen, filled with steam and women.

  One of them detached herself – a grey-haired woman in an apron, worn over a tight Sunday dress Atherton recognised as quintessentially Marks and Spencer – and approached him with polite enquiry. The fingers of her hands were thick as sausages and shiny with years of food preparation and housework; the features of her face were blunted and blurred with years of wife – and motherhood. Atherton adored her on sight.

  ‘Mrs Somers?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, the faintest hint of Irish in her voice almost eroded by time.

  Atherton introduced himself. ‘I’m awfully sorry, I’m afraid I’ve come at a bad time. You’re just about to have dinner.’

  ‘It’ll be a half an hour yet,’ she said. She scanned his face anxiously. ‘Is it Phil you’ve come to see? He’s not in trouble, is he?’

  ‘I just want to ask him a few questions,’ Atherton said soothingly.

  She seemed reassured. ‘Ah, well he’s not back yet. He plays football on a Sunday morning. He should be here any time, though. You’re welcome to wait.’

  ‘If I won’t be in your way,’ Atherton said humbly.

  ‘Not at all. Come on in. Will you have a glass of sherry? Mandy, get that bottle of sherry out o’ the sideboard, and one o’ the best glasses. Come on in, Mr Attenborough. Everyone’s in the back, now.’

  The second room, to the rear of the house, was evidently not only the dining-room but the gathering place. There were french windows giving a glimpse of a tiny garden and the backs of all the houses round about, a large table in process of being laid, and a massive oak sideboard almost invisible under a drift of framed photographs and ornaments. On the wall above it was a highly-coloured framed print of a revoltingly anatomical Sacred Heart of Mary which might have come straight out of Pathologist Weekly. On the far side from the door a pair of splay-legged Contemp’ry armchairs flanked an electric fire. In one of them a small man in a clean shirt with no tie, and a shinily shaved chin, sat in his braces reading the News of the World. Two large young men with thick hair still damp from bathing and a thin one with glasses were crouched before a Roberts radio on the other side of the fire, and two handsome young women and a sulky girl of fifteen were laying what looked like a vast number of places at the table. It reminded Atherton of a scene out of Bread.

  The one called Mandy reappeared with a tot-glass decorated with flamenco dancers, filled with brown syrup. ‘There you go,’ she informed him brightly. ‘Would you like a bag of crisps, atawl?’

  ‘Oh, no thanks,’ Atherton said, and seeing many eyes on him, he bravely sipped the sherry and smiled and said, ‘Very nice. Thank you.’ The faces all beamed with accomplished hospitality and the eyes were removed.

  ‘So, you’ll have come about that dreadful business at the BBC, I suppose?’ Mrs Somers said. ‘Poor Phil’s been in a narful state, though what he thinks he could have done about it I don’t know. The man was already dead when he found him. And his clothes were ruined.’ She folded her lips in disapproval. ‘I threw the shirt and the undies away, though it was a wicked waste, but the trousers were nearly new. I’ve washed them three times, but I don’t suppose they’ll ever be good enough for best again. And all for that wicked man!’

  ‘Mum,’ Mandy said warningly.

  ‘God rest his soul,’ Mrs Somers added perfunctorily. ‘I must get back to the kitchen, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Attenborough. Make yourself at home, now.’

  She hurried away, and Atherton turned to Mandy, who was idly picking at the edge of a raffia table mat, her eyes down either in boredom or discomfiture.

  ‘Why does your mum think Roger Greatrex was a wicked man?’

  ‘Oh, Mum thinks everyone outside the fam’ly’s wicked. Permissive society and all that, you know. We’re never allowed to do anything. Dad’s as bad. They never even let me wear make-up until I was fifteen.’

  ‘But you don’t need it anyway,’ Atherton said, and she brightened visibly at the compliment. For Atherton it was rather pleasant to be in a household that didn’t view him as the enemy, that gave him sherry rather than spitting at him.

  Mandy had evidently decided that tall and handsome was tall and handsome, whatever trousers it came in. ‘It must be exciting being a detective?’ she cooed, almost batting her eyelashes at him in her eagerness to please.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said, and since he had to wait, he spent the next few minutes being agreeable to Mandy and playing her game. Only when he had downed the last of the execrable sherry and was trying to convince Mandy that he couldn’t have any more because he was on duty did he hear the welcome sound of a key in the front door.

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Phil,’ Mandy said brightly, and darted into the hall. Atherton followed her quickly, wanting the first look at the face when Somers saw him. He was looking thin and worn, though still red in the face from the game and the subsequent shower; he was carrying an Adidas bag, and listening distractedly to his sister as he tried to shut the door when, evidently before he had understood her words, he caught sight of Atherton standing in the passage. His face drained so suddenly that Atherton found he had moved instinctively forward to catch him in case he fell. Even Mandy noticed, and looked from her brother to the policeman in sudden apprehension.

  ‘I just want to ask you a few questions,’ Atherton said. ‘In private, if that’s all right.’

  Somers seemed to pull himself together. ‘You’d better come in the lounge,’ he said; and seeing his sister’s questioning look, added, ‘It’s all right, Mandy. Give this to Mum, will you,’ pushing his bag at her. ‘I won’t be long.’

  The part of the sitting-room Atherton had not seen from the door was a wall covered in framed family photographs; and in the far left-hand corner beside the window, on a little table, the largest photo of all, in a silver frame, of a pretty girl of about seventeen, with a vase of flowers beside it. Somers sat down on the edge of the seat of the large brown sofa, so Atherton sat at the other end, facing him.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve crashed in on a special occasion,’ Atherton began. ‘You seem to have all your family here.’

  ‘It’s just Sunday dinner,’ Somers answered automatically. He seemed a little dazed.

  ‘It must be lovely to be part of a big family. How many of you are there?’ Atherton asked pleasantly.

  ‘Well, there’s me and Kevin, Eileen, Denise, Mandy and Katy at home, and Patrick and Sheila are married, but they come every Sunday with their husband and wife.’ The line of questioning seemed to soothe him, and he volunteered, ‘Mum moans a bit that she hasn’t got any grandchildren, and she goes on at us to get married, but she likes having us at home really. She’d hate it if we all left and she didn’t have anyone to fuss over and cook for.’

  Eight people living in this tiny house, Atherton thought, which could hardly have more than three bedrooms. For an instant he tried to imagine the bathroom rota in the morning, and then desisted.

  ‘It must be a lot of work for her,’ he said. ‘Nice to have company, of course, but I suppose you must all get on each other’s nerves sometimes.’

  ‘Not really,’ Somers said, looking wary now. ‘We’re use
d to it.’

  ‘Still, tensions build up, don’t they, even in the happiest families?’

  ‘Look, what is it you want to ask me?’ Somers said abruptly. ‘Mum’ll be dishing up soon.’

  ‘Yes, I wouldn’t like to keep your mum waiting,’ Atherton said. ‘All this must have been a shock for her.’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘Roger Greatrex being murdered. She knew him, didn’t she?’

  ‘Of course she didn’t. Why should she?’ But the eyes were watchful.

  ‘Well, she just described him to me as “that wicked man”, which doesn’t sound like the judgement of a complete stranger.’

  ‘Everyone knew about his reputation as a womaniser,’ Somers said, fairly fluently. ‘She doesn’t approve of that sort of thing.’

  ‘Is that what you had against him? That he was a womaniser?’

  Somers almost answered and then caught himself back. ‘Why should you think I had anything against him?’

  Atherton felt it was time to lean a little. ‘Oh, come on, Mr Somers, don’t waste my time. You hated him. You were violently against having him on the show. You told Fiona Parsons you wouldn’t have him on the same planet if you could help it – and now your wish has come true. I’d just like to know why you hated him. It’s hard for me to believe it was just a general dislike of a man who slept around a bit.’

  Somer’s lips were compressed with fury. ‘A bit!’ escaped him before he could clamp them down.

  ‘So why didn’t you want him on the show?’ Atherton pushed when no more was forthcoming.

  ‘I didn’t think it was a good idea. He and Sandal didn’t get on. I didn’t want there to be a row. We are a live show, you know.’

  ‘But controversy is the life breath of a live show, surely? What better than to have a genuine argument on air? Lift your ratings no end.’