by Penny Kline
‘I told you before. Theo returned to his old school. I stayed at home and worked on my thesis. William looked for a job.’
Tisdall wrote something on a slip of paper he had taken from his pocket. ‘You and Mr Frith and the boy went to Ohio eight months ago but Mr Frith found it difficult to settle?’
She opened her mouth to protest that Tisdall knew all this already but he held up a hand. ‘What kind of job was Mr Frith looking for after you returned to Bristol?’
‘Anything he could find to tide him over. In the autumn there was a possibility of another research assistant job in –’
‘Why not a full lectureship?’
The first time she met Tisdall she had warmed to him. Not that he had been particularly sympathetic, but there was something world-weary about him, something that made her think he had suffered and grown kinder because of it. Now all that had disappeared.
‘I get it.’ She met his gaze and frowned. ‘Better to be a research assistant in a good department than find himself with a full teaching load somewhere less auspicious. And you had to give up your teaching post when you went to America, and since returning to Bristol you’ve been unable to secure another. So both you and Mr Frith were here in the flat a large part of the time?’
She hesitated, and Tisdall, whose eyes rarely left her own, noticed the slight pause. ‘Unless he was out looking for work.’
‘But he was here in the evening?’
Her hand moved up to her mouth. ‘Sometimes he went to see friends.’
‘Leaving you to do the babysitting.’
Anger rose in her, anger that Tisdall had chosen this day of all days to call round, pretending he wanted to keep her up to date on the investigation when in fact he had come to ask more questions. Or repeat the ones he had asked before.
‘Why are you so sure this dog man person killed him? Hasn’t it occurred to you that someone who knew him…’ She broke off, afraid she was going to cry.
‘When I asked if he had any enemies you –’
‘Not here in Bristol.’
He pressed his lips together. Controlling a smile? ‘Oh, you mean the boy’s mother. Mr Frith’s ex-wife. As I think I mentioned before, Miss Richards has a watertight alibi.’ His voice became softer, gentler. ‘Just the same, if you think there’s something we should look into. As I’m sure you’re aware, it has been known in a domestic dispute for a third party –’
‘A hired killer?’ she said sarcastically. ‘I don’t need humouring. I just want you to find who killed him.’
3
During her first visit to the college, six days ago, Neville Unwin had explained that the classes for gifted children were held on Saturdays during term time, and three mornings a week in the school holidays. To Kristen’s surprise, he had treated the interview as if her temporary post was a foregone conclusion. After all, he had told her, word of mouth was normally far better than a formal reference and if Brigid Howell thought she could do the job then that was good enough for him. In any case, who else would they find at such short notice?
After a few token questions about her teaching experience, and her thesis, followed by murmured condolences about William, he had returned, with obvious relief, to the business of telling her exactly what the job entailed. Tall, grey-haired, with bags under his eyes and a beer gut that hung over his tightly belted grey trousers, his manner had been friendly but detached. The classes, he said, had been running for a little over two years. At first he and Brigid had done most of the teaching then, when Brigid left to have a baby, Sarah Pearson had taken over. Gradually the numbers had increased and now Brigid’s baby was four months old she had agreed to return to her old job. Unfortunately, a few days later Sarah had been taken into hospital with peritonitis and would need to convalesce.
The house, in a street off Redland Road, might once have been an imposing family home, but an ugly extension had been added and a fire escape with peeling black paint wound its way down the side of the building next to a small parking area. Kristen manoeuvred her car into a narrow space between an old grey Rover and the privet hedge, switched off the engine, took a deep breath, and reminded herself that, like a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, she had given herself only one aim: to get through one day at a time.
The backpack in the shape of a koala bear that had been hanging on a hook inside the front door on her last visit was still there. She put out a hand to touch the thick brown fur and at the same moment – Neville Unwin must have seen her through the window – a voice called, ‘Hello there, come along in.’
When she entered his office, he was making a strenuous effort to finish a phone call, suggesting whoever it was ring back later and pursing his lips as the caller insisted on having the last word.
‘Right then.’ He replaced the receiver with a bang and smoothed back a lock of thin grey hair. ‘Kristen’s an unusual name. And Olsen, that must be Scandinavian. It’s all Christian names here, staff and kids alike.’
‘My grandfather was Norwegian, but he came to live in England when he was a boy.’
‘Good, got that straight then.’ He opened a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘As I mentioned last week, Sarah Pearson’s a science graduate, but it won’t do the kids any harm to study something different. I’m hoping you’ll teach them how to brainstorm rather than seeing the path to true enlightenment in terms of logic and mathematical reasoning.’
‘I’ve prepared some short assignments.’ Kristen took a folder from her bag, returning it when Neville waved a hand, indicating there was no need for him to check.
‘Just the ticket.’ He glanced at a clock on the wall. ‘I’ll take you to where you’ll be working. The gifted kids use a different entrance from the other students, round the side where they can go straight through to their classrooms.’
Brigid Howell had put her head round the door and Neville gestured to her to come in. ‘Just telling Kristen about the organisation of the place.’ His swivel chair swung from side to side. ‘Kids arrive at ten. The parents of the ones who live relatively close by have arranged a carpool. Then there’s Shannon Wilkins who comes on the bus.’
Brigid’s face had an odd expression, perhaps because she was making an effort to acknowledge how Kristen must be feeling. They had spoken on the phone, but the last time they had actually met had been nearly ten months ago.
Shortly after William became Alex Howell’s research assistant, they had been invited to dinner at the Howell’s house, and Alex and Brigid had come round to their flat once, before William took the job in Ohio. For a time, Kristen had hoped she and Brigid might become friends, but they had been too busy to see very much of each other and when they did meet up, Brigid had seemed a little reserved.
Since there had been no contact between them for nearly a year, Kristen had been surprised when Brigid phoned to ask if she would like her name put forward as a temporary replacement for Sarah Pearson. Only if you feel up to it, Kristen. I just thought it might help and with your experience and your research you’d be ideal for the job. At the time, Kristen had been touched by the warmth in Brigid’s voice. Now she was back to her old self, pleasant enough but formal.
‘Lovely to see you again.’ Brigid gave her a brief hug and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. Last time they met, her hair had been parted in the middle and hung loosely, covering both sides of her face. Now it was swept straight back, in a style that accentuated her jutting cheekbones and pointed chin. She had lost weight, probably the effect of combining a part-time job with looking after a young baby.
Neville was talking about how it was not his policy to administer intelligence tests. ‘Most of the gifted children are referred by their schools and if their teachers think they’ll benefit from the classes that’s good enough for me. The large proportion tend to be middle-class, but we have two or three, one particular girl who –’
‘Shannon,’ Brigid interrupted, ‘Neville’s star pupil.’
He turned a frown into
a smile. ‘Yes, well, I’m not sure I’d pick her out in quite that way. She’s exceptional at maths but some of the others are probably just as gifted in other areas.’
The phone started ringing. Neville sighed, lifting the receiver and putting his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Brigid, would you mind? If you could take Kristen to her room.’
Out in the corridor, some of the strain left Brigid’s face. ‘Neville used to do some of the teaching,’ she said, ‘but lately he’s been given more admin and A level work, so now he provides individual tuition for particular children he thinks might benefit.’
‘Shannon, the maths genius.’
Brigid nodded. ‘There’s something about her that appeals to him. The working class girl who, but for an observant teacher, could have ended up deliberately underachieving. Incidentally, no mobile phones are allowed, apart from Shannon’s. She travels on the bus alone so Neville’s made an exception.’
They had reached the room at the end of the corridor where Kristen was to do her teaching.
‘You’ll have about eight or nine.’ Brigid tucked her shirt into her denim skirt. ‘One group before break and another from a quarter past eleven. I should spend this morning getting to know them. Coffee’s at eleven.’ She opened a cupboard. ‘Paper, paste, felt pens…’
‘How’s your baby?’
Brigid had her head in the cupboard. ‘You must come and meet her. The first six weeks were hell. She slept all day and cried all night. Probably knew she had two geriatric parents who hadn’t a clue what they were supposed to be doing.’
Kristen laughed, although the tone of Brigid’s voice suggested she had found it hard going. How old was she? William had said Alex was in his early forties. Brigid was younger, but not that much, probably thirty-seven or eight.
‘How are you?’ Brigid put an arm round Kristen’s shoulder. ‘Are the police any nearer to finding …’ She broke off, unable to say ‘the murderer’. ‘A mugging that went wrong, am I right? Alex and I were so shocked. If there’s anything either of us can do.’
The children were starting to come through the side door. Brigid gave Kristen’s arm a squeeze. ‘I’m so glad you decided to take the job. We’ll talk later, right?’
Five girls and four boys came into the room together and sat down quietly, following Kristen with their eyes as she put down her bag and joined them at the circular table.
‘Hello, nice to meet you all.’ How could such a small group be more intimidating than a class of thirty-plus? ‘My name’s Kristen. I expect Mr Unwin – Neville – has told you I’ll be filling in while Sarah’s away.’
She was wondering how much they knew about her, if they had been told she had lived with the man whose smiling face had been on the front of the evening paper, once after the body was found, and again when the police were appealing for information.
‘I’m Hugo,’ said a dark-haired boy with the kind of face the people who make television ads would have snapped up in an instant, ‘and he’s called Barnaby.’ He nudged the boy on his left.
The rest of them started to tell her their names until a girl with a worried expression and a strong Bristolian accent asked if they would be continuing the work Sarah had started.
‘I expect Sarah will complete that particular course when she comes back. In the meantime, Neville has asked me to do something different. We’ll be learning how to think.’
She expected them to exchange glances, raise their eyebrows, but no one did.
‘I’m Shannon,’ said the girl who had asked about the course, and one of the boys whispered something to his neighbour that Kristen failed to catch.
The last child to join the group closed the door behind him. He looked a little like Theo, only a couple of years older and without Theo’s slightly protruding ears. Kristen glanced at the clock on the wall. Five past ten. Two hours to get through until she could return to the safety of her flat.
Ros phoned at ten that evening. Theo was tucked up in bed, she said.
‘Tell him I’ve posted his football shirt.’
‘Yes of course.’ Ros’s voice was indistinct. Then the sound returned loud and clear. ‘I just wanted to let you know he’s fine, seems to be settling in well.’
‘Good.’
‘As I said, Kristen, I want you and Theo to see as much of each other as possible. We’ll all keep in touch. I do understand.’ She sounded like a character in a badly scripted television series.
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Kristen replaced the receiver and started walking round the room, picking things up and putting them down: the clay rhinoceros Theo had made during his first term at school, the Rastafarian doll William had found in a skip parked down the road, the photograph of the three of them, taken by a friend on Theo’s fifth birthday, eight months after she had moved into William’s flat in Chiswick.
How could she and William have been so stupid, thinking they led a charmed life? But what difference would it have made? William had been given custody, but Theo was still Ros’s son. He had gone back to her because in legal terms Kristen hadn’t a leg to stand on.
Wandering into the kitchen, where the curtains were still drawn back, she saw the cat from the first-floor flat with its face pressed to the window. Its mouth was open, yowling to be let in. Kristen ignored it then relented and unlocked the back door, feeling it slide past her legs.
What did it want? Food, milk? It looked far too well fed. Theo had wanted a cat, or a rabbit, or even a gerbil. Please, Kristen, please. You could tell Dad children are meant to have pets so they learn to look after them.
Bending down to offer the cat the unappetising remains of her supper, she tried to pick up what Theo was feeling at that precise moment. Like his father, if there was something he wanted badly enough he usually managed to get it. Even now he would be planning a way of making sure he came back to live in Bristol. He was clever. He knew he had to live with Ros for a time so everyone would see how unhappy it was making him.
The cat sniffed the food and decided against it. Now it was asking to be let back into the garden. Kristen opened the door and stared into the darkness, remembering the expression on Theo’s face as he waved goodbye from the back seat of the yellow sports car. No tears, no trembling mouth, just a faint smile combined with a look of grim determination.
He had made up his mind and he wanted her to know it. By Christmas he would be back.
4
‘Worst case scenario,’ Tisdall said, ‘victim meets the killer only minutes before the crime so it makes no odds how much forensic’s been collected.’
DC Brake nodded his agreement. ‘If that’s how it happened, if Frith’s death was the result of a mugging. No defence injuries so maybe he knew his attacker.’
‘Or whoever it was came up behind him when he was looking over the bridge. I’d say that’s more likely.’
‘Why d’you suppose Frith had gone there?’
‘A walk. A run?’
‘He wasn’t wearing the right clothes.’
Tisdall laughed. ‘Not everyone dresses up in Lycra to take a bit of exercise.’
‘If it was the dog man he’s not going to try his pickpocketing trick again. He’ll be lying low. Of course, it’s likely he's none too bright.’
They were on their way to interview Ros Richards or, in Tisdall’s case, to re-interview her. Something about the case made him uneasy. The dog man as prime suspect was too easy, although settling on the most obvious person frequently turned out to be correct.
Brake, who lived on the other side of Bristol, had driven to Tisdall’s house in Henbury to pick him up, and the two of them had joined the M5 at Cribbs Causeway. It was fortunate, thought Tisdall, that Julie had already left for work otherwise she would have invited Brake in for a cup of coffee and a chance to show off her new sofa. Brake would have been an easy prey to her charms, just as he would be when he met Ros Richards.
‘Been checking the computer like you said.’ Brake’s crisp, efficient voice interrupted Tisdall
’s musings. ‘Body temperature plus the degree of rigor mortis indicated Frith had been dead for eight to ten hours when the body was found.’
‘Spotted by a jogger at six in the morning.’
Brake sighed. ‘That’s what I’d like to do but Kelly would never stand for it.’
‘Find a body that had been there since the previous evening?’
Brake laughed politely. ‘Keep fit. Go to a gym. Work out.’
‘Ah, well, that’s the trouble with getting married. How long is it, a couple of months?’
‘Seven weeks, coming up to eight.’
Tisdall nodded. Marriage had a bad effect on some – they started worrying about the hours, about working weekends, getting home late – but in Brake’s case it appeared to have given him new confidence. ‘And your Kelly didn’t mind sentencing herself to a lifetime of late shifts and overtime?’
‘Wouldn’t mind joining the force herself. Took an interest in the Frith case even before I got involved. Doesn’t go for the dog man theory any more than you or I do. Feels really sorry for Ms Olsen.’
‘I’m keeping an open mind.’ Tisdall had overheard Brake in the canteen talking about his A level in psychology, and he’d gained the impression the DC thought he could see beneath the skin, pick up the hidden agenda. Just the same, he’d be taken in by Ros Richards’ polished performance. Not that Ros was a genuine suspect.
‘There’s the two witnesses,’ Brake was saying, ‘people who saw someone answering to the dog man’s description, close to the scene of crime. And the fact that his wallet had gone. If Forensics had matched up hairs, clothing fibres and –’
‘Every contact leaves a trace,’ Tisdall murmured, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds although, like most people who are used to doing their own driving, he felt obliged to open them again to make sure they were not in imminent danger of running into the coach in front.
Brake made a clicking sound with his tongue when the boys, sitting in the back row, scratched their armpits in a poor imitation of a colony of apes. Brake had just completed an advance driving course and Tisdall, who had enough on his mind to occupy him all the way to London and back, was happy to let him demonstrate his new proficiency. Proficient, competent, everything about Martin Brake smelled of neatness and order, from his immaculate hair and well-cut suit to the faint whiff of his aftershave. Tisdall wondered what Brake thought of him, what he’d said when Liz Cowie told him the two of them would be working together. Ray Tisdall? How old is he? Forty-five and happy to remain a sergeant. Hasn’t looked too hot lately. What’s his problem, d’you suppose, on the booze?