The Gifted Child

by Penny Kline

  ‘That he’ll tell me who murdered William? How could he possibly know that?

  7

  Back home, Kristen made herself a sandwich and sat, watching the news, while thinking about her conversation with Vi. She had stayed at the bungalow longer than she intended then noticed the time and left quickly in case Neville came back. For reasons she couldn’t explain to herself she wanted to keep the two of them separate. Neville at the college. Vi in her studio. She liked Vi, there was something warm and comforting about her, although as soon as Cameron Lyle was mentioned Kristen had sensed Vi starting to choose her words with care, and her tone of voice had become deliberately casual. Had Lyle told her something about William, something she thought Kristen might not want to hear? If she contacted him herself would she come to regret it? I wouldn’t want you to pin your hopes … Why had Vi assumed she would be setting such store on meeting the man?

  When she pressed her to explain what she meant, Vi had changed the subject, suggesting again that she made them something to eat. Anything Vi and Neville knew about William, they would have to have learned from Brigid – or from Lyle. If Vi knew something, why not tell her there and then? Why suggest she visit the antique market, then issue a veiled warning? What was it about this Cameron Lyle? And why had William never mentioned him?

  It was not until she was on her way home that Kristen realised she had forgotten to ask Vi if she would be willing to be interviewed properly about her views on artistic talent, childhood influences, and learning to paint relatively late in life.

  The newsreader was talking about a bomb going off. Somewhere in the Far East. Kristen hadn’t been listening properly. Someone out in the street was whistling a snatch of a hymn – ‘For those in peril on the sea’ – and suddenly, the flat that had seemed so safe, so familiar, felt alien, even menacing.

  Standing looking up at the pavement, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to her first meeting with William, soon after she came down from university. She had been out of work, considering the possibility of registering for a higher degree but not sure if she would be able to obtain any funding. The academic she had been consulting had taken her for lunch and William, who had once worked as a research assistant in a different department, was in the same pub, meeting a friend. Who had been looking after Theo? Ros? A childminder? It was stupid to pretend she had been attracted to William immediately but when they left the pub he had accompanied her to the underground, saying he was on his way home. It was a lie, something he admitted while she was buying her ticket, and they had arranged to meet in two days’ time, provided he could find a babysitter. He was divorced, he said, but had custody of his four-year-old son, neither of which statements turned out to be strictly accurate although both had come true by the end of the following year.

  During the next few months she had got to know Theo, as well as William, spent an increasing number of nights at the flat in Chiswick, and finally moved in at the beginning of December. What was it that had made her fall in love with him so quickly? He was clever, funny, sexy, but the best thing of all, he was sweet with Theo, gentle, patient, loving … Within two years, the court had given him custody and the three of them had moved to Bristol.

  The bare facts, but just now that was all she could manage. Night after night since it happened, she had tried to work out what he had been doing by the river that evening. Where was the man he was supposed to be meeting? Who was the man? She should have asked him before he left the flat. Why hadn’t she asked? But it was not the first person he had arranged to meet in the hope of finding a job. Contacts, Kristen, it’s all about making contacts. It was Tisdall who had put doubts in her mind, dropping round to keep her up to date on developments, although there never were any. Had William been doing something dangerous, something he didn’t want her to know about? What was the last thing he said to her?

  Following his father’s death, Theo had kept a tight grip on himself, been over solicitous towards her, then watched babyish programmes on television, asked for junk food, and left most of it. Moving towards his bedroom she forced herself to face the feeling she had been pushing away for weeks. She had loved William more than anything in the world, still did, but another part of her hated him – hated him for being so careless, so irresponsible, hated him for dying.

  The postman was late and when the letters finally dropped onto the mat, Kristen only had two. The first was a bill, tossed aside to open later. The second was from Theo, written on expensive paper, and with the help of a drawing of an iguana he had managed to fill both sides.

  Dear Kristen, I hope you are well. We went to the Natural History Museum and I saw a dinosaur’s bones only they were not all real ones because some of them were missing. It was very interesting. After we had tea with cakes and ice cream. Mum says I can come and see you quite soon if you are not too busy. Love from Theo.

  It was the first time Theo had referred to Ros as ‘Mum’ and seeing it was like a punch in the stomach, a betrayal, until it struck her – how could she be so stupid – that since there were no spelling mistakes, the letter had been dictated by Ros, word for word. Theo’s spelling was fairly good but he would never have written in such a formal style. Kristen imagined him asking Ros for an envelope and a stamp and having the letter snatched out of his hand. It’s a bit messy-looking, darling, I’m sure we can do better than that for Kristen. The final transcript was perfect apart from two attempts to write “natural” that had been crossed out and turned into round black spots. Presumably Ros had grown tired of making him copy it out yet again. The paper smelled of Calvin Klein’s Obsession. What would Theo be doing at this precise moment? Meeting Ros’s theatrical friends or alone with a childminder? Kristen imagined him refusing to eat properly, losing weight. In September when he started at his new school his progress would suffer, and he would fall behind, and an educational psychologist would be in brought in. Every time she allowed herself to hope, something happened to take it away. This time is was the Natural History Museum. If Theo had been there with Ros he was unlikely to be getting on too badly. Except, at this stage, it would feel like previous times when he had spent a long weekend with his mother.

  Anger against Ros merged with the anger she now allowed herself to feel against William. She had been unable to give the police any idea as to who the man he was meeting could have been. Did Tisdall think she was covering up for him? No, it was William they suspected of lying.

  When they first moved to Bristol, William had met up with a group of rock climbers and spent two weekends scaling Clifton Gorge. The third time, trying a more difficult ascent, he had fallen, breaking his ankle and injuring his back and, to make matters worse, been annoyed by her anxiety. Think about Theo, she had said, afraid he would stop loving her if he thought she was trying to control him. Was that what Ros had done? No, it had been Ros who decided to end the marriage. But was even that true? She could ask Ros, but she never would.

  During the evening, Ros phoned to ask how she was and if she had received Theo’s letter.

  ‘It came today. Thank you.’

  ‘Would you like to speak to him?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I think I mentioned how that Tisdall came to see me again, plus a younger one, bit of a smart arse but quite nice-looking.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  Ros cleared her throat noisily. ‘Tell me I’m imagining it, but just before they left the young chap said something that gave me the feeling he actually thought I might have something to do with it.’

  ‘You?’ Kristen sounded convincingly astonished.

  ‘I know, isn’t it ridiculous. Listen, Kristen, I’m not sure how to put this, but I’ll say it anyway and you must take it as you will. I wanted to thank you for everything you did for Theo. He’s a lovely boy, so well-mannered, no trouble at all.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ What else could she say? So well-mannered, no trouble at all. Didn’t the stupid bitch realise that meant he was miserable, was in a ba
d way?

  ‘Anyway,’ Ros breathed, ‘I’ll be in touch again soon. Bye for now, take care.’

  She had forgotten to put Theo on the line. Or perhaps she had looked at him and he had frowned, meaning he didn’t want to talk. It was too hard for him, adjusting to his mother while still keeping in touch with her. No, surely that couldn’t be right. He was in another room and Ros had forgotten to call him. Kristen would never know. In her mind, she would go over and over, speculating uselessly. Her and Ros, and Theo caught in the middle. How could the law be so cruel? Should she have contested it? Is that what Ros would have preferred? But what about Theo? How could a boy his age be expected to choose between his two “mothers”?

  The entrance to the hostel for the homeless was down some steps. Tisdall paused for a moment, deciding on the exact nature of his inquiries. So far almost everything they knew about William Frith was concerned with the period of time between his return from America and his murder. Kristen Olsen had given a rough description of the family’s way of life before they left, how Frith had worked at the university, she had taught at a comprehensive, and on the days when she was late collecting Theo he had stayed behind at an after-school club where he could wait for her until five o’clock.

  Forensic had found a couple of glove prints, small ones, on the anonymous note sent to Kristen. Brake thought they must be a woman’s prints but Tisdall thought he was clutching at straws. The gloves had been made of wool.

  As far as Tisdall could tell, Kristen had been besotted with Frith. He was brilliant, good company, a wonderful father, and no doubt highly satisfactory in bed. Ros Richards had provided a slightly different picture.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Tisdall.’ He held out his card to a pasty-faced woman, standing at the top of the steps that led down to the hostel. ‘If I could have a word with Daniel Joseph.’

  The woman said nothing, expecting Tisdall to follow, and walked towards an open door on the right of a dimly lit corridor.

  ‘Someone to see you.’ She stood back for Tisdall to pass. ‘Looks like the Old Bill.’

  The name Daniel Joseph conjured up a picture of a larger than life Old Testament character, complete with bushy beard, but the man sitting on the desk, swinging his legs, was small, almost gnome-like, with a soft pink face and sandy hair.

  ‘Hi.’ He jumped down and held out his hand. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m making inquiries about William Frith,’ Tisdall said, ‘I believe he worked here about a year ago.’

  ‘That’s right. Someone came round before when I was away.’

  Tisdall referred to his notes. ‘A man called Simon Greenfield was in charge. Is he here this evening?’

  Joseph shook his head. ‘Gone back to Christchurch. Christchurch, New Zealand, that is. He was over here for six months, has a job back home organising voluntary work. When I went on holiday he agreed to stand in for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘So he didn’t know Frith.’

  ‘None of us had seen William since he returned from the States. In fact, until I read about what had happened I thought he was still in Ohio. As you can imagine we were pretty cut up.’

  Tisdall had not been offered a seat but he sat down anyway. ‘So this Greenfield must have had to ask someone else who works here to confirm what we needed to know.’

  Joseph frowned. ‘What would that have been?’

  ‘Which evenings Frith worked here, and for how long.’

  ‘It should be on file. Not computerized, I’m afraid.’ Joseph pulled out a drawer in his filing cabinet, took out a battered folder, and started shuffling through a sheaf of papers. ‘Here we are.’ He ran his finger across the page. ‘Except it was never amended. William used to come on Tuesdays and Fridays but in May of last year he cut it down to just Tuesday, said he needed to spend more time with his family.’

  ‘But it’s possible your stand-in told my colleague he’d been doing two nights a week up to when he left for America.’

  There was a smell of dry rot. The office window looked on to the back of a garage that sold retreads and carried out on-the-spot MOT’s. The brown and orange curtains could have done with a wash, or better still replacing altogether, but the place was probably run on a shoestring.

  ‘What would Frith’s duties have been?’ Tisdall asked. ‘Signing people in, talking to them, giving practical advice?’

  He nodded. ‘He was here from eight to eleven, sometimes a little later.’

  ‘What do you suppose he was doing down by the river?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Joseph fiddled with the pens on his desk. ‘Oh, you mean … I’ve no idea, haven’t a clue, wish I knew.’

  ‘It’s not far from here.’

  Joseph thought about this for a moment. ‘There was a time he used to go down there with a client. He and Clive used to run there and back, time themselves. Usually took them about twenty minutes. There’s a rough track, steep, muddy in wet weather.’

  Outside in the corridor, two men were arguing. Joseph left the room to find out what was going on and while he was away Tisdall jotted down a few notes. Frith had lied to Kristen Olsen about where he went on Friday evenings. How many other lies had he told her, and where did he go? When the family returned from Ohio they had some money saved, enough to last them a few months if they were careful, but Frith was starting to sound the type who disliked being careful, watching what he spent. Had he been involved in some kind of criminal activity, something that required him to be out on Friday evenings, something that had led to arguments, trouble? Tisdall realised he was indulging in wishful thinking, hoping he could make the investigations last considerably longer than Liz Cowie had allowed him. More than likely Frith’s Friday evenings were spent somewhere perfectly harmless, a pub or a club.

  Julie liked clubs, had stated complaining how they didn’t go out enough, and if he said he was too tired she pointed out how her job was just as demanding as his, if not more so. He’d taken her out the previous weekend and they’d been sitting in a pub when she’d dropped the bombshell. Better make the most of our freedom, Ray, better not waste the chance of an evening out. For an appalling moment he had thought she was pregnant. But it wasn’t that bad. Well, you’d like a baby one day, wouldn’t you? When we’ve moved to somewhere with more space. So the plan to buy a house was back even though he’d explained it was impossible until the mortgage on Grace’s house had been paid off.

  Daniel Joseph had returned and was fussing around, opening and closing drawers. ‘Is there was anything else you need to know?’

  ‘Not for the time being. Oh, there was one thing.’

  Joseph straightened a picture on the wall, a framed poster with one of those awful little homilies Tisdall couldn’t stand. If life gives you lemons make lemonade.

  ‘Present from a well-meaning neighbour.’ Joseph laughed at the expression on Tisdall’s face. ‘In this business you can’t afford to be too picky, have to take whatever’s thrown at you, sometimes quite literally. Bit like your job, I imagine.’

  ‘This Clive,’ Tisdall said,’ the man who used to go running with Frith, how often does he turn up here? Have you any way of finding out where he is at present?’

  ‘Couldn’t say, I’m afraid. Travels all over, sometimes has a spell in hospital if things get bad. He’s bi-polar, manic-depressive. William had this idea the best treatment was strenuous exercise.’

  ‘What’s his other name?’

  Joseph opened a filing cabinet and started flicking through cards.

  ‘Jones.’

  ‘Jones,’ Tisdall repeated, ‘is that his real name?’

  Joseph shrugged. ‘Could be. Unless there’s forms to fill in, benefits we think they’re entitled to, we don’t do rigorous checks or ask awkward questions.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Tisdall, ‘but one day keeping accurate records may turn out to be important, for your clients’ sakes and possibly for other people too.’

  Joseph gave a snort. He thought he was being accused of incomp
etence, although in reality Tisdall wasn’t much bothered how the hostel was run. His mind had wandered, or to be precise, something Joseph had said had triggered off a series of questions that had been forming in his head. Had Kristen Olsen really spent the whole of that fateful evening alone in the flat? Was it pure chance that Theo had been staying with a friend? And why, since it would have been a good opportunity for the two of them to go out for the evening, had William picked that particular day to meet up with the mythical bloke he hoped might give him a job?

  8

  It was almost time for morning break but to fill up the remaining ten minutes she decided to give the children the Draw a Person test.

  Handing out paper, she started to explain what she wanted them to do. ‘Take trouble, draw the best picture of a man or a woman that you can, with as much detail as you like.’

  Some of them screwed up their faces and she heard Hugo complain to Barnaby that it was ‘kids’ stuff’, but when she told them it was a kind of test their expressions changed dramatically. They liked tests. They were used to doing well.

  Later, she would use the drawings as a method of assessing their intellectual maturity. If Neville Unwin found out he would probably disapprove but he was unlikely to hear about it since, apart from the extra work he did with Shannon Wilkins, most of his time was taken up with the A level students.

  When she agreed to help with the classes, what had she expected? Children with IQs of a hundred and fifty plus, perhaps the odd genius or two? They all appeared bright enough but most had the advantage of a home with plenty of discussion about the world, and plenty of books.

  Amy had her hand up. In spite of the classes being voluntary and relatively informal, some of the children still behaved as though they were at school.