by Penny Kline
‘What is it, Amy?’
‘I can’t draw hands.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not a test of how good at drawing you are.’
Theo loved drawing. She had bought him a box of pastels and shown him how to mix the colours. Had she remembered to pack them, and if she had, would Ros let him use them or would she be afraid of marks on his clothes or the carpet? Theo was clever. He could have attended the gifted children classes, but would she have wanted him to? Once she had heard a teacher say, ‘God spare us the gifted child’. She knew what he meant. ‘Gifted child’ often meant pushy parent with unrealistic ambitions. Ros had said nothing about the school Theo was to attend in the autumn. Would it be a private one? If it was he wouldn’t like it. Or perhaps she was wrong. Stop trying to plan his future. He’s not your child.
Most of the children had drawn one or other of their parents but Shannon had produced a picture Kristen found disturbing. The man had bushy eyebrows and heavy bags under his eyes. His hair had been sketched in quite roughly, as had his nose and eyes, but much attention had been paid to his open mouth which contained two rows of large, uneven teeth.
‘Someone you know,’ Kristen inquired, ‘or an imaginary person?’
Shannon shrugged, pushing her paper aside defensively and murmuring something about how she had never been any good at art. During the weekend, her dark brown hair had been cut even shorter, revealing several superficial scratches on her neck, and the studs in her left ear had been removed, leaving a row of red pinpricks.
Kristen looked away for fear of embarrassing her but it was too late. ‘One of them got infected, Miss, I mean, Kristen.’
When the rest of the group left for their morning break, Kristen asked Shannon to hang on for a minute and was alarmed to see the expression on the girl’s face.
‘Did I do it wrong?’ Her voice was high-pitched with anxiety. ‘You see, like I didn’t really know what we were meant to do.’
Kristen moved towards her but Shannon took a step back. ‘Your drawing was fine. I just thought you looked rather pale, wanted to make sure you weren’t worrying about something.’
‘No, nothing.’
‘No one’s been picking on you, teasing you? Do you have friends from school you see during the holidays? It can be difficult being singled out as “gifted”.’
Shannon looked relieved but her hand was on the door handle, she wanted to escape. ‘It’s, like, I’m only good at Maths.’
The coffee room was crowded and Kristen noticed that Brigid was deep in conversation with one of the A level teachers, and it was not until it was almost time to return to the classroom that Kristen managed to catch her on her own and ask how much she knew about Shannon’s background.
‘Shannon Wilkins? Only that she’s exceptionally good with figures. Actually, I don’t see that much of her these days. On Mondays and Fridays she has individual tuition with Neville while I’m taking that group.’
‘Do you know anything about her family? Something seems to be bothering her.’
‘Neville does all the interviewing.’ Brigid was halfway through the door. ‘I think he met the parents when she joined the classes. As I recall, they’re still together and she’s got an older sister. Why not have a word with him? They’re often a bit moody at this age, especially the girls. By the way, don’t forget your invitation for lunch.’
‘Thanks.’ But there was something a little off-putting about Brigid’s manner and Kristen knew she was unlikely to take up the offer without a definite invitation. Perhaps she resented the questions about Shannon, thought since Kristen was only filling in until Sarah Pearson returned she should stick to the teaching and not involve herself with any problems the children might have.
At the end of the morning, she stayed behind, studying the drawings before placing them in a folder to take home with her. Most were more or less what she had expected but Barnaby’s was surprisingly immature. Was he gifted in the usual sense or had he joined the classes because he and Hugo lived next door to each other in Sneyd Park? Surprisingly – it was where the rich had their houses – William had wanted to live there, high above the Gorge, somewhere where it was possible to see the Welsh coast and beyond it, the Brecon Beacons.
The flat in Bishopston had been a temporary place to stay while they looked for somewhere better. A temporary place. William had only lived there for six weeks and Theo for another five. Later she would drive to Fishponds and walk by the River Frome, look for the bridge. She could never be certain she had found the exact spot, but for several weeks the feeling had been growing that until she forced herself to stand looking down at the water …
Someone was in the passage outside the classroom. The children had left fifteen minutes ago but when she opened the door, Shannon was standing a few feet away, chewing her nails.
‘I left my book behind.’
‘Which book was that?’
‘The one I read on the bus. Only, like, I was going to ask you something.’
So the book had been an excuse. She had started walking to the bus stop then changed her mind and returned to the college hoping Kristen was still there.
‘Could you …’ Shannon broke off, frowning. ‘Could you do a bad thing but it was for a good reason? Supposing you knew something but telling someone would, like, make things worse, would it be better not to say anything even if, like, it meant a bad person got away with it?’
‘Are you thinking about someone in particular?’
Shannon hesitated. ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered, I didn’t read my book on the way here so, like, I must have left it by my bed.’
Instead of driving straight home, Kristen followed the signs to Fishponds and turned left down a road she hoped would lead to the river. From the small amount Tisdall had told her, she knew she would have to leave her car and walk. Pulling up in a cul-de-sac she found her street map in the glove compartment and attempted to work out where she was. She should have studied the map at home, but what she was doing was a spur of the moment decision, not something she could have planned.
After several wrong turnings, she found what looked like a path that led down to the river. Two boys sat together on the grass doing something with matches and a polythene bag. They looked more or less the same age as the children she taught, but there the similarity ended. One had hair dyed two different shades of blond, the other had the pale, unhealthy appearance of someone who lives off a diet of junk food.
Kristen considered asking them if she was going in the right direction, then changed her mind. A third, older boy had joined them from behind some trees and as she hurried on she thought she heard them following her, but when she stopped, steadying herself on an exposed tree root, everything was silent apart from a swishing sound as a squirrel scooted through the long grass and disappeared up the trunk of a scrubby tree.
Brigid had said squirrels ran along the wall at the end of her garden. She loved the garden and sometimes complained how she had too little time to tend to it now Rebecca had arrived. Was she out there now, playing with the baby? Kristen hoped if she took up the invitation to lunch, she would be allowed to hold Rebecca, smell her skin. The loss of Theo was becoming more acute, not just his presence, the games they had played together, their conversations, but the feel of him when she tucked him up in bed, the soft silkiness of his hair.
Turning a bend, she could see where the track joined a narrow road, and beyond that a small parking area with space for two or three cars. A map of the Avon Forest had an arrow and “You are here” painted in a bright green box. Next to the map was a “No Fouling” sign, with the silhouette of a dog spattered with mud, and on the grass below it a collection of old drink cans and chocolate wrappers. Considering it was so close to a heavily built-up area, it was a beautiful place and Kristen was surprised William had never told her about it, never suggested they walk there at the weekend.
A path ran close to the river. In the direction of Frenchay, Tisdall had said, going north. Kristen glanced ov
er her shoulder at a man with a thick grey ponytail, but he had crouched down to undo the padlock on his bike and had no interest in where she was going. On her left she could see the trickle of river. On her right, the ground rose steeply to a thickly wooded area, just the kind of place where a pickpocket could claim his dog had got stuck in a hole. She was prepared for a long walk but less than five minutes later she rounded a bend and drew in breath, recognising Tisdall’s description immediately: the stone bridge, the overhanging tree, the pile of boulders.
She could be wrong. There could be another bridge, more or less the same, but something told her she had found the right place and when she saw the patch of earth near the water she could visualise the police tape that had sealed it off. The picture swam in front of her eyes then returned, clear, ordinary, as if every trace of the tragedy had been erased by passing time.
Halfway across the bridge, she stopped to gaze over the side. Surely it would be possible to survive such a fall, but not if you hit something hard, not if even before you fell you had the imprint of half a brick on the side of her head.
Something was wrong. If all you wanted was a wallet, why attack someone so badly that you risked being charged with murder? When Vi told her about the man called Cameron, who sold antique toys in the market, she had thought it unimportant. Suddenly, she knew she had to speak to him.
9
The market was in an old warehouse but some of the stalls, including one selling bacon rolls, had spilled out into the open air. A table covered in bric-a-brac – brass vases, carved wooden boxes, china bedpans – stood next to a ramshackle van where a dog sat motionless in the driving seat, following Kristen with its eyes.
Next to the van, an old man with a black beret pulled well down was inspecting a display of garden tools, picking up a rake and testing its weight, moving on to the trowels and hand forks and secateurs. Kristen watched him for a few moments, running over in her head what she was going to say to Cameron Lyle when she found him. If she found him.
As far as she could remember, the place had only been open since the spring but news must have spread. Inside it was packed, and the clientele looked more up market than she had expected. A middle aged woman with bronze hair and tight-stretch jeans was carrying a small inlaid table, lifted high above the crowds, calling out apologies as she made her way through the entrance doors. Kristen stood back to let her pass, stepped inside, and started along the first aisle, looking for a stall that sold antique toys.
Since the windows in the roof were covered in grime, the place was artificially lit. The floor was stone with areas of cracked lino and the occasional strip of carpet. A quivering spaniel had been tied to the leg of a table that held a display of homemade jewellery. Kristen considered asking its owner if she knew someone called Cameron Lyle, but the woman had such a sour expression she decided against it, moving on past stalls selling knitted hats, fireguards, golf balls, cigarette cards, brown sticky tape, old cameras, and polished pebbles.
Theo would have loved the pebbles, with their streaks of colour and their smooth shininess. Kristen had his letter in her pocket, the letter Ros had dictated rather than allowing him to write what he wanted. As she left the flat, she had crept up the steps from the basement, determined to avoid another encounter with Mrs Letts, another conversation about Theo. When William was alive, the woman had barely acknowledged their existence, now she was desperate to involve herself in what was left of Kristen’s life. I’m a widow myself, dear, if there’s anything I can do …
Kristen had hoped Tisdall’s investigations would make introducing herself to Cameron Lyle unnecessary, but his only contact with her since the day after she received the anonymous letter had been a brief phone call to ask if she had received any more. He would, of course, keep her informed. Would he, or was it just something the police said automatically, an exit line like a doctor assuring a patient he could return if the symptoms recurred?
Struggling past racks of Turkish trousers, she reached a less crowded area at the back of the warehouse and climbed onto a large wooden box to allow herself something approaching a bird’s eye view of the stalls.
‘Looking for anything in particular?’ The voice at her elbow came from a man with a shaved head and tinted glasses.
Kristen jumped down. ‘A friend of mine told me there’s someone who deals in antique toys.’
The man gave a mocking laugh. ‘Depends what you call antiques.’ He pointed in the direction of the far corner. ‘Next to the exit on the left.’
‘Thanks.’ She knew the kind of person Cameron Lyle was likely to be, an ex-actor who had started buying and selling pine furniture as a way of supplementing his income, and abandoned his non-existent acting career when the furniture took off. Either that or he would have been to art school, worked in a gallery, then decided he could make a better living as a middle man.
When she reached the stall no one was looking after it.
‘Gone for a cup of tea,’ said an enormous woman, stuffing herself with a chocolate muffin.
‘Do you know him?’ Kristen studied the glass case of old Dinky cars, along with a few lead soldiers and a wind-up clown.
‘What was it you were hoping to find?’
‘Mainly mechanical toys.’
‘Cost a fortune, they do. Won’t find much here but if you have a word with Cameron he may be able to help.’
‘He’s not here today?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Might be. Kenny’s been looking after the stall, he could tell you. Over there by the caff, long streak of piss with a shirt that makes your eyes water.’
When Kristen approached the caff, the man called Kenny had finished whatever he had been drinking and was looking for somewhere to dispose of his plastic cup. He turned, scrunching the cup in his fist, and started talking to another man with a square, craggy face and curly hair.
‘That’s him.’ The fat woman had followed Kristen. ‘That’s Cameron.’
‘Thanks.’ Kristen waited for the woman to walk away but she was buying a cup of coffee and a second muffin.
‘Someone to see you, Cameron,’ she called. ‘Lady’s interested in mechanical toys. Yes, that’s the one.’ She pointed at Kristen. ‘And it’s your turn to mind my bits and pieces, Kenny.’
Kristen thought fast. She could pretend she really was a collector or she could come straight out and ask Lyle if he had known William. In the end she decided to tell him she was a friend of Vi Pitt’s.
‘Friend of Vi’s?’ Lyle had a cold, or the remains of one that had turned into a wheezy cough. He gestured to Kenny to get back to the stall. ‘How can I help?’
‘Vi said I might find you here.’
‘Did she now?’ He was looking all around him but something in his manner made her think he had been expecting her.
‘My name’s Kristen Olsen. I lived with William Frith. Vi said you knew him.’
Lyle’s expression was impossible to interpret. ‘If you wait a couple of minutes we can go outside, talk in my car.’
As it turned out, it was nearer to a quarter of an hour before he joined her at the entrance to the market. ‘I’m parked over there.’ He pointed towards a black van. ‘Look, I’d better tell you straight off, William and I barely knew each other. I’m very sorry about what happened but I’m not sure if…’
‘Where did you meet him?’
He rubbed his forehead and she noticed that his eyes were a very dark blue, set wide apart, giving the impression his nose was broader than it actually was.
‘I used to go to a pub halfway up Whiteladies Road.’ He unlocked the door to the passenger seat and she climbed in. ‘There was this shop in Cotham Hill that took some of the stuff I’d picked up as part of a job lot but didn’t want. It’s closed down now, more’s the pity.’
‘Did you see William after he came back from America?’
‘America?’ he said, sounding a fraction too surprised. ‘So he decided to take the job after all. In that case, what was he doing
back in Bristol?’
‘It’s complicated.’ The windscreen had steamed up, making the van feel claustrophobic. ‘It didn’t turn out the way he hoped.’
‘No?’ He glanced at her, aware that his slightly mocking tone of voice didn’t square with his claim that he hardly knew William. ‘Do the cops still think it was a mugging?’ And when she said nothing, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. I’m really sorry about what happened but I’m not sure why Vi suggested you talk to me.’
The van with the dog was leaving. Its driver gave a hoot and Lyle raised a hand in acknowledgement, smiling when the dog’s paws scrabbled against the window. It was clear he was well known to the other dealers. Who else did he know, and had he and William really met in a pub?
‘How much did William tell you about himself?’ Kristen asked.
‘Just that he was working at the university.’
‘Did he mention any enemies?’
‘Enemies?’ Lyle gave a short laugh. ‘That’s a strange thing to say. Oh, you’re thinking … Someone who disliked him enough to … As I said…’
‘You barely knew him.’
He reacted badly to the sarcasm in her voice. ‘How long have you known Vi?’
‘I’ve only met her once.’
‘And she said William and I were friends.’
‘No, her husband told me. I’m teaching on the course for gifted children.’
He nodded and it was clear he knew about the classes. ‘Can you think of anyone who had a grudge against William? Presumably not or you’d have told the cops. What about his ex?’
Any moment now, Lyle would climb out of the van and apologise for not being more help. ‘Theo, William’s son, has gone back to his mother,’ she said.
‘That’s rough.’ His eyes met hers. ‘Look, I’ll ask around. This dog man theory the cops have concocted sounds like bollocks, something they cooked up to keep the press off their back. If I hear anything I’ll get in touch.’ He took out his phone and she told him her number. ‘You know,’ he said quietly, ‘with your colouring – fair hair, brown eyes – you and William could have been brother and sister.’