Mac made reassuring noises and went on his way.
The boy with red hair opened the next door down. He stared at Mac, clearly taken aback and not knowing what to say. A strawberry blonde woman who looked to Mac to be in her late teens or maybe very early twenties came out of a room at the end of the hall.
‘Can I help you? We don’t buy on the doorstep.’
‘I don’t sell,’ Mac told her. He held out his identification for her to see. ‘Inspector McGregor,’ he said.
‘Oh, you’ve come about the old lady? I heard. Bloody awful.’
‘Who is it?’ An older woman emerged through the same door at the end of the hall. Mac decided it must be the kitchen, same as it was in Mrs Freer’s house.
‘It’s all right, Mam, just a policeman asking about that poor old lady.’
The woman, an older, thinner and altogether more fragile version of her daughter, flapped her slender hands nervously. ‘Oh, oh no. We don’t know anything. Not anything.’
‘It’s OK, Mum, why don’t you make some tea and I’ll have a chat with the Inspector. I’d like to know what’s going on at any rate.’
She led the way through the first door off the hall and Mac followed, anticipating that he was about to be the one interrogated. The boy came in after him and perched nervously on the arm of an easy chair. The mother retired to the back room to make the tea. The house was the same layout as Mrs Freer’s, Mac noted, though better decorated. Oddly empty, though, considering three people lived there. The living-room floor was uncarpeted, covered only by a couple of large, cheap-looking rugs, and the furnishings were similar to those he had in his own temporary flat. He wondered if they were renting the place furnished.
‘Sit down,’ the strawberry blonde said. ‘I’m Karen Parker and this is George, my kid brother. I don’t think we can tell you anything but I would like to know what the hell is going on.’
‘What do you know already?’ Mac asked.
‘That someone beat the old lady to death with a baseball bat. At least, that’s what the rumour mill is saying. And something about her having a gun.’ She laughed harshly. ‘Pity she didn’t. She could have shot the bastard, couldn’t she?’
‘And then she would have been guilty of murder,’ Mac pointed out.
Karen shook her head. ‘No, no she wouldn’t. Possession of a firearm, maybe, manslaughter possibly. Most likely self-defence. No judge would send her down for murder and she’d still be alive, wouldn’t she?’
‘You seem to know a lot about the law.’
Karen shrugged.
‘Karen’s doing university,’ George said. It was the first time he had uttered a word. He sounded proud, Mac thought. ‘She’s doing law.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m a part-time student,’ she said. ‘Working two jobs and still up to me ears in debt but I hope it’ll be worth it in the end.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ Mac said, but he was intrigued. What little he knew about law degrees, he didn’t think they put an awful lot of emphasis on those particular areas of criminal law but … what did he know?
‘And what credence should we give to the rumour mill?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Mrs Freer’s dead. It caused a ripple in the local press, made it on to the national news last night, but unless you lot find something in the next day or so, or whoever did it knocks off someone else, then a ripple is all there’ll be. The rumour mill will churn out even more elaborate rumours and she’ll still be dead.’
‘Maybe,’ Mac said. ‘But we’ll be doing our best to find her killer. I can assure you of that.’
‘Any suspects yet?’
Mac laughed. Frantham, he thought, seemed to produce a special brand of feisty woman. This one called to mind a very young version of Rina. ‘I can’t tell you anything right now,’ he said.
‘So that’ll be a no, then. If you had it would be all over the news.’
‘We’re following up several leads,’ Mac told her and couldn’t help but smile at the platitude.
Karen howled with laughter. ‘Do you get issued with a phrase book?’ she asked. ‘Is there a house style for coppers?’
‘Oh, increasingly,’ he said. ‘New words are banned every single year. We get an official list.’
Karen chuckled warmly and Mac could sense that George relaxed, just a fraction. He decided it was time to ask him. ‘Yesterday, I saw you standing across the road. I got the feeling you wanted to say something.’
Karen’s laughter ceased. She narrowed her gaze and squinted at them both, Mac and her brother, as though trying to bring them into better focus. ‘George doesn’t know anything,’ she said. ‘What could he know?’
George shifted uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t want to say nothing,’ he mumbled. ‘I was just … I just wanted to know what was going on.’
‘Are you interested in the law too?’ Mac asked innocently.
George shrugged.
‘So, there was nothing you wanted to say. Nothing you might have noticed that might help us.’
George shrugged again and Karen leaned forward in her seat.
‘It might be just a little thing,’ Mac continued. ‘Something a bit odd, like. Something you know isn’t quite right.’
‘George?’ Karen said. ‘You got anything to tell the man?’
‘Nothing,’ George said. ‘I’d have been home in bed, wouldn’t I?’
Karen exchanged a look with Mac and it was clear that she too thought her little brother was withholding. He wondered if she would do anything about it. She had, he felt, a stronger than normal instinct to protect, not just her brother but her mother too, and she was obviously mature for her years. He found himself wondering what history had created such a strong desire.
‘It’s a serious business, George,’ Mac said. ‘An old lady was killed, brutally murdered in her own home. A place she was supposed to be able to feel safe.’
‘I told you, I’d have been at home in bed.’
‘And the night before that? The night before she died? Were you at home in your bed that night?’
Karen looked sharply at Mac. ‘What happened then?’ she asked.
‘Oh, two boys, they broke in to Mrs Freer’s about half past ten that night, used a screwdriver on the back door to lever it open. Not that there was much of a lock.’
‘Broke in? Did they steal anything?’
‘No,’ Mac said. ‘They got scared and ran off. Two boys about your age, George. Do you know anything about that? You heard something, perhaps?’
Karen was observing them both so keenly that Mac could almost imagine the pin coming down to fix him to the card. ‘What makes you think he knows anything?’ she asked, a sharp edge of anxiety creeping into her voice.
‘I’m just asking,’ Mac said. ‘Of course, the two incidents might not be linked, but it is a major coincidence if not. The same elderly lady targeted on two consecutive nights.’
‘George?’ Karen sounded cautious now and Mac could almost imagine that she was slipping into lawyer mode. For a moment the three of them sat, frozen in expectation of something, anything, that George might say. Mac could hear the boy breathing, tight and tense and scared. A clock ticked somewhere out of sight. Ticked with a slightly uneven rhythm that jarred on the nerves and then the moment was lost, the mood broken as the door banged and Mrs Parker came in, a tea tray shivering in her nervous hands.
Karen sighed and got up to take the tray before the rattle of mugs turned into a crash of breaking china.
‘I don’t know if you have sugar,’ Mrs Parker twittered anxiously. ‘I didn’t know if you might take milk, but I thought almost everyone takes milk so I put it in. I hope I did right?’
‘It’s fine, Mrs Parker. Thank you,’ Mac said. He sneaked a sideways glance at Karen but she was busying herself with the tea. As she handed him a mug he noticed that her lips were pressed tight as though she willed herself not to speak. She shook her head, a tiny movement, and Mac nodded an equally slight response. Not in fro
nt of our mother, Karen was telling him and a minute or so later George took advantage of the maternal fussing to slip out of the room.
Mac wanted to call him back. Wanted to threaten to take him to the police station, question him formally, but his instincts told him that Karen would be doing a better job later on and that just now George was far more frightened of someone else than he was of Mac.
Mac had stayed at the Parkers long enough to drink his tea and to reinforce the impression of Karen’s defensiveness of her family.
No one was in next door and no one was admitting to being in the house after that so the next stop was the house Mac had seen the two boys enter the day before.
Mac had already checked his list of names. ‘Mrs Robinson?’ he asked when someone answered the door.
‘Yes.’ The woman sounded cautious, a little anxious. Mac guessed she had already seen them in the street and must have realized who he was.
He introduced himself anyway.
‘Well, I don’t think we can tell you anything,’ she said. ‘It came as a right shock, I can tell you.’
Mac glimpsed the dark-haired boy hovering in the background. His face still showed the vicious bruising Mac had noted, but the blackest of the marks was fading now, dissolving to a bilious green. He looked over the mother’s shoulder and smiled at the boy, aware once again that his smile lacked both conviction and adequacy. He must practise more.
‘Hello,’ Mac said. ‘I’ve just been chatting to your friend George.’
The boy flinched and the face flushed red beneath the bruises.
Mrs Robertson turned to look at her son. ‘He got himself into some stupid fight,’ she said. ‘I’ve talked to the school but of course they know nothing about it. Clam up, they do, if anyone should dare to mention the “B” word.’
‘The “b” word?’
‘Bullying, of course.’ She glared hard at Mac. ‘You don’t think my boy is in the habit of getting into fights, do you?’
‘I don’t know your boy,’ Mac pointed out.
‘No, well he’s not, and neither is young George. He’s seen enough violence, that boy. He’s the last person to want to get involved in more.’
‘Oh?’ Mac tried to look friendly, inviting of confidences. From the look on Nora Robinson’s face it wasn’t working.
‘The father,’ she said impatiently. ‘Put them through hell, and if it hadn’t been for young Karen, the mother would probably be dead and gone by now.’
‘Really? And what did Karen do?’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘You didn’t knock on the door for a gossip,’ she said. ‘What can I help you with? I’ve already spoken to two of your lot, you know.’
‘I know,’ Mac said placatingly, ‘but we often find that a follow-up call helps, you know. People remember the little things that shock often blots out.’
She sighed. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but we’ve got nothing to tell. We didn’t hear anything that night and we didn’t see anything either.’
‘And the night before Mrs Freer was killed?’
She looked puzzled. ‘What about the night before?’
The boy had retreated to the stairs, sitting a few steps up from the bottom and making a great show of not looking at either his mother or Mac.
‘The night before, that would have been late on the Wednesday, two boys broke into Mrs Freer’s house. Teenagers, about the same age as your son and George Parker.’
She drew a deep, shocked breath and then released it in a rush of anger. ‘Same age as Paul, as George? Mister, do you know how many kids that age there are round here? Do you know how many little toe rags there are? Get yourself along to the Jubilee if you want to catch the little buggers that broke in – and the bastard that killed her. Look over there before you come round here accusing my son.’
‘I’m not accusing anyone,’ Mac said mildly, ‘and I can assure you, Mrs Robertson, that we will be looking everywhere.’ He paused, looked directly at the boy on the stairs. ‘Everywhere,’ he repeated, then stepped swiftly back as she shut the door in his face.
‘Anything?’ It was half an hour later and his little group stood huddled in the lee of the nursing home wall, beneath the sign that declared this land the property of the Alderman Calvin Trust and threatened to clamp intruders.
It was even colder now and the wind whipped a new batch of freezing rain into greater frenzy.
‘Usual mix of abuse and lousy tea.’
‘Neighbours still heard nothing. Still say they were watching an action film and had the sound up high.’
‘Alderman Calvin House doesn’t have windows facing on to the street so how do we expect them to have noticed anything. Oh and they still want to know what we’re doing about the kids on bikes over by the sheds.’
Mac sighed and thanked his helpers. ‘Best get off,’ he said. ‘You all OK for lifts back?’
Apparently they were. Mac watched as the three of them escaped with an almost indecent degree of haste and then he too turned for home. He was halfway up Newell Street when a friendly voice shouted his name. Mac turned. Half hidden behind a massive golf umbrella and wearing a raincoat that Columbo would have been proud to claim stood Tim, aka Marvello, alias The Great Stupendo.
Mac crossed the street.
‘Rina sent me to fetch you. She figured you might like some lunch.’
Mac laughed, taken aback. ‘How did she know I was here?’
‘Ah well, Rina knows these things. So, what about it then? Food’s good, company is … interesting and I’ve a feeling the ex-Lydia Marchant wants to tell you about her investigations.’
‘Investigations?’
Tim shook his head. ‘Let her tell you. So, are we getting out of this god-awful weather then? Come under the umbrella, there’s plenty of room.’
Life was taking on that slightly surreal quality it always did when Rina Martin was involved, Mac thought. He nodded and stepped beneath the shelter of the umbrella Tim had hoisted. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Lunch would be very welcome.’
Seventeen
By one o’clock Mac was installed at Rina’s table, sandwiched once again between the Peters sisters, although he still wasn’t sure which one was which. The Montmorency twins – much easier to identify – sat opposite with Tim between them, a tall, skinny, austere figure between two flamboyant ones. Rina took her place at the head of the table and handed plates and dishes piled high with vegetables and roast potatoes and rich gravy that Mac could tell just from the scent had never seen even a suggestion of stock cubes or gravy browning. Two kinds of roast meat weighed down large platters set atop warming trays that ran down the centre line of the well laid table. There was enough, Mac thought, to feed an army and, with a sudden flash of insight, wondered how many people like Mrs Freer would benefit this afternoon.
Mac realized that he was famished and was overwhelmingly relieved that conversation was obviously not initially required at Rina’s table, just willingly delivered expressions of deep content.
Dessert loosened tongues and, as Rina served apple pie, conversation began in a leisurely kind of way. Stephen Montmorency enquired as to the state of the investigation but did not pursue the matter and Mac got the impression that the Rina Martin household had been given instructions not to bother the copper with questions.
‘Custard or cream?’ Rina asked.
‘Oh, custard please. It looks very good.’
‘Stephen is an excellent pastry cook,’ Rina said.
‘I trained,’ Matthew said, tossing back the mane of silver hair. ‘Did the whole catering college thing. Our mother felt we should always have a fall back position. Isn’t that right, Stephen?’
His brother nodded. ‘A very wise woman, our ma,’ he said. ‘“Stephen,” she would say, “you should always have a fall back position. You never, ever know what’s around the corner.”’
Mac nodded sagely. He was dying to ask about the so-called twins. Did they really think they were related, or was this an exte
nsion of some obscure stage act? He opened his mouth to speak, then caught Rina’s eye and closed it again.
‘It’s always best to be prepared,’ Tim agreed. ‘The problem is the only fall back I’ve got is dressing up in a bloody clown suit.’
‘Language, Timothy,’ Stephen said sententiously. ‘Ladies present, you know.
‘Sorry, ladies,’ Tim apologized, inclining his head in the direction of Matthew Montmorency rather than the Peters sisters. ‘Seriously though, Stephen, I make a god-awful clown. I’ve really got to give it up.’
‘It’s honest work,’ Stephen reminded him. ‘You should never demean honest work.’
Mac tried to visualize Tim in a clown costume and failed miserably.
‘How did … you all meet?’ Mac asked. He’d almost directed the question at the Montmorencys.
‘Oh dear.’ One of the Peters sisters clapped her hands, delighted. ‘Oh dear, it was years ago, wasn’t it, Rina?’
‘Years indeed. I believe I met the two of you in Southampton. Sixty-two or -three, it would have been. You were still with that Bennet fellow.’
‘Clive Bennet.’ Eliza Peters sounded dreamy. ‘Oh, he was a sweetie. No talent, of course, but a real sweetie.’
‘He might not have had the talent,’ her sister agreed, ‘but he was all heart. All heart. Gave us both a break when we needed it, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes.’ Her sister clasped her hands together. ‘The closing song that season, “All our Yesterdays”. It still makes me cry when I sing it. We’d have the audience eating out of our hands, you know, dear. Not a dry eye in the house.’
‘“All our Tomorrows”,’ her sister corrected her. ‘Eliza dear, you always did get it wrong.’
‘Oh, are you sure? No, no, I’m certain …’ She brightened suddenly. ‘We have pictures and recordings if you’d like to see them?’
‘Um …’ Mac began
‘I don’t think the Inspector has the time just yet,’ Rina said, giving gentle emphasis to his title.’
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