‘Did you follow?’
‘I couldn’t, could I? I’d parked behind Boots.’
‘What make of car was it?’
‘A green Astra,’ Sean told him. ‘It definitely wasn’t a taxi.’
‘It may be a minicab,’ Jack pointed out, ‘or just a friend’s car.’
‘Well, I’ve got the number, so you’ll be able to find out, won’t you?’
‘Indeed, yes.’ Jack gazed at him. ‘Do you think Vivienne noticed you?’
‘She’s seen me a couple of times, but we just acted like it was a normal outing.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Paula, my fiancee. I’m hardly likely to tail some schoolgirl round town at night on my own, am I?’
‘Right,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll have that car registration off you and just for the record, where were you this Tuesday?’
Avril, her face stony, gave her son no chance to reply. ‘He was here, all evening, apart from when he and Paula went across to the pub, and they were back by nine. Paula wanted to go to bed early because she had to be up for the early train to London.’
‘She lives in Porthmadog,’ Sean added, ‘so she always sleeps over when she’s going to London. I drive her to Bangor station.’
‘Why does she go to London?’ Jack asked.
‘To get to Heathrow,’ Avril said. ‘She’s cabin crew on the air liners and she’s just gone off to New Zealand. So if you want to talk to her, as I’ve no doubt you will, you’ll have to wait.’
5
When Jack stopped the car for the school gates to be opened, flashbulbs began popping in his eyes. He growled at the hungry faces swarming around him, then accelerated up the drive, reaching the forecourt in time to see McKenna leave the mobile incident room. He slammed the car door and waited, rubbing his forehead. His skull felt tight, the portent of a thunderous headache.
‘Eifion Roberts called not long after you went out,’ McKenna said, stopping by the car. ‘Hester Melville turned up at the mortuary wanting to see Sukie. When he told her she couldn’t, because he was still doing the autopsy, she collapsed.’
‘Shit!’
‘He rang again about ten minutes ago to say Hester’s being kept in hospital, at least overnight. Meanwhile, her lush of a husband knows nothing about the whole sorry mess. He was still in bed when Eifion first called the hotel and now he’s gone off somewhere.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Probably to find some drink.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt you to be a bit more charitable,’ Jack commented. ‘I’d be doing more than hitting the bottle if it was one of my girls. I’d be suicidal.’
‘Maybe so, but you wouldn’t leave your wife in the lurch,’ McKenna said. ‘That’s why Melville doesn’t warrant sympathy. At a time like this, they should be together.’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’ Jack sighed. ‘Times like this show up a relationship in its true colours and I reckon the Melvilles can’t stand the sight of each other.’ He paused, before asking, ‘Is Eifion any further forward?’
‘He’s found a contusion at the base of the skull consistent with a blow, but he’s not sure how old it is.’
‘She hadn’t fallen off her horse recently.’
‘No, but she could have banged her head plenty of other ways. In the gym, for instance.’ McKenna took out his cigarettes. ‘She seems to have been prone to getting knocked about. There’s a lot of subcutaneous bruising to the torso, thighs and buttocks, most of it probably ante-mortem.’
‘I wonder if the killer actually knew immersion in water would virtually wreck the evidence?’
‘Perhaps they simply thought that once a body went into the Strait, it never came out,’ McKenna said. ‘At least, not as a recognisable whole. If there was a killer, that is,’ he added, blowing smoke towards the bright-blue sky. ‘How did you fare with Sean O’Connor?’
‘I think,’ Jack replied thoughtfully, ‘that it might be a good idea to talk to him when his mother isn’t there to answer for him. They’re quite a double act. She alibis him for Tuesday evening, along with his fiancée, who left on Wednesday for New Zealand, so she’s probably still in the ether somewhere over the Pacific Ocean.’ Scraping his shoe on the ground, he went on, ‘Pity Dewi can’t add his weight this time. Apparently, it’s not unknown for him to make sure Sean gets home safe to Mam when he’s in his cups. Still, that’s Dewi’s way with the locals, isn’t it? He doesn’t see them in black or white, just varying shades of grey.’
‘Sean’s got a reputation for honesty and hard graft,’ McKenna pointed out, ‘even among our own brethren. One adolescent kick over the traces doesn’t bespeak a criminal.’
‘I’m not saying it does and I’m not saying his mother’s covering for him,’ Jack admitted. ‘The thing is, Sean’s been conspiring with Torrance to find out where Vivienne Wade gets her dope. Now I’m sure his mother knew nothing about it, so I was just wondering what else he hasn’t told her.’
‘Then get Dewi to ask him,’ McKenna replied.
6
The previous night, in the sixth-form common room, Ainsley Chapman had made McKenna think of a new blade of grass springing from the earth, but now, seeing her for the first time at close quarters, she brought winter to mind. Clad in a white shirt, a long, dark-brown skirt and matching waistcoat, her skinny legs weighed down by clumpy black shoes, she looked spare and sombre, like a denuded branch, and exhausted, as the year would be come December. They sat face to face by the window of the visitors’ room and, although she was in the eye of the brilliant morning sun, her skin was ghostly pale. Suffused by the light, the downy growth on her cheeks and forearms had the effect of a halo. ‘Did you not sleep very well, Miss Chapman?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t get to my room until much later than usual and there was some reading I had to do.’
‘Aren’t your exams over?’ He smiled. ‘Congratulations, by the way. I hear you’ve won a Cambridge exhibition. You must be very pleased.’
Without a trace of pride or pleasure in her voice or on her face, she said, ‘Thank you. I am.’
‘So,’ he went on, ‘why are you still swotting?’
Her forehead creased and her hands clenched and unclenched with a life of their own. ‘Oh, I can’t rest on my laurels,’ she said breathily, jerking her head. ‘Getting a place is one thing. Keeping it is an entirely different matter.’ Then she clasped her hands together and leaned forward to peer at him. ‘When I go up, I’ll be competing with the best brains of my generation. I can’t relax for a moment.’
‘You’ll drive yourself into the ground if you don’t.’
She hesitated briefly before responding. ‘Dr Scott says we must learn to cope with stress and competition.’ She mumbled to herself, as if making sure she were correctly relaying thoughts and words that were not her own. ‘Mathematics is different from other subjects. One must stay constantly up to date but, more important, one’s mind must keep the keenest edge.’
‘Don’t you take part in any sports?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She nodded stiffly. ‘The head girl must be an all-rounder. I captain the tennis and lacrosse teams.’
‘Do you compete with other schools?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Schools like ours in England and Scotland.’
‘Not Wales?’ he asked.
‘Is there such a one?’ She looked utterly perplexed. ‘I don’t know of it.’
Trying to foster some enthusiasm, he smiled. ‘Tell me, then, what does being head girl actually entail?’
Her eyes closed like traps, then opened wide and her brittle tension was alarming. She jerked scrawny shoulders. ‘Well, you know...’ Her voice was reedy, her eyes glittering with the light of panic.
‘As head girl,’ he went on quietly, ‘your insights could be of considerable help. So what can you tell me about Sukie?’
Swallowing hard, Ainsley shook her head once more. ‘I didn’t really know her.’
‘She wasn’t one of your s
pecial friends?’
‘No.’
‘Several people have said she was very attached to Torrance.’
‘Yes.’
‘Were they actually friends?’
‘Torrance taught her to ride.’
‘And?’ She simply stared and he added, ‘How did that come about?’
‘Sukie asked her to.’ She half moved from the chair. ‘Can I go now? I’ve got a maths class in fifteen minutes.’
‘You can leave when you’ve answered my questions, Miss Chapman. Put your mind to that and you’ll make your class.’ He tried another smile, but that too fell on stony ground. ‘You girls live cheek by jowl,’ he carried on patiently, ‘so you’d have been bound to hear any rumours about Sukie’s being pregnant. Did you hear any?’
‘Dr Scott says she must have been. That’s why she killed herself.’
‘Dr Scott is saying that now,’ he stressed. ‘After the event. Was anything said beforehand? Did Sukie appear upset or worried?’
She made an enormous effort to concentrate. ‘I assume,’ she began, ‘she wouldn’t want breakfast if she had morning sickness.’ Then, frowning, she said, ‘But I know nothing about that. The girls who keep horses don’t breakfast with the rest of the school. They eat in the kitchen after morning stables.’ She looked up at him. ‘Fat Sally would know.’
‘Fat Sally?’
Startlingly, she giggled, then clapped a hand to her mouth like a child. ‘You know!’ she said, between her fingers. ‘The head cook.’
‘That’s not very gracious.’
‘But she is fat!’ Ainsley protested. ‘She’s absolutely gross! She eats too much. Dr Scott should force her to diet. She should tell her to lose at least eight stone if she wants to keep her job.’
‘I think that would be outrageous.’
‘I disagree.’ Her nose literally in the air, she crossed her legs, the left dangling over the right. Hardly any muscle shaped her calves. ‘Someone as fat as she is bad for the school’s image.’ Shuddering delicately, she went on, ‘She’s like those obese and ugly slum women one sees in Bangor, who live on state welfare, breeding like rabbits and draining the economy.’ Her face became suddenly animated. ‘Do you realise that the simple expedient of compulsory sterilisation for such women — and, of course, for the children they’ve already produced — would largely resolve the problem of the underclass within a generation?’
He gazed at her wonderingly. ‘You study eugenics?’
‘Dr Scott and a select few of us debate the issue,’ she told him. ‘Behind closed doors, of course. People can be so silly and sensitive, can’t they?’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘Eugenics have a very dirty reputation. Do you know why?’
‘Naturally, Dr. Scott has explained how the subject is always linked deliberately and emotively to Nazi Germany.’ Dismissively, she flapped her thin pale fingers. ‘It is so irrational! People must be made to accept that uncontrolled and indiscriminate breeding enfeebles the genetic pool.’
‘As a matter of interest,’ he asked, ‘if Sukie had been pregnant, how would your preferred order deal with it?’
She turned her dead eyes full on him. ‘I don’t quite understand.’
Returning that empty stare, he asked himself if she were capable of attaching ideas to consequences. ‘What would be done about it?’
‘I imagine Dr Scott and Lady Hester would arrange an abortion.’ She paused. ‘Now, of course,’ she went on, with utter callousness, ‘there’s no need.’ Impervious to the flash of anger he was unable to hide, she glanced at her watch. ‘I can only spare you a few more minutes. Was there anything else?’
He could almost hear the echo of Freya’s voice, and see her hands shaping this girl. ‘You haven’t told me whether there were rumours about Sukie.’
‘There were whispers,’ she admitted with another shrug.
‘About pregnancy?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What else could they concern?’
‘The break with Imogen Oliver. They’d been best friends for years, but they wouldn’t even talk to each other.’ She squirmed in the seat, control beginning to desert her. ‘As nobody knew why, the rumours became more and more — well — silly.’
‘How? What was said?’
Studiously, she averted her eyes. ‘You know.’
‘No, I don’t!’ he snapped. ‘You’re the one with her finger on the school’s pulse.’
‘Am I?’ Once again that weird light flickered in her eyes. Convulsively, she twisted her hands together, staring at her watch. ‘I must go!’ She uncrossed her legs, ready to rise.
‘I haven’t finished with you yet,’ he said sharply.
Ignoring him, she shot from the chair and ran for the door. By the time he reached the corridor she had disappeared. Furious with her, he was on the verge of pursuit when Justine Salomon, hands in pockets, sauntered into view from the lobby.
‘Have you seen Ainsley?’ he demanded.
‘Indeed, yes,’ she said. ‘In floods of tears and going like the proverbial bat out of hell towards the classroom block.’
He swore under his breath.
‘She’ll be fine once she has her head stuck in a book,’ Justine added, ‘but if you prefer to make sure, the head’s secretary can telephone for you.’ She indicated the room next to Freya’s study and, as he was about to knock on the door, said, ‘I’m free until after morning break. Shall I wait?’
‘Go to the visitors’ room. I won’t be long.’
With narrowed eyes and pinched lips, the secretary heard him out, then spoke to someone in the classroom block. ‘Fortunately, Superintendent,’ she reported, ‘no harm was done this time. However, Dr Scott does not feel it appropriate for our girls to be subjected to intensive police questioning without support from the staff.’ She spoke slowly, clearly and correctly, as if he were a half-witted foreigner incapable of understanding the vernacular.
‘And where is Dr Scott?’ he asked, biting his tongue on a more trenchant response.
‘She is engaged.’
‘When she becomes disengaged, tell her to come to the visitors’ room.’ Ignoring her lemony face, he added, ‘Ainsley Chapman will be given one more opportunity to speak to me. If she refuses she’ll be taken to the police station to be interviewed under caution, as will anyone else who fails to co-operate with my investigation.’
He returned to the visitors’ room to find Justine leafing through a glossy magazine from the stack on a console table. ‘Have you seen this?’ she asked.
He sat down and, taking the magazine from her, began turning over page after page of photographs depicting the wedding of a raddled-looking middle-aged woman to a florid-faced man of advanced years and hideous countenance. In one picture, bride and groom were dwarfed by the baroque wedding cake into which both were sticking a long-bladed knife, while a mêlée of garishly dressed guests pressed around them, desperate to catch the camera’s eye.
‘Venetia,’ she told him, pointing to the bride, ‘is Charlotte Swann’s mother and I think that’s husband number five, although he could be number six. I expect even Charlotte’s lost count.’ Smiling, she replaced the magazine. ‘She can ask if she ever gets to meet him. The last two stepfathers came and went almost without her knowing. Venetia does serial monogamy, you see. She beds many, but only weds the super-rich, who usually happen to be ugly. Her latest looks like a frog, doesn’t he?’ she commented. ‘And I can’t see a kiss from Venetia turning him into a prince.’
‘Nor can I,’ McKenna agreed, amused by her wit. ‘Are you close to Charlotte?’
‘No, but she has problems and sometimes she tells me about them. But then, she talks to anyone who’ll listen.’ Slouching a little, she rested her elbows on the chair arms and linked her fingers, mood and manner worlds apart from the neurotic Ainsley’s and, in contrast to the head girl’s dour garb, she wore a finely tailored navy skirt barely skimming her knees, a gold and white striped shirt cinched a
t the waist with a leather belt, and elegant navy sandals.
‘Why does Ainsley dress differently?’ he asked.
‘Dr Scott dreamed up that ghastly outfit to distinguish the head girl from the rest of us.’ She grinned then. ‘I suppose it’s marginally better than a label round the neck.’ Her well-modulated voice, almost perfect colloquial English and faint, attractive accent were quite beguiling and he suddenly saw her as one of those rare people whose presence could make others feel instantly happier.
He smiled at her. ‘Where are you from?’
‘A small village near Bonn in the Rhineland.’ She returned his smile without a hint of coquetry. ‘But we aren’t German. To be frank, we don’t know what we are. For centuries people have moved through the Low Countries to the Rhineland from all over Europe, so we could have originated anywhere.’ Rearranging her long, well-rounded legs, she went on, ‘But we’re in good company. Beethoven’s family came to Bonn from Malines in Belgium, but before that they may have migrated from Spain.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps it is the Spanish influences that make his music so insistent.’
‘One of his friends was called Salomon,’ he remarked. ‘Johann Peter Salomon.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘He was born in the same house in Bonn where Beethoven later came into the world. He was a musician too. He died in London in 1815 after being thrown by a horse and he’s buried in Westminster Abbey, and I know all about him,’ she added with another smile, ‘because my father would love to claim him as an ancestor, but unfortunately he can’t find the proof.’
‘What does your father do?’
‘He’s a translator. We’re all fluent in French, German and English, and he also has Italian and Spanish, as well as Classical Greek, Latin and several of the ancient languages. I suppose he should be called a scholar.’
‘And are you an only child?’
‘Yes, like many of us, Ainsley included. Both her parents are high-flying academics, so she had a lot to live up to before Dr Scott decided to set her new standards. Unfortunately for Ainsley, she keeps moving the goalposts.’ She paused, her forehead creased into a frown. ‘I try to give Dr Scott the benefit of the doubt, but she’s very capricious and extremely overbearing. When she took away my house captaincy, for which I’ve yet to forgive her, she flatly refused to listen to any objections either from myself or the girls who had elected me.’ Seeing his puzzlement she asked, ‘Did you not know? She gave Imogen the captaincy of Lancaster after she lost her leg, saying it would provide her with a “positive focus”. So, in simple terms, she was foisted on the house, whether she or they wanted it that way or not. To me, Dr Scott’s reasoning was crassly insensitive.’
Child's Play Page 14