No Escape

by Hilary Norman

  ‘Think I’m obsessed with Allbeury and Novak?’

  Keenan looked up, saw it was a genuine question.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ he said.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Nick Parry had finished the laborious business of showering and drying, most of which he could manage solo these days, though when Clare or one of his other carers was on the scene the process was unquestionably easier, and he’d got past the worst of his humiliation a long while ago – though that, too, varied depending upon exactly who was helping him. Clare Novak was his favourite, he thought, overall, partly because she was efficient and gentle, matter-of-fact but sensitive about the uglier essential procedures he still hated; partly because he always felt she genuinely liked being with him, talking to him.

  And she gave far and away the best aromatherapy massages.

  She was doing that now, and professionally detached and expert as she was about what she did with her hands, Parry couldn’t help remembering a couple of other great massages he’d had before, when he’d been a normal, active, inquisitive young male. In one way, of course, those memories were acutely painful, leaving him depressed as hell, but on the other hand, he had decided a while back that having memories had to be better than never having had the experiences in the first place.

  ‘Go on telling me about last night,’ he said now.

  ‘Relax,’ Clare told him.

  ‘I need you to talk to stop me thinking horny.’

  ‘Nothing stops you thinking horny, Parry,’ she said lightheartedly.

  ‘Come on, Novak,’ he countered. ‘You know I’m a safe pair of ears.’

  She had been talking until a few moments before, but then she’d stopped, quite abruptly, feeling disloyal because she’d been telling him about the previous evening’s dinner with Mike, who’d wanted to take her out to celebrate. She’d chosen instead to cook a stir-fry at home, and Mike had wanted her to open up about her fears for the new pregnancy, had tried convincing her yet again that last time had not been in any way her fault, that it had been timing and fate, that if she hadn’t been alone, if he’d been with her, it would have been different.

  ‘He says it won’t happen again,’ she told Parry now. ‘That they told us there was no reason for anything like that to ever go wrong again. He says that anyway, this time he’s going to stick so close, he’ll probably drive me nuts.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Parry said.

  ‘I know,’ Clare said, and put more neroli and apricot kernel oil onto her palms. ‘He thinks maybe I ought to take it easier, cut down my hours.’

  ‘But you love working.’

  ‘He said he wasn’t saying I shouldn’t work, just do less.’ Clare paused, worked some oil into his left calf muscle.

  ‘Did he want you to stop coming here?’

  Clare smiled. ‘He suggested it.’

  ‘Maybe he’s right,’ Parry said.

  ‘He’s not right at all,’ Clare said, ‘which I told him.’

  ‘Was he okay with that?’

  ‘He was fine.’ She switched to his right leg. ‘Mike never tries pushing me into things I’m not happy with.’

  ‘But?’ Parry waited.

  ‘I asked him if he wasn’t scared, too.’ She paused. ‘He thought I meant just about the baby.’

  ‘But you didn’t mean just about that, did you?’ Parry said.

  Clare shook her head, stopped massaging. ‘There are so many things to be scared of in this world, if you let yourself.’

  ‘You’re thinking about the little girl, aren’t you?’ Parry asked. ‘Irina.’

  ‘Yes,’ Clare said. ‘I am.’

  ‘And her mother.’

  ‘Of course,’ Clare said.

  ‘Poor cow,’ Parry said.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Joanne’s car having offered up nothing of interest or use, and blanks still being drawn on all other lines of enquiry, Keenan waited until Saturday morning to turn up a little more heat under Tony Patston’s already agitated backside, by telephoning to ask if he’d mind coming to Theydon Bois for another chat.

  ‘What kind of a chat?’ Tony asked, defensively.

  ‘We’d just like to clarify a few points.’

  Something beneath Keenan’s pleasantness chilled Tony to the marrow.

  ‘If I wanted,’ he asked, carefully, ‘to bring someone with me—’

  ‘What kind of someone, Mr Patston?’

  ‘A lawyer,’ Tony said. ‘Just to keep an eye on things, you know.’ He was sweating, knowing how it had to be sounding to the policeman. ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said, quickly.

  ‘By all means,’ Keenan said smoothly, ‘bring your solicitor along.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to make your own way to us, Mr Patston, or would you like us to pick you up?’

  Tony said that he would drive.

  ‘This isn’t going to take too long, is it?’ he asked about three hours later, seated in an interview room opposite Keenan and Reed.

  It had taken him more than ninety minutes to find anyone – scrabbling frantically through the Yellow Pages for solicitors quoting 24-hour emergency numbers – free and willing to meet him at Theydon Bois on a Saturday morning.

  The man who sat beside him now, Richard Slattery, was, if nothing else, solid, in that there was a great deal of him, but beyond that and the fact that he’d been available and, for a fat fee, prepared to come along at a moment’s notice, Tony had no idea if he was any shakes at all as a lawyer.

  Better than nothing. Hopefully.

  ‘You’re not under arrest, Mr Patston,’ Keenan said clearly, ‘and you’re free to leave.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Tony said, his stomach churning. ‘Only—’

  ‘You’re entitled to legal advice,’ Keenan went on, ‘but it’s clear you’ve made your own arrangements.’ He nodded at Slattery.

  ‘Only,’ Tony said, ‘I don’t want to leave Irina for too long, you see.’

  ‘She’s with your mother-in-law, isn’t she?’ Keenan asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Tony said, ‘but she’s fretting for her mum, obviously.’

  There were three plastic cups of coffee on the table. Slattery was drinking his, making tiny lapping sounds as he did so, like a little cat, which Tony found odd for a man of his size. Neither Keenan or Reed had picked up their cups yet, and Tony hadn’t dared touch his because he was scared his hand would shake.

  ‘I’m now going to switch on the tape recorder,’ Keenan said.

  Terry Reed unwrapped two cassette tapes, inserted them into the recorder at the wall edge of the table, and Keenan reached across and turned it on.

  ‘You love your little girl, do you?’ DS Reed asked.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Tony said, thinking again about the strangeness of the fact that since Joanne’s death he had been discovering that he really did love Irina much more than he’d realized.

  ‘If you love her,’ Keenan asked, quietly, ‘why do you hit her?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Tony said, reddening. ‘Who says I do?’

  ‘We have reason to believe,’ Keenan went on, ‘that Irina has been punched, or worse, on several occasions, her injuries sufficiently serious to necessitate her being taken to Waltham General hospital.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Richard Slattery said, leaning forward, his large balloon stomach rubbing the edge of the table, ‘if I could have a few moments alone with my client?’

  ‘No,’ Tony said, rather loudly and abruptly.

  ‘Mr Patston,’ Slattery said.

  ‘No,’ Tony said. ‘We don’t need to be alone.’

  He’d always prided himself on recognizing a golden opportunity when it was dangled right under his nose, and the way things were looking this might be the only one for a bloody long time, and, Christ forgive him, Joanne couldn’t be any more hurt than she had been.

  ‘I’ve never wanted to say anything,’ he said, with a show of reluctance. ‘And I wouldn’t be saying it now, but . . .’

 
‘What’s that, Mr Patston?’ Keenan asked.

  Tony could feel them all watching him. He was sweating again, and his head was starting to ache.

  ‘It was Joanne,’ he said, ‘who hit Irina.’

  The room went silent. Keenan glanced at Reed, while Slattery, observing the unmistakably icy distaste as keenly as he might have felt a hard slap, looked down at his hands.

  ‘That’s not,’ Terry Reed said, after several seconds, ‘the impression we’ve been getting.’

  ‘Well,’ Tony said, ‘it wouldn’t be, would it?’

  ‘Word is,’ Reed went on, ‘your wife had to be careful not to let Irina cry too much because you didn’t like it.’ He stressed the word as if it possessed a bad smell.

  ‘That was what she wanted people to think.’ Tony could feel inspiration continuing to feed him his lines, and it was inspiration, because poor Jo couldn’t contradict him, and no one else had ever seen him touch Irina, had they? ‘Maybe,’ he went on, as if it pained him to say it, ‘maybe she even wanted to think it herself, because she was afraid of the truth.’

  ‘What truth was that?’ Keenan asked quietly.

  ‘That she couldn’t cope as well as she made out,’ Tony replied. ‘That after all we’d gone through to adopt Irina, she wasn’t as good a mother as she’d thought she was going to be.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ Keenan asked. ‘That it was Joanne who got angry when Irina cried?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Tony said.

  ‘Yet Joanne went out of her way to keep your daughter with her as much as possible,’ Keenan said.

  ‘I’m not saying she didn’t love her,’ Tony said. ‘Just that she couldn’t cope.’ He looked at his audience. ‘She knew how upset I got when she hit her.’ He paused again. ‘You’ve no idea how much I hate saying this now, with poor Jo . . .’ He shook his head, felt tears spring into his eyes, wasn’t sure if he felt more proud or ashamed of his performance, but it was good, no doubt about that, and, more to the point, it was necessary.

  ‘Take your time, Mr Patston,’ Keenan said.

  ‘I was going to keep it to myself forever,’ Tony said. ‘I wanted to help her get over it, you know? And I’d rather Sandra didn’t have to hear about it, because it’ll really do her head in, won’t it? But Joanne could get very screwed up sometimes – especially when she got her PMS – I told you about that, didn’t I?’

  ‘Actually,’ Keenan said, ‘you said she didn’t get it too badly.’ He referred to his notes. ‘You said, in fact, that Joanne told you she had PMS that last morning. I asked you if she suffered from it badly, and you said: “She wasn’t too bad.” ’ Keenan smiled. ‘Which was it, Mr Patston?’

  A tickle of unease passed through Tony. ‘It was bad,’ he said, as if confessing. ‘I just didn’t want you to know.’ His confidence returned. ‘Because of what I’ve told you. I didn’t want anyone thinking badly of her.’

  ‘Very commendable of you,’ Keenan said.

  Reed leaned forward. ‘You said Joanne knew how upset you got when she hit Irina.’ His beady eyes had grown particularly sharp.

  ‘Of course she knew,’ Tony said. ‘It used to go right through me when Irina cried, because I knew what was going to happen, and it made me feel sick.’

  ‘Did you try to stop her?’ Reed asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Tony said again.

  There was another pause.

  ‘Is that what happened that day?’ Keenan asked.

  ‘What?’ Tony said, not understanding. ‘When?’

  ‘That last morning,’ Keenan said. ‘Before Joanne went out. Did you have to try to stop her hitting Irina then?’

  ‘No.’ The confidence disappeared, swift as water down a plughole. ‘No, not that morning.’

  ‘Was it the last straw?’ Keenan asked. ‘Was that when you knew you had to kill Joanne, Tony?’

  Tony saw, suddenly, sickeningly, the hole he’d dug for himself.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said, looking sideways at Slattery, but the big man was just sitting there. ‘That’s crazy. This has got nothing to do with her being killed. I was just explaining about Irina getting hurt, that’s all.’

  ‘But if you did do it—’ Keenan was leaning forward now, his face intent, his tone encouraging ‘—what you just told us would make it almost understandable.’

  ‘But I didn’t.’ Tony stared at the tapes going round and round.

  ‘Seeing your little girl being hit—’ Reed, too, leaned in ‘—that’s more than enough to push any loving daddy over the edge.’

  ‘You’re both twisting my words.’ Tony looked desperately from Keenan to Reed, then to Slattery, the useless lump at his side. ‘I had nothing to do with Joanne being killed – I loved her – I never, ever, touched her, never wanted her dead, not for a second!’

  Keenan sat back in his chair again, and his smile was merciful, almost priestlike. ‘Take your time, Tony,’ he said. ‘Think about it. Do the right thing now, while you can.’

  ‘Right thing?’ Tony echoed incredulously. ‘Christ.’

  He stared at them again, looked from one to the other, and knew, with ice in his stomach, that he had no choices left.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’ He took a gulp of air. ‘I’m going to tell you about something – something I’ve been trying and trying to keep secret for so long.’

  He had to pause, had to rub the back of his right hand over his eyes, because suddenly he wanted to cry again, but he didn’t have time to start blubbing like a kid now, he had to get this said, had to get it out, before everything got any more out of control.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Keenan the priest said. ‘Take your time, Tony.’

  Tony let his hand fall back onto his knee. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It isn’t that. It’s nothing to do with Jo. It’s something else.’

  At last, Richard Slattery reacted. ‘Mr Patston,’ he said. ‘I think a break—’

  ‘No,’ Tony cut him off. ‘No breaks. No more going round the houses.’ He was sweating again, shaking.

  ‘I really must advise—’

  ‘No.’ Tony sat right forward, more urgent than ever now. ‘You’ve got to listen.’ He focused on Keenan. ‘Because once I tell you this, you’re going to understand why I’ve been so messed up. Because Christ knows it’s been hard enough coping with losing Jo, but I’m so scared now of losing Irina too, I’m scared to death of that.’

  ‘Why should you lose Irina?’ Keenan asked. ‘Because you hit her?’

  ‘No,’ Tony half shouted. ‘Nothing to do with that – though I didn’t do that either, I swear it.’ He looked into the detective’s thin, attentive face, sucked in another desperate breath. ‘I’m scared I’m going to lose Irina,’ he said, ‘because of the way we adopted her.’

  Keenan scanned mentally back over the facts Pat Hughes had delivered to him regarding Irina’s adoption, then swiftly returned his attention to the wretched man opposite him.

  ‘We bought her,’ Tony said. ‘We couldn’t get a baby any other way, and Jo wanted to be a mum more than anything else in the world.’ He was crying again. ‘I did that for Joanne because I loved her so much – I’d have done anything for her, anything. I could never have hurt her like you think, never.’ He shook his head, and his voice sank lower. ‘Never.’

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  At home on Saturday afternoon, sitting in his living room at Shad Tower, leaning back comfortably in his custom-made leather recliner, flicking through satellite TV channels, Robin Allbeury located the Food and Drink Channel and the programme he’d already established was showing at that time.

  There she was in her studio kitchen, looking very fetching in a white cotton shirt and snug-fitting jeans with a blue and white striped apron, working alongside a man wearing a foolish smock. Her hair seemed a little different, longer, maybe a touch blonder – though that might have been the harsh lighting. A little younger around the eyes – another clue that this was a repeat of a show recorded at least two, maybe thre
e years earlier. Not that she looked exactly older now.

  She laughed at something the man said.

  The laugh made her extremely beautiful, Allbeury thought. Gave her, for its duration, a more truly relaxed, carefree air, before it drifted away, leaving her other face in its wake. The face that declared all was well, that Lizzie Piper Wade was doing fine, able to cope with everything life threw at her – even if she might be willing to acknowledge, if pressed, that just a little of what it threw at her was hard to take. The face now on the screen was the one Lizzie had presented at the Wades’ dinner party last week.

  The face that had so compelled him.

  Was still doing so.

  Allbeury pushed the mute button on his remote control, glanced at his watch, wondered if the Wades were in Marlow this weekend, or in Holland Park.

  Find out.

  He’d intended to wait a while longer, at least a few days, before calling again, was, as a rule, a patient man.

  With a few notable exceptions.

  Of which Lizzie was most definitely one.

  He put down the remote, picked up his Palm Pilot, checked the Marlow number, and called it.

  ‘Hello?’

  Her voice.

  ‘Lizzie, it’s Robin Allbeury.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ She sounded pleased. ‘How nice to hear from you.’

  ‘Good or bad moment?’ he asked. ‘Not that I’ll keep you long.’

  ‘Quite good actually,’ Lizzie said.

  He thought he heard her sitting down, imagined her settling herself comfortably, imagined her with, perhaps, a dog on her lap. . .

  For God’s sake.

  ‘I’m hoping,’ he said, slightly briskly, ‘that you and Christopher will agree to join me for dinner one night soon. Next week, perhaps, or the week after.’

  ‘I’m sure we’d love to,’ she answered. ‘Except I’ve got a new book out at the end of next week, and the publishers are touring me.’

  ‘Pity.’ Allbeury contained his disappointment well. ‘And immediately after that, I expect you’ll be exhausted.’

  ‘Probably,’ Lizzie admitted. ‘I think, from memory, the tour has me in London for a couple of days in the middle of the schedule, so maybe, if by chance our free hours coincide, we could at least meet up for a cup of something.’