A Willing Victim

by Wilson, Laura

  ‘I’m sorry, Reg.’ Even as he said it, Stratton was aware of the pathetic inadequacy of his response.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ said Reg.

  ‘Well …’ Stratton hesitated. ‘You have been looking a bit, well, poorly, and I did wonder …’

  Reg gave a faint smile. ‘Ever the detective, eh?’

  ‘It wasn’t only me,’ said Stratton. ‘Pete noticed too. He was worried about you. Told me before he left.’

  ‘Did he? That was kind of him.’ Reg nodded. ‘Yes, very thoughtful, to think of me like that. But all the same …’ he leant forward slightly and Stratton saw the loose flesh on his jawline sag, hanging away from his face, ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t … broadcast the fact. At least, not at the moment.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Stratton. ‘I shan’t say anything if you don’t want me to. But I think you should tell Lilian. I’m sure she must be worried.’

  ‘Yes.’ Reg sighed. ‘She is. The thing is, I don’t know how long … Didn’t ask the doctor. It seemed a bit much – after all, they’re not soothsayers, are they?’

  This was such a far cry from the self-dramatist Stratton knew that it made him feel ashamed for all the times he’d laughed at the man, by himself or with Don, so that he stared down at his slippers, unable to look Reg in the face. ‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘Of course they’re not. But I think, with Lilian, it’s only fair.’

  ‘I know. I will tell her. It’s finding the right moment. She’s been very good to me, all things considered.’

  ‘She loves you, Reg.’

  ‘Yes.’ Reg stared down at the cup of stewed tea on the small table beside his chair. Stratton, following his gaze, saw that there was a small stain, a round beige spot, on the white embroidered tablecloth. Reg must have noticed it too, because he frowned and extended a finger, as if to touch the place. Withdrawing it, he said, ‘She loves me. Extraordinary, when you come to think of it.’

  ‘We will look after her, you know,’ said Stratton. ‘Her and Johnny.’

  ‘Yes … I just wish he’d settle down. Get a decent job and find himself a nice girl – not one of these flashy types he goes about with.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.’

  Reg shook his head. ‘I wish I could believe that. But if you’d just try and put in a word for him. I mean, if the need arises. I’ve no idea what he’s up to. I’m sure it’s pretty shady, a lot of it, but I should hate him to go to gaol. It may be what he deserves, but all the same … it would break his mother’s heart.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I know you will. Anyway,’ said Reg, with finality, ‘there it is. Now,’ he got to his feet, ‘I mustn’t keep you. I’m sure you’ve got a busy day ahead. I just thought it best to set the record straight. You know,’ he added, ‘between the two of us.’

  Stratton rose, too. ‘If you’re sure. There’s no need to rush off—’

  ‘I should go,’ said Reg. ‘Seem to get very tired nowadays …’

  In the hall Stratton helped Reg put on his coat, noting, as he did so, how the garment hung off his shoulders, the extra material bunching at the waist as he fastened his belt. ‘Same size now as when I was thirty,’ said Reg. Even his hat, always too small so that it left a pink ring around his sparsely-haired scalp, was looser.

  ‘You going to be all right?’ asked Stratton. ‘Want me to walk home with you?’

  ‘No need. I’m not quite that much of a crock yet, but I really do appreciate … everything.’

  ‘And I appreciate your coming to tell me, Reg.’

  ‘Ah, well … There it is.’

  They shook hands awkwardly on the porch, and Stratton watched as his brother-in-law made his slow way across the garden and into the street, standing in the doorway until Reg turned the corner and he could see him no more. Then, returning to his armchair, he sat for a long time in silence.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  ‘But she seemed so nice.’ Pauline stabbed the needles through the ball of wool and laid her knitting aside.

  Ballard leant forward to lump another log on the fire. ‘They all seemed nice.’

  ‘How could she try and kill her own child? And I don’t understand how anyone could just abandon a baby like that, either.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t understand any of it. They’re all quite mad, if you ask me, and the sooner this place is shot of the lot of them, the happier I’ll be.’

  ‘The Foundation, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. I went to see Miss Kirkland’s sister this afternoon, up near Diss. Nice woman – perfectly ordinary—’

  ‘That must have been a relief.’

  ‘It was. Horrible for her, though, finding out about the murders. Burst into tears and kept saying she couldn’t believe it – I was jolly glad Policewoman Wickstead was there, I can tell you. She kept telling me Patricia – that’s Miss Kirkland – never used to be like that, and how close they’d been as children, and how happy …’

  ‘I suppose she was trying to show you there was another person – a normal person – underneath it all.’

  ‘That’s exactly it. She kept on saying what a loving person Miss Kirkland was, and how kind – talked about the pets they’d had, how well she’d looked after them, things like that. Mind you, she did say that the family’d often wondered – later on, this was – if Miss Kirkland might take holy orders or something.’

  ‘Was it a religious family?’

  ‘No, that was the thing. But apparently she was very keen on going to church, very serious and conscientious about everything … Spending hours over her homework, always ticking the sister off for being slack, not wanting to go out and play much, even when she was quite young. Mrs Fielding – that’s the sister – made a bit of a joke of being told off all the time, but it’s obviously why a person like Mr Roth must have appealed so much. Judging from what Mrs Fielding said, she hadn’t undergone a personality change – no brainwashing or anything – but the Foundation just sort of … reinforced what was already there. She said Miss Kirkland had never shown any interest in getting married or anything like that. According to her, Miss K. was the brainy one. She went to university to study economics and then she went off to London to be a civil servant, so the family didn’t see much of her, and after she met Mr Roth and went to live at the Foundation they never saw her at all. I remember she – Miss K., I mean – said something to us about Roth not encouraging outside distractions, so I suppose family was one of them. They didn’t even know where she was living. When the parents died, Mrs Fielding had no idea how to contact her, so I don’t think she even knows they’re no longer with us.’

  ‘Perhaps she guessed and that was why she asked you to contact her sister, not them.’

  ‘Could be. Mrs Fielding said she’d like to see her, but she didn’t know if Miss Kirkland would want it.’

  ‘That’s really sad. I can’t imagine not wanting to see my family, can you?’

  ‘No, I can’t. It seems all wrong to me, but Miss K. obviously thought she was doing the right thing, didn’t she?’

  ‘But,’ Pauline gave him a shrewd look, ‘By isolating people from their families, Mr Roth had more control over them, didn’t he? If the Foundation became their family …’

  ‘They wouldn’t have any outside influences,’ finished Ballard. ‘That was the point. To start afresh, as it were.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s wicked!’ Pauline got up and began tidying up the tea cups. ‘That poor woman …’

  ‘It’s what Miss Kirkland wanted.’

  ‘Thought she wanted,’ said Pauline. ‘Nobody could want to kill somebody – not unless they were mad, or in a war. And the boy didn’t have a choice, did he?’

  ‘No,’ said Ballard. ‘He didn’t join it, he was put there. But most of the people who did join it are probably just like us, really.’

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ Pauline swept up the tray and took it into the kitchen.

  �
�What I meant,’ said Ballard, when she came back a minute or two later, ‘is that they were probably asking quite ordinary questions – why am I here, what happens when we die, why are some people born rich and others poor … things like that. And when they met Roth, they thought they’d found the answers.’

  ‘More fool them, then.’ Pauline sounded angry. This was, Ballard realised, in part with herself for being impressed by the Foundation in the first place.

  ‘How about a glass of sherry?’ he said. ‘And let’s talk about something else, for God’s sake. I’ve had it up to here with all that stuff.’

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Pauline went over to the sideboard. Her back to him, pouring from the decanter – a present from her parents which stood in pride of place on a doily – she said, ‘Thank you, Ben.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For not saying “I told you so”.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Accepting a glass of sherry, he added, ‘I did find out something odd, though – I think Stratton has a secret.’

  ‘Oh?’ Pauline kicked off her slippers and curled up on the other end of the sofa, legs tucked underneath her. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It might be nothing, but after we had that row – you know, the second time …’ he stopped to gauge Pauline’s reaction.

  She raised her eyes in good-humoured acknowledgement and said impatiently, ‘Go on …’

  ‘Well, I didn’t sleep very well – you know, thinking – so I got up at about four—’

  ‘Yes, I remember. You woke me.’

  ‘Sorry. I was trying to be quiet.’

  ‘You sounded like a herd of elephants. Anyway, never mind that.’

  ‘I went for a walk, down the hill and past the pub, and I noticed that Stratton’s car wasn’t there. I asked him about it later – I didn’t make a big hoo-ha about it, just mentioned it – and he said that he’d left it round the back. But I know he didn’t, because I went down the lane – you know, the one that leads past the back of the pub, where there’s a bit of space – and it wasn’t there, either.’

  ‘Perhaps he’d gone back to London.’

  ‘In that case, why not tell me? I mean, if there’d been an emergency at home, or something … He said he’d forgotten where he’d parked it, but it didn’t ring true.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not making something out of nothing?’

  ‘I wondered about that, but I don’t think so. He’s not that kind of bloke. I mean, he doesn’t tell you all his business, but he’s honest. Open. Always has been.’

  ‘Maybe it was something to do with the case.’

  ‘Then he’d definitely have told me. He’s never been the type to keep things back then claim the credit – that’s not his style at all. Anyway, I’d know by now, wouldn’t I?

  And afterwards – at the pub, I mean – when we were talking about other things, he seemed a bit … well, distracted. Of course, I don’t know what he’d been up to, but …’

  ‘What, though? Do you think he’s got a woman tucked away somewhere out here?’

  ‘I don’t know. It did cross my mind, but it seems a bit unlikely … And I was under the impression that he was a one-woman man.’

  ‘“Was” is the operative word. His wife’s been dead for – what? – ten years, now?’

  ‘Nearer twelve.’

  ‘There you are, then,’ said Pauline triumphantly. ‘He’s got a ladyfriend. It’s like that bunch at the Foundation – people aren’t always what you think. Even me.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Ballard. Finishing his sherry in a single gulp, he crossed the room, bent over her, and kissed her on the mouth.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Passing the war memorial on the way to the allotment on Sunday, Stratton stopped to look at the bank of wreaths left there the previous week. He noted, as he always did, the recurrence of certain surnames and wondered what on earth the woman of the house must have felt like when she received the second – and, in the case of one poor family, third – telegram. He’d not had a letter from Pete, but then his son had never been much good at keeping in touch. Perhaps he had a girl to write to … Pete had brought several girls home in the past, but he’d always been pretty casual about it. They’d always seemed nice – at least, as far as he was able to gauge on such a slight acquaintance – and certainly attractive, but he’d never had the sense that they were being … what was the word? Presented? Offered for inspection? And when he’d mentioned them later, choosing his words carefully so as not to seem overly inquisitive or – far worse – lascivious, Pete had dismissed them. He’d certainly never seen any of them again. His son had always contrived by his offhandedness to give the impression that he’d tired of them, but Stratton supposed it could have been the other way around … Still, so long as he came back safe and unharmed, what did it matter? He’d have his life ahead of him.

  Unlike poor old Reg, whose life, now, was all behind him. He’d fought in the Great War – there was a photograph somewhere of him in uniform, posed self-consciously beside a papier-mâché tree stump in some photographer’s studio, in front of a backdrop of painted fields. He must have lost some pals, thought Stratton, but he’d never spoken of them … He’d never spoken of it at all, really, other than to remind you, at intervals regular enough to be extremely bloody irritating, that he was there.

  Sometime around three o’clock that morning, lying sleepless and listening to the rain, Stratton had reignited the – surely insane – notion that Reg’s story about his father’s unusually intense friendship with another man was an oblique attempt to counsel him about Monica. Despite dismissing the idea as nonsense, it had refused to leave him, and he’d spent the next hour constructing increasingly elaborate explanations as to how Reg might have spotted something that he could not or would not see about his own daughter. Looking at the thing now, in the cold light of day, it seemed clear enough that Reg had spoken because he’d never told his suspicions about his dad to anyone and simply wanted to give them voice. Or so Stratton imagined. That had to be it, didn’t it? As asking Reg about it was clearly out of the question, and he’d bet his bottom dollar that his brother-in-law wasn’t going to mention it to anyone else, he might as well drop the whole thing.

  He turned away from the memorial, lifting his collar against the wind. As he reached the allotment, he realised that he’d simply gone there out of habit with no intention of actually doing anything. Ah, well … nothing much to do in November, anyway. He’d be better off in the shed at home, scrubbing pots, except that somehow he couldn’t fancy it.

  He stood and stared at his patch, which was covered by a drift of leaves from the trees by the fence, pounded by the recent rain into a mulch out of which poked a few dismal-looking cabbages, a cluster of bamboo sticks with bits of string flapping from them and the gooseberry bush. Ought to prune it, he thought, and then: another day. The sky had the dark and unsteady look of a muddy, windblown puddle, and the air, still wet from the heavy early morning rain, was like a damp handkerchief around his face. There was only one other man on the site, bent over a spade – more fool him – while his two young sons, bored and restive, tumbled over each other like cubs in the slippery mud beside the plot. They’d be eight or nine years old, he thought; not all that much younger than Michael Milburn. How long would it be, he wondered, before Michael was released? And what sort of person would he be by then? Christ! Angrily, he yanked the bamboo sticks out of the ground, threw them down on the path and kicked them into a pile.

  ‘Dad! Dad!’ Stratton looked up to see Monica running towards him, pink-cheeked and breathless, with shining eyes.

  ‘Hello, love. I didn’t expect to see you.’

  ‘I know, but I just thought … with Pete away and everything … Anyway, here I am.’ Monica surveyed the allotment. ‘Bit of a mess, isn’t it? Shall I give you a hand?’

  Looking at her, Stratton suddenly saw her as fourteen again. He remembered how she’d come up here with him the year after Jenny d
ied, when the war was ending and she and Pete had finally come home. She’d offered to help then, too. Pete had never taken much of an interest, but she had, and she’d turned out to have quite a knack for growing things. I’m lucky to have a daughter like her, he thought. No, he was more than lucky. What he actually felt, in a barely definable – and wholly unsayable – way, was blessed.

  ‘Are you all right, Dad?’

  ‘Wh— Oh, yes. Fine. Why?’

  ‘You’ve got your crumpled look.’

  Stratton glanced down at his mackintosh. ‘I know it’s not exactly Savile Row, but … Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. You’re wearing overalls.’

  ‘Not overalls, Dad.’ Monica lifted up her own mackintosh. ‘They’re called jeans. It’s the latest thing from America – I bought them from someone on the set. Hardly anyone’s got them yet, but everyone wants a pair.’

  ‘I can’t think why. They’ve got rivets, for God’s sake. You look like a battleship. You don’t wear those to work, do you?’

  ‘Course not! But you wait, everyone’ll be wearing them soon.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘No, the young people.’

  ‘Well, they’ll all look like cowboys. What’s wrong with a frock, anyway?’ Stratton fell silent, suddenly remembering the many times Reg had held forth on the topic of women in trousers. He was, of course, against it – or, as he put it, ‘agin it’. He thought of this now with something approaching affection, although when it was actually happening his feelings had been the usual mixture of boredom, irritation, and embarrassment on his brother-in-law’s behalf.

  ‘Honestly, Dad …’ Monica rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway, when I said crumpled, I didn’t mean your clothes, I meant your face. That sort of funny smile where your mouth goes half up and half down, as if you’re pleased about something and sad at the same time. You’re looking like it now.’

  ‘Oh.’ Stratton made what he hoped was an improved (or at least less melancholy) face. ‘Sorry about that. I’ll try to do better in future. I’m pleased to see you, at any rate. Have you heard from Pete?’