Jo Evison’s aunt had not looked as he might have imagined her, if he had assumed there would be a familial resemblance; she was taller and thinner and darker than that, and now, as she looked across the road at her neice, her face was drawn and angular in the strong light of a fine July afternoon. The recent grief would have something to do with that, of course, and perhaps past grief, too – Smith had not forgotten the story that Jo had told him of how her sister Layla had been killed on the road outside the family home when she was a girl. Families never get over such events; they absorb them and assimilate them but they are altered by them forever.
Veronica Maddison said, ‘As she has placed us here, Detective Smith, I might as well make another pertinent observation. For a clever girl, she has made consistently bad choices in that part of her life. I won’t go into detail – it would not be appropriate – but it has left her rather wary. Rather too cautious, perhaps. And that is a pity because I think she has a lot to offer the right person.’
She looked at him then with another ironic smile and said, ‘Am I being inappropriate anyway? Am I embarrassing you? If so, I am sorry but only a little bit!’
So Jo Evison had not got her looks from her aunt but he recognised the intellectual honesty alright, the perceptive precision in the language and the readiness to put new acquaintances into the spotlight to see how they would perform.
Smith said, ‘No, not embarrassed, Veronica. Jo told me about herself when we had a day here last year, and when she stayed over at my house in Kings Lake. I agree with you – she has a lot to offer the right person.’
She brought her eyes back to him then, and he met her measuring gaze full on, guessing that Mrs Maddison didn’t give one many opportunities to do that. He would not have been too surprised if she had said to him then, ‘And is that you?’
Instead, ‘Hmm. I didn’t realise that she had stayed over with you…’ and then she laughed properly for the first time since he had met her because despite himself he blushed momentarily at the possibility of having committed an indiscretion. Over the road, glancing around at them and waving, the subject of their conversation was nearing the front of the queue.
Mrs Maddison said, ‘Jo and her father were very close. She has told you about Layla, so you can imagine… She is deeply upset by his death and is coping with it by making a lot of fuss over me. I don’t mind because it has brought us closer together and because I needed the fuss, but at some point she has to examine and confront her own feelings. Displacement only works for a while. Do you think I’m heartless, talking about such things in this way?’
Smith shook his head – partly in answer to her question and partly in realisation of just what it must have meant to have had an eminent educational psychologist as a favourite aunt.
‘Good. I mention these things only because anyone who might… Be close to Jo in the coming months needs to know them. For an older man, of course, there might even be some risk of transference.’
He had to laugh out loud himself then, loudly enough for Jo to look round as she waited for the three ice creams to be handed over. Veronica Maddison joined in and said, ‘It’s alright, I know that you are not, as they say, old enough to be her father.’
‘Not quite!’
‘And older would be good, to be completely honest. Someone with lots of life experience, someone who has known loss themselves, as you have, David. A steadying influence for a change, rather than a young and excitable one – I wouldn’t say all this if I hadn’t realised that you are not easily offended!’
Jo was waiting to cross the road, which seemed suddenly busy with beach-bound traffic.
He said, ‘With the greatest respect, Veronica, I think you might be jumping the gun just a little here.’
She looked away from to Jo, who was pulling a face of amused frustration as more cars went by, and said, seemingly to herself more than to him, ‘Do you?’
There was a low spring tide and the sea was only a distant, thin, grey-blue line between the sand and the sky, several hundred yards to the north. When Veronica said that she would go alone, that she needed the air and the exercise, they objected only politely and formally, and she left them sitting among the marram grass on the top of the last dune before the beach itself began. Slowly her tall figure receded into the extraordinary light that has brought so many painters to the northern coast of Norfolk, and soon she was herself little more than a slender dark smudge made with the edge of a palette knife.
‘She wasn’t too awful, was she, while I was fetching those ice creams? I heard you laughing.’
‘No, not at all. We were talking about you, obviously.’
‘And something was funny… What was it?’
She knew that he was teasing and he knew that she was pretending offence.
‘I couldn’t possibly break a confidence with your aunt. I can see a family resemblance, though.’
Jo shook her head as if to say, that won’t do.
‘I look like my father.’
‘I wasn’t talking about looks. Taken in the wrong way, your aunt could be fairly intimidating.’
She looked back at him, and he thought that her hair must getting more blonde with each hour that she was spending out in the sunshine. There was no quick answer this time – what he had said was clearly of interest to her.
‘She’s brilliant academically but that doesn’t always lead to happiness, does it? In fact, I’d say that it often does not. She uses her intelligence as a shield most of the time. It’s a defensive weapon. I don’t think more than three or four people have ever really known her.’
Smith had taken a handful of sand, the dry, powdery stuff that makes climbing the dunes such an exhausting business, and he let it fall slowly through his fingers; there was no breeze at all and it returned to its source in a soft, feathery plume.
‘As I said, there is a family resemblance…’
She laughed and jabbed the top of his arm with her elbow. Her aunt was now no more than a tiny speck, a wavering in the heat haze over the pale sand. Although the car park had seemed full, the expanse of beach was so great that the people had simply disappeared into it and Veronica Maddison had achieved her aim – she was alone by the sea with her memories.
Smith said, ‘Tell me about your father.’
He was born in north London, she said, into an ordinary, working class family. He left school at sixteen and became an engineering apprentice and then an engineer. Because he was also good with people, the company moved him into technical sales and then marketing; it wasn’t a huge company but it was very successful, especially in exports. For the last twenty years of his life, Bill Evison had had a seat on the board as the marketing director. His younger sister, meanwhile, stayed on at school and made her way from a council estate to Cambridge University. That’s where she met her American husband.
‘What did they make, your dad’s company?’
‘Specialist lawnmowers, mostly.’
Smith nodded – one of those days when things just fit together.
After a time he said, ‘How will she cope, your aunt? It’s not easy living alone in a house you’ve shared with someone.’
‘Well, better than he would have done. She says she knows there will be a period of adjustment – can you believe that? She analyses her own feelings, and you think to yourself, aha, that’s your coping strategy, and then she will look at you and say, yes, that’s my coping strategy – what is yours going to be? She can be infuriating!’
‘And the answer is? What will you do? What about work – Germany?’
‘I’m committed for the next academic term, and I won’t let them down. But I think that will be it. I’ll come home at Christmas and stay home. I’m supposed to be writing a book, aren’t I?’
She was looking down at him, smiling but earnest and he realised that she had just asked him an important question.
‘About Andretti?’
‘Yes.’
She wanted to know, then, that
he was still alright with that – it was a long time since they had last talked about it. As an answer, he told her about the phone call from Laurence Cunningham.
She said, ‘So this goes back to what I told you months ago, doesn’t it? Did you ever look into it?’
‘No.’
That was a very definite sort of no, and she thought carefully about her next words. While she did so, Smith watched her aunt far out across the strand, moving to the left now. She might even be in the water a little; Smith hoped that she would not turn and appear to be waving as it was an awfully long way to run.
She said, ‘I know a little more, if you want to hear it.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Someone from Hunston was picked up last year; attempted abduction of two girls, with what appeared to be sexual motives. He was arrested and questioned but it never went through to charges – I don’t know why.’
Smith sat up. Veronica Maddison was growing taller again, walking back towards them.
He said, ‘Well, there must have been more to it than that the person was from Hunston; to put it bluntly, perverts aren’t that uncommon – I’d say that there are at least two in every town. Or village. Or street, come to that.’
‘There was more.’
Why the pauses? Smith looked at her properly and saw that she was preparing herself to say something, and his skin prickled. He hadn’t felt anything like that in a long time.
‘What was it?’
‘There were some similarities. It was said he had used a burger van to find the girls and get talking to them. You know, a free one for you because you are so pretty…’
Smith could see that there was more.
‘And?’
‘And his name was Harris. Paolo Harris.’
Andretti’s cousin.
They had perhaps three more minutes before her aunt was back with them.
Smith said, ‘No-one told me anything about this.’
‘The local police at Hunston? Why would they? He was only held for a few hours or so I was told. If he had been charged, they might have done. It was Andretti’s defence lawyers who saw an opportunity. They know that you questioned Paolo Harris about the fourth girl, how her body had got onto the beach when Andretti had the perfect alibi. I don’t know who told them but they were onto it immediately; only the fact that he wasn’t tried slowed them up – that’s my guess. I don’t know why they’ve contacted you now.’
She could see that Smith was processing it all quickly.
She said, ‘When you told me last year that you knew who it was that had helped him at least once but you couldn’t prove it, you didn’t mention any names. Was it Paolo Harris?’
‘Yes.’
‘God, David. This is all quite strange, isn’t it?’
He didn’t answer. She must have assumed he was still troubled by what she had told him and tried to make light of it before her aunt reached the foot of the sandhills.
‘And this probably isn’t helping, is it, me making you sit here in the sand-dunes? Probably the last place you want to be…’
He stood up, ready to greet Veronica who was laughing with the effort needed to climb the shifting slopes, saying to Jo, ‘Not to worry – it’s the company that makes all the difference.’
When he saw her smiling, he said with a serious face, ‘I mean your aunt, obviously.’
She had forgiven him reasonably quickly and they were halfway across the sands, heading for the gap in the pines, when his mobile began to ring. The three of them stopped while Smith took out the phone and looked at it. The number was unknown and his expression told the two women as much.
Jo turned to her aunt and said, ‘This is where it can get interesting. The last time this happened he ended up being a person of interest in a murder investigation!’
She laughed then at the memory, took her aunt’s arm and began to walk slowly on towards the distant trees. Smith answered the call but did not recognise the voice immediately – in fact, not until the man said, ‘It’s Joe – Joseph Ritz. From Abbeyfields.’
Smith glimpsed his face again, then, through the doorway, after the last meeting with the Brothers, and remembered the odd expression – odd enough to make him wait in the car for a minute or two to see if anything would come of it. Nothing had and so it had become a loose end – he had forgotten about it in all the activity since, yet now, suddenly, it seemed important. But he had offered to help Joe if there were problems with the police at the hostel; this might be nothing more than that. He asked the friar what he could do for him.
‘I called this morning a couple of times but you were busy. I thought you might ring me back but… Then I thought I wouldn’t bother because it’s probably nothing.’
‘Joe, at this point I’m supposed to say “Let me be the judge of that”, but in my experience the probably nothings usually turn out to be definitely somethings. What’s up?’
‘I was going to say something at the friary when you came on Thursday but I feel bad about it. I don’t like gossip and I’m not out to make trouble.’
Jo looked back over her shoulder at him. Then she pointed something out to Veronica and they both stood looking towards the sea; Smith followed their line of sight but could see only a tanker of some sort on the horizon – and, of course, the windmills.
‘OK, Joe. I’ll be straight with you. If I think it’s just a bit of gossip, I’ll say so.’
Still with a sense of reluctance, Joe told him that on the Wednesday evening after supper, he had walked along the passage by Brother Jeremy’s office and heard an argument taking place – a serious argument with raised voices and recriminations, of a sort he had never heard at Abbeyfields before.
Smith said, ‘And was it Brother Jeremy himself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who else, Joe? Just one other person as far as you could tell?’
‘I think so. It was Andrew.’
The two women were moving on again slowly, arm in arm, the first time that he had seen close physical contact between them since he arrived. Death breaks us apart and pushes us closer together – the end of all but also a beginning.
‘And could you make out what it was about?’
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping. I wasn’t standing and listening – but it was something to do with him coming back, why hadn’t he stayed away? I assumed that was Andrew, him only coming back that same day.’
Smith hadn’t taken another step but the beach had gone, as had the sea and the sky and the pinewoods; his attention was on the voice at the other end of the line even though there is no line any more, just a string of masts and a stream of agitated molecules.
‘OK, Joe. Tell me why you thought it was worth ringing me with this.’
An old trick, asking the person with the information to justify its significance – if there is anything else hidden away, even unconsciously, that will often draw it out.
‘Are you saying you think it is gossip, then?’
‘No – not at all.’
‘Well… I just wondered. All the police comings and goings, the media stories, and then them arguing away like that – is it a coincidence? I don’t know. It sounds stupid now. But Jeremy was definitely upset, not like him. He’s usually the man in control.’
‘Upset or angry, Joe?’
The friar thought it over for a moment.
‘He was both. As I say, I wasn’t there for long and the doors are thick old things.’
‘How did it end – do you know?’
‘Not really. The door opened and he came out – Andrew left him to it.’
‘Brother Andrew came out and saw you there?’
‘Yes.’
The plan that had been taking shape in Smith’s mind rearranged itself a little.
‘Right… What did he do? Did he say anything?’
‘Not a word. He just had that look on his face. If you knew him, you’d know the look I mean. Like a saint looking down from a stained glass window.’
&n
bsp; Smith had to smile at that – it was perfect in its way.
‘Joe, thanks for ringing. It might be nothing but it isn’t a waste of time either. There have been plenty of developments in the case since but I will think over what you’ve told me. No need to mention to anyone that you have, though.’
The women were waiting for him at the wooden walkway that climbs up and over the dunes at the gap. He quickened his pace and thought to himself, if I wouldn’t look ridiculous I’d break into a little jog at this point. What a lovely afternoon.
Smith hadn’t seen the country singer before but he did a very passable impression of Willie Nelson, and when he finished with ‘You Were Always On My Mind’ the Saturday evening audience at the Pinehills Social Club got to their feet and applauded him. Jo Evison joined in and asked Smith whether he, the singer, was a semi-professional doing a tour of the clubs. Smith said it was more likely that the vocalist was a postman who lived up the road and spoke with a Norfolk rather than a Texan accent when he wasn’t wearing a rawhide jacket and a headband.
He had intended to leave before tea-time but had been prevailed upon to partake of the food that they had brought with them – excellent cheese and cold meats from their favourite Cockfosters delicatessen which he must try, and a home-made lemon tart from Mrs Maddison’s own kitchen. After that, he could not eat and run, so it was another, briefer walk in the evening woods, during which Jo said that Shirley Salmon had told her there would be some music at the social club – she, Jo, should prevail upon the owner of the caravan to accompany them. Smith made a mental note – admonish caravan site owner – and then discovered that Veronica was feeling rather tired after the unaccustomed walking; the two young people should go on their own. Young people! He looked hard in Mrs Maddison’s direction but she studiously avoided his eye, and instead told her neice that she must be home by eleven or she would be grounded for a week, and that was that.
‘Shirley told me that you sometimes play here yourself.’
Several people had greeted Smith since they had sat at the table – denial seemed pretty pointless. He made a full and frank confession.
The Rags of Time Page 23