“Really?” said Juliet.
“Yes, although I have to confess that it’s the medical and sociological aspects of folklore that I find intriguing. Old folk tales are so often based on some kind of fact, even though it’s been disguised or distorted. There was a lot of inbreeding in South Lincolnshire, right up to the end of the twentieth century in some of the more out-of-the-way places, and I’d love to have the opportunity to investigate it further. When I first qualified, I worked as a registrar at Peterborough District Hospital and I was living in pretty grim digs in Peterborough. When I had a bit of time to myself, I’d go out for drives and one day I came across the village of Twenty, near Bourne. Almost all of the children who lived there had pronounced squints and several of them were ‘educationally challenged’, if that’s the correct term. I went back a few times and made friends with the vicar, who showed me the parish records. I discovered there’d been so much intermarrying in the village that almost all the children had the same great-grandfather. Of course we’ve long understood that too much inbreeding produces defects – Charles Darwin was aware of this and probably others long before him. But there’s a great deal of work still to be done on the specifics. I’m sure this knowledge is responsible for taboos in many different societies. It’s a subject that’s always fascinated me.”
“And you say it’s captured in folklore?”
“In stories of all kinds. Many old tales are much more obscure in their meaning than the Oedipus story. Probably because they’ve been changed as they were handed down, but sometimes because the underlying facts had to be conveyed indirectly, for safety reasons. In mediaeval times, incest might be condoned, turned a blind eye to, or punished very severely, for example. The shift in attitudes from one society or period to another is striking. Since we have no genetic profile for people from earlier times, history and folklore are all we have to help us piece together what happened and its effects. I’d love to have done research into genetics. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford to become a researcher.”
“That’s a pity,” said Juliet. “But if you’re interested in folklore, why don’t you come to the next meeting of Fenland Folklore? You have to apply to the chairman to join, but that’s just a detail. He won’t turn you down. I’ll write down his e-mail address for you.”
“Thank you. I’ll give it a try. When’s the next meeting?”
“We meet on Mondays, once a fortnight. So the next full meeting will be a week on Monday. But there’s also an extra meeting on Thursday, because there’s quite a well-known folklorist visiting the area and the Society has persuaded her to give us a talk.”
“I’ll try to come, if I manage to get accepted in time. You met yesterday, then?”
“Yes. It was rather a strange meeting, actually. We were asked to interpret quite a savage old tale about a witch who kept a man incarcerated for many years before finally killing him. One of the men in the group was showing off with his knowledge of psychology. He spoilt it for the rest of us – or for me, at any rate.”
“Typical!” said Louise. She was smiling. “Shall we..?”
Juliet’s phone made a sound akin to a tiny bell tolling.
“That’s Tim – DI Yates – wondering if I’m ready to leave. And I haven’t asked you about Mrs Grummett yet! I’m sorry for sidetracking you.”
“It was my fault as much as yours. But I don’t think you’ll need to keep DI Yates waiting very long. Ruby Grummett is traumatised, I’m certain of that, but she’s probably not as ill as she’d have us believe: she’s not a very good actress. But obviously she’s sustained a bad shock and for a woman of her age, especially one who’s not particularly fit, that could be serious, potentially fatal. We’re therefore keeping her under sedation for thirty-six hours. We’ll start to lower the dose tomorrow. You should be able to interview her on Thursday, if she’s still here.”
“I see,” said Juliet. “Thank you. Why do you think she’s pretending to be worse than she is?”
“It’s not unusual in cases where patients feel guilty or think they might be held to account – for negligence or breaking the law, for example. They could be trying to get sympathy, buy time to think about how to defend themselves, perhaps even persuade a doctor that they’re unfit to testify or to be tried.”
“That makes sense. And we can’t guarantee that Mrs Grummett won’t have to stand trial. It’ll depend on the coroner’s report. Is there any news of the lorry driver?”
“He’s still in a coma. I’d say his chances of surviving are no more than 50 – 50. As for his leading a normal life again, I think it’s unlikely.”
“That and the mate’s death is a terrible thing for her to have on her conscience.”
“You’re right. But I think there’s something else going on as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“That husband of hers. I’m sure he’s devoted to her, but it seems to me he has another reason for haunting the ward all the time. He doesn’t want to let her out of his sight, which is absurd, because at the moment she’s not going anywhere.”
“What do you make of that?”
“I’m not sure. If I could hazard a guess, I’d say it’s because he’s afraid she’ll say something that he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. He may have put her up to faking how bad she is. On the other hand, she may be faking so that she doesn’t have to listen to him.”
The tiny bell in Juliet’s phone tolled again.
“Thank you,” she said. “I must go. I’ll come back on Thursday, and I’ll send you those details. Hopefully you’ll know by then if you can come to hear the folklorist. Will you let me know if you decide to discharge Mrs Grummett early?”
“Certainly.” Louise Butler held out her hand. Juliet took it and shook it warmly.
Chapter Fourteen
DURING THE DRIVE back to Spalding, Tim didn’t quiz Juliet about her meeting with Louise Butler. She told him that Dr Butler had said they wouldn’t be able to return until Thursday to interview Ruby Grummett, which he found exasperating until she mentioned that the doctor had also said she suspected Ruby of malingering. He sensed they had an ally in the doctor and should be patient. He didn’t ask Juliet why it had taken her so long to find out such a small amount of information. The meeting had certainly improved her mood; he reminded himself to tell Katrin.
Verity Tandy was waiting to see him. She’d gained in self-confidence since joining the Spalding team, but she was still a bit frightened of Tim himself. She was seated at one of the hot desks outside his office and stood to meet him when she saw him.
“Do you have a moment, sir?”
“Of course,” he replied. Juliet smiled briefly at Verity and disappeared. He gestured at the door to his office. “Come in.”
Verity sat down self-consciously at the small table in the room. Tim took the other seat.
“Is it about your visit to the school?”
“Yes. There was something that worried me about it.”
“People who hang around school kids for no good reason are always worrying,” said Tim. “What does the headmaster think – it is a man, isn’t it? I think I met him a couple of years ago.”
“He’s the main problem,” said Verity. “He just doesn’t seem to be taking the incident seriously. I’ve interviewed the three girls and I think they genuinely found this man creepy, though they were too inhibited by the head’s presence to say so. Once they’d gone, he was quite scathing about the mother who’d been with them when they saw the man. More or less told me she was a trouble-maker who was likely to embroider the facts.”
“He may have a point about that. How did the woman herself strike you?”
“I haven’t met her yet. She’d left by the time I arrived. He’s given me her address.”
“Well, make sure you do see her. It may just be a clash of personalities; or you may think he’s right once you’
ve met her. I must say that when I met Alex Cooper he seemed 100 per cent committed to the welfare of the pupils.”
“Who did you say, sir?”
“Alex Cooper. That’s the name of the head, isn’t it?”
“No, sir. His name’s Richard Lennard.”
“Really? I must be out of date, then. I wonder what happened to Alex Cooper. He was very go-ahead.”
“In that case, he’s probably moved on to something more ambitious.”
“I suppose you’re right. Anyway, ignore what I just said. I don’t know Richard Lennard, so follow your own hunch.”
“Thank you, sir. How’s Mrs Grummett?”
“Heavily sedated but swinging the lead, on good authority. No, I take that back – and please don’t repeat it. It’s confidential. The doctor who’s looking after her thinks she may be putting it on a bit, either to gain sympathy or stall for time. There’s something about that whole case that doesn’t stack up. If the accident itself was straightforward, the Grummett family certainly isn’t. And yet – you must forgive me for sounding prejudiced – they’re hardly bright enough to carry off any kind of scam. Except for the daughter – the younger one, that is. Heaven only knows how they managed to have a child like her.”
“That reminds me. One of the girls I interviewed at Spalding High School looked just like her.”
“Really? Astonishing, considering how distinctive she is. But perhaps it was a relative.”
“I don’t think so. At any rate, this girl – her name is Cassandra Knipes – just looked blank when I called her Philippa. If she’s related to a Philippa, she’d surely have told me.”
“Both unusual names, aren’t they? I suppose they could have common ancestors without knowing. That’s probably true of a lot of people round here.”
“I suppose so,” said Verity doubtfully.
“Anyway,” said Tim, standing up, “make an appointment to see the mother – what’s her name, incidentally?”
“Mrs Painter. Her daughter’s name’s Leonora.”
“Another fancy name! Was she a blonde bombshell, too?”
Verity was visibly taken aback for a moment.
“I’m sorry, that sounded sexist. I didn’t mean it to.”
She smiled.
“Since you ask, sir, Leonora was the ugly duckling of the three. Overweight, and with rather a nervous, fussy manner.”
“The mother’s probably awful, then.”
“I sympathise with the girl,” said Verity sternly. “She reminds me of myself at her age.”
Damn, thought Tim. I let myself in for that one.
“Yes, well, arrange to see the mother as soon as you can, and keep me informed.”
Chapter Fifteen
FIVE YEARS AGO, the Lover gave me a television. I was grateful. I’d been shut away from the world for so long, I feared I might no longer understand it. Ariadne must understand, too. We both watch it avidly, especially when he’s away. He forbids us the news or current affairs programmes. I don’t know why. If anyone noticed when he took me, they gave up the search long ago: it will have been assumed that I’d simply gone home. I’d never have gone home in a thousand years, but how were they to know?
The Lover’s been jumpy for the past few days. It’s partly because Ariadne’s still ill. He only hits her rarely, but always when she’s sick; it infuriates him when either of us is sick. I had to grab hold of his arm when he lashed out again. He let it fall, but he made it quite clear that she needs to pull herself together, and quickly. She seems a little better today. Perhaps she’s making an effort.
She doesn’t speak well, but I understand her. I know that she wants to watch the television. I look at my watch. It’s nearly 6 p.m. Time for the news. I consider carefully. He’s been here once already: it would be unlike him to visit again. If he catches us watching the news we’ll be punished. I look at Ariadne. She’s ill and struggling bravely to fight it. I turn on the television. I keep the sound right down.
The national news is never very interesting – stories about Europe are what I like best. But I love the local news. I put up with all the dull stuff about the budget, the banks, redundancies and the NHS until eventually the picture sequence that announces Look East flashes by. I resist the temptation to turn up the volume. If I hear him coming I shall switch off quickly.
There’s been a railway accident. There are pictures of a derailed train and a half-demolished house. Firemen and policemen are being interviewed. I don’t think it happened today: the people being interviewed are too calm. The commentator stands and speaks alone for a few seconds before offering the microphone to a short young woman standing beside him. She has a fat pasty face and curly hair. She says a few words before the picture widens to take in another young woman, someone who’s still a girl. The camera focuses on her face and I gasp. I scrabble for the remote control, desperate to turn up the sound, but I’m so upset I’m fumbling and before I can hear her voice she’s gone. I know that girl. She is mine.
Ariadne makes a noise. Her eyes are wide with alarm. I realise that tears are streaming down my face. I may have cried out. She puts her hands over her ears. She’s very agitated. I must prevent her from having an attack. I must help her to get better quickly, before he comes back. I kill the news. I take my daughter in my arms.
Chapter Sixteen
DRESSED IN SKINNY jeans and a shocking pink shirt tied at the waist to reveal her midriff, Mrs Painter lit a cigarette from the one she already held in her hand as she opened the door to Verity. Stringy orange hair with black roots fell to her shoulders. Her face was a mask of foundation and thick blue eye make-up, accentuated by a mass of harsh black eyeliner and mascara. Beneath the maquillage, her cheeks were hollow, her eye sockets ringed with bruise-like shadows that the cosmetics couldn’t quite conceal. Candelabra earrings hung from her ears. At first glance, she might have been mistaken for a woman in her mid-30s, but Verity thought she was probably much older. She was as skinny as her daughter was plump.
She’d agreed to see Verity that afternoon and said she would prefer it if the interview could take place before Leonora came home from school. She lived in a cottage on the Cowbit road. It was of a type quite common locally: clad in rough grey rendering, with windows in the eaves and a small porch at the front. It probably dated from the mid-nineteenth century. When Verity stepped inside she found herself in a narrow corridor that ran the length of the house.
“In here,” said Mrs Painter, leading the way to a kitchen that might once have been pleasantly bucolic but was now in need of some loving care, not to mention a good scrub. It was poky and dark and smelt of past cooking. Mrs Painter sat down at the table and continued her manoeuvres with the cigarettes while gesturing at a second chair. Lifting it out, Verity discovered it was piled high with an assorted jumble of mail.
“Just chuck that lot on the floor,” said Mrs Painter, her new smoke now clamped between her lips. She shifted her own position nervily. Verity caught a flash of glitter. Mrs Painter’s navel had been pierced and adorned with a crystal hanging from a silver ring.
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Mrs Painter,” said Verity. “Mr Lennard told me you have a job. I hope you haven’t taken time off specially.”
“My name’s Cindy,” the woman said, meeting her eye briefly before allowing her gaze to wander off towards the wall cabinets. “Makes me feel a hundred years old if you call me that.” She flicked ash into a tea-cup. “I work at Barker’s the Florists in Crowland, making up wreaths and commercial flower arrangements. It’s flexible: we don’t have much on at the moment. I can work longer hours when we’re busy.”
“Do you always take Leonora to school?”
“Not usually. She can get the bus. She missed it this morning.”
“So you don’t do the school run every day?”
“I’ve just said, haven’t I? I’
m beginning to wonder if I should, though. If there’s strange men hanging about.”
“I’d like you to tell me about the incident this morning, in as much detail as you can remember. I’ve seen the three girls. They were quite vague about why you thought the man might be dangerous.”
Cindy Painter exhaled.
“Are you surprised? They don’t have the sense they was born with when they get to that age. Think everything’s funny and forget all the stuff we taught them when they was nippers. Especially when they get together.” She tapped the fingers of her left hand rhythmically on the top of the table.
Verity smiled encouragingly.
“So, you drove Leonora in your car down Stonegate and parked outside the school. Was it right outside the school, or some way up the road?”
“It was right outside, but on the opposite side of the street. Her name’s Leo, by the way. No-one uses Leonora.”
Verity didn’t want to introduce a complication by contradicting her. As it was, getting a coherent statement from the woman was like extracting hen’s teeth.
“And she was still in the car when you saw the man?”
“Yes. She was about to get out. Messing about collecting her stuff, she was. I told her to get a move on as she’d already made me late.”
“But even though you were having a conversation with her, you still saw the man?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing?”
“Nothing. Just looking over the school wall, watching the kids as they got off the buses and that.”
“That’s all?”
“No. Leo’s two friends came walking down the road and he turned round then and started staring at them.”
“Did he speak to them?”
“I don’t think so, no. But he was giving me the creeps and they didn’t look very happy, either. So I opened the car door and told them to get in for a few minutes.”
“That was nice of you, when you were already late.”
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