A City of Strangers

by Robert Barnard

  “You don’t mean you think he’s involved in all this?”

  “Oh no, I’m sure he’s not . . . Quite sure. . . . But he can’t get away from the fact that he masterminded all the opposition to the Phelans, and he knows the police are interested in him just for that reason.”

  “So the old line about ‘If you are innocent you have nothing to fear’ doesn’t cut any ice with him? I would have thought he’d be a member of the Aren’t Our Policemen Wonderful brigade.”

  “He is, normally. Though he’s also fond of watching Sylvester Stallone dispensing his own brand of justice—pretends he’s hired them for the kids. I think the mere fact that the police are interested in him makes him feel that his respectability is threatened. He’s very insecure socially.”

  “Aren’t we all? Steven thinks my mother is an upper-class dragon, but she’s only precariously upper-middle. It’s the precariousness that makes her a dragon. She made sure she caught an elderly knight for a husband, and now she waves the title and puts it on generally to an embarrassing extent.”

  “Yes—I suppose anyone who has anything to lose is socially insecure,” said Jennifer thoughtfully.

  “That’s what makes the Phelans frightening. They have nothing. Jack Phelan was the new underclass: riotous, savage, with nothing to lose. It frees you from an awful lot of restraints and inhibitions. Like the man in Little Dorrit who said that being in the debtors’ prison gave him freedom, because it was the bottom, and he couldn’t fall any further. What are your feelings about your husband?”

  “I don’t know altogether. I was thinking the other day how I not only didn’t love him anymore—that must be common, almost the norm—but I don’t even think I like him. I’ve seen through him, realized there isn’t anything much there.”

  “I know the feeling. Why don’t you leave him?”

  “The boys, I suppose. It would upset them if we split up, and they’re just the wrong age to face disruption of that kind. Lynn is an awfully nagging kind of father, but in his way he’s fond of them. Then I wonder how I could possibly manage—finding a home for us, getting a job.”

  “You don’t have to find a home. These days the wife gets the man out.”

  “Well, I’d have to get some kind of a job, that’s for sure. And I genuinely don’t think it’s good for children not to have a parent home in an emergency . . . ”

  She trailed off uncertainly.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “Well . . . ” Jennifer screwed up her face in self-dissatisfaction. “I do worry about Lynn. If he shows signs of cracking up now, what’s going to happen to him if we all up and leave? It’s almost as if he won’t exist if he doesn’t have us. He seems just a shell of a man. . . . I suppose what it comes down to is I do feel something for him, and that’s pity.”

  “That’s what most women feel for their husbands after a time,” said Evie briskly. “That’s why I shall make damned sure I never have a long-lasting relationship.”

  “Well?” said Oddie.

  “Well what?”

  She had been gazing stubbornly ahead of her, blank as a wall, and saying nothing at all.

  “How did it come about that you were maintaining a comfortable lifestyle a couple of years ago when you were not receiving alimony or maintenance for Mandy, your daughter, nor did you have a regular job?”

  “Mind your own bleeding business.”

  The mask of the upwardly mobile independent woman was beginning to slip badly, and so was the accent. Oddie realized that she had been running her business for years without ever coming into serious conflict with the police, It reflected very poorly on himself and his colleagues.

  “Another very interesting question: Why did this comfortable life-style I’ve mentioned begin to collapse about the time we closed in on the Carrock business, bringing you down to this?” He waved his hand round at the poky flatlet, the nondescript furniture.

  “You’d taken my daughter away from me, hadn’t you? I didn’t need a whole house when there was only me.”

  “Oh, I don’t think a woman like you loses the taste for a little bit of luxury—house and garden, nice furniture, nice clothes. All those things were part of the image. And they hid a very nasty reality, didn’t they?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Oddie leaned forward.

  “The reality being that you were running the show.”

  “There was no show.”

  “Oh, yes, there was. There was a ring, efficiently organized, discreetly run.” He spoke confidently to mask his conviction that the whole business had been badly handled by the police officers concerned at the time. “There were something like twenty children regularly involved, and more drifting in all the time. And there were God knows how many clients—assured of anonymity, at a very high price. We never got to the bottom of who was running the show. As far as we were concerned, you were just a negligent mother. That was our mistake. Or did you manage to slip a hefty bribe to someone in the force?”

  She had brought a shutter down over the face, all except that tight, mean little mouth. Now there was an unpleasant smile twitching the corners of it.

  “Or was one of our people involved in the trade itself?”

  The shutter stayed down.

  “Anyway, what really interests me here and now is what’re you doing at the moment?”

  “Living my life and keeping myself to myself.”

  “I’m sure you’re living your life. In fact, I think you’re quietly going back to your old life, aren’t you?”

  “You know very well my daughter’s in care. I’m only allowed to see her once a week, and then that bleeding woman she’s with stands guard like she was a wardress in Holloway Prison. I’ve given up going—it’s not worth the aggro.”

  “So you’ve severed all connection with your daughter? Funny, isn’t it, that you’ve been seen coming back to the flat here with children.”

  A slight flicker crossed the eyes, the first sign that Oddie had seen of apprehension.

  “I said children, not a child. One of your neighbors had seen you even before the night of the fire at the Phelans with a young girl. He wondered at the time whether you had a daughter living with you here. He’s seen you since, also with a girl, but he’s quite sure it was a different child. One was very fair, the other quite dark. He’s also seen you with a young boy.” Oddie thrust a big finger in her face. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re getting a ring together again.”

  “God! Can’t I bloody talk to a child now?”

  “Well, let’s say you should be damned careful when you do. And this wasn’t just talking: It was bringing them here to the flat, or taking them away again. I’m going to ask you to come along with us in a moment, but I’ve got one more question for you first. There was a child—girl or boy, I don’t know—in this flat on the day the Phelans came with permission to view, wasn’t there?”

  Now there was a mulish expression on her face. Her business had been built on secrecy, on complete protection for the client. Even a scrubby little tart like June Phelan had had some idea of the importance of that. Mrs. Hobbs said nothing. Oddie went on:

  “I don’t suppose you were here yourself, were you? You procured the child, the client arrived, and you discreetly took yourself off. No doubt that’s usual practice. Spares you any nastiness, doesn’t it, and makes the client feel freer. But I want to know the name of your client that day.”

  She stared ahead, her narrow mouth pursed.

  “If you keep quiet, you could find yourself accessory to a murder.”

  The impenetrability of a palace wall faced him. He leaned forward till their faces were close.

  “I bet I could guess the name.”

  He spoke the name, and across her face there came a flicker that was incontrovertibly a spasm of fear.

  Chapter

  EIGHTEEN

  Stubborn as a mule,” said Mike Oddie next day, after a seco
nd and a third attempt at denting the obdurate blankness of Mrs. Valerie Hobbs. “She’s giving nothing, and she will give nothing.”

  They were in Oddie’s office at police headquarters, looking down on the markets and arcades of Sleate and at the crowds scurrying to bus stops as rush hour began.

  “She’s aiming to go back into business,” said Sergeant Stokes. “We can charge her, put her away for a bit, but she’ll be starting up again, and round here too.”

  “That’s right. Here’s where her customers are. From her point of view there’s no alternative to total noncooperation. Normally you might expect her to sacrifice somebody—name a name that doesn’t matter to protect the ones who do. But in her game, her horrible game, it’s absolute confidentiality that matters—the client’s only protection. It’s the code she lives by, her Masonic oath.”

  “She certainly wasn’t giving anything away on the name that matters,” observed Stokes gloomily.

  “Of course not. The names with clout are central to her livelihood. It’s there she’s vulnerable, though.”

  “How did you come to hit on that particular name, sir, apart from the obvious thing?”

  “I looked at everything we’ve learned since the fire, and everything that has happened over the last year or so that might have a connection with the case, and I noticed every little inconsistency, everything that didn’t quite add up. In a case like this it’s often a matter of registering little disquiets. Even so it was a guess, no more. How cooperative are the receptionists at the Burtle Group Practice—ever had anything to do with them?”

  “Now and then. They’re pretty good. They know Pickering has done a lot of work for us, so usually they’ll come across with information—not confidential medical stuff, of course.”

  “Of course not.”

  “For anything other than routine they’d have to go to the doctor concerned, and, of course, he or she may often prove niggly. There are five or six medics in that group, and they’re not all as cooperative as Pickering.”

  “Right. But what I’m after is hardly confidential medical stuff. What time is it? Just after five. I suppose the evening session starts at six, does it?”

  “Yes, I think so. But I don’t think tonight is one of Pickering’s nights.”

  “No matter. I just want to talk to the girls in the outer office. I just might be able to confirm a hunch.”

  He raised his eyebrows at Stokes, and they smiled with the confidence of people who understood each other.

  Steven Copperwhite did not feel like doing anything much about his move before Evie went out for the evening. He piled up some books against the wall of the study, got together a mass of papers, but beyond that it would have to wait. Really all he’d have to take would be a sort of symbolic essence of his presence in Wynton Lane. He was quite sure Evie would acquiesce good-humoredly in his move out, and let him come back any time he liked to remove more stuff. So it was just a question of clothes, typewriter, essential books, lecture notes.

  At half past six, Evie poked her head around the door.

  “Right. I’m off.”

  “OK. Where is it tonight?”

  “Grantham.”

  “The Holy City! What are you doing there?”

  “It’s a symposium on strategies for women in the postfeminist age. With Doreen Appleby the MP.”

  “Hmmmm. She’s nobody’s favorite woman MP. On the other hand, who is?”

  “Pig,” said Evie cheerfully.

  “Have a good time.”

  He heard her march down the hall in her usual swinging fashion, her clogs clattering on the parquet flooring. He could feel his heart beating fast: His life was turning another corner. When the front door banged, it had to his ears a ring of finality. He waited for the asthmatic wheeze of her car starting up and driving off, then he darted to the bedroom they had shared, opened the wardrobe wide and started collecting together his clothes.

  He piled everything up in the hall. Books represented by far the largest share of what he felt he had to take. Steven’s lectures were famous for the skill with which he juggled around other people’s opinions. Lastly, when he had everything sorted out and ready, he went back into the study to write Evie a note. He had been working out the terms of it all day.

  Darling Evie,

  I feel it is time we admitted that you and me joining forces hasn’t worked out. None of the blame for this is yours. You were totally honest, and laid down the terms before we started out. I am only sad I’ve failed to live up to you. I have loved your energy, your enthusiasms, your freshness. One day I know you’ll find a man worthy of them. Can I hope that we shall always meet as friends?

  Loving goodbye,

  Steven

  He wondered where to put it. The kitchen was the obvious place: Evie usually made herself a drink of hot chocolate when she came back late. But the mess of plates and packets and saucepans on the kitchen table and on all the other surfaces made that idea impracticable, and he was damned if he was going to wash up. In the end he shut the kitchen door and stuck the note onto it with sticky tape. Not very romantic, he thought, but it would have to do. It did not strike him that the end of a romance is not very romantic.

  Before loading up the car he went up to one of the back bedrooms to see that there was no one around in the gardens. Not that there was likely to be on a dark November evening, but sometimes Lynn Packard worked on his car in the well-equipped stone garage he had had built. And Steven, though he was not at all ashamed of what he was doing, was distinctly embarrassed. No—all clear. No one around at all.

  He went out, opened his garage, then opened the boot and the back doors of his car. Then he worked swiftly and efficiently. Back and forth he went, ten trips in all, and his life of the past three years was stored in his car. He shut the doors and went back into the house, congratulating himself on his efficiency, forgetting that he was efficient because he had done this before. He felt, faintly warming, a little wash of sentimentality. Really the only memories he cherished of his years here were centered on the bedroom. Still, this was the end of something—a chapter of his life, now closed. He took one last look around, then switched off all the house lights and went out to the car.

  A light drizzle had started. He reversed the car out, turned it where the lane widened out, then drove round the curve that skirted Daphne Bridewell’s house and out into Wynton Lane. He decided to drive through the Estate. Easier than going up to the Battersby Road. As he drove up the slope he had to swerve to avoid a rangy brown mongrel which was copulating with an Alsatian. He ran over a nasty patch of broken bottles and flattened a soft drink can. As he passed the blackened shell of the Phelans’ home, he thought: Odd—all this fuss there’s been about that man Phelan and I don’t think I ever actually set eyes on him.

  Five minutes later, driving toward the Horley district and his old home, the car began to hiccup oddly, not to respond to his driving intentions. Oh Lord, a flat, he thought. That glass on the bloody Belfield Grove Estate. Luckily there was a garage only minutes away, and he drove in and confirmed his fears. To his chagrin there was only a young girl in the office.

  “I seem to have a flat tire,” he said to her diffidently.

  “Need any tools?”

  “Well, actually, I’m not sure if I can change a wheel. I have done it once, but then I had someone with me to direct me. I don’t suppose for a moment you—?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  And it wasn’t. In hardly more than ten minutes the wheel was off, the spare on, the car ready for the road again. Really, young women these days were wonderful. In fact, almost frightening. In spite of living with Evie all that time, women capable in traditional men’s spheres still made him feel awkward. Steven paid without a murmur the distinctly steep charges, and drove off.

  The drizzle had ceased now, but light twinkled greasily on the damp road and pavements. There were few people around, and those that were were scurrying into pubs and off-licenses and fa
st-food places. Before long he was approaching Horley. Horley was the University part of Sleate, and somewhere he naturally felt at home. Somehow his residence in Burtle had never seemed real, not entirely serious. His old home, in a quiet street not far from the residential heart of Horley, seemed to him a place of great peace, security, stability. It would be good to be back there.

  It was a quarter to nine when he drew up outside it. No lights on, but Margaret had told him she’d probably be working late. He could settle himself in, maybe prepare a bit of supper for her when she came back. He wondered what the old rooms looked like, what changes she had made. He wondered where he would be sleeping.

  He got out and shut the car door quietly. All the houses around had lights on downstairs and curtains drawn. Good. He would be back and settled in before the tittle-tattle started. He opened the gate and saw that Margaret had left the porch light on. Considerate of her. The front garden seemed in good nick, though the buddleia could do with more cutting back. He slipped into the porch, took out his key, and put it into the lock.

  Only it wouldn’t go in. Odd. It was an ordinary Yale lock, and his old key, he felt sure. He jiggled it, but the lock resisted. He pushed it, trying to force it, then bent down to look closer. It was a new lock. So new as to be still bright and shining. Could Margaret have forgotten and—?

  A dreadful realization washed over him. The lock was brand new. New since Margaret had handed him the key. She had played on him a cruel and humiliating jape. And suddenly, standing there, foolish, under the porch light another conviction invaded him: He was being watched. Someone was watching him now, and enjoying his plight. Not someone—two people. Women.

  In the darkened bedroom of the house opposite—it was the house of the Fredericksons, whose cat Margaret was feeding while they were in Tunisia—she handed the opera glasses to Evie and wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes.