by Penny Kline
Living in Dread
Penny Kline
© Penny Kline 1998
Penny Kline has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1998 by Severn House Publishers Ltd.
This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter One
If only she had gone in first. Now it would stay with him for ever. In twenty, thirty years time, a stray word, a casual remark, and he would be back, standing by the gate, with the late afternoon sun in his eyes, clutching the rhinoceros he had chosen from the zoo gift shop, jigging his legs impatiently as she locked up the car.
‘In we go.’ She had steered him through the front door, calling to Nikki, then following Charlie as he hurried towards the kitchen, muttering something about a biscuit.
What happened next was harder to remember. Had her first impulse been to pull him away, or had she forgotten all about him as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the house and she saw what had happened. Pushing past she had crouched down, forcing herself to touch the outstretched arm, feeling the coldness of Nikki’s skin. Her other arm was bent across her body, making it just possible the blood had oozed from a cut wrist. Kneeling beside her, shockingly, irrelevantly aware of the family likeness — same fair silky hair, same round brown eyes — she came back to her senses.
‘It’s all right, Charlie, it’s all right. Mummy’s had an accident. You go upstairs and take off your coat.’
A jug on the table held three yellow tulips. A wine glass stood on the draining board, along with a plate and a partially peeled apple. There was no sign of a struggle, no overturned furniture or broken china, but the gashes across the underside of her fingers and a deep cut that exposed the bone at the base of her thumb were evidence of how she had tried to defend herself. Blood had run from the corner of her mouth and congealed on the side of her neck. There was more on her short-sleeved cotton sweater and when it was lifted, gently, carefully, a single wound was revealed, one that had hardly bled at all on the outside although the knife must have pierced an internal organ, probably her heart.
Charlie stood in the doorway, his face expressionless. When he spoke his voice was flat, mechanical. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she.’
Later, much later, it occurred to her she should have left Nikki as she was, taken care not to disturb the evidence. The vacant eyes stared up at the kitchen ceiling, but she had been insane enough to think she might be able to save her.
Stumbling towards the phone, with Charlie following after her, she had heard his question, whispered, to himself, rather than to her.
‘If someone’s dead does the ambulance still come?’
Chapter Two
The house was on the edge of the city, just off the main road going out towards Wells. A large, overgrown garden backed onto a field that was used for grazing cows, and beyond that the land rose up to a ridge where it was possible to look across to the Chew Valley lakes. Eric had lived there for four years, since Charlie was two and a half. Before that they had rented a place in Brislington, then his father had given him a fairly large lump sum so the mortgage was relatively small. Not that I had known any of that at the start. Any information I had about the family had come from Martin who was an acquaintance of the owner of the toyshop that sold Eric’s rocking horses.
After the fire, it was Martin Wheeler, the head of my section of the Psychology Service, who had suggested I contact Eric.
He wanted a tenant for his annexe, but only a short-term one since it was possible he might decide to sell up and move to another part of the city. His wife had died, the place had bad memories, but he was reluctant to leave, mainly because of the large workshop at the end of the garden.
From my point of view a short let was just what I needed. The electrical fault had been at ground level and no visible signs of the fire had spread to my first floor flat, but the whole building had been rendered hazardous, charred timbers would have to be replaced, and repairs would take a minimum of ten weeks. Eric Newsom’s annexe was a little too far from where I worked, but at least it was on the same side of the city. The let was fixed up virtually overnight which probably accounted for the fact that it was only after I had moved in that Martin explained how Eric Newsom’s wife had been dead for less than six months and the cause of death had been a knife wound that had pierced her aorta. I thought you knew, Anna, I thought you’d remember the case. Nikki Newsom. Her name was in all the papers for a week or two. Eric’s mother found the body. She was lying on the kitchen floor. They’ve never discovered who did it.
During the three weeks since my arrival neither Eric nor Charlie had mentioned the murder, or even Nikki’s name. Once, while talking about his work Eric had fixed a particular date by saying it was before it happened and I had assumed he was referring to the murder. As for Charlie, he talked about everything under the sun, everything that is except his mother.
It was Monday morning and the layer of mist that covered Dundry Hill had blocked out most of the sun. As I left for work Eric emerged through his front door, still in his pyjamas but pulling a grubby Aran sweater over his head. He looked like a mole coming above ground after a long sleep, then I realised it was because he was without the small steel-framed glasses that usually protected his pale, strained-looking face.
‘Can’t find Charlie’s shoes.’ He broke off, coughing, covering his mouth with both hands, then rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. ‘Thought he might have left them out here.’
‘Oh.’ I glanced round, trying to look helpful. ‘He needs them for school does he?’
‘What? The others are too small. Kids shoes cost a bloody fortune. Everything about kids costs a bloody fortune.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
He stared at me, almost as if he was trying to remember my name. ‘Is everything OK, in the annexe I mean. I should have fixed the —’ Another fit of rasping coughing prevented him from finishing the sentence.
‘You don’t sound too good,’ I said, aware that the conversation about the shoes was just about the longest we’d had since I moved in. ‘Would you like me to take Charlie to school?’
He hesitated. ‘You’re serious? It would make you late for work.’
‘No, plenty of time. I’ll help you find the shoes, shall I? Where’s Charlie? You look downstairs, I’ll look up.’
It was only the second time I had been in the house. It smelled dusty and looked as if it was quite a time since anyone had done any vacuuming. Halfway up the stairs a chunk of plaster had fallen off the wall and someone had drawn a circle round the hole with a green wax crayon, then given the circle dread locks and cauliflower ears.
Charlie’s room had his name on the door, and a picture of a red squirrel. It was empty. He had straightened his duvet but the pillow still had a dent where his head had rested. A small silver-framed photo, that I assumed must be his mother, stood on top of a chest of drawers, along with a collection of fossil
s and a tiny bird’s nest. Charlie had told me how he liked birds and when I looked closer I could see how the nest was lined with the soft fair hair he must have taken from his comb and left at the end of the garden. Picking up the photo I carried it to the window and studied the smiling face with its round, slightly surprised-looking brown eyes. The likeness to Charlie was startling, not just the features but the expression and the way she held her head. She looked so alive — pictures of dead people always do — and so young, although Martin had told me she was twenty-five when she died, the same age as Eric.
Replacing the picture on top of the chest of drawers I reached under the bed for the missing shoes but found only balls of dust and biscuit crumbs, then my fingers touched something else, an exercise book that had once been rolled up into a tube. Charlie had written his name on the front with a thick black felt pen and when I turned to the first lined page there was a drawing of what looked like a large orange dog, lying on its side with its paws stuck out, and a scarlet blob for a head. Saterday. road near Warmley. a fox. For a six-year-old Charlie’s spelling was impressive. The next picture was a bird on its back with its feet in the air. tuesday, Charlie had written, next door garden, a thruch.
Downstairs I could hear Eric talking, his voice rising in pitch as Charlie failed to answer a question about the whereabouts of the shoes. friday. A bager. road to the airport. He had used the felt pen for this illustration and the badger was spread out like a tiger rug, except the head with its long white stripe was flat and distorted.
Warmley Road, on their way to the sea? The A38 so they could walk up Burrington Combe? Two of the places Charlie had been taken to, perhaps by his grandmother, to cheer him up, but all the time his mind had been on death.
On the way to school he ran on ahead.
‘Charlie, wait, not so fast.’ When I turned the corner he was almost at the lights. I caught up with him, but he walked faster, keeping several paces ahead and letting his hand trail across the rough wooden fence so that I was afraid he would pick up a splinter. Suddenly he stopped, muttered something that sounded like ‘bloody stupid’, then turned to face me.
‘Did you know it takes five years for baby elephants to grow inside their mothers?’
‘Yes, I think I did read it somewhere.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘How long does it take for ordinary babies? For humans, I mean?’
‘Nine months.’
‘Oh. Yes, I thought it was about that.’ He tugged at the grey trousers that were slightly too long, then adjusted the blue and yellow bag that hung on his back. At the school gate he frowned, wondering how he could stop me coming in with him.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘we’ll wait here till the bell rings and you can go in with the others.’
‘All right.’ Then he muttered something else and I bent down, straining to hear, but only catching the word ‘Dad’.
‘Yes, your Dad will collect you at half past three.’
He glared at me, and when he spoke again it was through clenched teeth. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Oh, sorry, what is it then?’
Pausing, with his lips pressed together, he seemed to be making an important decision, then he opened his mouth, just enough for the words to come out and spoke very fast. ‘I said why didn’t somebody tell me?’
‘How d’you mean, Charlie? Tell you what?’ But already he was halfway across the playground.
*
It was Martin who had talked me into running the two seminars — now he kept complaining because the first of them had been timetabled for Monday morning. On my way to the college I called in at the office to check my appointments for the rest of the day. Martin was in the secretary’s office. He heard my footsteps on the stairs and rushed out, then slowed down when he saw me, pretending he had finished talking to Heather and was leaving the office anyway.
‘Going somewhere special?’ I asked, taking in the crease in his trousers, the white shirt, and the teddy bear tie his children had given him for his fortieth birthday. Usually he wore a roll-neck sweater and cords.
He pulled a face. ‘Kids wanted me to wear their present. Listen, it could start to be a bit of a problem, your seminar, there might be new referrals after the weekend. You can’t expect Nick and I to —’
‘I don’t expect anything,’ I said. ‘Anyway if there’d been a real emergency someone else would have had to deal with it.’
‘Oh, come on, Anna, you know it never works out like that. Actually there’s moves afoot to have a psychologist on call, evenings and weekends.’
‘Like the duty social worker.’
He nodded grimly. ‘Anyway, how’s it going?’
‘Quite well. Too many students but —’
‘No, I meant living next door to Eric Newsom? You haven’t said much about him. What’s he like? How’s the little boy?’
I shrugged. ‘All right, as far as I can tell. Eric seems a bit depressed, but who wouldn’t be?’
‘And the boy?’
‘Charlie?’ I thought about the gruesome notebook curled up under the bed. A child psychologist would have had a field day but it would be wrong to tell Martin about it. It would feel like a betrayal. ‘I took him to school this morning. He asked how long it takes for a baby to grow inside its mother.’
‘Really? That’s what he said?’ For some reason Martin seemed to think this was of great psychological significance. ‘Anyway, I’m glad the three of you are getting along so well. I’ve never met the bloke, just seen his rocking horses in the shop, but I should think he needs all the support he can get.’
‘From me? Look, I don’t see that much of them, it’s just somewhere to live till I can return to my flat. Incidentally the traffic on the Wells Road’s a nightmare. If I’d known I’d probably have found somewhere closer to the city centre.’
‘Oh, well, not for long.’ Martin loosened the knot in his teddy bear tie, pulled it over his head and stuffed it in his pocket before undoing the top button of his shirt and breathing a sigh of relief. ‘And it certainly kills two birds with one stone.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Rent money for Eric Newsom while he decides what to do with the house and an easy way out of your housing problem. It was Faye Tobin who told me about the annexe. She runs the toy shop in Fish Street, her and a woman called Deborah. I could be wrong but I got the impression they both knew Newsom fairly well, and his wife. Apparently she was the main breadwinner, at least she was the one responsible for bringing in a regular income. I suppose Newsom never knows from one month to the next how much he’s going to sell. Last time I was in the shop Faye said she’d only heard from him once since the murder. I may be wrong but I got the impression she was worried about him.’
I glanced at my watch, then started up the stairs. ‘Look, I’ll be back by twelve — meet for lunch shall we? And Nick if he’s around.’
‘One o’clock?’
‘White Hart?’
‘Unless you’ve any better suggestion.’ He had taken the tie from his pocket and started winding it into a coil. ‘Newsom’s no idea then, who killed his wife? I suppose the case is still open, the police are still making inquiries, although they’re not likely to get the bloke now, not after five and a half months.’
*
Temporary lights had brought the traffic to a standstill. My digital clock was four minutes fast so that meant I still had seven minutes, then I remembered the seminar room had been changed — Steve Harrison, the head of department, had left me a note. Searching for it in my pockets I found the disintegrating remains of a tissue I had used to staunch the blood when I nicked my finger on the kitchen knife I had been stupid enough to drop into the washing up water. Provided the tip is sharp, it takes very little effort to pierce human skin. For the past couple of weeks I had been wondering, on and off, where Eric had been at the time of his wife’s murder. Murder by person or persons unknown. Did the police have a theory or had all lines of inquiry come to a dead
end, leaving them with the unsatisfactory conclusion that an unknown person had forced his way into the house, for whatever purpose, and a struggle had ended in a fatality?
The lights changed and I spotted a car like Owen’s, which could even have been the same one with a new owner, although there was no time to check the registration. I had pains in my head, just above my ears, the result of finishing off a bottle of red wine, then waking at two in the morning and thinking about Owen and what he was doing on the other side of the world where it would be roughly two in the afternoon. Owen, settling into his new life in Australia. If he was still in the flat off Cotham Hill I could have stayed there while mine was being repaired. But perhaps not. Of course, if I had accepted his offer, given up my job with the Psychology Service, and joined him in Sydney, my temporary accommodation problem would never have arisen.
The college car park looked full but I managed to squeeze in between Steve’s van and a badly parked Citroen, although the tightness of fit made it almost impossible to get out through my door. As I walked towards the main building I saw one of the mature students, a woman in her early thirties called Janice Kirk, fixing the padlock on her bike. Her two-tone hair gleamed in the sun and I wondered, uncharitably, whether very plain people looked better or worse with dramatic hair and gaudy clothes. During the first seminar she had said next to nothing, but spent much of the time whispering to her neighbours. Each time she caught my eye she had given me a brief, cold smile. Then, the second time we met, she had been prepared with a list of points aimed at undermining most of what I had said on the first occasion.
The greater the number of students the more they behaved like school kids. I thought about Charlie sitting in his classroom with thirty or so others. On Monday mornings were small children still asked to write about what they had done at the weekend, or had the demands of the National Curriculum changed all that? Found a dead thruch. Seen a squashed hedgehog. But perhaps that kind of information was reserved for the notebook under the bed.