Living in Dread (Anna McColl Mystery Book 6)

by Penny Kline

  ‘Did she ever mention a man called Cunliffe?’

  ‘Cunliffe,’ he repeated. ‘Sounds familiar only I’m not sure why. No, it’s all right, not another little white lie.’

  ‘Early twenties, dark, quite good looking. Polish father.’

  ‘Polish father? Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  The wine arrived and was poured out unceremoniously with no studying of labels or exclamations about its superior quality. When the waiter moved away I asked how long McGhee had known Nikki.

  He thought about it, using his arrival in Bristol as a marker. ‘Met her soon after so it must be three and half years.’

  ‘In The Night Sky?’

  He nodded. ‘She used to come in two or three times a week, only stay half an hour or so, sometimes a little longer if the evening was going well. Now and again she’d leave early, say she was going to some club or other. I can talk the hind leg off a donkey, but Nikki was something else. Stories about the girls at her office, visits to the doctor, trying on clothes in various stores. Laugh a minute.’

  ‘But not much about Eric and Charlie.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. When she’d had a few she’d talk a lot about her own childhood. Her mother’s second marriage broke up when she was thirteen and as far as I could tell she didn’t think too highly of the new man on the scene. I suppose the poor kid had just got used to Barry — that was her stepfather — then she was expected to adjust to yet another new bloke. I mean, there are limits.’ He ran his finger round the rim of his glass. ‘You know, I got the impression Barry meant a lot to her. The two of them lived together till she left to shack up with Charlie’s father. She was pregnant, was she? No, don’t answer if you don’t want to, after all it’s you that’s supposed to be asking the questions.’

  I was starting to wonder how much McGhee really knew about Nikki. Anyone who had filled as much air time as he had must be a pretty good actor. Had he phoned me simply out of curiosity? What did he do for a living now or did he have a private income that allowed him to spend most of his time in the pub?

  ‘You don’t do any broadcasting at the moment,’ I said, and his head jerked up, wondering why I had suddenly changed the subject.

  ‘Afraid not. As a matter of fact I’m writing a screenplay for the old telly. One-off plays are a waste of time these days, no one even bothers to read the first page, but I know an independent producer who’s promised to give my script the once-over.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  The plates of food were placed in front of us, then the waiter returned with the Parmesan cheese and black pepper. McGhee picked up his fork and attempted to plunge it into a black olive. ‘What’s it about? Well, a clapped-out radio presenter of course. His wife’s walked out on him, kids have grown up, he’s still in his forties but he’s more or less reached the end of the road.’

  ‘Autobiographical?’

  ‘Never!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I started life as an actor so I’m not so bad on the dialogue, not so hot on structure, plot.’

  ‘You worked in television?’

  ‘Oh, bits and pieces, but I could tell my career was never going to take off. You have to know people or have the right face for the right time. Anyway, that’s enough about me. I’ve a cousin who’s a psychiatrist but that’s more of a medic than you, am I right? He’s an expert in prescribing the right drugs, make the dose too little and there’s no perceptible effect, make it too strong and the patient’s turned into a zombie.’

  He was good company, I was enjoying myself, but when I interrupted a story about his recently abandoned keep-fit regime to ask if Nikki had ever mentioned someone called Ronnie he suddenly became serious.

  ‘The woman she worked for in Personnel? Terrible slave-driver by the sound of her, gave Nikki hell.’

  ‘But they were on quite good terms.’

  He pushed aside his plate of half-eaten food. ‘Who told you that? Not the impression I got. Gave her the extra hours she wanted but that was about it. As a matter of fact Nikki was thinking of leaving, looking round for something else. Now tell me your theory about the murder. The general consensus seems to be she let someone into the house for some reason or other, the bastard tried to rape her and she grabbed hold of a knife that was snatched out of her hand and —’

  ‘There was no evidence of a sexual attack.’

  ‘No, well there wouldn’t be would there, never got that far.’

  ‘You said on the phone you didn’t think she was the kind of person who would have let a stranger into her house.’

  He turned away, trying to catch the waiter’s attention. ‘I’m only telling you what her friends seem to think. Most murders are committed by the person closest to the victim, isn’t that right? If her husband wasn’t responsible maybe it was because he wasn’t her nearest and dearest.’

  The waiter arrived and McGhee ordered coffee, breaking off to ask if I wanted to try one of their special ice creams, then falling silent, running his finger backwards and forwards across his upper lip.

  ‘If you want the truth,’ he said at last, ‘I did sometimes suspect the marriage was in trouble, not that she ever said anything specific but you pick up hints, draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘But she never talked about someone else she was seeing?’

  ‘I’ll think about it over the next few days. What’s the best technique, a spot of self-hypnosis? Ring you Wednesday or Thursday, see if either of us has had any useful thoughts? Poor old Nikki, I keep forgetting you never knew her, she was so irrepressible, so full of life, always coming up with crazy plans, how to meet lots of famous people, how to make a million. I suppose in a way she was basically rather innocent.’

  ‘You mean naive.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ For the first time there was an edge to his voice. ‘She accepted people as they were, wasn’t always criticising, categorising.’

  You were in love with her, I thought, not that anyone ever knew about it, perhaps not even Nikki herself.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time Isabel Newsom reached the top of the stairs she had already announced that she had come to talk about herself and her failed marriage, not Eric or Charlie. She looked more composed than on her first visit and for five or ten minutes, as she told me about the house she had lived in for the last twenty years, there was no sign of the nervous little laugh.

  ‘It’s in Montpelier,’ she said, ‘on the far side of that square with a park in the middle. I expect you know where I mean so you’ll understand how it’s far too large for one, only I can’t quite bring myself to sell up and find something more suitable.’

  ‘It would be a wrench,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’ She pulled her wedding ring over one of her rather knobbly knuckles, then pushed it back, looking up, embarrassed. ‘Easier to go on wearing it, well, that’s what I tell myself but I expect you can read all kinds of things … You see Deborah’s flat is tiny so Ted couldn’t have taken any of the furniture even if he’d wanted to. Just his clothes and a few books, although I suspect most of the books ended up at the health centre. After he moved out I was kept going by a kind of false euphoria, relief I suppose, that what I dreaded had finally come to pass.’

  ‘You’d known about Deborah for some time?’

  She sighed heavily, then spoke very fast as if she wanted to get over what she had to say as quickly as possible. ‘I could tell there was something wrong, you can, can’t you. Ted was so irritable and yet so attentive, so eager to please, helping with the washing-up, even offering to hoover. Men are transparent, like small children. I can’t tell you how many times I steeled myself to ask what was wrong, then lost my nerve and pretended I hadn’t noticed. Can I tell you something dreadful?’ She was still looking down at her hands. ‘After Nikki died — it was a terrible tragedy, of course it was — but I couldn’t help thinking it might bring Ted and me back together. You see, for a few weeks we saw quite a lot of each other, talking about how we could help Eric, how he w
as going to manage without Nikki’s pay packet, whether we could afford to pay off some of the mortgage. Then they released her body for the funeral and suddenly I was on my own again, only the awful thing is, ever since then I’ve been doing something really stupid.’

  She glanced at the clock, then made a supreme effort to look me in the eye. ‘I’ve been following him.’

  ‘Following Ted?’

  ‘You see, I do need a psychologist.’ She was almost in tears. ‘I’m not just here on false pretences.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Her lips moved as she struggled to find the right words. ‘I’ll tell you about last Monday,’ she said. ‘It could be any Monday only this one turned out rather different. You see, evening surgery finishes around six, but Ted usually stays for a time, talking to his partners or writing prescriptions. I thought it might be different these days, Deborah might like him back home as soon as possible, but the first time I parked near the health centre his routine seemed exactly the same as before. All the lights were still on inside and I could see one of the receptionists coming through the outer door.’

  ‘This was last Monday?’

  She nodded. ‘Ted’s consulting room’s at the front of the building. I used to meet him there now and again. Brown vinyl couch, trolley with kidney bowls and spatulas, creams, cotton wool, scales behind the door, along with the height chart with its curled-up edges, and a picture of Moreton-in-the-Marsh. There’s a blotter on his desk, although he never uses a fountain pen, and his name — Dr Edward Newsom, white lettering on a piece of polished beech — and his prescription pad. What would doctors do without their prescription pads, not that Ted’s ever been one for handing out tranquillisers to all and sundry.’

  Listening to her, it occurred to me that when Ted left she had lost the health centre as well as her husband. No more answering the phone when Ted was on call, no visits to the surgery for Christmas get-togethers with the staff. Along with everything else, Deborah Bryant had stolen her role as the doctor’s wife.

  She opened her bag and took a photograph out of a brown envelope. ‘This is Ted.’ She passed me the picture. ‘Perhaps you know him by sight.’

  For some reason I expected him to look serious, even a little severe. The face that stared back at me was faintly familiar — perhaps I had seen him at some gathering of health workers — but the wiry hair and untidy moustache were very different from the person I had pictured while Isabel was talking. He was standing under a tree, with one hand resting on the trunk, not very tall and rather stocky, with a build quite unlike Eric’s, and small, intense eyes, and he was laughing as if someone had just told a joke.

  ‘No, I don’t think we’ve met,’ I said, returning the photograph. ‘Being married to a doctor must be rather like having a vicar for a husband,’ I said. ‘I can understand why you’ve found it so hard to adjust.’

  ‘Can you?’ Isabel gave me a grateful smile. ‘Deborah’s a hypochondriac. Perhaps that was one of the things that drew her to Ted in the first place. After Nikki was killed … when something happens, something so terrible, everything feels unreal, not like normal. I suppose that was why Ted starting talking about her.’

  ‘About Deborah?’

  ‘I’m sure it was wishful thinking on my part, but he gave the impression they might not be getting on all that well, that the honeymoon period might have started to wear off a little.’

  Was it true, or was Ted Newsom the kind of man who likes to keep two women on a string? Perhaps his relationship with Deborah only worked if Isabel was still there in the background, unwittingly maintaining the buzz of infidelity.

  ‘Deborah likes to go out a lot,’ she said, ‘to pubs and clubs, all that sort of thing. Ted prefers a quiet life, at least he used to, but no doubt he’s happy to go along with whatever she wants, even though he told me she was rather an insecure person, afraid of losing him.’

  The more I learned about Ted the less I liked him. ‘Why d’you think he told you all this?’

  ‘I suppose … well, you get so used to people, don’t you. Ted and I always talked a lot and when we were together we just seemed to fall back into how things used to be. Once a week Deborah spends the evening with friends — other women I mean — and doesn’t get back till quite late. As a matter of fact I think Ted finds it quite a relief, having some time on his own.’

  ‘You still see him occasionally?’

  ‘Oh no, that was months ago, because he was so upset about Nikki. People say things when they’re upset.’ She was sitting very straight, with one hand clutching the other. ‘Shall I finish telling you about last Monday?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, carry on.’

  ‘Ted was the last to leave the health centre. Three of the doctors, including Ted, emerged from the building at the same time, then paused by the hedge, exchanging a few words. Ted was left behind, rubbing at something on his windscreen, then he climbed into his car and I started running back to mine. The pavement’s quite uneven. I stubbed my foot, almost fell, hurt my toe.’ She broke off, breathing hard. ‘You must despise me.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  The nervous laugh returned. ‘No, I suppose you hear these stupid stories every day of the week. I was just in time to see his tail lights turn left at the junction. Following him would have been impossible in the daytime, but by then the rush-hour traffic had dispersed and the build-up of people coming into the city for an evening out hadn’t yet begun. Even so there was a danger he’d turn off and I’d be too late to see which way he had gone. He drives quite slowly — he’s seen the result of too many road accidents to take any unnecessary risks — but he knows all the short-cuts. I saw him signalling right — that meant he was going towards the city centre. Much further and he would be outside the catchment area for the health centre so I thought he must have arranged to meet Deborah. Past the hospital and on towards the roundabout.’ She sounded quite excited, as if following Ted had been quite an adventure. ‘If he changed lanes it might be difficult to keep him in view, with the traffic coming from all directions. He accelerated towards the lights, then they changed to red and I managed to draw close enough to catch a glimpse of the back of his head. At the next roundabout he took the first exit, then turned sharply into a side road I’d never driven down before. It must have been near the bottom of Fishponds Road that I lost him.’

  Fishponds Road. It was a coincidence, it must be. Thousands of people drove up and down Fishponds Road each evening and, besides, this had been Monday and Shaun Cunliffe had been stabbed to death last Wednesday. Did Isabel know about the murder? Was that why she was telling me how she had followed Ted?

  ‘I ration myself,’ she said sadly. ‘Monday is the only day I’m allowed — and the awful thing is, all my friends think I’m doing fine, they can’t believe how well I’m managing.’

  *

  I was on my way to see Ronnie Cox. Cunliffe’s photograph had been printed in the local paper, along with a request for anyone who had been in the vicinity of Fishponds Road between ten and eleven p.m. on the previous Wednesday evening to get in touch with the police. Had Ronnie recognised Cunliffe as the man she had seen with Nikki?

  The front door was answered by her mother who greeted me with a stony stare. ‘Oh, it’s you again. She’s not here.’

  ‘Have you any idea when she’ll be back?’

  ‘What did you want? If it’s about that girl, she’s told you everything she knows.’ She looked me up and down. ‘Oh, all right then, you’d better come in.’

  ‘You think Ronnie may be back quite soon?’

  ‘I couldn’t say but since you’ve come all this way … and her name’s Veronica. How would you like it if you’d chosen a pretty name for your little girl and she ended up sounding like a man?’

  The room at the front, where Mrs Cox had been watching TV the last time I called, had a low ceiling and two oak beams, one of them crossing the corner at an angle. A leather-covered sofa, a chintzy armchair, an enormous television,
and a sideboard covered in china ornaments left barely enough floor space for the large handmade rug, with its royal blue background and elaborate design: two pink and white kittens playing with a purple ball. The fireplace had been covered with a sheet of hardboard that had warped and no longer fitted the space properly. It seemed a waste of what could have been such an attractive room.

  ‘My name’s Anna,’ I said.

  ‘And mine’s Mrs Cox. Well, I could have had a different name, couldn’t I? I could’ve been divorced from Veronica’s father and married another.’ She lowered herself into the armchair, pulling her brown pleated skirt over her knees. ‘I know you’re not supposed to speak evil of the dead but if you want my opinion that Nikki Newsom was asking for something like that to happen.’

  For someone to murder her?

  ‘You knew her then, did you?’

  ‘Me? Never set eyes on her. I’m just going on what Veronica told me. Flighty as they come with only one aim in her life.’ She broke off, glaring at me then, when I said nothing, continued as if I had demanded an explanation. ‘Men, of course. Picking them up, putting them down. There was quite an important one she got her claws into. Someone from the fourth floor, senior management. She should’ve been sacked, probably would have been if it hadn’t been for … You don’t work at Veronica’s office, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘I’m a psychologist.’

  ‘Oh that.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Getting like America, an expert for everything under the sun, as if us mere mortals can’t manage without. What do you do? Instruct married couples how they can stay together? What d’you tell them? To talk things over, communicate. You should have met Veronica’s father.’

  ‘It’s not really like that,’ I began, but her remarks had only been a way into something else.