Close Her Eyes

by Dorothy Simpson

  Supressing a familiar anger at the public’s relish of a tragedy, Thanet escorted Doc Mallard to his car, told the ambulance driver to back right up to the footpath entrance, then dealt briefly but courteously with the reporter from the Kent Messenger who had been awaiting his appearance, thankful that it was as yet too early for the national press to have arrived on the scene. His relationship with the media was good and he never made the mistake of under-estimating the value of the help they could give him or of the damage they could do if the police were deliberately obstructive, even though the thought of achieving personal publicity through another human being’s violent end had always nauseated him.

  Then he made his way swiftly to number 32.

  Lineham came along the ill-lit passage to meet him as the uniformed constable on duty at the front door let him in.

  ‘How is he?’

  Lineham pulled a face. ‘Pretty distraught, I’d say. But I’m only guessing. He hasn’t said much.’

  ‘Doctor been?’

  ‘Refuses to have one. Against his principles, apparently.’

  Briefly, Thanet regretted having let Mallard go, but realised at once that it would have been pointless to detain him. There was a deep stubbornness in Pritchard, an inflexibility which, even in these circumstances, would prevent him from abandoning his principles.

  ‘Have you found someone to stay with him tonight?’

  ‘I suggested his brother, but he said no, he didn’t want anyone. He was going to spend the night in the company of the Lord. Anyone else would be superfluous.’

  ‘I presume you mean, in prayer.’

  ‘That’s right. I told him we’d arrange for someone to break the news to Mrs Pritchard.’

  Thanet nodded. An unenviable task, but it had to be done. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  Thanet peeped in. Pritchard was kneeling on the stone floor, elbows resting on the seat of the armchair, head in hands. He did not stir. Thanet withdrew.

  ‘How long has he been like that?’

  Lineham shrugged. ‘An hour or more, I’d say.’

  ‘You’ve done a search?’

  ‘Yes. The only thing that looks even remotely promising is a diary. It’s in Charity’s school satchel, in her bedroom. I left it there, I thought you’d probably want to take a look around yourself.’

  ‘Right. I’ll do that now.’

  Upstairs there were only two bedrooms and Charity’s was the smaller, at the back. Here was the same drabness, the same total lack of interest in physical surroundings as downstairs. The walls were bare and so were the floorboards, save for a postage stamp of a bedside rug. The bed looked supremely uncomfortable and the door of the wardrobe would not stay closed without a small wad of paper to hold it in position. Thanet peered inside. Here hung Charity’s school raincoat and blazer, both carefully buttoned up to hold their shape. It was the distinctive navy and yellow striped blazer of Sturrenden Girls’ Technical School, Thanet noted. There were two or three skirts in sober colours, a couple of drab floral dresses and three pairs of shoes: black walking shoes, plimsolls, a pair of stout brown brogues. Two long drawers beneath the hanging space revealed underclothes, handkerchieves, carefully folded blouses and sweaters, all utilitarian in the extreme.

  There was no bedside table—reading in bed would perhaps be considered self-indulgent?—and the only signs of human occupation were the school satchel Lineham had mentioned hanging on a hook behind the door and, near the window, a small wooden table piled with books. Thanet glanced through these: school textbooks, with only one exception, a black, leather-bound copy of the Bible. On the flyleaf was written To Charity, on her tenth birthday, from her loving parents. Prov. 3: 5–6. Thanet flicked through the text, found the place: Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

  Thanet winced.

  The diary, it seemed, was his only hope and he plucked it out of the satchel with eager fingers, turned to the Spring Bank Holiday weekend. In Friday’s space Charity had written, V. 9.50. The remainder of the weekend was blank. Thanet frowned. Strange that she hadn’t noted the visit to Dorset.

  He quickly leafed through the first half of the diary, to date. There were two regular entries each week, one on Tuesdays, one on Fridays. He opened the book at random to the third week in February and held it up to the dim central light in an attempt to decipher the pencilled scrawl. Tuesday’s entry read: Close next big hurdle, Gr. 7. Mr. M ‘great strides’. A music lesson, Thanet wondered, remembering the music on the piano downstairs. Friday’s entry read: Grp. v. int. tonight! A religious group, he’d be willing to bet. Bible study, perhaps? But the exclamation mark surprised him.

  So these had been the highlights of her life.

  Sad, and not very promising from Thanet’s point of view. They did however prove that Charity had had some outside interests and contacts, apart from school, and that her father’s claim that she had no friends other than Veronica might have been exaggerated. Thanet put the diary in his pocket. He would study it at leisure later.

  Meanwhile he would have to see if Pritchard were fit to be questioned.

  Thanet always hated this business of interrogating people still raw with shock and grief, but it was necessary, indeed essential, to gather together as much personal information as possible about the victim, early in the case.

  This house was the still centre of the hurricane of furious activity now raging in connection with Charity’s death. This was where she had lived and it was here that her character had been formed. Perhaps it was her very innocence, her ignorance of the sophistications of the modern world that had left her unprepared to cope with one of its evil manifestations when it had come upon her.

  In any case, it was Thanet’s responsibility and his special skill to try to understand how this had come about, his firm conviction that except in cases of random violence (and this was a possibility he always bore in mind), if he could only come to understand why it had happened, the who would eventually become apparent.

  And for that he would need Pritchard’s help.

  He checked that there was nothing hidden under the mattress and, remembering one of his earlier cases, that there was no trapdoor in the ceiling, and then took one last, lingering look around the room. As he gazed at Charity’s monastic little cell there came unbidden to his mind a brief, vivid image of Bridget’s room, of the bulging bookcases, overflowing cupboards, the pretty curtains, fitted carpet and walls crammed with posters, the whole rich, disorganised clutter which fed her imagination and catered to the needs of her expanding mind and personality. Raised in this bleak atmosphere, restricted and hedged about as she surely must have been with a father like Pritchard, what had happened to those hidden aspects of Charity’s character? Had they shrivelled up and died? Or, starved of external stimulation, deprived of emotional satisfaction, had they turned in upon themselves, become warped and twisted and in some way led finally to Charity’s death in that alley?

  He was being fanciful, Thanet told himself as he closed the door softly behind him. She had probably, quite simply, channelled them into her music.

  Well, time would tell.

  5

  When Thanet came down to breakfast next morning there was a note on the kitchen table: Joan rang. Ask.

  He sat down, gingerly, for his back had stiffened up overnight, and waved the piece of paper at his mother-in-law, who was making toast.

  ‘What time did she ring?’

  ‘Ten fifteen. I told her you probably wouldn’t be back till late.’

  Thanet frowned. Lately, he and Joan always seemed to miss each other when they phoned and he felt as though he hadn’t spoken to her properly in months.

  ‘How did she sound?’

  ‘A bit tired, I thought. Abstracted.’

  Thanet knew what Mrs Bolton meant, and he didn’t like it. Theoretically there was no reason why Joan shoul
d not be relatively free now. She had finished her final placement—in a boys’ borstal—some time ago, had handed in her final essay three weeks before. So, why was she so elusive? It would be a relief to have her home again where he could see her, talk to her, touch her, reassure himself of her affection. He’d even begun to wonder, of late, if the distance between them was not merely geographical, if Joan was slipping away from him. Once again he supressed the unbearable thought that she might even have met someone on the course who was proving more interesting to her than a husband whose attraction had been eroded by familiarity. The name of Geoffrey Benson, for instance, was cropping up far too often for Thanet’s liking.

  ‘Did she say when she’d ring again?’

  ‘She said that if you were just launching into a new case, it might be easier if you rang her. She hopes to be in all evening.’

  ‘Good.’ Thanet sipped at his scalding coffee, hoping that it would clear his head a little. It had been after three this morning by the time he’d finally got to bed.

  Bridget came skipping into the kitchen, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. She flipped his tie. ‘I thought you had one more day off, Daddy.’

  He kissed her back. ‘So did I, Sprig, but unfortunately it hasn’t worked out like that. How’s my girl, this morning?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  Already, at the age of ten, Bridget was springing up. It was another hot day and in her brief shorts her tanned legs were long and shapely. Thanet looked with a mixture of pride and alarm at the smooth oval of her face, the gleaming fall of spun-gold hair; the policeman in him couldn’t help feeling that these days beauty could be a mixed blessing.

  ‘Does that mean we’ll all have to go home today?’ she asked with a frown.

  ‘Do you want to?’ he teased.

  ‘Oh no. It’s lovely here, isn’t it, Ben? There’s such lots to do.’

  Ben, two years younger, had just hurtled into the kitchen and skidded to a stop beside his father. Already, at seven thirty in the morning, his face was streaked with dirt, his jeans smeared with mud.

  ‘Ben!’ His grandmother was outraged. ‘What on earth have you been doing with yourself? Go and wash at once, do you hear me?’

  Ben glanced sideways at his father who, unseen by Mrs Bolton, gave him a consoling pat on the back before nodding. Ben departed, scowling, followed by Bridget. Inwardly, Thanet sympathised with his son. He and Joan had never made a fuss about dirt. Why bother, when it was so easily washed away? Rudeness, destructiveness, bad manners were different. Here, the Thanets had always been firm; spoiled children, they believed, grew up into unlikeable adults.

  Mrs Bolton, on the other hand, believed that children should look clean and neat at all times and it was not surprising that Bridget and Ben—particularly Ben—had found it very difficult to adjust to such different expectations.

  ‘But it’s only clean dirt, Grandma,’ Ben used to protest at first.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Ben. How can dirt be clean? I never heard such nonsense. Now, go and wash, at once.’

  Thanet, torn between sympathy for Ben and gratitude to his mother-in-law for stepping into Joan’s shoes, had forced himself not to intervene. When Ben had complained he’d simply tried to explain that older people find it difficult to change and that as these arrangements were only temporary Ben would just have to grin and bear it.

  Over the last few months there seemed to have been an increasing number of such minor conflicts. Patience was wearing thin on both sides as the time of Joan’s return grew near.

  Thanet finished his coffee and rose. ‘Don’t keep supper for me, I expect I’ll be late.’

  Bridget came back into the kitchen. ‘I’ve opened the front gate for you, Daddy.’

  ‘Thanks, poppet.’ He kissed her goodbye. ‘Where’s Ben?’

  ‘In the garden.’

  Outside Ben was wobbling away down the sloping drive on Mrs Bolton’s ancient sit-up-and-beg bicycle, which was of course much too big for him.

  Thanet took in Ben’s lack of control, the open gate ahead. Simultaneously he became aware of an ominous sound: out on the road, invisible because of the dense screen of trees and shrubs which fronted the cottage garden, a tractor was approaching.

  The next few seconds were a blur. Thanet’s shouted warning, Ben’s futile attempt to stop, the flash of red as the tractor came into view, the heartstopping moment when the off-side wheel of the tractor slammed into the back wheel of the bicycle and Ben was catapulted over the handlebars …

  Thanet pounded down the drive, fear drying his mouth and thundering in his ears. Ben’s crumpled body seemed infinitely far away, as if he were looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. Then, as he drew nearer, he saw with frantic hope that Ben had landed on the grass verge at the far side of the road.

  Just before Thanet reached him, Ben rolled over and stood up.

  He was all right.

  By that mysterious alchemy peculiar to parents Thanet’s anxiety and relief exploded into anger and before he could stop himself he had given Ben a resounding whack on the bottom.

  ‘How many times have I told you never to ride down that drive when the gate is open!’

  ‘He came right out under my wheels,’ said the tractor driver defensively, raising his voice to make himself heard above Ben’s howls.

  ‘I know. I saw. It wasn’t your fault.’

  Bridget and Mrs Bolton came running down the drive.

  ‘What happened? Is Ben all right?’

  Explanations and recriminations were soon over. Ben was sent to his room for an hour as punishment and before long Thanet was on his way, shaken but thankful. When he thought how it could have ended …

  In the office, mounds of reports awaited him. Lineham was already hard at work, sifting through them.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Not so far. Reports from neighbours verify Pritchard’s story. The house was deserted from the time they all left on Friday morning until Pritchard arrived back last night. They’re not very popular, it seems.’

  ‘Actively disliked?’

  ‘Pritchard is. No, I suppose that’s not strictly true. Perhaps “not liked” would be nearer the mark.’

  ‘And Mrs Pritchard and Charity?’

  ‘Neither has any friends amongst the neighbours. They keep themselves to themselves, don’t mix, never take part in local activities. Apparently this is normal, amongst members of their sect.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Thanet was busy lighting his first pipe of the day and he waited now until it was drawing properly before saying, ‘Well, we’ll skim through the rest of these and then get along to Town Road. Let’s hope Pritchard is feeling more cooperative this morning.’

  Last night it had been impossible to get anything out of the man. In any case, Pritchard had so obviously been in a state of shock that Thanet had been unwilling to press too hard. Adamant in his refusal to see a doctor or to have anyone to keep him company through the night, Pritchard had clung stubbornly to his sole source of comfort. When they left he was still kneeling on the stone floor of the kitchen.

  Thanet wondered if he was still there.

  ‘Any news of Mrs Pritchard, Mike?’

  ‘A Sergeant Matthews rang this morning, from Birmingham. Someone went to break the news to her last night. If she was up to it, she was going to travel down early this morning.’

  ‘If. I shouldn’t think we could count on it. Imagine what it must be like to lose both mother and daughter on the same day! Is someone coming with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Of course, they’re all tied up, up there, with the admin to do with the death of the old lady.’

  The death round, thought Thanet, that infinitely depressing ordeal of the newly bereaved: death certificate, registry office, undertaker. He couldn’t see that Mrs Pritchard would be in much of a state to be questioned this morning.

  Surprisingly, he was wrong. It was she who answered the door and although her face was puffy and her eyes infla
med with weeping, she was composed.

  ‘Come in, Inspector.’

  She was small and slight, her bony features and prominent nose accentuated by the way she wore her light brown hair, dragged back into a neat bun on the nape of her neck. She was wearing a shabby black dress and Thanet smelt mothballs as he and Lineham followed her down the passage and into the front room. The skimpy beige curtains were drawn and in the dim light filtering through them the room looked more depressing than ever.

  ‘I’ll fetch my husband.’

  Perhaps her presence had had a calming effect upon Pritchard. Although there were traces of fluff adhering to his neck where he had cut himself shaving, he appeared to be more in control of himself this morning. He looked unfamiliar in grey flannel trousers and a knitted cardigan.

  Mrs Pritchard glanced nervously from Thanet to her husband. It was obvious from their faces that they were both apprehensive of what he was going to say. Perhaps they thought that he was bringing them news of their daughter’s murderer. Thanet only wished he were. He decided to take the initiative.

  ‘Perhaps we could sit down?’

  The Pritchards backed away and perched side by side on the edge of the settee. Thanet and Lineham took the armchairs.

  ‘Look, Mrs Pritchard, Mr Pritchard, I’m sorry to trouble you both at a time like this. I really mean that. But I’m afraid we’re going to need your help.’

  They exchanged a brief, uneasy glance and Pritchard frowned. ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘I need information—about your daughter’s friends, associates, activities—’

  ‘Activities?’ Pritchard’s voice was dull, lifeless.

  ‘Meetings, hobbies, clubs …’

  ‘Clubs?’

  Mrs Pritchard shifted restlessly on the settee. Since her husband had joined them she hadn’t spoken a single word.