"Did they move in with her as well?"
"No. They stayed across the road and took care of themselves. It was all very sad. They had virtually no contact with Geoffrey afterward except to post the gas and electricity bills through his door. I think they blamed him for their mother's death."
"I suppose we all lash out when we're hurt," I said, thinking of Jock and his parents. "It's human nature."
"They were very quiet girls ... rather too quiet, I always thought. I can't ever remember seeing them laugh. They started caring for their mother when they were much too young, of course. It meant they were never able to make friends with their own age group."
"Do you remember their names?"
"Oh Lord, now you're asking." She pondered for a moment, then shook her head. "No, dear, I'm sorry. They were pretty girls with blond hair and blue eyes ... always reminded me of Barbie dolls."
"You said they were teenagers when their mother died. Late teens or early teens?"
"I think the elder was fifteen and the younger thirteen."
I did some mental arithmetic. "So they'd have been eleven and nine when Annie died?"
"More or less."
"They were called Rosie and Bridget," I said. "They used to walk to school every morning, hand-in-hand, wearing beautifully ironed uniforms and looking as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths."
"That's right," said Wendy. "What a wonderful memory you have."
Not really, I thought. Before Annie's death the two girls and I had been friends. We would greet each other with smiles and hellos, I on my way to one school, they on their way to another. Then, for no reason that I ever understood, everything changed in the months following Annie's death. Their wide smiles vanished and they avoided looking at me. Once upon a time Bridget had had pigtails like her sister until someone cut them off and posted them in long, blond strands through our letter box. At the time I didn't know their surname or which house they lived in. All I knew was that Rosie grew paler and thinner, while nine-year-old Bridget's hair was long one day and short the next. But I had no idea why the ends were sent to me or what their significance was.
"I didn't know their mother was ill," I said sadly. "I used to think what a nice woman she must be because they were so sweetly behaved in contrast to some of the others."
More sighs. "They were very lost after she died. I tried to help them but Geoffrey became appallingly belligerent and told me to stop interfering. There's only so much you can do, unfortunately ... and Geoffrey made them suspicious of me by saying I was trying to have them put into care. It wasn't true, but they believed him, of course." Her mouth turned down at the memory. "He was a beastly little man ... I never did like him."
"Are either of the girls still on Graham Road?" I asked.
She looked troubled. "No, and the awful thing is I've no idea where they went or what happened to them. I believe Michael was living with them at one point, but he was in and out of juvenile prison so much it was difficult to keep track. I asked Geoffrey once what had happened to them but he brushed me aside as if I were an irritating gnat. A most pernicious creature. I've always felt he and Sharon deserved each other."
I brought her back to Rosie and Bridget. "Did the girls marry?"
She shook her head. "I couldn't say, my dear. If they did it wasn't in St. Mark's." She paused for reflection. "Mind, the report on the armed robbery-the one about Michael Percy-mentioned a wife called Bridget-and I thought at the time"-she pursed her lips into a tight little rosebud-"well, well! All those children were close. They used to run around in a gang together ... couldn't prize them apart most of the time."
Geoffrey Spalding at his wife's
funeral, outside St. Mark's
Church, Summer J982
Libby Williams and the
Ranelaghs at the funeral of
Ann Butts, November 1978
I wasn't there to score points with superior knowledge so I searched for a photograph of Jock Williams instead. Predictably, I couldn't find one. He vaunted his atheism as loudly as a born-again Christian vaunts Jesus' love, and he wouldn't set foot inside a church if his soul depended on it. There was a picture of Libby talking to Sam and me at Annie's funeral, and I pointed it out to Wendy and asked her if she'd ever met the husband. "His name was Jock Williams. They lived at number 21."
"What did he look like?"
"Late twenties ... about five years older than Libby ... dark-haired, quite good-looking, five foot ten." Another shake of her head. "He and Libby divorced eighteen months after Annie died. Libby took herself off to Southampton but Jock moved to a three-story town house in Alveston Road."
Wendy smiled apologetically. "To be honest I wouldn't have known who this woman was if you hadn't told me. Is it important?"
"Probably not."
She watched me for a moment. "Meaning it is," she declared. "But why?"
I concentrated on a small figurine on a side table which was the same shade as Sheila Arnold's bracelet. "Most people have to settle for smaller houses when they get divorced," I said mildly, wishing I knew more about jade. "Jock moved into a bigger one."
She was clearly puzzled by my interest. "It was the way we were living then. People took absurd risks on property after Margaret Thatcher came to power. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. I remember one of our parishioners saddled himself with a mortgage of nearly Ł200,000 and doubled his investment within five years. Another bought just as the market peaked and within a few months found himself owing more than the house was worth. Your friend was lucky."
I nodded agreement. "What about Maureen Slater's and Sharon Percy's houses?" I asked her. "If they're still living on Graham Road does that mean they remained as council tenants or did they exercise their right to buy?"
"Oh, they bought, of course," she said sourly. "Everything in public ownership was sold off within the first two or three years. It was laughably cheap ... no one in their right mind would have turned their backs on an offer like that. Sharon paid for hers outright, I believe, and Maureen opted to stagger her payments. Now, of course, they're quids in. Their houses are worth about Ł200,000 ... and they paid an absolute pittance for them because the wretched taxpayers subsidized the sales."
I smiled. "You don't approve."
"Why would I?" she countered crossly. "Every time I see a homeless person lying in a doorway I think how criminal it is that there's no housing left for the genuinely deprived."
"Some might say Maureen Slater was genuinely deprived," I murmured. "She took a lot of punishment from her husband."
"Yes, well, Maureen's different," she admitted grudgingly. "Her brain was turned to mush by that brute. Peter used to describe her as 'punch drunk' from all the beatings, but if I'm honest I think real drunkenness probably had more to do with it. She was just as addicted to alcohol as Derek was ... though with rather more justification." She caught my surprised expression. "Anesthesia," she explained. "It must have been very painful to be used as a sparring partner."
"Still..." I said slowly, "if her brain was turned to mush, how could she have afforded to buy her house? Presumably she couldn't work, so what did she use for money ... even if it was only a pittance that she had to find?"
There was a long silence.
"What aren't you telling me?" demanded Wendy finally.
I took time to consider my answer, but in the end I decided to be straight with her. "I met Sheila Arnold recently ,.. Annie's doctor. She told me Annie was robbed. Now I'm wondering who robbed her, how much they made on the deal and what the money was used for."
"Oh, dear, dear," said Wendy with genuine concern. "I really don't think there's any truth in that story. Sheila only came up with it when she was accused of neglecting another patient-and that was three or four years after Annie died. She wasn't remotely interested until her own interests were compromised." She tapped the tips of her fingers together in agitation. "It was all a bit strange. Not a word said for ages ... then suddenly Sheila expects
us to believe that, far from being the vulnerable soul we thought she was, Annie was a wealthy woman, living in comfort, until shortly before she died. It all became very unpleasant very quickly ... insults being thrown about ... everyone accusing everyone else of lying."
I didn't say anything, and she seemed to think she'd upset me.
"Are you disappointed?" she asked. "I'm so sorry. Peter told me what a shock Annie's death was to you."
"Please don't apologize." I wondered what else Peter had divulged. "I'm not disappointed." I opened my rucksack to reveal a six-inch-thick file, then took out an envelope of press clippings and flicked through the pile till I came to June 1982. "Is this the story you mean?" I asked her, handing her the "Local doctor denies neglect" report.
"Yes," she said slowly, glancing up from the yellowed paper. "How long have you had it?"
"Sixteen years. It was the fifth time Annie's name was mentioned in the press since the publicity over her death. These"-I removed the remaining clippings from the envelope and flicked my thumb down the guillotined edges-"are all the other references. Her case is generally cited to illustrate the dangers of allowing vulnerable people to fend for themselves." I smiled slightly at Wendy's expression. "Various friends save articles for me. Also, I pay my old university library to monitor the local and national press for any mention of Ann Butts," I explained.
"Good gracious!"
"And for any mention of the two police officers who investigated her death," I went on, removing another envelope. "These are the articles that refer to them. One, PC Quentin, died in a car crash seven years ago. The other, PS Drury, retired from the police in 1990 to take over a pub in the Radley brewery chain. There are also clippings about anyone mentioned in previous articles ... for example, there's a reference to Dr. Arnold's move to Dorchester ... and one about you and your husband leaving St. Mark's to take up a parish in the west country."
She looked at the piece on Sheila's alleged negligence. "The previous reference to us being Peter's quote at the end, I suppose?"
I nodded. "He didn't pull any punches either. "There's no excuse for this kind of neglect. Lessons should have been learnt ... so that the same mistakes could not happen again.' " My eyes strayed toward the jade figurine. "Did he know what he was talking about? Had he ever been inside Annie's house?"
Wendy shook her head. "She wouldn't give him the time of day because she knew Maureen took refuge at the vicarage."
"Then he had no business to talk about 'this kind of neglect,' " I said lightly. "It suggests an informed comparison, which he couldn't make, and it was hardly surprising that Sheila was upset about it."
"I know," she agreed unhappily. "The only good thing is, he didn't mention her by name."
I shrugged. "He didn't need to. It's perfectly clear who he's talking about. In any case, the newspaper probably edited it out to avoid a libel suit. The whole article's carefully constructed to record Sheila's denials of neglect without ever actually accusing her of it."
Wendy gave yet another heartfelt sigh. "It was my fault really. I'm the one who reminded Peter about Annie, and he promptly rushed off in high dudgeon to talk to the press. Sheila never forgave him for it and it made life very difficult afterward."
"I can imagine"-I extracted "Doctor cleared by BMA"-"particularly as Sheila was exonerated. Mr. Potts wasn't even her patient."
"It was too late by then. The damage had been done. Peter did try to apologize but Sheila was having none of it." She paused. "But it wasn't entirely his fault, you know. Sheila was spreading some frightful counteraccusations against him, saying the reason Annie distrusted him so much was because he'd supported the neighbors' attempts to get rid of her from the street. She even suggested he was a racist."
"Is he?"
I thought she might be angry, but she wasn't. "No. He has many faults but racism isn't one of them. Sheila knew it, too. It was an unkind thing to say."
"Not much fun for any of you." I murmured.
"Terrible!"
"But it doesn't mean Sheila was wrong to say Annie was robbed," I pointed out.
"It just seems so unlikely," said Wendy. "No one thought Annie had a house full of treasures while she was alive. Did you think she had?"
"No," I admitted, "but Sheila does have evidence to support her story. Letters from the RSPCA inspector, for example, who went in to check on her cats. And if it is true that Annie was robbed, then it's also true that the police investigation into her death was flawed because it failed to take into account that someone took a small fortune off her either before or after she died."
"But who, for goodness' sake?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," I said, putting the press clippings back into their envelopes. "Someone fairly close to home is my guess ... someone who knew what was in there."
She canted her head to one side to study me closely with her bright, perceptive eyes. "What's your husband's view?"
"He doesn't have one," I said slowly. "The subject hasn't been mentioned in our house for twenty years."
She put a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"No need to be," I told her gruffly. "This is my project, not his."
Did she think "project" was an inappropriate word? "It's not your fault Annie died," she said with sincerity. "You've nothing to feel guilty about."
"I don't."
Perhaps she didn't believe me. Perhaps she saw a contradiction between my apparent composure and the evidence of obsession in my lap. "No one escapes justice," she said, dropping her hand to pick up one of mine and rubbing it gently between hers. "It may not be a justice we can see or understand, but the punishment is always appropriate."
"I expect you're right," I agreed, "but I'm not interested in abstract punishment. I want the kind I can see ... the eye for an eye ... the pound of flesh."
"Then you'll be disappointed," she told me. "There's no joy-in causing pain ... however worthy the motive."
I had no answer to that except to return the pressure of her fingers. It was acknowledgment of a sort and to that extent it mollified her, but worry remained etched around her eyes until I left.
Family correspondence-dated 1999
CURRAN HOUSE
Whitehay Road
Torquay
Devon
Wednesday, July 28 1999
Dearest M,
If I can give you any advice at all-and of course there's no reason why you should take it-it's that you talk things through with Sam before your mother and I come for our visit on Saturday. She's still very unhappy about your move to Dorchester and will, I fear, put pressure on the boys to supply answers if she can't get them from you. Sam has told her the farmhouse was the only property you could find at short notice-which is clearly what he believes-and she's now convinced "something's going on" as she says her tame real estate agent faxed you a list of suitable lets in Devon at the beginning of June.
Sorry to he a nuisance but the old adage-"of two evils choose the lesser"-is a good one, I find. You know what your mother's like when she gets the bit between her teeth, and I fear Sam would be very hurt to learn the truth from his children after a quizzing from their grandmother! It won't be easy "coming clean"-secrecy isfrighteningly addictive, as I've discovered myself since I realized how much closer you and I have become through our shared crusade, my dear, and how jealously I want to guard that closeness-but I think the time has come for honesty. I know you would never hurt Sam unnecessarily.
Love,
Dad
X X X
*7*
The house was full of young people when I arrived back that evening to find an impromptu barbecue taking place on our terrace. "Another end-of-term celebration," explained my younger son en route from the kitchen with a tray of spare ribs. He dropped me a mischievous wink. "Luke and I were voted the people most likely to throw a good party." He had a pretty girl draped off his elbow whose hair was almost as long and as blond as his own. "Georgie," he offered by way of introdu
ction. "Mum."
The girl was too besotted to look at me for long. "It's nice of you to invite me," she said.
I nodded, wondering how Luke and Tom had managed to become the center of attention so quickly. At their age I had hidden behind a fringe, longing to be noticed and invariably overlooked, while Sam had followed in the wake of the Jock Williamses of this world, acquiring girlfriends courtesy of their friends' superior pulling power. The boys would say it was their height, surfers' good looks and neat bums, but I thought it had more to do with taking jobs as checkout cashiers in the local Tesco's, which seemed to be the modern equivalent of the village pump. In the end all paths meet across a supermarket trolley.
With a promise to put in an appearance as soon as I'd changed, I retreated to the bedroom where I found Sam laid out on the bed and glaring at the ceiling. "It's bedlam down there," he said crossly. "Why didn't you tell me the boys were planning to invite half of Dorchester to eat us out of house and home?"
"I forgot," I lied.
"Well, for your information," he growled, "I was sunbathing in the nude when they all came piling 'round the corner of the house. It was bloody embarrassing."
Smiling, I flopped down beside him. "Is that why you're hiding up here?"
"No," he said, jutting his chin toward some boxes in the corner of the room. "I'm guarding my wine. I found a girl in the kitchen trying to open a bottle of Cloudy Bay because she thought it looked like cheap plonk, so I gave her a lecture on the quality of New Zealand viniculture and she burst into tears."
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