Fragile Lives
Page 6
‘You like the girl?’ It was an irrelevant question and Mac found he’d been jolted into asking it purely because he was surprised.
‘We like the girl, she works hard and she’s going to be a doctor. Up to her ears in debt to do it,’ he added. ‘None of that seems right, leaving university with that amount of shit hanging round your neck and just because you want to make something of yourself. I mean, if Pat had wanted to go for your Media Studies tripe then we’d have urged the lad to do something else …’
‘Or criminology?’ It was pure mischief, but somehow Mac could not resist.
Duggan stopped and stared at him, hard blue eyes narrowed. Then he laughed, throwing back his head and laughing until the tears came. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘that was on his shortlist. He understood irony, did our Pat.’ Then the laughter faded and Mac felt the change in mood. ‘You know I’ll kill the bastards, don’t you?’
‘It had crossed my mind.’
‘And you, what will you do? Try and stop me?’
Mac shrugged. ‘My concern at the moment, Mr Duggan, is to find out who killed your son. Murder is not something that sits well.’
‘Especially when the killer goes free? I imagine that must rankle, Inspector. I imagine the dead must keep you awake then.’
He knows, Mac thought. He knows about the child. ‘Especially then,’ he said quietly. ‘I think we both want justice, Mr Duggan, as our primary objective anyway. I think we may only differ in our views on its administration.’ He sounded pompous, Mac thought. Duggan seemed to bring that out in him but he could not have said why.
‘Justice, yes.’ Duggan said. ‘Though for my money I’d as soon see the bastards follow Parker’s example and take a long drop off a cliff as to have the tax payer bear the brunt of paying to keep scum like that.’ He frowned. They had reached his car now and Fitch had opened the door and started the engine. ‘Speaking of which, Parker’s little tumble and all, I hear there was others involved along with the kid. Some old woman?’
She wouldn’t like being called old, Mac thought. ‘And?’ he asked.
‘And what does she know about Parker?’
‘Very little. Her involvement was in helping George and Karen on that one occasion. You might say she was purely incidental.’ Not that being called incidental would please her any more than old.
‘Aye, well that’s as may be but I’ll be talking to her too.’
‘No, Mr Duggan, you will not.’
‘And who’s to stop me? You? Far as I know there’s no law that says I can’t knock on her door for a bit of a chat.’
He paused, dug in his pocket and produced an antique card case, removed a business card. It carried only his name and a mobile phone number. ‘Maybe you’d pass this on,’ he said. ‘Tell her I’d appreciate it if she spared me a bit of time. Least she could do for a bereaved father, I’d have thought.’
He climbed into the Range Rover and Mac watched as they drove away. Irritated, he thrust the card into the pocket of his coat. He would talk to Eden but he had no doubt that he would have to pass the message on; Duggan would talk to Rina whether Mac liked it or not and it was best for her to be prepared.
At the end of the day the kids made their way out towards where the buses waited. George and Ursula would have to get the minibus. This dropped off and picked up in the centre of town, about a ten-minute walk away and central for all the kids at Hill House to be able to meet up. The only two it collected directly from school being the twins.
George walked Paul to the school bus that was going back to Frantham, Ursula in tow fiddling with her bag and fretting whether she had the books she needed for homework.
‘She’s weird,’ Paul muttered.
George shrugged. ‘She’s OK. Better than the rest of them at that place. Wish I could have stayed with you.’
Paul nodded but it occurred to George that this wish wasn’t strictly true for either of them any more. It had been great to be at Paul’s house and have the stability of Paul’s family around him when they were both getting over everything. But it was time to move on now; get back to school, rediscover whatever it meant to be ‘normal’ and George was struck by the fact that he was achieving this far more readily than Paul. His friend seemed lodged in the same crevice he had retreated into when Mrs Freer had been killed. He seemed unable to face anything that even felt like normality. George, who had been around depression and defeat long enough to know what it looked like, recognized his mood for what it was and knew he really needed help. A lot of help and, like, now. He knew too how hard it was for people to recognize Paul’s mental state for what it was and how uneasy family could be when it came to seeking out help for someone close to them who was slowly slipping beyond reach.
God, it had been bad enough with their mam.
Sure, George thought, Paul was seeing this counsellor woman and her aim was supposed to be to get him talking, accepting, dealing with and moving on, but George had seen too many of those types in action too and he was cynical as regards their effectiveness.
How did talking help? How did reliving terrible things in minute detail make anyone feel better?
George really didn’t know.
And now there was Ursula for Paul to deal with.
‘Does she know about … you know … everything?’ Paul asked in an undertone.
‘Course not. I never told her nothing about any of it.’ But, he reflected, that didn’t actually mean anything where Ursula was concerned. She had ears like radar and a brain that filled in gaps in her knowledge with an incredible degree of accuracy. Ursula ‘got’ things; was able to slot the puzzle into place while everyone else was just scrabbling about trying to see what the picture on the box was. What if she’d heard the staff talking just like he had on his first night? And, unlike the other kids in Hill House, Ursula actually watched the news when she got the chance and read the papers. Even more damning, there was no way she could have missed out on all the gossip going round the school.
‘Don’t worry. She’s all right,’ George told him. ‘Look, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He stood and watched as Paul got on the bus, half wishing he could join him.
‘Better get moving,’ Ursula said. ‘Just in case they’re on time for once.’
‘That ever happen?’
She shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Brandon was talking about you today. I told him to piss off.’
George sighed. ‘What was he saying?’
‘That you fancied me.’ Ursula was derisive. ‘And that … that it wasn’t right we were sharing a place with someone like you.’
George’s heart skipped. ‘Like me? What’s like me?’
Ursula gnawed at her lower lip, momentarily indecisive. ‘He said you had something to do with killing some old lady.’
‘Well, I never!’ George was furious. ‘We broke in the place, we were stupid and … and wrong but we never.’
Ursula stopped and laid a hand on George’s arm. ‘I know you didn’t,’ she said. ‘Like I said, I told him to piss off.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t like to finish a sentence with a preposition, but sometimes you just have to.’
‘A what?’ She moved on again and George followed a little reluctantly. ‘He won’t take no notice of you.’
‘Course he won’t but your friend the policeman could tell him the same thing and he’d take no notice. He wants to believe you did it, they all do.’
George was mystified. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ Ursula said, and it was obvious to George she had given this a lot of thought, ‘because every single one of them has screwed up some way or another and thinking you might have done something like that, it makes them feel better about what it is they’ve done or what they are.’
‘What? I don’t get it?’
Ursula shrugged.
‘What’s Brandon done, anyway?’
She shrugged again. ‘You want to know about someone you have to ask them,’ she said. ‘I don’t tell.’
She glared at him. ‘If I needed you to be guilty for me to feel better, you think I’d have decided to look out for you?’
George was furious. ‘I don’t need no looking after.’
They had reached the place where they met the minibus. Brandon was already there, Jill and Caroline stood close by, discussing shoes they were looking at in a shop window. Grace trundled up a moment later, Richard being the only missing one. George’s raised voice had them all staring in his direction.
He stopped dead a few yards from the others and stared down at his feet, wishing himself anywhere but where he was.
‘Had an ickle tiff, have we?’ Brandon said.
Grace giggled, the high-pitched laugh very much at odds with the heavy frame it issued from. The other girls turned pointedly away, focusing in on themselves as they always did and Ursula dropped her bag down at her feet and said nothing, standing beside George whether he wanted her to or not. George was torn between fury that she should think he needed a girl to look after him, never mind say it out loud, and profound gratitude that her presence meant that they were still friends.
He wanted so badly to go home; if only he could figure out where home was.
Six
‘Young George phoned to thank me for the binoculars,’ Rina said as she led Mac through to the kitchen. ‘Come and say hello to everyone and then we’ll withdraw, shall we?’
Mac smiled at the old-fashioned notion. Rina’s ‘withdrawing room’, her ‘den’ as Tim called it, was a small sitting room just off the main hall, an inner sanctum that no one entered without invitation.
‘George was very grateful,’ he said. ‘Impressed too.’
‘Good, better than them sitting in the top of the wardrobe. How is he anyway? Or is that a stupid question?’
‘To which I will give the usual stupid reply,’ Mac told her. ‘He’s as well as anyone could expect him to be. But he does seem to have found a friend up there.’ He thought of Ursula, her pale face surrounded by the fall of straight blonde hair and the too large eyes, wide set and questioning.
Damaged, he thought. So many damaged, fragile souls, his numbering among them. In contrast Rina always seemed so solid, so certain and yet he knew she had suffered more than her share of grief.
‘Mac! Oh, how lovely.’ One of Rina’s lodgers came forward, elderly hands outstretched. It was one of the Peters twins, possibly Bethany, but he could still never be quite sure.
She was joined a moment later by her sister. ‘Mac, do come and sit, let us make tea and I’m sure there’s cake?’ Her voice rose in question as she looked towards the tall, middle-aged man with flowing grey hair wielding a tea towel while a smaller, balding figure sloshed bubbles and water in a Belfast sink.
‘Of course there’s cake,’ Matthew Montmorency boomed, projecting his voice as though he still thought himself on stage. ‘Yesterday was baking day, isn’t that right, Steven?’
‘Right indeed,’ the other replied. ‘A very good evening to you, Inspector, and what variety of cake would you like? We have chocolate and ginger, though that could do with standing for another day before it’s cut, and I believe the ladies left some of the lemon drizzle?’ He emptied the water from the sink and dried his hands. ‘Eliza, dear, perhaps you could go and shout Timothy, tell him it is now safe to come down. The washing up is done.’
‘Will do, Steven.’ Eliza fluttered out.
‘Tim did all of the lunch pots, all on his own,’ Bethany defended. ‘Mac, darling, Rina’s found a place for you to live.’ She clasped her hands fervently. ‘It’s so exciting. Eliza and I will have to start knitting.’
‘Knitting?’ Mac was mystified but, he thought, that was no novel experience in the Martin household.
‘A nice throw, we thought, all bright squares. For your sofa,’ she added as though Mac might not know what to do with a throw.
Mac thought about the two scarves Rina wore, one for each sister, and considered he should probably be grateful that a throw could at least be left at home. He thanked her and then, allowing Bethany to seat him at the scrubbed pine table, looked across at Rina for further explanation. She shook her head indulgently at her mad family.
‘I have a friend in the old town who has just finished renovating a flat,’ she said. ‘He had planned to get it ready for holiday lets this year but everything got delayed and he’s still got to furnish the place and as the season starts soon he’d much rather go for a steady rental than take his chance mopping up last-minute reservations.’
She paused and Steven handed her a mug of tea and a folded sheet of paper. ‘There you are Rina. All the details.’
‘Thank you, Steven.’ She pushed the paper across to Mac. ‘I’ve arranged for a viewing on Saturday. Neil, my friend, he says there’s still a bit of painting to be done and the place is small, just the one bedroom and an open-plan living kitchen area. Oh, and there’s only a shower in the bathroom. He could have fitted one of those silly corner baths but that would have taken up so much space it didn’t seem worth it. Anyway, it’s all newly done and comfortable and I’m sure if I ask around we can get you some furniture together.’
Mac was a little taken aback. He opened the folded sheet. ‘The boathouse?’
‘Actually, it’s above the boathouse. The first lifeboats used it, before we got the proper shed and slipway. Neil uses the downstairs to store his own boat and such but there’s a separate entrance and it can’t be more than ten minutes walk away from work so …’
Mac realized that he was really quite touched. Steven placed a second mug of tea beside his elbow. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’
‘Oh, no trouble,’ Steven answered for Rina. ‘Rina and I went to check it out. The kitchen space is a bit small, but I’m sure it will be fine for one and the views are to die for. I’ll make you out a list of essentials, for cooking, you know.’ He frowned. ‘You do cook, I suppose?’
‘Oh, leave the man alone,’ Matthew told his brother. ‘Of course he doesn’t cook. He’s a policeman, they live on coffee and doughnuts.’
Mac stifled a laugh. ‘I can manage simple stuff,’ he said, ‘and a list would be welcome, thank you, Steven.’
Steven beamed and Matthew awarded Mac a grateful smile, happy with anything that made his brother feel rewarded. When he had first met Rina the so-called brothers had been introduced to him as twins but he doubted the Montmorency’s were even related, so different were they in appearance, though he had learned that they had worked for years as a double act and were always billed as a matched pair. The more he got to know them, the more Mac thought of them as being two parts of the same whole. Whatever the exact nature of their relationship, they completed one another in a way that Mac thought enviable, if a little disturbing. He’d never, ever felt that close to another human being.
‘Tim is on his way,’ Matthew said. ‘He’s been rehearsing. He has an audition at that new posh hotel away up the coast.’
‘Oh?’ Mac was curious. ‘As Marvello or The Great Stupendo?’
‘Oh no,’ Matthew told him. ‘He’s put a stop to all that. Stupendo has seen his last action. Tim and the girls and Matthew and I had a ceremonial wig burning out in the garden. We sprinkled the ashes around the rose bushes. Rina thinks it might kill them but I’m sure it will be all right.’
Mac nodded solemnly, thinking that it was about time Tim gave up on the clown act. For a start, he didn’t really like kids and the make-up brought him out in the most awful rash. ‘Good for Tim,’ he said.
‘Good for me about what?’ The tall, ascetic figure that wandered into the kitchen, had never, Mac thought, looked less clownlike.
‘For cremating Stupendo.’
The serious, almost severe face split into a broad smile, spoiling the effect but transforming the otherwise rather steely eyes. ‘I just
couldn’t go on,’ he confessed. ‘That last party just about did for me. Twenty-seven spoiled little brats …’
‘Not to mention the choking incident,’ Rina added.
‘Hmm, not to mention that. The parents had to pay for the carpet to be cleaned, I believe.’
‘Carpet?’ Mac asked.
‘Oh, the choking was followed by a bit of vomiting and a fair bit of hysteria,’ Tim said airily. ‘Mind you, they couldn’t have blamed yours truly for it. I banked the cheque first thing the next morning and it cleared in only two days. Not bad, eh?’
‘And this audition?’
‘Oh, purely an adult gig. I’m putting a whole new act together for when they hire me.’ He tapped his right temple, meaningfully. ‘Positive thinking, right? I’m hopeful, my agent’s hopeful and Rina found it for me, so it’s bound to turn out all right.’
In another world, Mac thought, Rina could have found tenure as a fixer. He nodded approval at Tim’s enthusiasm and then met Rina’s slightly worried gaze.
‘Keep it simple, Tim,’ she said. ‘Remember, you’ve got five or ten minutes to sell yourself at the audition. Nothing fancy, just good solid misdirection and some close-up stuff you can do table to table, that always goes down well in a setting like that.’
Tim nodded wisely and Mac hoped he was really listening though he figured he probably was. In Tim’s world, Rina Martin was god. He wondered how trying she must sometimes find that and felt a sudden pang of guilt that he too had come to view her with similar reverence.
They adjourned a few moments later to Rina’s den, settling into fireside chairs and with a new pot of tea and lemon drizzle cake to sustain them.
‘Is Saturday morning all right for seeing the flat?’ Rina asked once they were settled. ‘I heard about the body. Is the case making demands?’