by Penny Kline
‘Sorry?’
‘I thought you was Stacey’s auntie.’ She pulled her friend’s sleeve. ‘Don’t she look like Stacey’s auntie?’
The other girl shrugged. Her mouth was stuffed with a large piece of bubble gum that made it almost impossible for her to speak. ‘Stacey’s auntie hasn’t got a coat like that.’
‘I’m not Stacey’s auntie,’ I said, ‘but a friend of mine has a boy in the Infants. Bradley Baker.’
‘Bradley?’ The fair-haired girl thought about it for a moment. ‘There’s a Bradley in Mrs Kingdom’s class. I could ask if you like.’
‘No. No, it’s all right. I was just passing, wondered if this was Brad’s school.’
The two girls eyes me suspiciously, then the one with the bubble gum yanked the sticky blob out of her mouth. ‘You a social worker?’
I started to move away. ‘No, no I’m not.’
‘Bloody social workers,’ they both said in unison, collapsing against each other in a fit of giggles. I could still hear the laughter as I climbed back into my car.
*
On my way back to the office I noticed that the needle on the petrol gauge was hovering around the empty mark. Pulling into a garage on the Gloucester Road I waited impatiently while the driver of the car ahead came out of the shop, then returned to say something to the girl at the cash desk. Even though I had only seen the back of his head he looked vaguely familiar and when he strolled back towards his car I realized it was Azim Jinnah. Winding down my window, I leaned out and called his name, and he swung round, frowning, trying to work out where the voice had come from.
‘Ah, it’s you, the psychologist.’ He stepped forward, then leaned against the back of his car. ‘Am I blocking your way? I forgot the petrol vouchers. For my son. He collects them, saves up for music tapes.’
‘No problem,’ I said, uncomfortably aware that a moment ago I had been cursing the anonymous driver who had kept me waiting less than a minute. ‘I’m not in any hurry. How’s Paddy?’
He played with the aerial on his car. ‘Oh, well, you know. We’ve been keeping a watch for that vehicle you mentioned, and the man with the dog, but so far no luck.’
‘Forget it. He could be from a completely different part of the city, it’s not important.’ ‘If you say so.’ There was something he wanted to tell me, but he was weighing up the possible consequences. ‘Any time you’re passing,’ he said at last, juggling his keys from one hand to the other, and back, ‘Paddy would always be pleased to have a talk. But if you do call by no need to say we ran into each other. It’s not so easy for her.’
‘What isn’t so easy?’
‘Oh, you know. Nothing I can do. Makes me feel so helpless.’
I hated the way he was talking in riddles. ‘You mean about Sibi?’
‘Sibi?’ He looked genuinely surprised. ‘Paddy hasn’t said anything? When I came back and found you sitting there I hoped… perhaps she might tell another woman. Tell the truth, I mean.’ He stared at me and his eyes were full of anger. ‘She’s white,’ he said softly. ‘If you come from a mixed marriage, you’re black. In this society anyone who’s not white, they’re black. That makes Paddy the only white person in the family.’
‘Yes, I can see what you mean but does it matter?’
He gave a short, bitter laugh, then climbed into the old grey Toyota and stuck his head through the window. ‘Does it matter? Not to you, maybe.’
I watched him accelerate into a small gap in the stream of traffic coming down the Gloucester Road, then slow down as the lights turned from amber to red. He had a phone in his left hand and his head was jerking from side to side as he talked. Calling in to check for new customers? It didn’t look like it.
Grace Curtis was waiting for me. She had explained who she was and Heather had invited her into the office and made her a cup of tea. I felt as if I had interrupted an interesting conversation; they seemed reluctant to part.
‘Look,’ said Heather, pointing to her feet. ‘Great minds think alike.’
‘Or fools seldom differ,’ muttered Grace. They were wearing the same brown suede shoes, with small gold buckles on the tops, except Heather’s looked several sizes larger. ‘Oh go on,’ said Heather, giving me a push, ‘tell us it’s no coincidence at all, tell us two middle-aged women buying identical shoes on the identical day is nothing to get so excited about.’
Grace followed me up to my room and stood outside the door, waiting for permission to enter. Our roles had been reversed, I was the nurse, she was the patient, and we smiled at each other, silently acknowledging the situation.
‘Have a seat.’ I pulled out a chair, setting it at an angle that I hoped would make things feel as informal as possible. ‘It’s nice to see you.’
‘Is it? I expect you were hoping to go for lunch. The message I left on your answering machine, I was afraid you might think I was interfering only it’s just — if I see Bill or Ian I feel it’s important I take the same line as you. I mean, should I talk about Maggie or not mention her unless they do?’
‘I don’t think Ian minds talking about her,’ I said. ‘That’s what he wants most, I think, people who’ll listen instead of changing the subject.’
‘Oh, I’d never do that.’
‘No, of course not.’ Surely a nurse didn’t need me to advise her on how to talk to someone who had suffered a bereavement? Asking my advice must be just a ploy. She had something else on her mind but needed an opening gambit before she started to explain the real reason for her visit.
Sensing what I was thinking she swallowed hard, then took a deep breath and started talking very fast. ‘It’s so awful, isn’t it? You haven’t heard how the police are getting on? I suppose these enquiries always take several weeks but I’m afraid if they haven’t found who did it yet they’re not likely to, are they?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ But the same thought had crossed my mind. No one had been seen carrying a petrol can. No one had seen a strange car parked near the house in Bishopston. As far as I could tell there was no forensic evidence that gave any clue to the identity of the arsonist. The best hope seemed to be an informer coming forward. So far nobody had.
‘I was fond of Maggie,’ said Grace. ‘Not that we were close friends, we were too different, I suppose, although that’s not necessarily such a bad thing. She and Terry seemed to disagree about pretty well any topic you cared to raise. I know a lot of people enjoy a good argument but I’m afraid I’d opt for a quiet life every time.’
I was listening carefully to everything she was saying, particularly the part about the arguments between Maggie and Terry, while trying to control the tickle in my throat. If it got any worse I would have to fetch a glass of water. Clients usually reacted badly to any interruption. Still, Grace wasn’t a client.
‘This is difficult,’ she said. ‘I’d hate you to be angry with Terry, I do hope you won’t be. I thought it would be better to talk to you in person, rather than on the phone. I don’t know if you told Terry in confidence but he said Maggie had made an appointment to come and see you.’ ‘No, of course I don’t mind you knowing about it.’ To my relief the threatened coughing fit had failed to materialize. ‘As a matter of fact I was rather hoping he’d mentioned it to you and if so you might be able to throw some light on what she wanted. Of course it’s not very likely the reason for her appointment had anything to do with what happened.’
‘You mean, the fire? Apparently the police interviewed all her colleagues at the university, all the people who’d worked with her. I think they were hoping someone might have heard her mention a name, a member of a racist organization, somebody who’d been making threatening remarks.’ ‘She never said anything to you?’
Grace thought about this for a few moments. ‘Not about one person in particular?’
‘And the last time you saw her she didn’t seem any different from usual?’
‘No, I don’t think so. No, not at all. She came round to our house, it must’ve
been nearly two weeks before the fire, and I remember thinking she seemed in particularly good spirits. Her research was going well, even better than she’d hoped I think. I remember, we were in the kitchen, I was making a cake for Terry’s birthday.
Maggie said something about how the preliminary data looked very promising and she had a feeling it was going to come out the way she’d predicted.’
‘Children who are disruptive in the classroom come from socially deprived homes. Their behaviour has nothing to do with how their parents have brought them up.’
‘Something like that.’ Grace seemed to be struggling to remember Maggie’s exact words. ‘She was very methodical, I like methodical people, don’t you? I can’t understand how some people can live in such a mess. Not just their houses, their whole lives.’ She glanced round the room, then smiled. ‘I can see you agree, although I expect you like to keep your room as bare as possible so as not to divert your patients’ attention from the matter in hand.’
‘I hope it doesn’t look that clinical.’
‘No, of course not. I’d say it was just right.’ She sighed, shifting her position on the chair as though she was finding it uncomfortable. ‘Maggie had been feeling happier about Ian too. She’d worried such a lot about leaving him with Bill. I mean, she felt so responsible for disrupting his life, even though he seemed to have adjusted quite well. And she missed him of course. They were very close.’ She slipped her wedding ring over her knuckle, then struggled to push it back again. ‘I was married for nearly seventeen years, before I met Terry. Owen told you, I expect, how I walked out on my children when they were still in their teens. You must think I’m completely callous, selfish.’
I shook my head and she reacted angrily. ‘You mean it’s not your job to say anything critical but that doesn’t mean you’re not thinking your own thoughts.’ Her voice was shaking. She stood up, steadying herself against the chair. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I came here to ask your advice about Bill and Ian and I’ve ended up talking about myself. No, don’t say it doesn’t matter.’
‘I’m glad you came.’
‘Are you?’ She smiled to herself, then covered her mouth with her hand. ‘If you don’t look out I’ll be making a proper appointment. That’s the trouble with being a psychologist, I suppose everyone expects you to listen. When you’re off duty you should wear a big badge. “Do Not Disturb”.’
She hovered near the window. She had an expression I knew well. Any minute now and she would put her hand on the door handle, then tell me what she had planned to say in the first place.
‘After Terry mentioned that Maggie had made an appointment to see you I thought about it quite a lot. Curiosity, I suppose, but it was more than that. She had a friend. A man. She never told me any details, just dropped the odd hint, but I got the impression he was younger than she was, and he wasn’t English.’ She broke off. ‘No, that was a stupid thing to say. What I meant, I think he was dark-skinned, a member of an ethnic minority, only don’t take it as gospel truth.’
She was watching me carefully. ‘I could be quite wrong,’ she said, ‘but I think she might have been worried about how Ian would react.’
‘To his mother having a black boyfriend?’
‘No. No, that can’t have been why she kept the relationship to herself. I’m sorry, Anna, I’m only guessing and I seem to have put it all so badly. It’s just, well, I’ve heard of black people who don’t like members of their families going out with white women. I wondered if there was someone, a parent perhaps, who felt so strongly he was prepared to do something terrible.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ I said. ‘I suppose this should be passed on to the police.’
‘Yes, but what use would it be? I couldn’t give them any names. Maggie often talked about mixed marriages and how most of the difficulties arose because of prejudice on the part of friends and relatives. She said it was the same if a woman married a much younger man.’
‘She needn’t have been talking about herself.’
‘No, of course not. It was just that she looked so worried. I’d never seen her look so worried.’
Heather wanted to know if I had found the Barkers’ house, if she had written down the wrong number of the house and it was all her fault I had wasted my time trailing round Bristol.
‘Absolutely not.’ I picked up the empty mug on her desk and carried it to the tiny kitchenette adjoining the office. ‘There’s no such street. For some reason the Bakers gave you a fictitious address. Who was it, do you remember, Janice or Trev?’
When I came back into the main office she was standing by the filing cabinet with her eyes closed, trying to remember. ‘Mr Baker. No, it was Mrs. She has rather an abrupt manner, I don’t suppose she means it. Mr Baker started to tell me and she interrupted, sort of talked over him. Anyway, what’ll you do now?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But the phone call from Mrs Baker. You were worried.’
‘We’re not social workers,’ I said. ‘We can’t go chasing all over the place on the off chance someone’s a bit upset.’
I was trying to think of a reason why Janice and Trev would have wanted to make certain I could never get in touch with them at home. Something I had said? Something about Maggie Hazeldean’s questionnaire? Something about the fire? But the false address had been given to Heather before I even met them. Maybe Janice just liked to guard her privacy, make sure no one in a professional capacity turned up on her doorstep uninvited.
Heather had turned her back on me. ‘Not like you, Anna, telling a client to take a running jump.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘No, but — well, anyway, I can’t say I blame you. Still losing sleep over the Margaret Hazeldean business, are you?’ ‘What? Why do you say that?’ My visits to the house in Henbury took place outside my normal working hours. No one knew I was seeing Ian, not even Martin or Nick. Had someone said something to Heather? Surely Grace Curtis wouldn’t have mentioned it, although she probably thought Ian’s name was on the filing system just like anyone else’s. Then I realized she must be referring to Howard Fry’s visit three weeks ago. ‘Oh, you mean the police investigation. Nothing to do with me. If Maggie Hazeldean had been to see me it might be a different matter. Of course, Owen met her a few times but apart from that I’ve no connection with the case.’
She tipped over a box of multi-coloured paper clips and started linking them into a chain. ‘I’ll believe you, Anna, thousands wouldn’t. By the way, nearly forgot to tell you, Kieran met this man who’s got a mate who repairs motors, not a proper business, just from an old garage. Anyway, he’s going to ask him about the brown Allegro. Worth a try, eh?’
‘Oh, thanks.’ I was starting to wish I had kept quiet about the dog bite. ‘Listen, I don’t suppose you can remember who actually referred Janice and Trevor Baker to us? Have a look at the file.’
‘Oh, I don’t need to do that.’ She switched on her computer and settled herself in front of the screen. ‘They referred themselves. Just walked into the building and asked to see a psychologist. Wanted an appointment on the spot. Didn’t like it when I said they’d have to wait till the end of the following week.’
Chapter Twelve
Jon Turle had made an appointment to see me. He had been careful to check it was at a time when there was no risk of him meeting Imogen, but there was nothing strange about that, just a sensible precaution, aimed at avoiding an awkward situation.
He was standing in the waiting room, pretending to read a special summer edition of a woman’s magazine. When I spoke his name he turned round slowly, determined to give the impression there was nothing urgent about the appointment, no tension surrounding our second meeting.
‘Hello,’ I said, wondering whether to shake hands, then deciding against it. ‘My room’s upstairs.’
He smiled but said nothing, following me out of the waiting room, then bounding up the stairs ahead of me. ‘In here?’
I nodded and he pushed open the do
or, at the same time removing his suede jacket and hanging it over the back of a chair.
‘I won’t keep you long. I thought it best to put you in the picture.’ His voice was cool, implying that I was the one who had made things difficult, there had never been any question of him withholding information that might have helped me to understand Imogen’s problems.
‘Imogen,’ he announced, feeling in the pocket of his cord trousers and taking out a small engagement diary. ‘At the last count I’ve received a dozen letters and about the same number of phone calls.’
‘From Imogen?’
‘Who else? She’s out of touch with reality. No, I don’t mean in a clinical sense. I’ve become a fantasy, an obsession.’ He smiled self-consciously. It was the first time I had seen his teeth: they were almost too good to be true.
‘What you’re saying — Imogen’s in love with you?’
‘You may see it that way. I don’t.’ ‘What way do you see it then?’
‘I’ve just told you. She’s in a dream world, refuses to come down to earth and face facts.’
I was struggling to control my anger. ‘So you referred her on to someone else, didn’t even try to resolve the transference.’
He held up both hands as though I had a shotgun pointed at his head. ‘Imogen’s decision, not mine. She’d read something about doctors falling in love with their patients and how, if the feeling was mutual, the patient had to register with a different GP, then wait however many months is laid down by the BMA before the relationship could be defined as social rather than professional.’ His mouth snapped shut. He had made the position clear. Now, it was up to me.
‘How do you feel about it?’
He looked blank. ‘You mean, how do I feel about Imogen? She’s a poor little rich girl who’s always had everything she wanted and can’t accept that it’s not going to go on like that for ever.’
‘You dislike her?’
‘I didn’t say that. The reason I’m here is to give you a chance to sort it all out.’ ‘And to stop the letters and phone calls.’