The Anna McColl Mysteries Box Set 2

by Penny Kline

  The flower arrangement was complete. Mrs Priestly sat down heavily. ‘If Jennifer had been a better wife and mother it would never have happened, Gavin leaving. Well, to be perfectly honest, some people used to wonder why he’d stayed as long as he did.’

  ‘What people?’ My question had just slipped out, but its significance was not lost on Mrs Priestly.

  She smiled insincerely, then gave me a slightly pitying look. ‘Everyone who knew the two of them, my dear. I know you want to help but I sometimes feel you haven’t quite grasped the picture. Now if I tell you about Matthew's school.’

  All I could think about was poor Jennifer whose husband had left her with three children to look after, and his seventy-year-old mother in a flat just down the road.

  ‘Matthew,’ she repeated, ‘is exceptionally intelligent but I don’t feel he’s receiving sufficient stimulation. I wanted Jennifer to insist on having him tested to establish how gifted he is, but she says as long as he’s happy … ‘

  After Mrs Priestly left, Heather buzzed to say a parcel with my name on it had arrived in the second post. Down in the office she handed it to me, barely able to contain her curiosity.

  ‘Looks like wedding cake, Anna. If you don’t like marzipan …’

  ‘You’re welcome to it,’ I said, ‘but it’s more likely to be one of those “How to Give up Smoking” or “How to Control your Nerves” cassettes. There’s this guy in Wolverhampton who sends them out by the score in the hope that we’ll give his name and address to clients.’

  The small package was bound with about two feet of sticky tape. I started tearing at the paper with my teeth, but Heather gave me a disapproving look, found a pair of scissors and snipped through one end of the package. She was dressed in white trousers and an enormous T-shirt with Van Gogh’s Sunflowers on the front. Normally she never wore trousers — one of her teenage daughters had made some remark about the size of her hips — but Kieran moving in with the three of them seemed to have had a good effect. She was happier, more confident, her self-image had been raised a couple of notches.

  ‘Seen Dawn?’ I asked.

  Heather pulled a face. ‘Dr Ingram referred a girl with eating problems. Dawn told her to keep a diary of everything she ate.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘She asked if I had a notebook she could give the girl. You wouldn’t have done that, would you, Anna? When Selina got silly about her diet you told me to avoid talking about food and to try and find out if there was something bothering her.’

  ‘Different people have different methods,’ I said. ‘Look, I was right about the cassette, but since it’s been recorded by the sender and the label’s blank, it’s impossible to tell what’s on it.’

  ‘Want to have a listen?’ Heather opened a cupboard and took out an ancient tape recorder. ‘Or perhaps it’s private?’

  ‘Put it in,’ I said. ‘If it was that private, whoever sent it would have enclosed his name and address.’

  It started with a short solo on an electronic keyboard, then a guitar joined in, and finally the voice of the lead singer, accompanied by a chorus of ‘Oh, yeahs.’ You’ve taken enough. She’s taken it all. Tell her this is the end, the end, the end. Your life in her hands, but you’ve taken enough. Tell her this is the end, say enough is enough.

  Heather turned down the volume. ‘Any idea who could've sent it?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Think I might have heard Selina playing it, but they all sound much the same, don’t they?’

  The singer’s voice had become a low growl. Hit back hard, do it now. I don’t care what they say. With her life in my hands, they can lock me away.

  *

  Before Owen left for Australia I had promised to get in touch with Fay Somers, the visiting academic who was coming to the university to work with someone who was writing a book on child development. I knew nothing about her — Owen had met her once but was unable to recall the slightest detail, apart from the fact that she had rather a loud voice — but in half an hour’s time I would find out more.

  We had fixed to meet at a pub in Whiteladies Road. Fay had been there before, with the woman who owned the house in Eastbury where she was renting an attic flat, and, if our phone conversation was anything to go by, she already knew more about the local pubs than I had discovered in several years. She seemed to be one of those people who insist on telling you every detail about their circumstances. The owners of the house are called Jill and Tony Hinchcliffe, Anna. She used my name in every other sentence. Tony works for a bank and Jill runs a day nursery that gives priority to children from problem families. My research is mainly Child Development, with an emphasis on older kids, rather than young babies. She had promised to tell me more when we met.

  The walk from Cliftonwood to Whiteladies Road always took longer than I expected, so by the time I reached the pub it was crowded out. Pausing, with my hand on the door, looking up at the hanging baskets, I tried to recall the description Fay had given me over the phone. Average weight, average height, curly brown hair that’s not so dark, not so light, roundish face. Not much to go on, but if she was as extrovert as she sounded she had probably struck up a conversation with the barman and I would recognize the accent.

  The area by the bar was packed. I stood on tiptoe, peering over the seething mass of heads, but there was no sign of anyone answering Fay’s description. A huge man, in an extremely unattractive pair of tartan shorts, was trying to attract the attention of the barman, while fending off a group of students who were attempting to push their way through. Then someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘Fay?’ When I spoke her name she responded like an eager child.

  ‘I guessed the way you were looking all around it must be you. Good to meet you, what are you having?’

  All the seats were taken, but a smoochy-looking couple appeared to be disentangling themselves, prior to leaving. I started ordering the drinks, then suggested Fay grabbed the two vacant seats.

  ‘Good idea, only do let me pay. The next round then. Have you eaten? I had something before I came out but if you’re hungry I’ve heard they do a real good chilli con carne. Oh, what am I talking about, I expect you’ve been here heaps of time. It’s probably your local.’

  When I joined her she already had her lips slightly parted, waiting to speak. ‘It was so kind of you to give me a call.’ She took both glasses and placed them on the cardboard mats. ‘I only met Owen once. Four years ago, it was, when I was working in Canberra.’

  ‘You’re based in Sydney now?’

  ‘Been there a couple of years.’

  ‘I have a brother living in Sydney,’ I said, ‘but I’ve only visited once, just for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Really? So you've seen the Opera House, botanical gardens, Bondi Beach. Did you have a chance to get out into the countryside at all? Katoomba, up in the mountains, now there’s a place you’d love, and if you’d carried on, through Bathhurst and Dubbo … I had a friend who worked as a supply teacher, in a place called Cobar. Fantastic, miles from anywhere. A dead straight road that just keeps on and on …’ She broke off, but only to draw breath. ‘Tell me about your brother. How long’s he been out there? What does he do for a living?’

  ‘Nothing to tell really. He’s married, couple of kids. Works for a large engineering company.’

  ‘You have other brothers and sisters? Parents living not too far away?’

  ‘My father lives in Kent, quite near London. My mother died five years ago.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She sounded as if she meant it. ‘My parents split when I was still at school and they’ve both remarried, but we’re on pretty good terms, although it can be heartbreaking imagining how things might have been if they’d stayed together.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ She was so friendly, so direct, what must she have made of Owen and his strenuous efforts to avoid talking about anything that might elicit strong feelings? Come t
o think of it, what was she making of me?

  Soon after, I managed to steer the conversation round to her latest research project. ‘Owen said you work with families. It sounds interesting.’

  She lifted her glass and took a sip of lager, nodding appreciatively.

  ‘That’s right. My latest project’s on parental attachment. Most parents — well, I’d say it’s strongest in the female — are prepared to go to almost any lengths to protect their infant.’ She put up both hands, slapping her own cheeks. ‘What am I talking about, you’re a psych, grad, yourself and here’s me —’

  ‘No, carry on. I’d like to hear.’

  ‘Self-sacrifice,’ she said. ‘Is there such a thing or is behaviour that seems altruistic really an illusion?’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ Was this to be a rerun of my conversation with Stephen Bryce? ‘Funnily enough, I was discussing exactly that question with a client —’

  ‘Really? That’s amazing. Your job, you know you’re going to have to tell me all about it. The place where I'm staying in Eastbury, they’re sweet people. Two kids, eleven and nine, lovely ages. And their mother, Jill, she’s a wonderful person and really interested in counselling and psychotherapy. Did I tell you, she runs this day nursery for the kids of single mothers? Apparently one of the little girls is way ahead in her development. Jill wanted her given some kind of test — by an Ed. Psych., I suppose — but I wasn’t too sure.’

  I glanced at the menu on a board on the wall, not certain if I was hungry or if the thought of food was repugnant. I had eaten nothing since lunch, and even that had only consisted of a stale cheese roll. Owen often complained that my bad temper was the result of not eating enough, but if I ordered something now Fay would feel bad about having eaten before she came out. A man standing by the bar looked rather like Stephen Bryce. Same dark hair, slightly hunched shoulders, but when he turned to speak to a friend, his big, bulbous nose and large, vacant-looking eyes couldn’t have been more different. Why had Stephen seemed so determined to convince me that Tom Luckham’s death had not been an accident? Even if I believed him, what on earth was I supposed to do? My connection with the Luckham family was unlikely to last longer than a week. I felt sorry for Sally, but as Howard was fond of pointing out, my job was to drag more information out of her, not start treating her like one of my clients.

  ‘How would you feel about it, Anna?’ Fay was still talking about the gifted child.

  ‘I’d say, leave the kid in peace, at least till she’s at primary school.’

  ‘Oh, me too. You know the worst thing in the world is to grow up with everyone having such expectations, and feeling whatever you do you can never live up to them.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re talking from experience,’ I said.

  She blushed a little. ‘Oh, you know how it is, doting mother, every duckling a swan. Of course, my main interest is teenagers and their parents. Does the mother have a different attitude from the father? Does the attitude depend on the gender of the kid? I used to work in health psychology, mainly looking at teenage non-compliance in taking medication. You know the kind of things — epilepsy, diabetes. Non-compliance, what a terrible expression. If you were a fifteen-year-old kid would you want your mother nagging you about blood tests, telling you what you can and can’t eat?’

  She broke off suddenly, apologizing for talking too much, unaware that she had my rapt attention.

  ‘So you know quite a bit about diabetes,’ I said.

  She looked at me curiously. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Just the basics.’

  ‘If someone gave themselves an insulin injection, then missed a meal, could it be fatal?’

  ‘Unlikely. A patient in insulin shock needs sugar fast. In fact you could say a brain deprived of sugar is as much at risk as a brain deprived of oxygen, but all diabetics carry glucose tablets, or some such equivalent. The patient would notice the symptoms of hypoglycaemia — headache, dizziness, irritability — and take steps to counteract the attack. Given sugar, even a comatose patient wakes up in seconds. You have some special reason for wanting to know?’

  ‘A man who died last January. No, not someone I knew. A relative of a client.’

  ‘Tragic. In my experience diabetics fall into two categories: those who take good care of themselves, and those who go through phases of feeling so sore about their condition they don’t keep a proper check on their blood sugar levels and let their diet go to pieces.’

  ‘This man was meticulous about his treatment, or so I’ve been told. He’d gone out for a walk on the Mendips.’

  ‘The Mendips?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s a range of hills to the south of the city. There’s a large gorge — Cheddar Gorge — with caves you can visit, and a place called Wookey Hole —’

  ‘Sounds great. You can get there in a car or d’you have to go on foot?’

  ‘Oh, Cheddar and Wookey are tourist attractions, but the gorge where this man was walking is more off the beaten track, although you can drive there if you don’t mind the bumps in the road.’

  ‘He was on his own?’

  ‘It seems so,’ I said. ‘Verdict of death by misadventure, but …’

  ‘You’re wondering why he would have put himself at risk, allowed himself to go into a coma in the middle of nowhere.’ She patted my hand. ‘Listen, you must come round to the flat, meet Jill and Tony. I could cook us all a meal.’

  ‘Yes.’ I was still thinking about Tom Luckham. ‘I mean, thanks, that would be lovely.’ I didn’t feel all that enthusiastic about the invitation. On the other hand, Fay was turning out to be quite good company, so much so that it had even crossed my mind to tell her about the mysterious cassette. I had played the first two tracks, both of which, when you could hear the lyrics above the drum beats, seemed to be about two-timing women who deserved whatever was coming to them. Anonymous communications were never very pleasant, but this time I was certain it had nothing to do with any of my clients. First the car on the Downs, now a slightly menacing cassette. Why was James Luckham so determined to warn me off, and why select a tape where all the songs were dreary diatribes against unfaithful women? Fay was still talking about her landlady, but the sick sensation that had risen in my throat made it difficult to make sense of what she was saying. It wasn’t the infidelity James was interested in, but the violence that succeeded it. What were the words on the first track, words that were repeated over and over? With her life in my hands, they can lock me away.

  The crowd in the pub had thinned out a little, with some of the drinkers moving into a second bar at the back.

  ‘Owen,’ Fay was saying, ‘the two of you share an apartment?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Fay looked a little concerned, as if she was afraid she had spoken out of turn.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was just thinking about something. A client I was worried about.’

  She nodded sympathetically. ‘With a job like yours it must be hard to switch off. People pouring out all their problems, making you feel you’re responsible for them, am I right?’

  ‘Yes, it can be like that.’ Although we had only just met, perhaps because we had only just met, I found myself wanting to tell her how Owen’s trip to Australia had provided something of a welcome breathing space, time to think about the relationship, work out what I really wanted from it. But that would have been unfair on Owen and, besides, I wasn’t even sure it was true. When I thought about him, mainly at night when I was finding it difficult to sleep, I could only remember the good part. During the day, various trivial events, like having a bath without having to remove his hairs from my sponge, reminded me of the constant bickering that had preceded his departure to Australia. If you loved someone did it matter if they messed up your bathroom?

  ‘More problems?’ said Fay. ‘Sorry, only taking a friendly interest. Wouldn’t want to step on any toes.’

  ‘You're not,’ I said. ‘Look, where did you leave your car? My flat’s only a short
distance away. Why not come back and have some coffee?’

  *

  The answering machine was flashing. I rewound the cassette, listened to the usual creaks and squeaks, then jumped slightly when I realized the voice belonged to Howard Fry. Anna, it’s Howard. Look, I know tomorrow’s Saturday but Erica Luckham’s been on the line. Apparently Sally’s remembered something important and you’re the only person she’ll speak to.

  Chapter Five

  My father’s train was due at Temple Meads at three-twenty, I had no food in the flat, the carpets needed vacuuming, and Howard expected me to spend Saturday morning at the Luckham house.

  Sally answered the door herself, dressed in the same green shorts and panda sweatshirt. The sweatshirt had a spatter of grease spots down the front, the kind that appear if you stand too close to the cooker while having a fry up. I opened my mouth to ask if her throat was better, then decided it would be unfair. If anything she looked healthier, and certainly more cheerful, than the last time I saw her.

  ‘Mummy’s got up specially,’ she said. ‘She wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Good.’ But did this mean there was no new piece of information, it was just that Mrs Luckham had decided she ought to meet the ‘psychiatrist’?

  Through the wide-open patio door, I could see a large woman in a blue silk dressing gown standing on the lawn, looking up at the sky. When she heard us approaching she turned slowly, shading her eyes against the sun.

  ‘Mrs Luckham?’

  ‘Yes?’ She knew quite well who I was, but she was still going to feign surprise.