by Penny Kline
After the two of them left I collapsed in my chair, exhausted. It had been a mistake, allowing Ros to stay in the room. She had come to give Livvy moral support but she was not a disinterested observer and, in some way I couldn’t yet understand, Livvy’s relationship with Tom Luckham seemed intimately tied up with what had happened to Ros and Stephen. I tried to make my usual notes, but Ros’s remark kept going round and round in my head. Tom was a failed artist, you know that, Livvy. After the bottom fell out of the prints market he had to find another way to make himself feel important in the world. Had something happened that no one wanted to talk about, something connected with Tom’s death, some incident that had taken place shortly before the accident?
*
The video shop was packed. I queued up behind a man who wanted three videos but one of them had turned out to be unavailable, in spite of the fact that its case had been displayed on the rack. After several minutes of pointless argument, my frustration overcame me and I interrupted his outburst with one of my own.
‘Look, I need to speak to the woman who works here most evenings. It’s important and I haven’t much time.’
The man behind the counter tried to ignore me, then decided that it was going to lead to more trouble than it was worth, and turned to call through a door at the back. ‘Lorraine! Someone to see you.’
A head appeared. ‘Who is it? What do they want?’ She approached the counter and I raised my hand to get her attention. ‘Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but someone stole my membership card and took out a video they never returned.’
For a moment her face looked blank, then she clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, it was you, love. I’m sorry, but if you’re expecting me to tell you who it was I’m afraid I haven’t a clue.’
‘You can’t remember anything?’
‘No, I didn’t say that. In the ordinary way I doubt if I’d have noticed. It was the video that made me give her the once over. Middle-aged, she was. Well, I daresay she wasn’t that much older than I am, but the kind who’s not interested in how she looks if you know what I mean.’
I nodded encouragingly. This certainly wasn’t the case with Lorraine. Her salmon pink eye shadow contrasted dramatically with her jet black hair, and she was wearing a white blouse with ruffles right up to her chin, and a red skirt that was so tight I doubted she would be able to sit down in it.
‘Anything else?’ I asked.
She put her head on one side and smoothed down the front of the skirt. ‘Hang on, ever since Les told me what happened I’ve been trying to think. Had glasses, I think. Oh, and a head scarf. Funny thing to wear when the weather’s so warm. Don’t think it was raining that day. Sorry, love, if she’d had something particular about her … Don’t remember her speaking a word, just held out the video and the card, then opened her purse and waited for me to tell her how much. Tell you what, though, she had a funny taste in videos. Took it off a high shelf.’ She pointed across the shop. ‘Not the kind I’d want to be seen dead with, but it takes all sorts.’
‘What was it?’
‘Hang on, it’s on the computer, that’s why Les gave you a ring.’ She operated the keyboard, then waited impatiently for the information to come up on the screen. ‘There you are. The Grim Raper. I ask you, whoever’d think up a title like that?’
*
Back home there were two messages on the answering machine, the first one from Chris, asking if I could go to the cinema with her the following evening, to see an old Gerard Depardieu film. The second message was from Jill Hinchcliffe. Anna, this is Jill, you remember we met the other evening. I got your number from Fay, only I wonder if you could give me a ring. Yes, well that’s it really. Thanks. Then a number that was repeated twice, in case I missed it the first time.
When I rang back a child answered, cutting short my explanation by dropping the phone on a hard surface and shouting. ‘Mum!’
I heard footsteps, then someone coughing. ‘Hallo?’
‘Is that Jill? This is Anna. Anna McColl. You left a message.’
‘Anna! Oh, thank you so much for ringing back. Oh, heavens, I’ve been worrying ever since I saw you, but now I’m wondering is it better to say something or keep quiet?’ She let out a long, dramatic sigh. ‘It’s about Clare Kilpatrick.’
‘Yes?’
‘You know her, don’t you, only I’m not sure if it’s in a professional capacity or …’
‘I met her through Stephen Bryce.’
‘Oh, Stephen.’
So she knew who I was talking about.
‘Yes, I remember you saying,’ she added, although I was quite certain I had said nothing of the kind. In fact no mention had been made of how I came to have met Clare.
‘Since he gave up his parish he’s kept in touch with Clare,’ I said, ‘and some of his other parishioners I expect.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Was there a touch of relief in her voice? ‘Only the thing is, did he mention Cain’s father?’
This was getting tricky. How much did Jill know? How much did Clare want her to know?
‘No, I’ve no idea who the baby’s father is,’ I said. ‘I don’t think Stephen knows either.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line, quite a long pause, then a child’s voice called: ‘Hurry up, Mum, it’s your turn, we’re waiting.’
‘I won’t say any more just now.’ Jill’s voice was reduced to an almost inaudible whisper. ‘It’s only rumours and it would’'t be fair, would it, only if you ever felt …’
‘I’m not quite sure I understand.’
‘No, I’m sorry. Having a baby when you’re still at school, it’s a very traumatic thing to happen, but Clare seems to have dealt with the whole thing exceptionally well. Her parents didn’t want to know. There’s four more in the family so I suppose they felt they just couldn’t cope, but Clare managed to get in touch with all the right people and by the time Cain was born she was quite nicely set up.’
What was she telling me? That Clare was a scheming little manipulator?
‘Tom Luckham,’ she said, ‘was a wonderful person. If anyone tells you anything different that’s because really good people always make the rest of us feel a little uneasy. Oh, sometimes it’s so impossible to decide what’s for the best, but if you ever thought it was going to help. I don’t know if you agree but some things are so important they seem to transcend any rules of confidentiality.’
I started to say something reassuring, something that would persuade her to tell me more, but she had rung off.
Chapter Twelve
The morning had gone badly. A client, who had been depressed ever since her youngest child left home, blamed me because her doctor had told her he was going to stop prescribing anti-depressants. You must have phoned him. He used to be so kind. Nothing I said made any difference and she had stormed out of my room, banging the door so hard that a piece of loose plaster had dislodged itself and fallen behind the filing cabinet.
The next client, a sad young man in his early twenties, insisted his panic attacks were the result of my refusal to go out with him. Women always treat me like shit. I thought you’d be different but you’ve turned out just the same.
After he left I had a go at sticking the lump of plaster back on the wall, but only succeeded in making the hole larger. I had slept badly, endlessly going over the video incident in my mind. At the time it had shaken me a little, but did it really mean very much, the fact that whoever had stolen my bag had a taste for violent, erotic movies? Taking it as a personal attack on me seemed a little paranoid — someone else quite different could have found my membership card. But a middle-aged woman with a head scarf and glasses? The woman Nick had seen in the pub? The same woman who had attempted to drag Sally Luckham into her car?
I had been trying to work out if James could be right, if what had happened to Sally was connected in some way with her father’s death. What was the truth about Tom Luckham? Almost everyone I talked to had provided a picture of a su
ccessful artist who had given it all up to become an unpaid social worker. Almost everyone. Not Ros Bryce.
When I came down to the office just after midday I found Heather in tears. Eventually, when she had enough breath to speak, she explained, through the tissue pressed to her nose and mouth, that Dawn had accused her of booking in two different clients at the same time.
‘It wasn’t my fault, Anna. Dawn hadn’t told me she’d given her ten o’clock appointment to the woman she saw last week. There was a new person already booked in at that time, but she didn’t check the —’
‘What did she say? Dawn — what did she say to you?’ I sat on the edge of Heather’s desk and picked up the stapler, moving it from hand to hand, imagining it was a hand grenade and any moment now I was going to extract the pin.
‘I forget,’ said Heather. ‘Just a few scathing remarks and some stuff about the last place where she’d worked and how they’d had a proper system designed to avoid double-bookings.’
‘Where is she?’
Heather’s head shot up. ‘No, don’t say anything. It’ll only make things worse.’
‘Has Nick got someone with him?’
‘No, I think he’s writing a report.’
When I knocked on Nick’s door it swung open immediately. He had been listening to my conversation with Heather and was ready, hands held up in mock defence.
‘Leave it alone, Anna, she’s only here a couple of weeks more.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘OK, so she’s not the easiest of people, but we have to work with her and it’s no good —’
‘We work with Heather, too,’ I said angrily.
‘All right, you do whatever you want, only don’t expect me to take sides. Anyway, maybe it was Heather’s fault, maybe she should’ve told her about the new client.’
He was right, it was better to forget it, sympathize with Heather and point out, as Nick did repeatedly, that Dawn would soon be gone. Instead, I turned his argument on its head. ‘Since she’ll be gone in a couple of weeks there’s no point in pussyfooting around. I’m going to have it out with her.’
Nick shrugged. I gave him a withering look and started up the stairs, rehearsing what I was going to say, then the phone in my room started ringing.
‘Yes.’ My voice still had an edge to it, which could well account for the pause at the other end of the line.
‘Is that Dr McColl? This is Erica Luckham, it’s about that girl you mentioned.’
I had no idea what she was talking about, then it suddenly came to me that she must be talking about Clare. ‘You mean Clare Kilpatrick.’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’ For once she sounded relatively sober, in control of herself. ‘When you asked I never made the connection, then later I realized you must have meant the child who helped Tom paint the mural, then became a bit of a pest.’
‘A pest in what way?’
Erica cleared her throat. ‘Oh, you know, got a crush on him, I suppose. Used to hang about, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, even came to the house once with some cock and bull story about a book he’d promised to lend her.’
‘This was before she got pregnant?’
‘I beg your pardon? Yes, of course, I’m talking about two years ago, more. Tom had to give her a good talking to, be cruel to be kind. Anyway, I thought you ought to know, just for your records.’
*
I had expected to find the usual clutter of chairs, tables, and old oil heaters displayed on the forecourt, but Wesley Young’s place was no junk shop. The windows were crammed with telescopes, theodolites, sextants, barometers and a range of precision instruments, most of which were a mystery to me. His small green van was on the forecourt, just to one side of the shop window. It had a sign painted on the side that I had failed to notice when it was parked outside the hostel — YOUNG’S ANTIQUE AND SECONDHAND EQUIPMENT — along with the shop’s address and phone number.
When I pushed open the door the place looked empty, then I saw Wesley’s legs and realized he was halfway up a ladder, just like the first time I had seen him.
‘You found me then,’ he said, turning his head, but keeping hold of a high shelf. ‘Where did you leave your car?’
‘Near the park.’
‘I got what you wanted.’ He had a rather battered-looking box in his hand. He had seen me coming.
‘A projector? That was very clever of you.’
‘It was slightly damaged but tell your father I’ve tightened up the focusing mechanism and he shouldn’t have any trouble.’ He came down the ladder, took the projector out of the box and turned it upside down on the counter, studying some trade mark or patent number on the base. ‘Let you have it for two-fifty.’
Presumably he meant two hundred and fifty. ‘Right. Fine.’ I had no idea if it was a reasonable price but it seemed unlikely that someone who knew Stephen, and knew that I knew him, would overcharge me excessively. ‘Can I give you a cheque?’
‘Cash would be better.’ He had replaced the projector in its box and was putting the box in a carrier bag. ‘Take it. You can settle up later. You’re a friend of Stephen Bryce, then? Terrible for a young girl like that to be tied down with a baby.’
‘You mean Clare? There’s plenty more in the same situation.’
‘Doesn’t make it any better though, does it? Tom Luckham found her the place at the hostel. Knew Tom, did you?’
‘No, I never met him.’
He leaned his elbows on the counter. He seemed in no hurry for me to leave. His chin was covered in white stubble, but the hair on his head was soft and silky, brushed forward, with no parting, giving him a rather quaint appearance, like a character in a fairy tale. ‘Marion’s been good to Clare since Tom died,’ he said. ‘Has Cain for the day if Clare wants to look round the shops at the weekend. Always been fond of kids.’
‘Marion’s your wife?’
‘Decent chap, Tom, need more like him. Of course, some people said he should’ve stuck to painting, but there’s always people to put the boot in. Makes them feel uneasy seeing someone trying to lead a Christian life.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ It was odd how his words were almost a carbon copy of Jill Hinchcliffe’s. Meeting all these members of the Tom Luckham fan club was starting to make me dislike the man, rather in the same way that being told repeatedly how good a particular film or television series is often produces a feeling of antipathy towards the object of so much praise.
Wesley was watching me, wondering what I was thinking. ‘This business with Sally Luckham, d’you suppose it was the same person as took the other little girl?’
‘The police think it’s possible.’
‘Must be, I suppose. Be a strange thing, wouldn’t it, two perverts in the same city, at the same time.’
I nodded. ‘Sometimes you get copy-cat crimes.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s right. You’ll have met Erica then?’
When I made no comment he laughed. ‘Think I’m prying? Just enjoying a bit of conversation. Gets lonely spending all day in the shop. You know, you get an idea of a person, then something they say makes you realize you never really knew them at all.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ I assumed he must be talking about Erica but his next comment was about Tom Luckham.
‘That Pope woman thought he could walk on water. Mistake turning someone into some kind of god, wouldn’t you say? Always ends in disillusionment or worse.’
‘Livvy Pope?’
‘Oh, you’ve heard of her. Thought you might have. After Tom died … maybe he’d taken on too much, worn himself out. And that business with Stephen can’t have helped. Marion and I have never quite seen eye to eye about that. If anyone had asked me I’d have said he should’ve stayed on, stuck it out, ignored all those malicious rumours, all that —’
He broke off. A woman had come into the shop and was studying a easeful of old watches. Wesley enquired if she needed any help, but she shook her h
ead and moved on to a display of surgical instruments and knives. I wanted to ask what he had meant by ‘malicious rumours’, but something in his expression made me think he had said as much as he was going to say.
‘Right, well I’d better be off.’ I picked up the projector. ‘I’ll be back with the money tomorrow.’
‘No hurry, end of the week’ll do.’ He came round from behind the counter to hold open the shop door. ‘You’re a psychologist, is that right? Kind of job I’d have liked if I’d had the education. Everything anyone does, however crazy it might seem, there has to be a reason, it’s just a question of finding out what that reason is.’
‘Yes, I’m sure that’s right.’
‘So there’s no such things as irrational behaviour.’ He was rolling a cigarette. He licked the paper and smoothed the join, then tapped the tobacco down to one end. ‘Wife doesn’t approve. Still, what you don’t see you don’t grieve over. Two or three a day can’t do you much harm, could even do you a bit of good.’
The woman who had been in the shop squeezed past us, glancing at Wesley with the slightly embarrassed expression of someone who has failed to find what she wanted but is afraid of causing offence to the shopkeeper.
‘Doreen,’ said Wesley. ‘Comes in most weeks, never buys a thing.’ He lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Your father, he lives in Kent, is that right?’
‘Near Maidstone.’
‘Active in his own parish, is he?’
‘He’s a church warden.’
Wesley nodded. ‘Good listener, like Tom. Marion took quite a liking to him.’
What was he leading up to? Then I remembered how my father had mentioned that the Youngs had told him about their daughter’s death.