by Penny Kline
‘He’s a widower,’ I said, wanting to show sympathy, but without intruding. ‘My mother’s death was sudden, unexpected. When something like that happens it changes people, makes them more aware of other people’s suffering.’
Wesley crossed to the van, unlocked the passenger door, and took something out of the glove compartment. ‘So he told you about Tricia,’ he said. ‘He told you about our daughter.’
‘Yes, I’m very sorry.’
He nodded slowly, standing with his back against the van. ‘Speaking as a psychologist would you say people ever get over something like that? No, don’t bother to answer, stupid question. Tell your father there’ll be no problem with the projector. Good as new.’
*
On my way home I drove past the hostel where Clare Kilpatrick lived. Two girls were coming through the gate, both dressed up for an evening out, huddled together under an umbrella to protect their hair from the recurrent heavy showers.
One of them could have been Clare, but when I slowed down I could see they were older, at least they looked older. I tried to imagine what it would be like, living in a hostel occupied entirely by single mothers and their babies. Having something in common, did they all help each other, both in practical ways, and with moral support, or did petty squabbles break out over who had left dirty plates on the draining board or broken the washing machine?
When I turned the corner a bus had pulled up at the stop, forcing the traffic behind it to come to a halt, and as I watched, Clare stepped off, then leaned against the shelter, searching for something in her bag. On an impulse I pulled up, a short distance away, with two wheels on the pavement, jumped out and started walking towards her. She was dressed in white jeans and a pink T-shirt and there was something different about her, but perhaps it was just that she was returning from work. I doubted if her employer would have approved of the tiny mini-skirt she had been wearing the last time we had met.
‘Clare?’ When I spoke her name she straightened up, turning her head in all directions, then spotted me and let out a sigh that appeared to be of relief rather than exasperation.
‘Lost my purse. Must have had it on my knees in the bus.’
‘Maybe someone will hand it in.’
‘Some hope, couldn’t lend me twenty p., could you, only I have to make a phone call.’
I opened my mouth to say surely there must be a phone at the hostel, then realized it would sound incredibly mean. ‘Yes, of course.’
She took the coin, crossed the road to the phone box, then called over her shoulder. ‘Don’t go away, something I wanted to tell you.’
Her voice was different too. Softer, more sophisticated. Perhaps it was the effect of being out without the baby. Where was the baby?
The phone call lasted quite a time. I kept glancing at the place where I had left my car, but traffic was light and it didn’t seem to be holding things up.
When Clare returned she looked happy, excited. ‘That’s done, then. Now, you coming in, or shall we go for a bit of a walk?’
‘I saw you get off the bus,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes.’ There was no resentment in her voice. ‘Look, are you coming?’
‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, ‘I’ve left my car half on the pavement. Where’s Cain?’
‘Oh, you remembered his name. Tracy collected him when she went to fetch her little girl. We take it in turns, see.’
‘Yes. Right. So if you’re not in a hurry maybe we could drive round for a bit.’
She shrugged. ‘Suits me. What kind of car is it?’ She peered down the road, running her fingers through the ash blonde hair that was now about half an inch long. ‘Oh, not bad,’ she said, ‘doesn’t look as if it’ll conk out in the middle of nowhere.’
I drove towards Henbury Hill. By the time we had circled round the Blaise Castle Estate she would have had time to tell me whatever was on her mind and, with any luck, I would be able to ask a few questions.
‘I got in touch with the police,’ I said, ‘about the passenger in Tom Luckham’s car. I’m not sure if they’re going to follow it up. I mean, I don’t know if they’ll actually need to interview you, but I’m sure they’re very grateful.’
‘Like hell they are.’ She was rubbing at the condensation on the windscreen. ‘All they wanted was to close the case and be done with it.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Cain’s been playing up so I can’t be long. That’s the only good thing about that place where I live. Always someone around to give you a hand.’
‘Yes, and I believe Marion Young looks after him now and again.’
She stopped wiping the windscreen. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I’ve just been round to Wesley’s shop. He sold me a second-hand projector for my father. They’re rather difficult to find.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘Look, I don’t know much about you, only what Stephen’s told me, but if you’re going to find out who killed Tom you can ask me anything you like.’
‘What makes you so certain he was murdered?’
‘Oh, come on.’ I glanced at her and she was giving me a pitying look. ‘Met Erica, have you? If I was you that’s where I’d start.’
‘Why d’you say that?’ I wanted to ask about her and James. Was she the girl I had seen in Coronation Road? I was almost certain she was, but that didn’t mean she and James were lovers. Above all, I wanted to know who was Cain’s father.
‘Stephen’s been good to me,’ she said, ‘but if you’re thinking there’s anything else … All I’m interested in is making sure the person that done it to Tom don’t just get away with it. Of course, after what happened, you might be wondering why it bothers me so much.’
‘After what happened?’
‘Oh, just one of those things men always seem to regret, although at the time they're happy enough.’ I could hear the amusement in her voice. She was enjoying keeping me guessing. ‘Look, Tom’s dead, that’s a fact. Let’s just concentrate on getting some justice for him. As I said, you want to talk to that Erica. I mean, she was married to the guy so I reckon she knows more than I do. Reckon if she wanted to she could tell you just about everything you need to know.’
‘So that’s what you wanted to tell me.’
She hesitated. ‘Reckon that’ll do to be going on with.’
The rain had stopped and as we drove past the row of trees on the edge of the estate I had to pull down the visor to block out the flickering sunlight. Clare was leaning forward, humming to herself, but when I started to ask how long she had known Erica she interrupted to say it was time to go back.
‘Not thinking of abducting me, are you?’
I turned to smile at her but she had taken a map out of the glove compartment and was running her finger down the list of streets. For the next five minutes or so neither of us spoke. We both had questions we wanted to ask, but both knew we were unlikely to get satisfactory answers.
‘This day nursery where you leave Cain,’ I said at last, ‘it’s a good place, is it?’
She shrugged. ‘Yeah, I s’pose, except this woman who runs it … always looking for trouble she is.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, take Kevin, he’d fallen over, bumped his head but nothing to make a fuss about, only the way Jill acted you’d think his mother had beaten him up. Then, there’s Kim, only fifteen months she is but Jill thinks she ought to be talking, keeps asking if she’s had a hearing test. I reckon she’s got some book that tells you what they’re s’posed to do when. Rubbish, though, ain’t it? I mean, they’re all different, Kim’ll talk when she wants to.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ Jill was only doing her job but I could imagine how some of the young mothers might find her a little authoritarian.
Just before I dropped Clare off outside the entrance to the hostel she asked me what I thought of Stephen Bryce.
‘Funny bloke, wouldn’t you say? Whoever heard of a vicar who doesn’t believe in God?’
‘I don't think
it’s quite that simple,’ I said. Then, aware that I might have sounded a little patronizing, ‘I mean, people have different concepts of God.’
‘Be keeping in touch, will you?’ She had one foot on the pavement. ‘About the police and everything.’
On a sudden impulse I decided to give her my phone number. ‘Look, if you think of anything else and you’d rather not talk to the CID … If I’m out you can leave a message on the answering machine.’
She took the slip of paper and pushed it in the pocket of her jeans. ‘See you, then. Next birthday I’m going to get Cain a car like this, only with pedals, of course. Oh, by the way, that question you were dying to ask. If I knew the answer I’d tell you, only I don’t, so you’re wasting your time.’
Chapter Thirteen
Stephen Bryce had left a message with Heather. She had written it down verbatim. Tell Anna I don’t want to bother her but if she has time Marion Young would like a word. There was a number to ring and a request that I phone during the day, preferably before five o’clock.
‘Mrs Pope’s in the waiting room,’ said Heather. ‘I told her you were all booked up today but she said it would only take a moment.’
Livvy was standing behind the door. I heard her before I saw her; she was making little noises in her throat.
‘I’m so sorry, just turning up like this.’ She was wearing a full-length dress, made of blue and green Indian cotton, and a pair of shiny black boots with pointed toes. ‘I don’t want to see you. I mean I don’t need … It was just … I was passing nearby and I thought you might like to see these.’
She pulled a book out of a paper bag, then pushed it back inside again. ‘My later poems. I think they’re better than the ones I showed you before. They were published just before Tom…’ She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
‘Thank you.’ What else could I say? ‘I’ll let you have it back when —’
‘Oh, no, it’s for you. I’ve several copies at home. Poetry never sells well, does it, and the bookshops these days … well, they’re just not interested.’
After she left I resisted the temptation to take the poems into the office and read one or two of them to Heather. The binding was less expensive-looking than the previous volume, but the paper was just as thick. Think Your Book Deserves to be in Print? Send no money. Not yet. This could be the breakthrough you’ve been waiting for. Thousands of satisfied customers found their lives changed dramatically with their first publication. I’ll bet.
I was expecting to find verses about robins bobbin’ and love from above. Still, who was I to mock? I had never written a poem in my life — not since I was at school anyway — and the chances of finding a reputable publisher who would take on a book of good poetry must be extremely slim.
Livvy was out in the car park. I thought she had come on her own, but now I could see that Ros had brought her. Had they made a special journey or was the story about how she just happened to be passing nearby genuine? Perhaps she carried her precious books with her wherever she went.
Ros saw me through the window and waved. Livvy was already in the passenger seat, with the door closed, but Ros had a sponge in her hand and was wiping dead flies off the windscreen. If Livvy stayed in the car it might be possible to ask the question I had been wanting to put to Ros ever since she had brought Livvy for her last appointment.
‘Anna, how are you?’ She greeted me like an old friend, then lowered her voice and inclined her head towards Livvy. ‘I’m sorry about this. It’s a shame the way those vanity publishers exploit people. It was Tom Luckham who suggested she send off the poems. He said things had changed now there was so much desktop publishing, and it might be quite a decent company that charged a reasonable rate.’
‘You’ve read them?’
Ros hesitated, looking around her as if she thought the car park might be bugged. ‘Tom used to laugh at them,’ she said, her voice full of suppressed anger. ‘Livvy never knew but other people did.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘You’re thinking about my remark last time we saw you. No, that had nothing whatever to do with the poems. All I meant, well, if you insist on turning someone into a saint you can hardly blame them if they fail to live up to your expectations.’
Livvy was watching us. She had found a comb and was running it through her long, straight hair, slowly, rhythmically.
‘So how did Tom fail to live up to Livvy’s expectations?’
‘Oh, you know, forgot her birthday, promised to call round at the cottage, then rang up at the last minute to say he had another engagement.’ She broke off, raising a hand to Livvy, indicating that she would only be a minute. ‘Anyway, read them and let me know what you think. If you want my opinion they’re no laughing matter.’
*
I was on my way to Marion Young’s house. She had said very little on the phone, just that she would like to talk to me if that was at all possible, and it would only take a short time. I had agreed to call round at four-fifteen. Perhaps hearing about my visit to Wesley’s shop had given her the courage to ask for help and meant that she felt ready at last to talk about her daughter’s death. In ordinary circumstances, I would have insisted she make an appointment to see me at the office, but it seemed unlikely she would agree to do this, and I was curious to find out what she was like, quite apart from the sympathy I felt over what had happened to her daughter.
The sky was cloudless, the best day for ages. I wondered what Owen was doing and whether it was still freezing cold in Melbourne, and whether he missed me. Then I thought about Livvy Pope and wondered how someone like Ros could stand spending so much time with her. Perhaps she felt responsible in some way. Did Stephen know about the poems and how Tom Luckham had persuaded Livvy to fork out hundreds of pounds in the belief that they had been specially selected for publication? Still, provided she could afford to pay, did it really matter? Opening the book at random I had been slightly alarmed at what I found. The first poem, entitled ‘Heartsease’, was short, only eight lines in all, but Freud would have had a field day working out what was going on in her unconscious.
The Youngs’ house was in Sea Mills and turned out to be identical to so many other houses in the city: scallop-edged lead work below the first-floor bay window, pebble-dash on the gable, and leaded glass in the front door. Two empty milk bottles had been left on a low ledge. A tabby cat, with half an ear missing, jumped over from the adjoining garden, and started rubbing itself against my leg, knocking over one of the bottles in the process, and as I bent down to stop the bottle rolling down the path the door opened and a voice spoke my name.
Marion Young looked younger than her husband but old to have had a daughter who was only eighteen.
‘Do come in, it’s so kind of you to call round.’ She was tall and a little ungainly, with large hands and feet, and big bony wrists that stuck out from the cuffs of her flowered blouse. Her wavy grey hair came to just below her ears, and was parted on one side and held back by a metal clip. She reminded me of my father’s next door neighbour, a woman called Mrs Lappin, who seemed to spend most of her time putting out food for the birds.
‘If you’d like to follow me.’ She pushed open a door that led through to the kitchen, then continued on into a conservatory that looked as if it had been added on quite recently, and was filled with plants, some of them on shelves, others in large earthenware pots on the floor.
‘You won’t feel too hot in here, Dr McColl?’
‘No, it’s fine. Lovely room.’ The basket chairs creaked as we both sat down. The tabby cat strolled through from the kitchen, waving its tail in the air and letting out the occasional loud mew.
‘You must be wondering why I asked Stephen if I could see you,’ she said. ‘I suppose I should have made an appointment to come to where you work, but really I only want some advice, I don’t need analysing or anything.’
I smiled, but she was starin
g at the ground. Her hand reached out to stroke the cat, who was now lying curled up on an embroidered cushion, and I wondered if its presence might explain the slightly unpleasant smell.
‘As you know, my daughter died a year ago,’ she said. ‘She was eighteen years and two months. She was christened Patricia Ann, but we called her Tricia. I was thirty-seven when I married Wesley. Thirty-nine when Tricia was born.’
‘You must miss her terribly.’
‘Yes.’ But something about her matter-of-fact tone suggested she had no wish for my sympathy. ‘She was a diabetic, like Tom, Tom Luckham, that’s why he was such a help to her. After the A-level results came out … You see, she needed three A’s but she only got two B’s and a C, but it certainly wasn’t for want of trying, I’ve never seen a girl work so hard. Maths, chemistry and biology — she wanted to be a doctor and of course you have to get the right grades.’
The cat was kneading the cushion with its claws. Marion gave it a push with her foot. ‘I expect you’ve come across this kind of thing before,’ she said, ‘but recently a question’s been preying on my mind. When a child does something like that is it someone’s fault, something someone did wrong, or is it a sign of some inborn weakness, something that would have come out in one form or another whatever —’
I couldn’t take it. I had to interrupt her flat, unemotional voice. ‘No, I’m sure it was nobody’s fault.’ But the woman deserved a better explanation than that. ‘Usually when something terrible like that happens it’s the result of a combination of circumstances. Was Tricia a quiet, reserved kind of girl? People who keep their worries to themselves are sometimes at greater risk. If your daughter was very conscientious she may have put herself under too much pressure to do well. Even so, it would be quite wrong to try and apportion blame.’
‘But I have to!’ The loudness of her voice made the cat jump off the cushion. It passed close by, waving its tail in the air. The smell, like a row of dustbins in a heat wave, wafted up to where I was sitting.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Marion, nodding in the cat’s direction. ‘He’s old, too old, should have been put to sleep long ago, but he was Tricia’s and I haven’t the heart.’