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If It Bleeds

Page 21

by Bernie Crosthwaite

“I was really into drama when I was young. I was no good at acting, so I used to help the set designer at Ravenbridge Theatre for nothing, just to get a taste of that strange other life. I think it was a reaction to the whole Methodist thing, a bit of glitz and glamour. I used to drag homeless actors back to our house and of course Mum and Dad always let them stay, even though they didn’t really approve. These actors, they’d come to the theatre just for one production, or sometimes for a whole season — four or five plays — so some of them needed a room for several months.”

  “And Daniel’s father was one of them?”

  “He came for a short season — Macbeth, playing Banquo, some foppish twit in The Rivals, and Gus in The Dumb Waiter.”

  “Was he any good?”

  “At the time I thought he was wonderful. On reflection, I guess he was no more than mediocre. He seems to have sunk without trace, anyway.”

  “And he told you that you had fabulous cheekbones and a beautiful soul. He could see it in your eyes.”

  “Some crap like that. I fell for it. I was still at school, brought up in a Methodist household where drink and gambling were the devil’s work. And as for sex…” I stroked Matt’s thigh. “It didn’t exist. It never happened. Or if it did, it was an aberration, best got over quickly, a necessary biological procedure like having a tooth filled.”

  “And at the end of the season he left, never to return, leaving you with a souvenir.”

  I punched Matt lightly on his bare chest. “No. I wasn’t completely stupid, I knew about contraception.”

  “So what happened?”

  “When he went back to London, I dropped out of the sixth form and followed him. I shacked up with him at first, but things quickly went pear-shaped due to his total inability to stay faithful and his ingrained habit of lying about it. So I moved out. I spent my time bumming around theatres, loving the life. About a year later I met up with him again, at a party. All that old hopeless passion flooded back. We got drunk, went back to my place…”

  “And family planning was the last thing on your mind?”

  I snuggled closer to Matt and let him circle me in his arms. “I refused to believe I was pregnant. I was five months gone before I came home and told my mother.” I paused, remembering the bizarreness of those days. “She surprised me. She was really kind. She told me that if I wanted to keep the baby I should, and she’d support me whatever my dad or the old Bible-bashers at the chapel might say. And she did.”

  I realised I hadn’t told Matt about Father Thomas and Lara’s abortion. I gave him a brief outline of the facts, without mentioning the heartbreaking display of pictures in Lara’s bedroom. After all, Matt never knew her, and I felt a strong desire to respect what was left of her privacy.

  “I keep finding parallels between her life and mine,” I said. “But there’s one big difference — I got Mum’s support when I fell pregnant. Lara’s experience was quite the opposite.”

  “Is your mother still around?”

  “No. She died a couple of years ago. Daniel adored her. He keeps losing the people he loves, poor kid.”

  “You’ve both had a hard time.” Matt began to lick my neck.

  I sighed and stretched. “I must go. Daniel will be getting worried.”

  “Give him a call from here. Tell him you won’t be home. Stay the night with me.” He stroked my naked breasts and all thought was put on hold for a few delicious seconds. Then my brain cells woke up at last. I stopped his hand. “I’d love to, but I better not.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “About Lara, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t come up with anything concrete.”

  “What have you come up with?”

  I told him about Harrison’s pendant, the one shaped like a pentagram, and about the bracelet that had got into Daniel’s pocket. And also the fact that someone had disabled Lara’s car.

  “But who?” I wondered.

  “From what you say, Father Thomas has the strongest motive.”

  “Maybe. There is definitely a doubt over him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There’s that missing print, but I’m not convinced it has anything to do with Lara’s murder.”

  “Sleep on it, Jude. You know Daniel’s right. It’s time to give up this crazy search and leave it to the professionals. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “That’s sweet.” I stood up, switching on the nearest lamp and gathering up my discarded clothes. I found my pants behind the sofa and my bra draped over the TV. “But I can’t stop now. Can you ring me a taxi while I get dressed?”

  *

  “You didn’t say you’d be this late!”

  “Daniel, it’s been a hell of a long day. Can you recharge my mobile for me while I get something to eat? And sort your own phone out while you’re at it.”

  “I’ve been frantic with worry.”

  “I tried to ring, but you were either out or unavailable. I had no idea which because of aforementioned defunct phone.”

  “Don’t blame me!”

  “I’m not blaming you for anything. In fact, I’m not aware there’s been any transgression, so the concept of blame doesn’t apply.”

  “What have you been doing all day?”

  “Daniel, that’s my business,” I blustered. I’d never been much good at lying. Unlike Daniel’s father, who’d been a professional. I’d had a jaundiced view of actors ever since. “I could ask you the same thing. You weren’t answering the phone, so what have you been up to?”

  Now he looked uncomfortable. “Nothing much.”

  He wasn’t any good at lying either. I gave three silent cheers that he didn’t take after his father.

  “Tell me.”

  “I went to see Lara’s mother.”

  “Was she OK?” I asked, recalling our last violent encounter. I wondered how she would feel about a visit from my son.

  “She was in bed, too upset to speak to anyone. I talked to her dad instead. He seems like a nice guy. I don’t think he’ll ever get over losing Lara. Nor will I.”

  I hugged Daniel as hard as I could. “I know it’s a cliché, but give it time. Time softens even the hardest blows. You’ll just have to trust your poor grey-haired old mother on this one.”

  “You haven’t got grey hair.”

  “No? I will have, by the time this is over.”

  Twenty-three

  The first Saturday after New Year and the estate agents’ was busy, as if the change in the calendar had made people restless to move house. A crowd of prospective buyers was milling around the property boards. Susan was dealing with a starry-eyed young couple about to embark on a lifetime of mortgages and leaky roofs, and two young men in loud ties were deep into transactions with clients too. Then a depressing thought struck me — had most of them come to Kerwin and Black knowing that this was where Lara Ramsey had worked? Were they hoping for some sort of vicarious thrill?

  The manager was nowhere to be seen.

  “Is Mr Gilmore around?”

  Susan looked at me as if I was something you find on the bottom of a shoe.

  “He’s in his office — no, you can’t just barge in!”

  “Is that right?”

  Hemmed in by her desk and constrained to be the public face of Kerwin and Black, Susan stood even less chance of stopping me than Sister Veronica had.

  Gilmore must have heard the raised voices. He was twisting round in his chair as I entered the office at the back, his skin mottled and raw-looking. I wondered why so many women had found him attractive enough to accompany him to Gunnerston. Perhaps they felt sorry for him, or perhaps he had a silver tongue and charmed them out of their knickers.

  “Piss off!”

  Or possibly not.

  “I know all about the sordid goings-on at Chapel House,” I said angrily, not bothering to lower my voice. “And were you aware that you and Lara and all the others provided hours of
amusement for the farmer who lives opposite? He had a ladder.”

  Gilmore hurried to the door and shut it behind me. “We were doing nothing illegal.”

  “So you won’t mind if I inform head office?”

  He paled under his blotchy complexion. “I’ll deny every word. After all, Lara’s not here to support your story, is she?”

  “But the farmer is.”

  “Who’s going to believe some hick from the sticks? If he’s a peeping tom, he won’t want that broadcast around, will he? He won’t say anything.”

  “You may be right about that, but can’t you see that you and Lara were playing a very dangerous game?”

  “That was half the fun.”

  I was infuriated by his smugness. “One of the men she took to Chapel House may have killed her!”

  “The police have a list of her recent male clients. If it’s one of them, they’ll find him.”

  “You take no responsibility whatever for Lara’s death?”

  “No, I don’t.” He returned to his computer. “I’ve got nothing else to say to you. Now piss off and don’t come back.”

  I opened the door and said loudly, “See you up at Chapel House, then. Shall I wear my French maid’s uniform, or the naughty nun outfit? Or do you fancy the thigh-length boots and the whip?”

  The milling crowd fell silent as I walked out. Susan had a bewildered expression on her face, as if she had been hit with a blunt instrument. The door rattled when I banged it shut.

  *

  Daniel had just got up when I arrived home. He looked at me suspiciously but I didn’t share my thoughts with him. I dumped my shopping on the kitchen table.

  “Vegetables, fresh pasta, salad, lemons, eggs and cream. Guess what we’re having for dinner tonight?”

  I spent most of the afternoon watching sport on telly with Daniel, as if everything was normal, then retreated to the kitchen to make a huge lasagne, and, after a great deal of swearing at the complicated recipe, managed to rustle up a tarte au citron. But though my hands were occupied, my mind was elsewhere, endlessly churning over the people associated with Lara, and the reasons they might have to kill her.

  We ate late, opening a couple of beers, then a couple more. I chattered with Daniel animatedly about anything but Lara, in an attempt to reassure him that I’d kept my promise — no more amateur detective work. But occasionally I caught the same shadow of suspicion crossing his face. Beneath the banal chat I was debating with myself whether to go to the police to clear up that stupid comment about wringing Lara’s neck. At the same time I could give them the information I had, but it all seemed so flimsy I was afraid DI Laverack would laugh me out of court.

  In the end, they beat me to it.

  *

  We were watching a film when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock on the TV. Quarter to ten. Who’d be calling this late?

  We crept into the hall together. We could see the outline of a figure on the doorstep.

  Daniel whispered in my ear, “Don’t answer it, Mum.”

  “Who is it?” I called out, trying not to sound scared out of my wits and failing.

  “Detective Inspector Laverack.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “OK, I’m coming.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I can guess.”

  Laverack was wearing an elegant wool coat over his suit. His tie was plain turquoise silk. I was aware of my scruffy shirt and stained jeans, not to mention my worn-out sheepskin slippers. Behind him I could see DC Naylor.

  “Come in,” I said. “I think I know what this is about. When you spoke to my colleague — my ex-colleague — Matt Dryden, I think you got the wrong end of the stick.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer you to come down to the station.”

  “Why?”

  “We’d like to talk to you,” said Laverack.

  “It’s late. Why can’t you talk to me here?”

  “We can record it on tape at the station,” said Naylor.

  “I don’t get this.”

  “We’d appreciate your co-operation in this matter,” said Laverack smoothly.

  Naylor chipped in, “The sooner we get on with it, the sooner it’ll be over.”

  I couldn’t deny the truth of that. I got my boots, which were still sodden with snow, and my leather jacket.

  “My car’s out of action.”

  “No problem. We’ll take you in,” said Laverack.

  There was a pause before Naylor added, “And of course, we can bring you home when we’re finished.” But it sounded very much like an afterthought.

  *

  The table was pockmarked with clusters of ancient cigarette burns, tiny overlapping circles scored deep into the surface. I placed two fingertips in the depressions and walked my hand around the table from hole to hole. In the middle was an unmarked space, too wide to span. My index finger was stranded in mid-air. It felt like crossing a stream and running out of stepping stones.

  Laverack and Naylor sat opposite, watching me through narrowed eyes. I pulled my hand back. We were waiting for my solicitor. There was something about the way I’d been ushered through the reception area and buzzed through a security gate, and the way the duty officer had barked questions at me — name, address, date of birth, occupation — and asked me to empty my pockets, that had made me anxious.

  “I’m allowed to have my lawyer with me, aren’t I?” I’d asked, trying to recall all those TV cop shows I’d watched with half a brain. Now I wished I’d paid them closer attention.

  “That is your right,” said the duty officer, without much enthusiasm for the idea. “Do you have your own representative or do you require the solicitor on call?”

  The prospect of being represented by someone I didn’t know unnerved me. I rang Charlie Tait, old friend and drinking buddy, specialist in conveyancing and divorce. A long time ago we became lovers for a while. He’d been married at the time, so it was an episode I was deeply ashamed of. My only justification had been that the marriage was already shaky, and the fact that Charlie was great in bed.

  I was relieved when I heard Charlie’s familiar voice, even though he sounded distinctly slurred. The Latin music in the background suggested he was in his favourite bar, El Paradiso in the Market Square. I explained where I was, and the connection between Daniel and Lara Ramsey. “The police want to ask me a few things and I’d really like someone with me.” He said he’d be there as soon as possible.

  “Put her in Interview Room Two.”

  With Laverack on one side and Naylor on the other, I was escorted down the corridor to the small cell-like room with the pock-marked table and we’d been waiting ever since.

  I leaned against my jacket, slung over the back of the chair. Even in a shirt and jeans I was sweltering. At last the door opened and Charlie walked in, bringing a whiff of ten-year old malt with him. He sat in the vacant chair next to mine.

  “You all right, Jude?” he mumbled. “You look terrible.”

  “Just tired. It’s nothing that getting out of here won’t cure.”

  “I meant your face.” He peered at me in wonder.

  I’d pretty much forgotten that I looked like a car-crash survivor. I hadn’t had much access to mirrors lately, and Matt had somehow made me forget my scratches and grazes. He had made me feel beautiful.

  “What’s it all about then?” Charlie took a spectacle case from his pocket and put his glasses on. His hands trembled slightly. They had a purple blood-starved look about them, the sure sign of circulation damaged by alcohol. He’d lost weight too. I realised I hadn’t seen him for quite a while. He’d always had a huge capacity for drink, but I’d never seen him like this. I’d no idea things had got so bad.

  Laverack coughed. “Are we ready?” Attached to the wall was a recording machine. His hand hovered over the controls.

  “Sure,” said Charlie. “Bring on the dancing girls.”

  Laverack pressed a button. “Recording an interview with Judith Bax
endale. Friday, fifth of January. Time…” He checked the clock on the wall. “22.17. Also present in the room — DI Laverack…” He gestured for the others to speak in turn.

  “DC Naylor.”

  “Charles Tait, Ms Baxendale’s legal representative.”

  Laverack pulled a sheet of paper from a folder. Then he put his elbows on the table and steepled his hands as if he was about to pray.

  “I understand you drove up to Gunnerston yesterday?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “I… I was interested in a house up there.”

  “You’re thinking of moving?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you referring to Chapel House?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you aware that Lara Ramsey was familiar with that property and often took clients there?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to lie. After all I had nothing to hide. But Laverack’s cool gaze put me on edge and I was tempted to bluff my way out of this with as many fibs as it needed. But I was too tired to think straight and I knew I’d only get in a muddle. In the end I decided honesty was the only way. Matt would be proud of me, I thought.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “And that’s why you went there?”

  “I’m trying to understand why Lara was killed, that’s all.”

  “That’s our job.”

  “You’re not getting very far, are you?” I said angrily.

  He glanced down at the sheet again. “Let’s leave the matter of your son’s girlfriend for the time being.” He drew another piece of paper from the folder. “While you were visiting Chapel House you met a farmer called Brandon Hill.”

  “Is that his name? It sounds like some local beauty spot. Not exactly appropriate. Hold on, I didn’t tell him my name, so how did you —?”

  “He described your car.”

  I nodded slowly. This was the first time I had ever cursed Daniel’s wonderful paintwork.

  “He’s made a serious allegation.”

  I was stumped for a moment. “Against me? That’s ironic.”

  “He says you assaulted him.”

  “I kicked him in the bollocks, yes. Did he mention he was trying to rape me at the time?”

 

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