by Penny Kline
I looked up and noticed a puzzled expression on his face.
‘Luke never told you about Diana? Oh well, I suppose I can understand that. He was only sixteen when the accident happened.’
‘Accident?’
I realized I had assumed Diana had become ill. Something awful like meningitis or kidney disease.
‘Luke and Diana had taken the dog for a walk. Stupid great thing. Big, black and hairy. The crazy thing was it had been my father’s idea we should have a dog. I suppose it went with his idea of country living. Anyway, nobody had bothered to train the creature and it saw a cat or something and dashed straight across the main road. It must have happened in an instant. Diana rushed after it and … ’ He stared at the carpet, then lifted his glass, splashing beer on the table. ‘She died in hospital two days later. My father blamed Luke.’
I was horrified. ‘But how could he? What was Luke supposed to have done?’
‘I know. I suppose he just had to find someone to hit out at. Not that he ever said very much but we all knew what he was thinking. You see, Diana was his favourite — the daughter he’d always wanted. He withdrew from the rest of us, became even more of a workaholic. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, he doesn’t want to get over it. Coming to terms would be a betrayal. Maybe someone like you would understand how he feels.’
I was thinking fast, shocked by what I had heard and ashamed at my enormous sense of relief. No wonder Luke’s reaction to Paula’s death had been so extreme. It was all beginning to make sense. He hadn’t pushed her. The accident outside the Hippodrome had nothing to do with his violent fantasies. For Luke, history had repeated itself and once again he was blaming himself. All his old feelings about his sister’s death had been resurrected. It explained too why Peter Jesty had seemed so indifferent to his son’s well-being, and why Brigid Jesty had been so nervous, on edge.
I yawned. I couldn’t help myself. The tension of the last few days had dissipated. I was exhausted with the relief of knowing that Paula’s death was not my fault.
Michael stood up. He looked sad, strained.
‘I’ll have to leave now I’m afraid but if there’s anything else … I don’t suppose Luke’ll be going back to work in the shop. If he needs some cash to tide him over I’ll be more than willing.’
‘I’ll give you my address and phone number,’ I said. It was the least I could do after he had gone to so much trouble. In any case, it was reassuring to know that at least one member of Luke’s family was prepared to provide some practical help.
*
I drove home through Redland. Not the shortest route but I wanted to look at the cards in the window of the newsagent’s near Doug and Elaine’s. My last meeting with Doug had made me uneasy and, now that I could stop thinking about Luke as a possible murderer, I was free to speculate about what had been going on in his life during the weeks preceding Paula’s death. Was there something Doug knew about but was keeping to himself? Were Doug and Elaine having problems and, if so, had Luke got caught up in their domestic difficulties?
As I passed the row of shops I could see the place was deserted apart from a solitary man leaning against an advertising hoarding with a half-empty bottle in his hand. Turning left into a side-street I parked the car — too close to the corner but I would only be gone a couple of minutes — and returned to the main road.
The first shop was a greengrocer’s with one of its windows boarded up. Next in line was a dry cleaner’s, then a video rental place that doubled as an off licence: everything on tap for a satisfactory evening’s entertainment.
The newsagent’s was on the corner. Outside, a metal bin, wrenched from its stand, leaned to one side. Greasy newspaper, crushed drink cans and something that looked like a purple vest were in danger of spilling out on to the pavement. A glass panel by the entrance to the shop protected half a dozen yellowing, curled-up cards. Divan bed, good as new and a phone number that was indecipherable. Want to Earn Five Hundred Pounds a Week? Own car essential. Three other cards offered personal services under various euphemistic guises. The sixth was typed in smudgy red and black ink. Picture Framing Classes for beginners. Sat. 7-9. Tools provided. Ring Neil between six and eleven.
I made a note of the number, glanced round guiltily as though I expected Doug to be watching me, then walked quickly back to the car.
*
When I arrived back at the flat, Aaron, Janos’s dog, was sniffing the begonias in Ernest and Pam’s front garden. I stroked his head, then ran up the steps two at a time.
My living-room smelled of lavender and beeswax. A quick spray and polish first thing in the morning had achieved its effect but already the dust was reclaiming its position on the bookshelves and television. Taking my diary from my pocket I memorized the figures I had scrawled on the back page and picked up the phone.
It rang four times, then a man’s voice answered.
‘Who is it?’ He sounded as though he suffered from asthma. I could hear the wheezing when he breathed.
‘Is that Neil? I’m sorry, I don’t know your other name but I saw your card in the newsagent.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘It said you run classes in picture framing.’
‘Not any longer.’ The wheezing was getting worse.
‘But you used to.’
‘They never really got off the ground.’
‘Oh, I see.’ It was important to stop him ringing off. ‘Will you be having any more?’
‘I doubt it. Only had one customer. We wound it up. Must be over a month ago.’
‘Hang on a minute. Are you sure it was as long ago as that?’
But the line had gone dead.
I sat down heavily. The feeling of euphoria, when I found out why Luke had reacted to the accident so badly, had evaporated. Doug had lied about the framing class. Elaine had said he returned to the house just before the police brought Luke home; but so what, he could have been anywhere. Out for a drink with friends, unwilling to admit to Elaine that the class had been a non-starter, using it as an excuse for a Saturday evening at the pub. The irony was that Elaine wanted more time alone in the house. I wondered if they ever really talked. About Doug’s redundancy and the likelihood he would be permanently unemployed for the rest of his life. About Elaine’s job at the supermarket. About Luke.
*
My thoughts shifted to Michael Jesty. It had been a relief talking to him but it had forced me to re-examine my whole approach to helping Luke. I should have insisted, right from the start, that he provide me with at least a sketchy account of his life up to date. It had been wrong to concentrate on gaining his confidence, on trying to reduce some of his psychosomatic symptoms. Diana’s death, even though it had taken place six years ago, must have haunted him ever since. During his brief time at Oxford had he felt that his father was glad to be rid of him? Was that why he had returned home and then, when he found he was unwelcome, moved out and found himself a bed-sit, condemning himself to a lonely, isolated existence?
I closed my eyes and Diana’s accident merged with Paula’s. Better to face up to your worst imaginings. Mangled bodies, crushed beneath heavy wheels. Limbs wrenched off or twisted at unnatural angles. Bones sticking through ripped flesh. I sat up straight and focused on the carriage clock that my father had given me when he moved to a smaller house. Another school of thought says it’s better to shift your thoughts away from morbid images. To kill them stone dead before they get a hold. Wasn’t that what I had been trying to persuade Luke to do? But when I tried to practise what I preached the images returned in the form of bad dreams, nightmares that forced me awake and reminded me that sleeping alone had more than one disadvantage.
Outside in the street Aaron had paused in the middle of the road and was sniffing the evening air. A shiver twitched the skin between my shoulder blades. I ran downstairs, put my hands either side of his tail and pushed him hard in the direction of the steps leading down to Janos’s basement flat.
7
Carl Redfern’s parting words kept going round in my head. ‘I can’t think how in hell it happened. Paula was always so bloody careful.’
Careful people got killed in road accidents, of course they did, but did they allow themselves to be forced off the pavement when the pedestrian lights had changed to red?
During the night I had lain awake going over and over my conversations with Luke, picturing him sitting in my office, always wearing the same torn jeans, the same blue and white sweater. The sweater — where was it? Not in his bedroom. I’d checked when I packed his zip-up bag. In Elaine’s washing machine? Lying in a crumpled ball under the bed? Or perhaps he had left it in the herbal remedies shop.
I rang Doug, who asked me to hold on while he investigated, then returned several minutes later to say he had searched Luke’s bedroom and several other parts of the house, including the garden shed, but there was no sign of the sweater.
Something stopped me phoning the shop. Maybe it was the thought of Bob, who would ask if I had seen Carl — he had looked the kind of person who could easily cause trouble — but, in any case, Luke was unlikely to have left his sweater at work. Once, on a hot afternoon when I had suggested he take it off, he had told me he wore it all the time, his voice implying that it was almost like a lucky mascot, that without it something awful would happen to him.
I picked up the phone, dialled the number of the police station and asked for DS Whittle. It was only an off-chance and common sense told me it would have been better to stay well clear of the police, but some instinct pulled me in the opposite direction.
Howard Fry answered.
‘Oh.’ He was the last person I wanted to talk to. My meeting with Graham Whittle had been informal, almost social. Bringing Inspector Fry into the case was quite another matter. But there was no case. I was being ridiculous. ‘Anna McColl.’ I tried to sound as casual as possible. ‘Sorry to bother you, it’s nothing really but Luke Jesty — did Sergeant Whittle tell you — ’
‘Oh, hallo, Anna. Yes, I was sorry to hear what happened, and am I right in thinking you’re not entirely happy about the circumstances of the accident?’
So he and Whittle had discussed my visit to the police station.
‘Oh. No.’ I sounded a little too emphatic. ‘Nothing like that. I’m just trying to find out as much as possible so I can help Luke.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘He’s not being very communicative at the moment. It’s difficult to get much out of him.’
‘I understand.’
‘The thing is, Luke had a blue and white sweater he wore all the time. It’s only an off-chance but I wondered, d’you know what Paula Redfern was wearing at the time of the accident?’
‘I don’t but I could certainly find out. Hang on.’
While I waited I cursed myself for making the call. Was it really about Luke’s sweater or was it a semiconscious wish to diffuse responsibility, to bring the police in while at the same time trying to keep them out. If only Luke would start talking rationally, tell me everything he knew about the accident, explain the nature of his relationship with Paula.
Howard Fry came back on the line. ‘Anna?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve had a look at the report of the accident and you’re right. She was wearing jeans and a blue and white sweater.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, quite sure, you can see the report yourself if you think it’ll be any help.’
‘No. I mean, thanks very much. The thing is,’ I lied, ‘Luke goes over and over what happened in his mind and he has this obsession with getting the details exactly right.’
There was a short silence. ‘If there’s anything else you know where I am.’
He rang off and I realized I was holding the receiver so tightly it had made a ridge along the tips of my fingers.
My next client would be in the waiting room, watching the door, checking her watch. I ran downstairs to collect her.
‘Mrs Powers?’
She stood up and walked towards me. She had tears in her eyes that she hadn’t bothered to wipe away.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ I said.
‘That’s all right.’
She walked ahead of me, holding on to the rail as though she was having difficulty hauling her small, stocky body up the stairs. Once inside my room she sat down, with her shopping bag on her knees and her head sunk to her chest.
She had been referred by Dr Sims, who had complained about Mrs Powers’ non-compliance to treatment. A diabetic who was failing to stick to a sensible diet and seemed set on deliberately ruining her health — or that was the way Dr Sims saw it.
‘I can’t go on,’ she said wearily.
‘I’m sorry you’re feeling so depressed.’
‘I can’t see the point. If it wasn’t for Ted I’d do away with myself.’
‘Tell me about it.’
She sighed. ‘Ted’s been to the library again.’
‘What did he find this time?’
‘An autobiography by a woman who’s been diabetic since she was six years old but hasn’t let it interfere with her life. Now she’s the owner of a chain of stores selling leather and rubber goods.’
I smiled. So did Mrs Powers. It was the first time I had seen her face light up.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘next time you come, do bring Ted.’
‘I can’t, he’s at work.’
‘He could get time off. Or you could come at five. Surely he could manage that.’
‘He doesn’t like you.’
‘He’s never met me.’
‘Ted wouldn’t let a little thing like that stand in his way.’
Mrs Powers, my most reluctant client, was beginning to trust me.
After she left I phoned William Stringer but he was at a meeting.
Martin put his head round the door and asked if I was coming for lunch. When I shook my head he sat on the arm of a chair and gave me one of his reproving looks.
‘The Luke Jesty business, is it? If you want my opinion, which I’m sure you don’t, I think you should let the hospital take over.’
‘It’s not that simple, Martin.’
‘No, it never is. What isn’t?’
I wanted to tell him about the blue and white sweater and how the murderer might have assumed that Luke was wearing it, and how that meant Luke could have been the intended victim. But there was no murderer. It was all in my over-active imagination. It had even occurred to me, while Mrs Powers had been telling me about her sister-in-law’s migraine, that Luke might have lent his sweater to Paula for the precise purpose of confusing the issue.
‘Well,’ said Martin with mock exasperation, ‘I can’t force you to join us, but I can tell you that Beth’s coming round with the baby and Nick and I are having lunch with her in the garden of the White Hart.’
‘I’ll come,’ I said. ‘Don’t go without me.’
*
On the way to the hospital I began listing all the different hypotheses and disposing of them one by one. First I had been afraid that Luke was responsible for Paula’s death, that against his will he had acted out one of his fantasies. The tension of wondering if he was capable of behaving so violently had become too much. Pushing Paula in front of the traffic had been a kind of release, even though afterwards he had been appalled at what he had done. I remembered games with my brother Steven, when he was nine and I was six or seven. He would give me time to hide then count to a hundred and call: ‘I’m coming to get you.’ Sometimes the tension of waiting to be found became so great that I ran out from my hiding place shouting, ‘Catch me, catch me.’ Anything to get it over with. Had Luke felt the same? No, of course not. It wasn’t a comparable situation.
Michael Jesty’s account of their sister’s death had eased my anxiety — but only for a time. Speaking to Howard Fry had been a mistake but it had been the only way I could find out what Paula had been wearing. Now both Fry and Whittle suspected that I knew something
but was holding back from telling them, protecting my client — or somebody else. They wouldn’t put any pressure on me, not yet, but their suspicions would grow as they mulled things over.
Then another thought occurred. Howard Fry would be wondering if Luke had anything to do with Paula’s death but there was another possibility. Supposing Paula had been pushed, but not by Luke? Who could have wanted to get rid of her? Carl Redfern’s girlfriend, Liz, who was so insanely jealous? Carl himself? But what possible motive could he have had?
I switched to thinking of Luke as the intended victim. Luke had found out something about Doug and Doug had decided to silence him before the information could be passed on to Elaine. Or Doug had been afraid Paula knew something about him and was about to tell the police. This would account for Doug’s unexpected reaction when he inadvertently let slip that he had met Paula once in the shop. It would also explain why he had pretended to be at the framing class.
A sign by the side of the road warned of road works and temporary traffic lights two hundred yards ahead. The traffic was slowing down. I joined the queue and wound down the window, unwilling to breathe in petrol fumes, but desperate to let in more air. Enough was enough, my brain was reeling. I was a hopeless private investigator, endlessly speculating when I should have been sticking to hard facts. The trouble was I had so little in the way of definite information.
In a lay-by, on the right-hand side of the road, a group of travellers had parked their vans and set up camp. It would be days, maybe weeks, before the police moved them on. In the meantime they were making the most of their new surroundings. Two small boys were careering round on what looked like brand-new tricycles. A girl of about fifteen or sixteen was sitting on the grass, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. In spite of the heat she was wearing thick trousers, heavy boots and a denim jacket. A puppy peered out through the jacket opening, wriggling to get free and letting out high-pitched squeaks. I smiled at the girl but she ignored me and as the traffic moved on I saw her jump up and disappear inside one of the vans. For the first time it came to me that being a traveller might be quite a pleasant way of life. Plenty of hassle, of course, but also plenty of variety. New places, new people, very little responsibility. Who was I fooling? I couldn’t cope with the squalor! Imagine having to do without a bath.
