by Penny Kline
‘Come and sit down,’ I said, ‘in five minutes we’ll have to stop but just before we do … ’
She sat on the biscuit-coloured sofa, something I had never seen her do before, with one of the small cushions clutched against her stomach. ‘What would you like me to say?’
‘Nothing. Don’t say anything at all.’
She closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘I can’t just sit here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not fair.’ She was almost shouting. ‘Because you’ve no right to play these tricks on me. I don’t know how you do it, I don’t understand!’
*
On my way home, I decided to take the long way round. The sky was dotted with broken cloud, a mackerel sky as my mother used to call it. As I was passing the entrance to Leigh Woods I saw Lynsey sitting on the grass, surrounded by bags of shopping, with her eyes fixed on the upper branches of a tree. A moment later Thomas dropped to the ground, rubbing his elbow.
Lynsey saw me and waved. ‘Wasn’t my idea. He said he could climb to the top. Some hope.’
The trauma of the break-in seemed forgotten, ancient history. She rolled on her back, catching hold of Thomas’s plimsoll and pulling him down with her. He didn’t complain, just wrenched his foot free and stood up again with his back turned.
Lynsey felt in the pocket of her shorts and pulled out two five-pound notes. ‘You going to the shopping centre?’
‘I wasn’t. Why?’
‘Wondered if you could give this to Deb? I’d go myself but I don’t think she’d want to see me, not after last night.’
I hesitated then took the money from her outstretched hand. ‘All right, I’ll see if I can find her.’
Lynsey grinned, guessing correctly that I was unlikely to miss an opportunity to meet Dean Koenig’s woman. ‘Blonde hair, she’s got.’
‘Like yours?’
‘Do me a favour?’
‘Don’t you think in the circumstances she may have taken the day off work?’
‘You can give it her tomorrow, then, whenever.’
Thomas was digging a hole in the dry earth with the toe of his shoe.
‘Enjoying your holidays, Thomas?’ I said, leaning over the fence that sectioned off that part of the woods, trying to see his face.
He turned his body a little but said nothing.
‘Ah,’ said Lynsey, mocking, ‘he’s shy. Not shy of me, though. You’d be surprised the things he tells me, wouldn’t she, Tommy Tucker? He looks through windows, sees all kinds of things.’ I started walking away but she hadn’t finished. ‘Wait, you’ll want to hear this. Stuffing a handkerchief in her mouth, she was. Isn’t that right, Tommy?’
‘Who was?’
‘Shall we tell her? Shall we, Tommy Tucker?’
Thomas had a stone in his hand. ‘Don’t call me that,’ he muttered, hurling the stone into the undergrowth.
‘He does judo,’ said Lynsey, ‘and drama group, and gym club. But he’s hurt his knee so he can’t go this week.’ She scratched her head. ‘Your friend with the dog, he’s all right now, is he?’
‘More or less, if he doesn’t walk too far.’
‘So you won’t be taking Aaron anymore.’ She stood up in one quick movement without putting her hands on the grass. ‘Come on, Tommy Tucker, we’ve got to mind the baby.’ She handed him a bag of shopping and I watched them set off in the direction of the house. I couldn’t see much wrong with Thomas’s knee.
*
A tall woman, with her dark glossy hair swept back into a long thick plait, fixed her gaze on my forehead and asked if I was interested in the Skin Care Event. She could book me in for Thursday, with the money refunded if I bought a selection of beauty products. When I declined the offer she turned away, her face an expressionless mask.
‘I’m looking for Deb,’ I said.
She pretended not to hear, then thought better of it. ‘Who? Oh, Deb Cavendish.’ She gestured in the direction of a display of anti-wrinkle moisturizer.
A blonde-haired woman was bending down behind the counter, reaching something off a low shelf. When she straightened up she started talking encouragingly to a middle-aged woman dressed in a long black skirt and a cheese-cloth shirt. The woman seemed to be apologizing for the state of her skin and Deb Cavendish was making reassuring noises as she consulted some kind of colour chart.
I waited, leaning against a display cabinet. A card propped up against a well-known brand of after-shave informed me that if I bought a set of men’s toiletries I could have a free baseball cap to go with it. The heavy smell of contrasting perfumes was starting to give me a headache. I wanted to get out of the place, back in the fresh air, but this wouldn’t take long. As soon as the middle-aged woman had made her purchase I walked across to the counter and spoke Deb’s name.
‘Yes?’ She had very white but slightly protruding teeth and, in contrast to her ash-blonde hair, her eyes were dark brown and strongly accentuated by black liner.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘but I’m a friend of Lynsey’s.’
‘Lynsey?’ Her hand went up to her cheek.
‘There’s nothing wrong,’ I said quickly, ‘but she asked me to give you this.’
‘Oh.’ She looked slightly puzzled, then took the two notes and held them in her fist. ‘Thanks. What kind of a friend are you?’
‘Just a friend.’
She looked doubtful. ‘When did you see her?’
‘About an hour ago. I know the people where she works.’
‘Up at the house.’ Her eyes darted round the make-up department, alighting on the security man who had unclipped his walkie-talkie and was shaking it up and down. ‘So you know what happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dean’s still at the police station, been there hours. He didn’t harm the old lady.’
‘No, she’s fine.’
‘You’ve seen her, then?’
‘No, but I know she’s all right. Actually I didn’t expect to find you here today. I thought you’d have taken time off.’
She sighed. ‘Wouldn’t do any good, would it.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ We stared at each other for a few moments. ‘Lynsey’s afraid you’ll blame her for last night.’
‘Is that what she said? You a social worker or something?’
‘No, I told you, just a friend.’
The muscles in Deb’s face relaxed and she looked older than I had first estimated, perhaps about thirty-five or -six.
‘My name’s Anna McColl,’ I said, ‘I’m a psychologist.’
She stood on her toes, looking over my shoulder, watching for customers. ‘Lynsey and Dean,’ she whispered, ‘I knew it wasn’t going to work. Even so I wanted her to stay on a week or two, till she was more settled, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘You knew her in London.’
She looked at me cautiously. ‘What’s she said?’
‘Not much.’
‘Look, if there was anything I could do, but with Dean and everything … ’
‘Lynsey’s all right,’ I said, ‘I’m sure she’ll be in touch.’
‘Yes.’ She looked doubtful. ‘That man they found in the woods. You heard about it?’
‘What about him?’
‘Lynsey, she wasn’t working for Mrs Whatsemame at the time but she made a special journey, just to see the place where it happened.’
‘It’s not uncommon,’ I said. ‘People take a morbid interest.’
She nodded, opening a drawer behind the counter to indicate that the conversation was at an end. ‘Tell Lynsey thanks for the money. I’ll say this for her, she always repays her debts.’
I left the store, wondering why on earth Deb Cavendish’s remark about Lynsey’s visit to the scene of the crime had come as a surprise. Of course Lynsey couldn’t have been working at the house at the time of the murder. After all it was only when the shock brought on Geraldine’s agoraphobia that she had needed anyone to help.
&
nbsp; A six-foot youth on roller-skates shot past, nearly knocking me against the plate-glass window. I jumped back, then stood for a moment, allowing the crowds to pass. The fresh air I had looked forward to was thick with the smell of petrol fumes and human bodies. I walked a few yards in the direction of Union Street, then changed my mind and re-entered the store through another door. While I was there I might as well have a look round. After all I was supposed to be on holiday, there was no urgent reason to return to the flat, no reason at all.
The lift was descending from the top. It stuck on the third floor, then rushed straight past to the basement. When it came up again and the doors finally opened the people inside looked distinctly bad tempered. A woman was trying to force a baby’s buggy to the front but was being frustrated by an elderly man who wanted his wife to step out ahead of him. Suddenly I spotted a familiar figure, carrying a large, awkward parcel. Rona Halliwell, her grey hair dishevelled and her shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist, had her head down and was turning the cardboard box this way and that, trying to ease her way through the crowd.
‘Rona?’
She looked up, her face red from her exertions. ‘I wouldn’t take the lift if you value your life.’
She put the box on the floor and started doing up her buttons with shaking hands.
Twelve felt pens, I read, a set of animal stencils, two tubes of glitter, twenty sheets of coloured paper.
Rona picked up the box and leaned against the wall trying to regain her composure. ‘I came on the bus, they run every fifteen minutes but charge an exorbitant amount for such a relatively short distance.’
‘I heard about last night,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re all right, it must have been a nasty shock.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. They never catch them, you know, not unless you can capture them red handed.’
‘How did you manage it?’ I wanted to hear more about the hold-up with the hairbrush.
‘Nothing to it. If you ask me, the poor lad was none too bright.’
‘Even so, it was quite an achievement locking him in the kitchen.’
‘Scullery,’ she corrected, hoisting up the box until it covered part of her face. ‘Utility room, as they call them these days. He thought it was a way out, didn’t realize he’d chosen the wrong door.’
‘Anyway you were very brave.’
She snorted. ‘Not brave at all, just extraordinarily angry. Anger gives you the strength of ten. It’s a well-known fact.’
Chapter Ten
Geraldine’s eyes kept darting round the room, focusing on one bird ornament after another, rubbing her hands together, studying her nails. Suddenly she lifted a small pile of cards lying face down on the coffee table and handed them to me.
‘Would you like to see these?’
I turned them over in my hand. ‘It’s your birthday? You should have said.’
‘Have a look.’
The first card was from Lynsey. A picture of a caveman dragging a near-naked woman by the hair. Inside was a neatly printed inscription: Another birthday, what a drag!
‘Typical,’ I said.
Geraldine smiled a little. ‘She means well.’
Thomas had made his card himself. Strips of sticky-backed paper, some of them curling up at the edges, had been formed into the shape of a boat. It looked like the work of a much younger child, but perhaps art wasn’t one of his strong points; after all he couldn’t be brilliant at everything.
Sandy’s card was a reproduction of a painting by Kate Greenaway: a small boy dressed in a sailor suit and cap bowling a hoop down a picturesque village street. It felt like an invasion of privacy reading the words inside but that seemed to be what Geraldine wanted me to do. For Geraldine, with all my love as ever. Sandy.
‘Lovely,’ I said, and she stood up and crossed to the other end of the room where a pale blue sweater had been draped over the back of a chair.
‘From Sandy. Isn’t he clever? He bought it all by himself, the right size and everything.’ She held it up and I saw that it had two pink birds knitted into the pattern, one sitting down, the other standing on thin, strutting legs.
‘It’ll suit you,’ I said.
‘Yes, I think it will. Sandy always goes to so much trouble. It’s the same for Thomas’s birthday. When he was nine he bought him a telescope so he could study the night sky.’
‘Thomas is interested in astronomy?’
‘Oh, he’s interested in everything, but Sandy’s encouraging him to work specially hard at the science subjects. After all that’s where the future lies.’
She sounded like a robot, repeating the words that had been programmed into its computerized brain.
‘What did Thomas give you? For your birthday?’
She looked at me a little oddly, as though she had picked up something in my voice, then she lifted a box off the top of the corner cupboard. ‘I was saving this to last.’ She put it in my hands and nodded, indicating that in spite of the sticky tape that had been smoothed back into place I was to open it and look inside.
Wrapped in several layers of tissue paper was a large owl, about nine inches tall, carved out of dark heavy wood with etched-in feathers and beak and a neck with small brass hinges.
‘Open the head,’ she said, ‘but be careful!’
Someone had stuffed the body full of crumpled up pieces of newspaper. Some of them fell on the carpet and I bent down to retrieve them.
‘Lynsey’s idea,’ said Geraldine, putting her hand up to cover her mouth. ‘She and Thomas tip it up and pretend the owl’s been sick.’
‘Little things please little minds.’
‘Oh, Thomas was delighted,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen him laugh so much for ages.’
‘Good, well I wish you’d told me it was your birthday. I’d have brought something to add to your collection.’
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t want that, you’ve given me quite enough. Besides, I’ve never liked birthdays. So embarrassing unwrapping the presents, hoping you’ll make a suitable response. Sandy usually takes me out to dinner but of course this year we’ll have to find some other way of celebrating.’
Somewhere in the flat a metallic door banged shut, followed by the sound of swishing water. Geraldine looked at the clock and sighed. ‘That’s Lynsey. I asked her to clean the bathroom and bedrooms while you were here, leave the washing till later on. She’s a good worker but she can be a little noisy.’
‘Where’s Thomas?’ I said.
‘In his room. He’s supposed to be practising his violin but he won’t, not when Lynsey’s around.’
‘She and Thomas seem to get on well.’
She swallowed hard. ‘Oh, yes, isn’t it a blessing? D’you think we could stop now, it’s nearly ten to.’ She opened the door letting in the rumble of the washing machine. ‘At the weekend he’s travelling to Plymouth, to play in an orchestra. It’s quite an honour.’
‘He must be good!’ I shouted above the noise.
She put her hands over her ears. ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
When I left Rona Halliwell was hanging a tiny pair of flowered dungarees on the line. She caught sight of me out of the comer of her eye and raised an arm. ‘Hang on a minute, can you?’
Close by the baby, Chloe, was lying on her tummy with her head held up and her legs making scrabbling movements as she attempted to move across the grass. Frustrated by her lack of success she began experimenting with a range of high-pitched sounds. Eee-oi. Dow. Bah!
Rona turned away from the clothes line and collapsed on to a garden seat. ‘Wanted to ask you something.’ She looked exhausted, as though it was an effort keeping her eyes open.
‘Oh, yes, what was that?’
‘Psychologists — what are they exactly? Like psychotherapists or more like doctors?’
‘Psychotherapy usually takes quite a long time,’ I said. ‘Counselling and other forms of treatment tend to be briefer. It’s really a question of economics.’
‘Oh, more than
that surely, I should’ve thought anything long term could be counter-productive, make the patient too dependent.’
‘That’s what some people think.’
‘But not you.’ She lifted the baby and dragged her pink joggers over her soft padded bottom. ‘Too hot, these outfits, elen buys them by the score. You know the trouble with your job. No moral values. Everyone bending over backwards to avoid any concept of good and evil.’ She rubbed her knee, grimacing with pain.
‘Rheumatism?’ I asked.
‘Huh, what would you know about that? At my age you can take your pick. Tell everyone about your aches and pains and have yourself described as a dreary old bat, or carry on as per normal and endure people telling you how wonderful you are.’ She sat the baby on a play mat and handed her a brightly coloured rag book. ‘The latter course is marginally preferable but you have to give up any notion of sympathy for the fact your physique seems to be deteriorating by the day.’
I laughed and she pretended to be offended, then joined in briefly. ‘D’you go in for bereavement counselling? There’s counselling for everything these days. In my day trials and tribulations were just seen as part of being alive.’
‘People only need bereavement counselling if the normal process of grieving becomes blocked.’
‘Blocked? I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a dictionary of psychology if you’re going to use all that jargon.’
‘Have you lost someone?’
‘Me?’ The red clothes-peg held between her finger and thumb snapped and fell to the ground. ‘Oh, only my sister.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘She was younger than me, seventeen years, born when my poor mother was in her forties, a mistake.’ She sighed, ‘People tell you all kinds of things, I suppose. Great long-winded tales of woe. I don’t know how you stand it.’
‘When did she die?’
‘Biddy? Oh, months ago. She was christened Bernadette but they changed it to Biddy when they realized she had a screw loose. They were going to put her in an institution but somehow nobody got round to it and really she was no trouble, a sweet child, apart from the tantrums. Of course by the time Mother died Biddy was in her late twenties but still with a mental age of about three or four.’
