Almost Love

by Christina James

  “Thank you for agreeing to help, Ms Krakowska,” said Andy. “I’d be grateful if you’d both be present – though I stress that the boy is not in trouble and we want to keep it as informal as possible. To give you a bit of background, Lyle was out on his bicycle yesterday. I understand that he had travelled much further than he is allowed to by his carers; in fact, he ended up in Holbeach in the later part of the afternoon, though he says that he got lost and did not intend to go so far. Whatever the truth of that – and I don’t blame the lad if he’s telling a white lie to get out of being grounded; most boys would do the same – he was at the level crossing on the main road in Holbeach, waiting for a train to pass through, when he witnessed a fatal accident. As a matter of fact, it was probably a suicide and may possibly even have been . . .”

  “Thank you, DC Carstairs,” said Marie Krakowska firmly, the Polish lilt in her voice becoming more pronounced. “That is enough background, I think. What you have told us is very useful, but, if you wish us to help you to question Lyle as a witness, we should listen to what he has to say now. I understand that you were not there yourself?”

  “No, of course not. If I had been, we wouldn’t want to speak to the boy now. ”

  “Then we should listen to Lyle, without any kind of gloss from you, if you will forgive me. That is the only way of getting at the truth, as I’m sure you will agree. You are fortunate that neither Tom nor I knows any of the details. Therefore it is still possible for us to be unbiased.”

  “Marie is right,” said Tom Tarrant. “But please don’t let it worry you! She doesn’t mean that we will necessarily be taken in by Lyle, if he isn’t telling the truth; just that, if we are to help you – and him – we should be allowed to make an independent assessment.”

  “Of course,” said Andy, inclining his head. “I am very grateful to you . . . and I’m certain that DI Yates would be impressed by your strict approach to getting at the truth!”

  When Lyle arrived Andy got quite a shock. He had expected him to be an undersized boy with the pinched face and shifty look typical of children who have spent too long drifting about the streets, having to stick up for themselves when picked on by older domineering youths, before finally being taken into care. But the boy who knocked politely on the door and waited to be invited in before he entered was neither runty nor undernourished. He was thick-set without being fat and powerfully built, like a rugby player. He had a square-ish face and black hair combed back to reveal a high forehead culminating in a widow’s peak. His brown eyes met Andy’s without flinching, but his gaze was tinged with no discernible insolence. Andy saw that he was very well-dressed. He was wearing Diesel jeans and Nike trainers. His black sweatshirt was emblazoned with the Armani logo, so was presumably a copy – but a good one.

  “Come in, Lyle,” said Andy. “Thank you for agreeing to help us again. We just want to run through what you told the policeman you saw last night, to make sure that he’s written it all down correctly and in case you manage to think back and remember anything else. I believe that you know Ms Krakowska and Mr Tarrant?”

  Lyle nodded. He gave them an apparently open, guileless smile. Marie smiled broadly back. Andy noticed that Tom Tarrant looked uncomfortable, but he also managed an uncertain smile.

  “Hello, Lyle,” said Tom in a firm voice.

  “Hello, sir. Hello, Ms Krakowska.”

  “Sit down, Lyle,” said Andy. “Now, just to reassure you once more, we know that you biked further than you were supposed to yesterday, but, as PC Chakrabati said last night, we’re not here to question you about that, or to get you into trouble. I’ve been assured by the warden that you won’t be punished here, either.”

  “I didn’t know I’d gone so far, I was enjoying it that much,” said Lyle. It was a simple statement: there was no attempt at whining or self-justification. Andy saw that Tom Tarrant was observing the boy very closely.

  “It’s easily done,” said Andy. “I’ve gone farther on my bike than I thought I had myself sometimes. You told me a bit about your bike ride yesterday, so I don’t think we need to repeat that again. It was fairly uneventful until you got to Holbeach, wasn’t it?”

  “I was just riding along,” said Lyle. “I didn’t see anything special.” The boy was almost too ingenuous. Tom Tarrant continued his scrutiny.

  “Quite,” said Andy. “What happened when you arrived in Holbeach?”

  “I was gobsmacked when I saw the Holbeach sign. I didn’t know I’d gone so far. I wasn’t sure that I could get back before supper. I turned round to go back the way I’d come. I didn’t get far before the crossing gates closed. I thought of dodging round them to save a bit of time, but then I decided, best not.” He looked virtuous. Andy wondered if this was a bit of ‘embroidery’. He glanced at Lyle’s statement of the previous night and noted that this detail had not then been included.

  Marie Krakowska nodded encouragingly.

  “Very wise,” she said.

  “So you decided to wait,” Andy continued. “Can you tell me exactly where you were waiting?”

  “On the pavement by the gate. When I got off the bike, I moved it on to the pavement.”

  “Any particular reason why you did this?”

  “There was a lorry in the queue. It was very close to the kerb. I thought it best to get right out of the way.” Lyle continued to look virtuous.

  “Can you describe the lorry?”

  “It was an old bashed-up lorry with an open back. Full of builder’s tackle.”

  “Was it the vehicle nearest to the gates?”

  “No. There was a car in front of it: a little Fiesta, with a lady in it.”

  “What about the car behind the lorry? Did you get a clear view of that?”

  “Yes. I was standing alongside it when I got off the bike. Like I said, the lorry was right in against the pavement, so I had to get off the bike and hoik it on to the pavement so’s I could walk up closer to the gates.”

  “What kind of car was the one behind the lorry?”

  “An old one of some kind. A red one. I didn’t take that much notice.”

  “What about the people inside that car? Did you notice them?”

  “I looked into the car and saw that there were two of them – a man and a woman. The windows were closed, but I could see they were having a row. The woman looked very upset. She was screeching at him. I could hear the screeching but not what she was saying.”

  “What about the man?”

  “I didn’t see him as clearly.”

  “So you just walked past their car, to get as close to the gates as you could?”

  “I didn’t want to be caught staring. I know better than to poke my nose in when folks is rowing.” Lyle said this with feeling. Andy almost smiled. He would vouch for it that the comment did not constitute an instance of Lyle’s prowess at ‘embroidery’.

  “How close to the gates did you get?”

  “Very close. As near as I could without touching the barrier.”

  “Could you see up and down the track?”

  “Some of the way. Not far enough to know whether the train was close or not. That’s why I didn’t try to dodge through them.”

  “About how long do you think you were waiting?”

  “It seemed like fuckin’ ages. But it was probably only three or four minutes.”

  “Before the train came?”

  “No. Before I heard a lot of scuffling behind me. I turned to see that the woman in the old car had got out. The man had got out as well – he was holding on to her. Then they disappeared around the other side of the lorry. When I could see them again, they were almost level with me, but in front of the Fiesta. The train was coming now – I could hear it. The lady in the Fiesta hid her face in her hands. I think she thought that the woman was trying to throw herself under the train and the bloke was trying to hold her back. B
ut he wasn’t, see. I saw him. He pushed the woman. She went straight under the train.”

  For the first time, the boy faltered. His face paled. It was this as much as the matter-of-factness of his account – there were no fancy flourishes in this part of it – that persuaded Andy that he could be telling the truth.

  “Thank you, Lyle. You are quite certain of that? You don’t think that you could have made a mistake?” It was Tom Tarrant talking. Lyle’s face grew even paler. It took on a shut expression. He swayed slightly.

  “Would you like some water?”

  The boy nodded. Marie Krakowska rose and bustled about. She poured water and placed the plastic cup in front of Lyle with exaggerated care. He snatched it up and swiftly drank most of the contents. Marie stroked his hand.

  “Are you OK, love?”

  “Yes,” said Lyle, regarding her with open-eyed innocence. He shot Tom Tarrant a poisoned look.

  “What happened next?” said Marie.

  “The train ran right over her. I hardly heard a bump. I moved back a bit from the crossing. I didn’t want to see . . . what was there. The bloke started making a big fuss right away. He was shouting, calling out for help.”

  “Did he ask you to help him?”

  “No. I don’t think he noticed me. He banged on the cab door of the lorry first. The lorry driver opened it after a bit – I think he might have been asleep. They were talking, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The woman in the Fiesta had got out of her car, but she didn’t speak to them. She just stood there with her hands over her mouth, saying ‘Oh my God’. She was pathetic,” he added contemptuously.

  “What next?”

  “Take your time, Lyle,” interposed Marie. “We know that this is difficult for you. You’re doing very well. Don’t be rushed, now.”

  “I just stood there, watching. I felt a bit – blank – if you know what I mean. The cops showed up very quickly. Two in a car, one on a motorbike. And a bloke from the railway. The train had only been gone for a little while. I didn’t move because I didn’t want to look at the – at what was on the crossing.”

  “Did the policemen speak to you?”

  “The one on the bike did. The other two had taken the bloke to sit in their car. The one on the bike asked the lady in the Fiesta and the lorry driver to pull their vehicles over to the side of the road. Then he noticed me. He asked me if I had seen anything.”

  “That was when you gave the statement that I’ve got here?”

  “Yes. Then we hung around for a bit. An ambulance came, but I didn’t see what it did – I don’t think it stayed long. Then two police vans. The policeman who’d talked to me said that one of them had come to take me home. He put the bike in the back. The road was still closed when we left.”

  “That was all?”

  “Yes. The policeman in the van brought me back here and came in to talk to the warden, so’s I didn’t get into trouble. I didn’t sleep last night,” he added plaintively. Andy observed that this was his first obvious ploy to gain sympathy.

  “You’ve done very well,” said Marie again.

  “Will he get put in prison?”

  “I don’t know, Lyle. It depends on whether it was an accident or not. It’s not for us to speculate.”

  “He means guess,” put in Tom Tarrant. Lyle regarded him without expression.

  “I know that, sir.” He turned back to Andy. “It weren’t no accident. I’ve just told you. Don’t you believe me?” His voice was rising.

  “I believe that you’ve described to us exactly what you think you saw,” said Andy. “We shall be taking other witness statements as well.”

  “But no-one else saw it like I did!” Lyle was almost shouting now. “The others weren’t looking. You don’t believe me, do you?” He banged the table with his fist.

  “Yes, I do believe you, Lyle. But I still have to gather as much information as I can. There may have been people on the train who saw what happened.”

  Lyle blew a raspberry.

  “Fuck you, then,” he said. He stood up and strode to the door, knocking over what remained of the water as he went.

  “Come back here at once, Lyle,” said Tom. Lyle did not look round. He rushed headlong through the door, banging it behind him.

  “I’ll go after him,” said Marie. “As you see, DC Carstairs, his self-confidence is fragile. He tends to react badly when the truth of what he says is called into question.” She spoke as if Andy had taken a whip to the boy.

  When she’d gone, Andy sat down wearily.

  “God,” he said. “These ‘damaged’ children. They do my head in. I don’t know how you ever get anywhere with them.”

  “We don’t, always. We can only try our best,” said Tom. “And, over time, we can sometimes help them to lead normal lives. But they’re never cured completely. I tried to warn you about Lyle, but, as you see, Marie is very protective of children like this.”

  “Rightly so, of course. Do you think that Lyle was telling the truth?”

  “I just don’t know. He sounded very plausible, as you’ll probably agree. But he is a skilful liar, and he’s misled us on previous occasions.”

  “Do you know why he is here? He seems different from the other cared-for children I’ve met. He’s better spoken and better dressed; and appears to be better nourished, too.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss his case in detail, unless it proves to be of direct importance to your investigation. Then we must obtain permission from the warden or his legal guardian, if it isn’t the warden. I’m sure that this would be forthcoming, provided of course that any information is treated in the strictest confidence. I can see that it could be of benefit to Lyle if his account were to be believed; however, it would be unfair to him, and very detrimental to his recovery, if he were exposed in court as an unreliable witness.”

  “You’re saying that I can’t depend on the truth of his evidence unless it is corroborated by someone else?”

  “What do you think, DC Carstairs? In any case, is that the right question to ask? In my experience, few coroners or judges would take the word of a minor in care against that of an adult male of previous good character, even if other circumstances were stacked up against the latter. For what it’s worth, Lyle’s outburst at the end of the interview may be attributable to a sense of moral outrage at perhaps not being believed, which in turn would suggest that he is telling the truth. But this may be what he wants us to think. He is a very accomplished liar and a competent emotional blackmailer. Before you turn against him, I should add that his background contains enough privation to account for precisely why he has developed such skills, even if it does not excuse them.”

  “I’m not making any judgments, sir. But I should like a little more clarity from you, if you can manage it. Am I to understand that you don’t think that Lyle’s evidence can be relied upon at all?”

  “I’m not prepared to say that. Just that you should treat it with caution.”

  Andy sighed. As a cut-and-dried man himself, he hated all nuance. Why couldn’t the truth be straightforward for everyone?

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Despite her anxiety about the break-in and the pity that she felt for Edmund’s unknown wife, Alex’s heart was lighter than it had been for weeks as she took her shower and prepared for work. Her still-born affair with Edmund had been nothing more than a piece of vanity born out of temporary disillusion with her marriage and her job. She was relieved that it had finished so abruptly and infinitely grateful that, although Tom might have his suspicions, as Edmund had said, he would be unlikely to discover anything incriminating now. There were loose ends to tie up, of course; she wondered what Edmund had really told the trustees about the business proposal. She resolved to ask to see them herself as soon as possible. She hoped that Edmund had not suggested to them that she was dissatisfied with her w
ork at the Archaeological Society.

  Marie had left a spare key which Tom had agreed that Alex should take, as he was expecting to spend most of the day with Marie. Alex slipped it carefully into her bag before emerging from Marie’s house and shutting the door behind her. As she did so, her mobile rang again. She did not recognise the number. She pressed the green button quickly, before the caller could ring off.

  “Hello?” she said cautiously.

  “Alex?” It was Carolyn’s voice.

  “Carolyn! I’ve got so much to tell you.”

  Alex had to catch a bus to get to the Archaeological Society from Marie’s house. She made it to the bus shelter at just after ten minutes past eight, but when she consulted the timetable was peeved to discover that she had narrowly missed the 8.10 bus to Spalding. She would have to wait another twenty-five minutes for the next one.

  There was no-one else waiting with her and she felt exposed standing there alone. She was still fragile from the previous evening’s events and full of emotions that she could not precisely define about Edmund. She reflected that, were it not impertinent for her to register any kind of feeling about the death of a woman whom she did not know but had certainly wronged, she would be in a state of shock over Krystyna Baker’s death. Patently this was not because she could sincerely mourn Krystyna as a person; it was because she had always felt afraid of the deaths of people associated with those that she knew and the way in which they underlined the transitoriness of life, the precariousness of the status quo. Of course their loved-ones’ lives were catastrophically changed, but hers too was altered, if more subtly. Krystyna Baker’s death was an assault on her security.

  She looked up to see a large white van drive slowly past the bus stop. She thought that she had seen it before, but could not be certain. She watched it cruise slowly out of sight, relieved when it passed from her view.

  A vicious little eddy of wind whipped around the bus shelter, making her shiver. She looked at her watch. It was 8.17. She decided that if she were quick she would have time to walk back to the newsagent’s in the next street to buy today’s paper and return to the stop in time to catch the 8.35 bus.