It had taken some hours of intense activity to track the woman down and find out her present whereabouts. When, finally, they had succeeded, there had followed some tense moments while they waited for her to answer the telephone. Would she be out? Away on holiday and inaccessible? But she was neither, and a triumphant Lineham had finally put the phone down and said, ‘Three o’clock this afternoon!’
They hadn’t known what to expect but the substantial four-bedroomed detached house on a new housing estate had come as no surprise. Rita Kenny, after all, had enjoyed a substantial private income. A new Metro was parked in the driveway.
‘She has a very comfortable life-style, as you can imagine. But I can’t say that she was exactly pleased to see us.’
An understatement. After fourteen years Rita must until recently have felt that she was safe for ever. She had armoured herself in hair-spray and heavy make-up, but her close-set eyes had been reluctant to meet his and her mouth was pinched with anxiety.
They had had no proof of what he suspected, of course. Thanet could only hope that the bluff he had planned would be successful.
He began formally. ‘You are Rita Kenny, formerly Rita Symes, employed in 1978 as nanny to the infant son of Mr and Mrs Hugo Fairleigh of Thaxden Hall, Thaxden, in Kent?’
As he had hoped, this approach, with its formal overtones of courtroom procedure, intimidated her. He saw her throat move in an involuntary swallow of fear.
She glanced from one to the other. ‘Yes.’
‘You probably know, from reports in the newspapers and on television, that Mr Fairleigh’s mother, Mrs Isobel Fairleigh, was found dead last Saturday, and that she had been murdered. Naturally the police were called in and during the course of our investigation we found this.’
He took an envelope from his pocket. This was an enormous gamble. He didn’t know if it was the right colour or even the right shape. Guessing that she would have wanted it to be as inconspicuous as possible they had finally chosen a white envelope of standard size and quality. He held it up briefly, careful to allow her no more than the briefest glimpse of the printed capitals on the front – even more of a gamble, then tapped it from time to time on the palm of his left hand to emphasise the points he was making. He shook his head. ‘Very careless of you, I’m afraid, Mrs Kenny. Blackmailers should never commit themselves to paper. Especially when what they say implicates them in a much more serious crime.’
She managed to summon up some bravado. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But her fear was growing. He saw the sheen of perspiration on her forehead and could tell that the palms of her hands were sweating too: she was rubbing them on her thighs, forward and back in unconscious self-betrayal. And she had said nothing about the envelope. They must have guessed correctly. The bluff was working.
‘Oh, I think you do, Mrs Kenny. And if you don’t now, you certainly will when you’re standing in the dock accused of being an accessory to murder and the jury read this letter to prove it.’
She abandoned her pose of incomprehension and jumped up, back of hand to mouth. ‘That’s not true! I didn’t do a thing!’
‘Ah, but you did, Mrs Kenny, didn’t you? You committed a criminal act, and compounded it by following up with another. You stood by and did nothing, knowing that an innocent child in your care had been murdered, and then for years you profited from that knowledge by blackmailing the murderer. You call that nothing?’
That was the point at which she had broken down and he knew that they had won. It took some time but in between the bursts of self-justification and hysteria they had eventually managed to get the whole story from her.
Grace was staring at him as if mesmerised, waiting for him to continue. He braced himself, knowing that he must go on, knowing too that what he had to say next would sound brutal. Trying to cushion the blow he spoke gently. ‘She told us what happened, the night your baby died.’
She flinched as if he had struck her and her eyes filled with a pain which had not diminished with the passage of the years.
‘It was a terrible thing to happen. Please believe me when I say I’m sorry, I’m very sorry to …’
‘What did happen?’ she interrupted, her voice harsh, almost unrecognisable. ‘I want to know.’
‘Mrs Fairleigh …’
‘I want to know! Can’t you see? I have to know!’ Her voice broke and tears spilled over and began to roll down her cheeks. She brushed them away with a fierce, impatient gesture.
‘Mrs Fairleigh, I really don’t think …’
‘I must!’ She stood up, as if impelled by an invisible force, and took two rapid steps towards the window before turning. ‘All these years, I thought … And then to find out … I can’t bear it! I’ve thought of nothing else since Saturday, lying awake at night imagining … Please, Inspector, tell me!’ She sat down again, on the very edge of her chair, leaning forward and fixing him with an imploring look which pierced him with dread and compassion.
Beside him Lineham cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. The sergeant was finding this as harrowing as he was.
‘Very well. If you’re sure.’
‘I am.’
Slowly, choosing his words with care, Thanet told her what they had learned. She listened in silence, and then, when he had finished, buried her face in her hands, struggling but failing to keep back the tears. Thanet longed to go to her, to put his arm around her shoulders and comfort her, but Lineham’s presence inhibited him and besides his task was not yet done. He felt a monster, contemplating what he had to do next. He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and laid it on her lap.
She fumbled it up, began to wipe her face, shook her head. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘Please, don’t worry about it.’ An inadequate response, but what else could he say?
She was drying her eyes, wiping her face again, more thoroughly. Finally she blew her nose and gave a shaky little laugh. ‘I’ll have to buy you a new handkerchief, Inspector.’
The unexpected touch of humour broke the tension and Thanet heard Lineham give a little sigh of relief. Surely the next stage of the interview couldn’t possibly be worse than the last?
Her composure was returning and now she sat back and gave a wry smile. ‘I assure you I don’t make a habit of airing my feelings in public like this.’ There were still streaks of mascara on her face. The mask of perfection which she had always presented to the world had gone and she was different, more approachable, more human.
‘I know that.’
‘And thank you. I appreciate that it couldn’t have been easy for you to tell me. But I can’t tell you what a relief it is, to know, at last.’ She gave him an assessing look. ‘I suppose you now want to talk about what happened on Saturday.’
He nodded.
‘Well, I’m not going to be difficult. I’m not going to protest my innocence, stand on my rights or call a solicitor. To be honest, it’ll be a relief to get it over with. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing and I don’t think my conscience would have allowed me to go on lying in my teeth much longer … Aren’t you going to charge me, first?’
He could hardly believe it. Was she going to confess, with no further ado? It scarcely seemed possible.
‘Caution you, yes.’ He nodded at Lineham and the sergeant delivered the familiar words.
Then he sat back to listen.
NINETEEN
Joan fastened her seatbelt with a little sigh of contentment. ‘I’m looking forward to this.’
‘So am I.’
They were going to dinner with Doc Mallard and his wife, and Helen’s meals were always memorable. Thanet had accepted the invitation with alacrity.
‘Helen’s bursting with curiosity about the Fairleigh case, you see,’ Mallard had said. ‘So she thought she’d bribe you with good food.’
‘Helen can bribe me with her cooking any time she likes!’ said Thanet.
‘I’ve never known her to be quite so interested before,’ sai
d Mallard. ‘It’s because she was there at the beginning of it, I think. She’s felt more involved.’
By then, of course, everyone knew that Grace Fairleigh had confessed and had been charged with the murder of her mother-in-law.
‘You know what women are like,’ Mallard went on. ‘They need to know the ins and outs of everything.’ He grinned. ‘And I don’t mind admitting that I’d like to hear the whole story myself.’
Thanet didn’t talk about his work to outsiders, never had and never would, but the Mallards were different. Doc Mallard was one of the team and Helen’s discretion could be relied upon. When Thanet told Joan about the invitation she had said that she would wait until Saturday too, to hear the details. Thanet had in any case been very busy dealing with all the administration attendant upon the winding up of a murder inquiry and there had been no opportunity to talk at length.
He glanced at his wife, cool and summery in a deep blue cotton dress splashed with white flowers. Her face and arms were tanned and she looked fit and relaxed. He took his hand from the steering wheel and laid it briefly over hers. ‘Did I tell you how gorgeous you look?’
Joan gave him a teasing smile. ‘No, but I knew you’d get around to it sooner or later.’
‘Don’t be smug!’
It was another lovely evening and Doc Mallard led them through to the conservatory which he and Helen had built on to the back of their bungalow a couple of years ago and which the Mallards used as a summer dining room.
Joan exclaimed with delight. ‘Isn’t this beautiful!’
It was a miniature version of the conservatory at Thaxden Hall. Exotic plants in massive Chinese ceramic pots stood about on the floor of terracotta tiles, climbing plants in bloom were trained up the walls and across the roof-struts, and the delicately arched windows framed views of the garden. Beyond, the evening sky was flushed with turquoise, rose and amber. Birdsong drifted in through the open double doors, together with the mingled scents of roses and of the herbs which Helen grew in pots on the patio outside.
Helen was pleased. ‘We love this room. I spend most of my free time out here.’
They had a leisurely drink and then moved across to the table. The first course was iced cream of watercress soup, served with hot, crusty home-made garlic rolls.
They all tasted it. ‘Delicious!’
They had agreed that they would not discuss the case until after dinner and Helen began by asking again after Bridget. She was very fond of her and had got to know her well because of their shared interest in cookery. Bridget had spent many a holiday afternoon at the Mallards’ bungalow helping Helen to experiment with new recipes she was devising for her books. ‘At the fête you were just going to tell us why you didn’t like this new boyfriend of hers, when James was called away by Mr Fairleigh.’
‘Ah, yes, Alexander.’ Thanet pulled a face. ‘Well, perhaps I’m being unfair, but he just doesn’t seem Bridget’s type.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s obviously very well off, drives a Porsche …’
‘A Porsche!’ said Mallard, eyebrows going up.
‘Ben was most impressed,’ said Joan.
Mallard grinned. ‘I can imagine.’
Joan laughed. ‘Alexander took him out for a short drive in it on Sunday morning. Ben was hoping his friends would see him, but no luck, I’m afraid.’
‘Right,’ said Mallard. ‘So he’s got plenty of money and drives an expensive motorcar. Is that a bad thing?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Thanet. ‘But it’s his background, too.’ He thought of the problems that Pamela Raven had had with Hugo’s life-style. ‘His parents are obviously very well off. Alexander went to public school and seems to have been everywhere and done everything. Travelled half around the world, it seems.’
‘So have a lot of young people these days,’ said Mallard. ‘It’s very much the done thing.’
‘And then, he’s so much older than her, about twenty-seven, twenty-eight, I should say.’
‘One foot in the grave!’ said Helen.
Thanet gave a shamefaced laugh.
‘Isn’t a certain amount of experience a good thing?’ said Mallard. ‘It means he’s that much better equipped to deal with the nasty little shocks life throws at us from time to time. And a lot of people would be delighted that he would be able to provide for their daughter in an even better style than that to which she is accustomed. No, come on, Luke, so far you haven’t given us one good reason to disapprove of him. All right, so they come from different backgrounds. But Bridget’s an intelligent girl and a sensible one. She could adapt, if necessary.’
Helen was nodding.
‘I don’t know why we’re all talking as if this is necessarily going to be a permanent relationship,’ said Joan. ‘Bridget’s always changing boyfriends. And some of them have been a good deal less acceptable than Alexander. Remember the one with the hair, the black leather jacket covered with studs and the great big motorbike? I nearly had a heart attack every time he roared off with Bridget on the pillion!’
‘True.’
‘And you haven’t told us yet what he’s like as a person,’ said Helen.
‘Well, the evening they came down Joan had cooked a special meal to celebrate the end of Ben’s O levels. They were supposed to arrive between seven and eight and it was nearly ten by the time they got here. Alexander had been held up at work, some crisis or another, and it was 8.30 before he even bothered to ring Bridget to explain.’
‘But he might genuinely have been unable to get away to make a private phone call until then,’ said Joan. ‘And he did apologise profusely. And they didn’t know I’d prepared a special meal for them, did they?’
‘No …’
‘He even apologised to Ben, for spoiling his celebration dinner. In fact, he went out of his way to be nice to Ben, as I’ve said.’
‘Yes …’
‘And he bought me a gorgeous present, the most lovely hydrangea – and wrote a thank-you note, afterwards. It’s the first time any boyfriend of Bridget’s has done that.’
‘And what was his attitude to Bridget?’ said Helen.
Thanet glanced at Joan. ‘You’d know more about that. I hardly saw him after that first evening, because of the case.’
‘He seemed thoughtful and considerate. Consulted her wishes and so on.’
‘So in fact,’ said Mallard. ‘You really can’t find a single thing to say against him.’
‘Yet!’ said Thanet, reluctant to admit that he had perhaps been wrong. He realised that he’d been so engrossed in the conversation that his soup was gone almost without his having tasted it. He watched regretfully as Helen stood up and began collecting the soup plates.
Mallard rose too. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ He picked up the soup tureen then gave Thanet a penetrating look over his half-moon spectacles. ‘Honestly, Luke, it sounds to me as though you’re being prejudiced for no good reason. Maybe you won’t like me saying so, but perhaps you ought to ask yourself if you’d feel the same about any boyfriend Bridget brought home.’
Mallard was one of the very few people from whom Thanet would take such personal criticism. He was upset, however. He had always been proud of the way he and Joan had managed to nurture Bridget and Ben towards independence. But it was true that he and Bridget had always been very close. Was he, in the last resort, unable to let go?
‘I’ve never had any children of my own, of course,’ Mallard went on, ‘so it’s easy for me to say, but it seems to me that most parents feel that no one is ever quite good enough for their son or daughter. They want the perfect mate for them, but the truth is, as you know only too well, Luke, no one is perfect.’ And with this pronouncement Mallard bore the tureen off into the kitchen.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Thanet glanced at Joan, but she was avoiding his eye, staring at a piece of roll which she was crumbling between her fingers.
‘You agree with him, don’t you?’ he said in a low voice.
> She looked at him now, uneasily. ‘Don’t you?’
Thanet sighed. ‘Perhaps.’ But he knew it was true. For Bridget he wanted a paragon, and Mallard was right, paragons did not exist. There was the difference in background, yes, but again he had to agree with Mallard. Bridget was intelligent, sensible, adaptable. She would learn to cope, if necessary. And apart from that he really couldn’t think of any way in which Alexander fell short. The boy couldn’t help having been born into a solid middle-class background. Could it be that Alexander, with his public-school education and traveller’s tales, had made him, Thanet, feel inadequate and therefore prejudiced? It was an uncomfortable thought.
‘Maybe I have been unfair.’
Joan smiled and reached out to squeeze his hand. ‘A little, perhaps.’
Helen came in ceremonially bearing a long oval platter. On it was an exquisitely presented cold salmon on a bed of frilled green lettuce leaves, decorated along its entire length with slices of cucumber so thin as to be almost transparent.
‘That looks wonderful!’ said Thanet, abandoning his unpalatable insight with relief.
‘Seems a pity to spoil it by cutting it up,’ said Joan, as Helen began deftly to dissect the fish.
Mallard was depositing vegetable dishes on the table: tiny new potatoes steamed in their jackets, buttered and sprinkled with finely chopped parsley; crunchy mangetout peas; and the pièce de résistance, a confit of baby vegetables braised, as Helen told them later, in a sealed pot with chicken stock, butter and rosemary and served in little nests of lightly cooked spinach.
This was followed by a mélange of fresh raspberries and strawberries steeped in Cointreau.
‘A perfect meal for a summer evening,’ sighed Joan as she laid down her dessert spoon.
‘What I’d like to know,’ said Thanet to Doc Mallard, ‘is how you manage to stay so slim on Helen’s cooking.’
‘Ah, well she secretly starves me most of the time, you know.’ Mallard gave Helen an affectionate glance. ‘All this is just to throw people off the scent.’
Wake the Dead Page 21
