‘It’s here if you want it,’ she muttered.
She pushed a cup over the table to Jenkins who nodded, wondering what on earth he’d been thinking when inviting Horsfield into the house. Could he have thought of three women with whom he’d rather not be trapped in a kitchen?
‘Mrs Pitt, have you any idea where I might find your husband?’
Daisy snorted. Horsfield felt vaguely repulsed that she had to talk to the woman.
‘Why would I know?’ said Daisy.
Horsfield tapped a long nail against the side of the mug of tea.
‘You’re more likely to know than I am,’ she replied sharply.
‘Well, I don’t.’
The women exchanged an unpleasant glance. Jenkins wondered what it would be like if they started fighting; it might at least snap the tension.
‘And I don’t suppose you have any idea what was killing the birds?’
Another heavy breath through Daisy’s nose.
‘I didn’t even know it was happening until last week.’
‘How can you miss the birds?’
Daisy sat down, a look on her face suggesting she was offended by the thought that someone else might not have.
Horsfield glanced at Jenkins, who was staring at the floor, cup of tea at his lips, a tune going round in his head. The ground will swallow me up and I will be free...
‘This is just...’ said Horsfield, and she let the sentence drift away. ‘Your husband has made me look very foolish,’ she added.
Daisy was not about to defend him. She took a noisy slurp of tea, the sound cutting Horsfield in half. She would not be staying long. She glanced out of the window. They could hear the sound of birdsong, and she was in the process of deciding that it would be less annoying to listen to that than it would be to sit with the woman who did not make coffee, and who seemed to be offended by the notion that she might have some idea of her husband’s movements.
‘It wasn’t him who invited the media,’ said Jenkins, when Daisy was not forthcoming in defence of Pitt.
‘No one invites the media,’ said Horsfield strangely.
‘It’s something to do with her.’
The voice had come from the corner of the room, although it seemed to have come from much further away. They all looked over at Mrs Cromwell, who was sitting staring into the empty fireplace.
Daisy rolled her eyes at her mother’s intervention, thinking that she was just a crazy old fool. Jenkins gave Mrs Cromwell no more than a glance, but he knew to whom she was referring.
Horsfield turned her head to take in the old woman, growing more interested in her, partly because Mrs Cromwell herself had not turned to engage the table.
‘Who?’ said Horsfield.
‘The one I called you about a few days ago,’ said Mrs Cromwell.
‘The Chinese girl?’
‘Yes.’
Horsfield glanced back at Daisy, who was regarding her mother with a peculiar, confused contempt. Jenkins felt himself sliding into an uncomfortable pit.
‘Where is she? She was here last week.’
‘She’s gone,’ said Daisy. ‘Mum called the police, but she was gone by the time they got here. Of course, they took their time coming. She had time to get back to China, they took so long arriving.’
Horsfield looked curiously at Daisy, and then back to Mrs Cromwell.
‘I don’t understand what you think she has to do with the birds.’
‘She didn’t go back to China,’ said Mrs Cromwell.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Horsfield.
‘How would you know?’ barked Daisy.
Mrs Cromwell didn’t know, but she had made a reasonable guess, and it did not matter whether or not she was found to have guessed right. If she had, then the lovers were discovered and she would have her triumph. If she wasn’t, then she would just be a crazy old woman to whom people ought not to listen.
‘I passed along the tip-off to some colleagues in UK Borders,’ said Horsfield. ‘They’re rather busy. We all are.’
‘She arrived just before the birds started disappearing,’ said Mrs Cromwell. ‘And now she’s gone, and the birds are back.’
She imparted the words like a wise old crone, as if she knew more than everyone else, as if they should all bow down to her wisdom.
‘Not that she’s gone far,’ she added.
Once more Horsfield looked at Daisy and then at Jenkins; one of whom was looking confused, and one of whom was looking as if he’d much, much rather be elsewhere.
47
Pitt knew as he was halfway up the driveway that there was something wrong. Too many cars in the driveway. At first, he wondered if they were the ones who had come earlier, so many hours ago, but then he caught sight of the police car and he knew that it was more than that. Something else had happened and he understood instantly what it would be.
He parked the car at the top of the driveway. The BBC van was gone. One of the cars he had passed that morning was still there, as was a police Vauxhall Astra. He turned off the engine and sat in silence for a few moments. He looked along the side of the house. The door to the cellar was open. The obvious and awful truth, which had come to him a few moments earlier, was confirmed.
He got out the car, closed the door behind him, walked straight to the back door and into the kitchen.
There was a full house. Ju was at the kitchen table, her head low. She glanced up in Pitt’s direction when the door opened, but not did not look him in the eye; immediately lowered her gaze. PC Kilfoyle was sitting opposite Ju, and had been attempting to engage her in conversation. Jenkins was standing by the kitchen sink, surveying the scene rather awkwardly. Looked embarrassed to be found by Pitt among the conspirators. Horsfield was sitting beside Ju at the table, her eyes shining. Daisy and Mrs Cromwell were by the fire; Daisy, an interested, if sceptical observer; Mrs Cromwell, seemingly disinterested, her head bowed, her eyes half-closed; did not miss a word.
Pitt stalled momentarily in the spotlight – so used to walking silently through that door, ignored by everyone in the room – before his face fixed in resolve, and he sat down at the table, directly opposite Ju.
The fact that he had been hiding Ju was now apparent. He began running the situation through his head. Should he show the police officer Ju’s passport there and then, say that he was her employer and that she was British, legitimately in the country? Why then, he asked himself, was he hiding her in the cellar?
Decided to keep everything locked in its box. Nothing would be revealed.
For once, he wanted to take Jenkins aside and listen to his advice; briefly considered the option, elected, as ever, to keep his own counsel.
He did not say anything to Ju, but she knew he was thinking about her, wanting to reassure her. She lifted her eyes and looked at him. He wanted her to know that everything would be all right, that her discovery did not mean her instant deportation or arrest. It would be fine.
Yet Pitt’s lugubrious eyes could not convey what he was thinking, his determination and belief that all would be well. Ju dropped her gaze, and Pitt had seen enough to know that the melancholy that had hung over her for so long had returned.
‘Mr Pitt?’ asked Kilfoyle.
Pitt held his gaze on Ju for another moment, longing, even under these conditions, for her to look at him again, and then turned to Kilfoyle.
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you could explain what’s been going on?’ said Horsfield, and Kilfoyle gave her a sharp glance. ‘Dead wildlife is a serious matter, Mr Pitt,’ she said, ‘and, although it’s not my department, clearly so is locking illegal immigrants in your basement.’
Pitt did not reply, did not even look at her. He had Horsfield’s measure. Knew that the way to deal with her was to not respond to anything she asked; which, as a strategy, if he had ever thought of such a thing as strategic, suited him perfectly.
‘Can you confirm that you were holding Yuan Ju in the basement, Mr Pitt?’
&n
bsp; The question from Kilfoyle cut through him. Much more pointed. It wasn’t about dead birds or about an illegal immigrant. It was about whether Pitt had been holding someone against her will in the cellar of his home. Kidnapping. Perhaps it wasn’t Ju who was in trouble.
Pitt looked at Daisy, who was smoking by the fireplace. Her eyes were radiant; scared and excited.
‘I need to speak to you alone,’ said Pitt, directly to Kilfoyle.
Daisy’s eyes widened. Horsfield started to object. Kilfoyle cut her off.
‘Of course.’
Kilfoyle immediately got to her feet. The kitchen felt claustrophobic, the atmosphere poisonous. She was not immune to it, and had been wanting to leave from the moment she’d arrived. If she needed to speak to any of the women involved in the discovery of Yuan Ju, she knew where to find them. However, she realised that it was all about Pitt, and that he was the only one who really mattered.
‘You’ll need to accompany me to the station,’ said Kilfoyle to Yuan Ju. Ju looked up and Kilfoyle, not knowing whether she had understood, indicated with a flick of her hand for her to rise. Ju rose slowly from the chair.
‘Follow us down, Mr Pitt,’ said Kilfoyle. ‘You know where you’re going?’
Pitt nodded, did not bother to look at his wife or mother-in-law, and walked to the back door.
‘Mr Pitt?’ said Horsfield, her voice whipping out from a doubled-edged tongue.
Pitt stopped, his fingers on the handle. She thought he was going to turn, but it never even occurred to him. A few seconds and then he was outside and walking to his car. Kilfoyle thanked Daisy for the cup of tea, which she had not drunk, and then followed Pitt outside, leading Yuan Ju by the arm.
Despite the fact that Yuan Ju had been given the impression that Pitt was following her, she could not help but fear that, in walking out so quickly, he was choosing to walk away.
48
Pitt sat in the waiting area of the local police station; a large, bright room, a few chairs, posters on the wall, many windows, the reception office behind glass – a much smaller room. One police officer inside, engrossed in paperwork. Monthly statistics. A single door led into the main body of the station.
Pitt had committed triple murder two days previously, but that already seemed a long time ago. Holding Ju in his arms had altered all sense of perspective. He’d had no idea how long they’d stood like that in the cellar, and everything that had gone before now seemed to have happened in a different lifetime.
He felt no fear sitting in a police station.
The door opened and a dull man in plain clothes appeared before him.
‘Mr Pitt?’
Pitt nodded and the man indicated for him to follow. They walked along a dim corridor, the walls covered with posters offering advice on security and personal health and how to keep a tidy office. He led Pitt into a small room, containing a table and three chairs, and indicated for Pitt to sit down. He took a seat opposite.
Pitt might have hoped that he was being taken to see Yuan Ju, but he rarely ever hoped for anything. He would be prepared, he would have considered the possibilities, but he would not hope for any one particular turn of events over another, not even now.
‘I’m Inspector Malcolm.’ His voice was tired, a voice that had other things to talk about. A voice that could lie down and go to sleep, or slope off to the pub for a slow evening discussing football. ‘You’re not in any trouble as yet, Mr Pitt.’ He paused. ‘As I say, not yet.’
Pitt looked into Malcolm’s eyes, his own look non-committal. Malcolm assumed that Pitt was playing a game, pretending to be cool. He saw it so often. Did not know that he was seeing the usual Pitt, the Pitt that everyone who looked at him saw.
‘Perhaps you’d like to explain to us why you locked the girl in the cellar.’
He spoke as if there was more than one of him in the room.
‘I was protecting her,’ said Pitt blandly. He already had his stock phrases worked out. What he could say, what it would be imperative to omit.
‘From who?’
‘My wife and her mother were suspicious about Ju and reported her presence. I was hiding her in the basement until I could establish what was the best course of action for her.’
‘You were hiding an illegal immigrant with intent to further her unlawful residence in the United Kingdom?’
‘I did not know, and still don’t, if she’s an illegal immigrant. It was merely the suspicion of the women of the house. Whatever the problem, I determined to get her out of harm’s way, to establish what was best and to help her.’
‘Even if that was furthering the time an illegal immigrant was spending in this country?’
Pitt did not reply. Held Malcolm’s gaze across the table.
‘Mr Pitt?’
‘I thought the most likely eventuality would be that she’d benefit from leaving Britain, and it had been my intention that we would do that together. First of all, I hoped to establish her status, and her passport situation.’
‘You were going to leave the country together?’
Pitt was aware of feeling troubled by Malcolm’s use of the past tense in relation to his intentions.
‘That was something that I’d thought of. It depended on her passport situation.’
‘There are ways around that,’ said Malcolm. Pitt stared across the table and did not answer.
‘So, what then? You were having an affair? You were shagging the cook? Had you nailed her down there, in the basement? That’s what your kind of people do, isn’t it?’
‘None of that,’ said Pitt. Voice flat, refusing to be baited.
‘What then?’
‘She needed help,’ said Pitt dryly.
Malcolm finally snapped the gaze and looked down at the table. Invisible notes. Already knew that he was getting nothing from Pitt, and that Pitt was highly unlikely to be drawn to say something indiscreet.
‘Had you ascertained from the girl what she was doing in this country?’
‘She might be British,’ said Pitt, a little more edge to his voice. ‘I don’t know.’
‘She doesn’t look British,’ said Malcolm. Thought he had a wry tone to his voice, but even he knew it had been a stupid thing to say. Stupid enough, in fact, that he was put onto the back foot.
‘I’m curious what your plan was,’ said Malcolm, trying to regain the initiative by talking. ‘If she has a passport, the two of you were going to run away abroad? If not, what? You were going to stay in the UK, but flee to an island somewhere?’
Pitt suddenly realised that he needed to know how much he could rely on Ju’s passport. If he produced it, and it was taken away to be checked, would they be found out; or had the passport been produced from within the system, a document that would hold up under the closest scrutiny?
‘Can I see her?’ asked Pitt.
‘You must be kidding. Seriously? You kept her locked in the basement. We need to speak to her to establish whether or not it was against her will, and, until that’s been established, there is no chance of you getting to see her. No chance.’
Despite Malcolm’s answer, Pitt managed to remain expressionless, but he felt an uncomfortable twisting of his stomach.
‘When is that likely to be?’ he heard himself asking, although just in the question he knew that he was placing himself in Malcolm’s debt.
Malcolm snorted.
‘Can’t get a word out of her,’ he said. ‘Who knows if she understands? So, maybe tonight, maybe next year. We’ve got a guy coming tomorrow, an interpreter. But let’s not anyone get their pants in a fankle, ‘cause he speaks, you know, what is it, Mandarin. But he says she could speak any one of about a hundred different lingoes. Impossible to tell.’
Pitt was not listening. Already working the odds for the following day. He had to speak to Jenkins, and, in the first instance, hope that the passport would prove fool proof. Work on the basis that it would, and worry about it if and when he discovered that it was not. What then? Bring th
e passport to the station and show that Ju was a British citizen, held for no reason. Presumably they would have to let her go.
He sat across the table from Malcolm, Ju’s false passport in his pocket. It was too early to show it, however. He could not risk it without checking further, and kicked himself for not establishing with Jenkins the total reliability of the document at the time. Scanned through a passport machine was one thing; poured over by the system, every number and fact checked against a hundred databases, was another.
‘I take it you’re not going anywhere without her?’
Pitt did not answer. Barely heard the question.
‘Does Mrs Pitt have any idea that you’re planning to skip the nest and go off banging the hired help?’
He smirked at Pitt and then snorted a laugh at the unrelenting stare from across the table.
‘So, what’s your wine like? Any good? I had a bottle of English wine once.’
49
Pitt met Jenkins coming out of the winery. Jenkins was smiling, massaging the fingers on his right hand. The smile changed when he saw Pitt, but did not entirely go. Eyebrow raised.
‘Who are you in more trouble with?’ he asked. ‘The police or Mrs Pitt?’
‘The passport,’ said Pitt, ignoring the question. The smile on Jenkins’s face changed again, this time becoming rueful, unsurprised by Pitt’s unwillingness to embrace the light-heartedness of his question. ‘How reliable is it?’
Jenkins shrugged.
‘It’ll get you into a country.’
‘If I present it to the police as Ju’s passport, so that they’re going to go away and check it, a close check to make sure it’s above board, will it be good? Was it created from within the system so that it will not be found out by that kind of scrutiny?’
‘You’re going to give it to them and say you found it among her things here at the farmhouse?’
The smile had gone from Jenkins’s face.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll need to check.’
‘Can you do that quickly? She hasn’t spoken to them yet. It’d be better if we can get her out of there before they get an interpreter in. Whatever she says is unlikely to tie in with me presenting them with her British passport.’
A Room With No Natural Light Page 19
