‘Oh. Margaret and the boys with you?’
‘No. They’re away, I’m afraid.’
‘She never told me she was going anywhere when she phoned to cancel lunch today. Is she all right?’
Oh, God! Toby thought. What has he heard? Aloud he said: ‘She’s fine. She just had an invitation to take the boys to stay with friends and couldn’t resist it.’
‘In the middle of term? That doesn’t sound like Margaret. She’s always been so keen on their education.’
‘Not this time,’ Toby snapped. He couldn’t help it. Didn’t he have enough to cope with? Even if the management of the gallery was Henry’s business, the boys’ education was not.
‘What’s going on, Toby? I know something’s the matter. You sound all over the place. I wish you’d tell me and let me help.’
‘I’m fine. I don’t need any help. It must be the reception that’s making me sound odd. Can I phone you when I’m back in London?’
‘Yes, do. We need to talk. I’ve got to fly to New York tomorrow and I won’t be back until Wednesday night, so it’ll have to be Thursday. Could you come in to the bank at, say, eleven o’clock on Thursday? I’ll make time to talk to you then.’
Anything to get you off the phone, Toby thought. ‘Yes, sure, whatever you like, Henry. What do you want to talk about?’
‘We’ll discuss it on Thursday.’
Suddenly he remembered why he couldn’t go anywhere on Thursday morning. The cheese sandwich he’d had for lunch seemed to have got stuck halfway to his churning stomach and felt as though it was burning a hole in his gut.
‘Damn!’ he said, trying to sound lightly irritated instead of on the point of being sick again. ‘No, I can’t come on Thursday morning. There’s a sale at Goode & Floore’s I have to go to.’
‘You’re not selling something else, are you?’ Henry’s voice quickened with suspicion. What did he know? ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘No, I’m not selling anything. But there’s a fantastic buying opportunity,’ Toby said, grabbing the scalpel he’d been using to cut some mounting board. He tried to make himself feel normal so that nothing in his voice would alert Henry. ‘There’s a Hieronymus Bosch in the sale, which I think we could get for a pretty reasonable price. And we haven’t got anything by him. It would really help raise the profile of the collection if we could buy it.’
There was silence on the phone. Toby wondered whether they’d been cut off. ‘Henry? Are you there?’
‘Yes, I am. What time is the sale?’
‘Eleven o’clock. The Bosch is lot 50, so they’re not likely to get to it for three-quarters of an hour or more. I suppose I could come to your office afterwards, if it’s really that important.’
‘No, don’t worry about it. It would be much more sensible for us to meet at the sale. It’s time I learned more about the art market in any case. I’ll join you at Goode & Floore’s.’
Oh, God forbid! Toby thought as he said: ‘But, Henry—’
‘No, don’t say a word. It’s not fair to drag you over to the City, and I know I haven’t been giving you enough support at the gallery. This can be the beginning of a new regime. I’ll come to the sale and we can talk afterwards. Goodbye, Toby.’
Toby dropped the phone on his cutting board. There was a piece of cloudy glass at the back of the workbench. It showed him the loathsome meekness in his eyes and the miserable droop of his lips. He could hear his mother’s voice now: ‘Why must you always be so wet, Toby?’
She had never touched him, or locked him in his room, or even punished him, but then she’d never had to. Her voice had been her weapon. She could make it crack like a whip, and it hurt like a whip. Every time. Even now. And if he flinched, she would lose her temper. In the old days, it had nearly always ended in the same way. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop crying, you loathsome child.’
He jammed the scalpel so deep into the cutting board that the blade snapped.
Chapter 12
Caro’s colleagues can’t have got very far with their investigation of the naked body in the river, Trish thought as she stood behind David, shielding him from the wind and the traffic. They’ve had a whole week. They should have come up with something by now.
David was reading the text of one of the large yellow metal notices the police set up to ask for information or witnesses to violent crime. So far the sandbags that weighted this one down had been strong enough to keep it upright, in spite of the gale.
As the wind insinuated itself up Trish’s skirt and between her thighs, she wondered why she hadn’t grabbed trousers in her rush to get dressed this morning. She tugged the skirt nearer her knees and hunched her shoulders.
‘At school yesterday they were saying there are probably lots more bodies under the bridge,’ David said, still staring at the sign. ‘And that there’s a serial killer like Hannibal Lecter living near here.’
Trish felt as though she could see light through the first tiny chink in his armour. This was the first anxiety he had willingly shared with her. She put her hands on his shoulders, trying to give him as much security as the sandbags gave the notice.
‘Then they’re being very silly,’ she said clearly. ‘Serial killers are incredibly rare, and there definitely aren’t any here. There is only one body, and it probably didn’t even go into the river from this bridge. Don’t you remember Caro saying that it had probably been washed down here by the tide? You don’t have anything to worry about. George and I will keep you safe.’
‘Then why did the police put this up?’ He moved restlessly, as though the weight of her hands disturbed him, but she didn’t let go. ‘They wouldn’t have if they didn’t think someone on the bridge saw something. So there must have been something to see.’
I’ve always wanted him to be intelligent, Trish thought, but this would be so much easier if he were not so bright. She thought it would probably frighten him more if she started to lie than if she took his fears seriously.
‘That may be true,’ she said, ‘but you must try not to think about it. One of the most useful skills to have in life is the ability to turn off your worries. Now we’d better get on or you’ll be late.’
He said nothing else until they had reached the school gates, then he stopped dead.
‘Why’s the Head beckoning? What does she want?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s OK. She and I often chat. Here’s your rucksack. Have a good day. And try not to worry too much about anything. You’re a great chap, and you’re doing so well here that I know it’s the right place for you. You’ll be able to stay here till you’re thirteen, then move on to the senior school, if that’s what you’d like.’
‘Great! Thank you, Trish.’ His eyes stilled for a moment and his fingers brushed her hand as he took the straps from her. ‘Don’t you mind talking to the Head?’
‘No. I like her. I’ll be fine.’ She ruffled his hair, then wished she hadn’t, as he hastily flattened it again. ‘It’ll be Nicky picking you up this afternoon, but I’ll see you later in the evening. And don’t forget, Jamie Bagnall is coming back for tea.’
‘OK. See you tonight,’ he said and darted off to the far side of the building, pausing to wave shyly before he went in through the door.
Relieved to see the old friendly gesture, Trish went over to Hester More to find out what she wanted.
‘Ah, Ms Maguire, I’ve been hoping to consult you about something. Have you a moment?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s nothing to do with David.’
‘Fine.’ Trish smiled encouragingly.
‘I wanted to ask your advice about the mother of one of the boys in his year,’ said Mrs More. ‘She has a black eye. She claims it was caused by a swing door, but I don’t believe her. I think her husband must be hitting her.’
‘Poor woman.’
‘I have been worried about the family for some time because both children have been displaying signs of disturbance, of the kind you described
so vividly in your book about domestic violence.’
Trish felt absurdly flattered that the Head knew she’d even written it, but she did not want to get involved in any more unhappy marriages. She had seen more than enough to last a lifetime.
‘Their mother’s inside now, talking to the school nurse about them. I wondered if you might talk to her when she comes out, persuade her to admit what’s happening and get some proper help.’
‘I can’t do that. I have no right to ask her questions, and no standing. Besides, if you can’t persuade her to accept help, I’m hardly likely to do any better.’
‘I think you might. Any woman like Margaret Fullwell is going to respond much better to a lawyer than to her children’s teacher.’
‘Fullwell? Mer’s mother?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs More’s grey eyes had sharpened. ‘Does that make a difference?’
Trish produced a small, unamused laugh. Everything seemed to be conspiring to keep her involved with Buxford’s anxieties. She had an uncomfortable sensation that her life was no longer her own, as though accepting his commission had somehow let in forces she could not control.
‘Only in that I know some people she knows,’ she said, trying to sound casual. ‘I suppose I could have a go. Is that her now?’
A tall woman with a thick mass of curly reddish-brown hair had emerged from the pupils’ entrance. She was wearing a rakish black suede jacket over straight black jeans tucked into ankle boots with little cuffs. Anyone with shorter or fatter legs would have looked stumpy. Noticing the athletic way she ran up the three steps to the courtyard, and the freedom with which she moved, Trish thought she had never seen a woman who looked less like a victim.
Hester More half-turned so casually that no one watching would have thought she was doing any more than checking the clock on the wall behind her.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
Trish walked slowly back towards the ornate gates that led out on to the Embankment. Reaching them, she stopped, balanced her briefcase on her knee, opened it and started scuffling among the papers. As the other woman walked towards her, she allowed some of them to fly out.
‘Let me help,’ Margaret Fullwell said, as a gust of wind blew some out on to the pavement. Her voice had an attractively clear Bostonian accent.
Trish hadn’t realized the woman was American. Maybe that explained Mer’s surprising name. Meredith could have been Margaret’s surname before she married.
‘Sod it,’ Trish muttered aloud, hoping she hadn’t let out anything important with the rubbish that was now floating out to be mashed beneath the wheels of the usual rush-hour traffic into the City. She shut the case, dumped it on the ground and rushed to collect every piece of paper she could.
Toby felt his hands curl into fists as he stood with his back to the Embankment, watching the school gates. He knew exactly what the thin dark-haired woman must be up to and he could have killed her. He kept seeing her now, wherever he went, and he knew she had to be one of Ben’s watchers, monitoring everything he did. She didn’t give him the same sensation of creeping evil as Ben did, but that was probably because she was only an assistant.
Maybe that was why he hadn’t picked her out of the crowds originally. Or maybe it was just because he’d been looking for men, and of the kind whose knuckles grazed the ground. Wondering how many other innocuous-looking women Ben had following him, he wanted to shout out a warning to Margaret, but, of course, he couldn’t. It was a miracle she hadn’t already seen him.
How could she have been so obstinate as to stay in London? If it hadn’t been for Henry’s call yesterday, Toby would never have believed that she might care so much for the boys’ education that she’d merely pretend to take them away. But here she was, bringing them to school at the same time every day and giving Ben the perfect opportunity to get at them, whenever he wanted.
For about a second, Toby thought it would be a good thing if Ben’s heavies did try to do something to Mer. Maybe that would make Margaret understand and do as she was told.
‘Here.’ Margaret Fullwell handed over a bunch of dusty sheets. ‘I think that’s the lot.’
‘That’s great. Thank you,’ Trish said, straightening up and smiling. ‘I’m sorry to have been so clumsy. I just suddenly remembered something I needed for a meeting and thought I’d left at home. But I should have waited till I got to my desk. I’m Trish Maguire, by the way.’ She held out her free hand.
‘David’s mother?’ Margaret asked, automatically shaking Trish’s hand.
‘No. His half-sister.’ Trish thought about the discussions she’d had with David before they’d agreed that he would use her surname. ‘How d’you know him?’
‘I don’t myself, but one of my boys talks about him as a great hero. My name’s Margaret Fullwell.’
Trish shook hands, distracted from everything else by this news. ‘A hero? You do surprise me.’
‘Haven’t you heard how he refused to tell the Head what happened when he was beaten up in the playground?’
‘No.’ Trish felt the old frown pulling down her eyebrows. ‘The only playground beating-up I’ve heard about was the fight in which David injured another boy so badly he had to go to hospital.’
‘That’s the one. David was thumped when he refused to play the drowned victim in a game some bigger boys were playing on the awful day when that body was found in the river.’
Trish momentarily closed her eyes. Why hadn’t he told her what had happened?
‘But he didn’t cry, as Mer always does when he’s picked on,’ Margaret went on, ‘and he refused to hit back, too. That infuriated Stephen Johnson, who’s a terrible bully, so he took another swing at David, who very sensibly dodged. Stephen overbalanced when he met no resistance, and he cut his eye on a sharp stone on the playground.’
Trish felt like rushing straight back to school to bang several heads together and said so.
‘You can’t blame the staff. There’s a ferocious anti-sneaking culture this term,’ Margaret said. ‘Haven’t you come across it yet? Mer was very impressed that David stuck to it even though it got him a detention.’
But Mer had no friends and ate rust in the playground, Trish thought, so he would probably have been impressed by almost anything. She wondered why he was so despised and solitary.
‘I’m really glad to know,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Are you on your way somewhere? Or would you like to have some coffee?’
Margaret looked surprised, but after a moment she smiled. ‘Why not? Mer will be impressed to hear that I’ve had coffee with his hero’s sister. Where shall we go?’
‘There’s always Pret in Fleet Street. We can walk up through the Temple, and I could drop off my briefcase in chambers on the way.’
‘So you’re a lawyer, are you? What kind of work d’you do?’
What a lead, Trish thought, and settled down to an account of how dealing with the miseries of dysfunctional marriages and abused children had eventually driven her out of family law.
‘I think the thing I hated most,’ she ended truthfully, ‘was going through all those agonizing cases, in which women finally got the self-esteem together to give evidence against their violent husbands, only to go back to them a month or so later. Sometimes I see them processing through my memory like the dead kings in Macbeth, with their wounds still dripping. Every single one of them thought her husband would reform, but of course he never did. It used to make me want to shake them till their teeth rattled.’
‘Never?’ Margaret said, just as they were passing Plough Court.
Trish decided she didn’t want to risk losing the fine thread that connected them by dropping off her papers and so she walked on, the leather briefcase heavy in her hand.
‘I never dealt with a case in which a violent husband – or wife – reformed,’ she said, still honestly. ‘And some of the aggressors are women. I hate admitting that, but it is true.’
‘Why do they do it?’
/>
‘The aggressors or their victims?’
‘The violent ones.’
‘It sounds like a cliché, but I can’t think of a single case I dealt with when it hadn’t had something to do with the way they’d been treated in childhood, although it was usually made worse by drink or drugs. Occasionally the trigger was some particular stress in their current lives. Why? You’re beginning to sound as though—’
‘Did Hester More set this up?’ Margaret stopped and turned, effectively barring the path that would lead out into Fleet Street. She looked like some mythical winged warrior, ready to flatten all her enemies. ‘I thought she was looking a bit too interested in my black eye. Was that paper spillage by the gate pre-arranged?’
Was this the moment to lie? No, Trish thought, looking into Margaret’s hot, hurt eyes.
‘I’m sorry to be so obvious. You’re right: she did ask me if I might be able to help you.’
‘Well, she should have come straight out and given me your name, not snuck behind my back like this.’
‘I’m sorry if it seems like sneaking,’ Trish said, far too experienced to feel any kind of embarrassment. ‘I gather she did try to talk to you, and she was worried enough about your response to try another way. Couldn’t I help, even if only with advice?’
‘I doubt it. My husband is not a wife-beater.’ Margaret scowled. ‘And don’t look at me as though you think I’m in denial. It is true that he hit me, once, and that is why the boys and I have moved out. Toby has to know he can’t push me around. But the physical assault was a one-off. I’m certain of that. You can’t be married to a man for fifteen years and not know whether he’s violent by nature.’
‘No,’ Trish said, smiling through the other woman’s anger. ‘I don’t suppose you can. Will you still have coffee with me?’
Margaret laughed, but the tautness of the muscles in her strong face made it clear she wasn’t giving in. ‘All right, so long as you promise to tell Hester More to keep her bulbous nose out of my life. It’s none of her business.’
A Place of Safety Page 12
