by Patrick Gale
‘Oh dear.’
Seth wanted to cry, but talked about how perfect the Stilton looked. He followed the crowd into the orchard. Bronwen marched up to him, her plate laden.
‘Bloody good grub,’ she declared, ‘Only bloody good thing about the festival so far. Ha! You’re looking glum. Want to talk about it?’ Seth opened his mouth to speak then just smiled wanly, waving a piece of baguette. ‘Look,’ she continued, ‘I’ve got a schedule here and it’s only semichorus and leaders wanted for tomorrow afternoon for Roger Whoodlum’s monstrosity, which means neither you nor me. I’m going to walk along the coast to Pendarth Castle where I shall eat a bag of flapjacks and drink a bottle of scrumpy, and you’re going to come too.’
‘Oh thanks, Bronwen.’
The Madwoman of Saint Jacobs clicked her tongue and went to discuss Liszt’s sex-life with Grigor. The breezy charity of a Matron. Seth forced down a piece of Stilton to find that it was really very fine, and went to join his mother in the shade of a pear tree.
TUESDAY one
The irritations of the morning had included a visit from a journalist from the Standard wanting to know about the ‘Astro-Burglar’, and why they’d hushed up the burning. Mo had been feeling sore about the entire affair and having some bastard trying to make a public joke out of it did little to ease her mood. The day had got off to a flying start when she woke to find that Andy had sicked up his kippers on the bathroom carpet, the computer at the bank had made a mistake over her statement – for the worse – and then she had come into work to face the sarcasm of first Timson and now this smug hack. Not content with insinuating that she couldn’t catch Loobie Lou in broad daylight, he was going on to ask why she was one of the few policewomen of her rank being sent out in a patrol car, and to rake up the whole business of her fights with Timson and the rest. She was genuinely pleased to see McEnery when she rapped on the glass door.
‘Boss, can I interrupt you for a second?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Could this be action?’ asked the reporter, and stood for The Perm.
‘There’s been another 999 about intruders. Hampstead have passed it on to us because they think it’s another of our man’s.’
‘Where?’
‘One of those roads running down behind the station.’
‘Let’s go.’ Mo stood. ‘They there already?’
‘Yup.’
‘No chance of my coming along?’ asked the reporter.
Mo scowled.
‘Yeah I guess you’d better. It’ll stop you bringing all your friends. No phone calls, all right?’
‘Thanks.’ He laughed, and winked at McEnery who froze him. ‘I’ll follow you there.’
‘Hi Gerry. All right?’
They met in the drive. Big place. Gerry’d been at training school with her.
‘Hi Mo. Reverend, this is Detective Inspector Faithe.’
‘How d’you do?’
‘Morning. Are you the neighbour who telephoned?’ They started towards the front steps.
‘Yes. That’s right, Officer. I say, I’ve never dealt with a lady Inspector before. My wife will be thrilled – very hot on that sort of thing, you know.’
In his rambling fashion The Reverend Jukes told her his story. Their neighbours had gone away on holiday and asked them to watch the house and feed the cats in their absence. Such a pleasant family – very talented. Anyway, it had all been plain sailing until the last couple of nights. His wife had woken him repeatedly with the promise that she had heard a car pull up in the garage, and that she had seen lights. This last night he too had seen and heard things. His suspicions aroused, he had walked down into the garden to take a look. Sure enough, someone was walking around upstairs. But on closer inspection, it had turned out to be the master of the house; at least it had borne a strong resemblance – hard to tell at such a distance. He had returned to comfort his wife with the suggestion that the man had returned early to get back to work. This morning, however, when she had walked over to pay her respects, she had seen the blood and the mess and been scared to death, poor thing. They had the work number and had tried that but the secretary had said no, he was quite definitely still away. The home number had produced only an answering contraption with the same reply. He was sorry, yes of course they should have got in touch earlier, but you know how it is. Mo knew how it was.
They certainly weren’t badly off, that much was clear as soon as she was through the front door. Too big for comfort. Gemma and Robin twenty years on from Thornhill Square.
‘The blood’s in the kitchen, here,’ said Gerry, leading the way. ‘Bill’s already taken some for processing.’
The French windows looked out into the garden. The trail of blood led through them to the kitchen table. There, a first aid box had been opened and the contents rudely scattered. The cut had been bad and the victim in something of a panic.
‘It leads right out to the garage. Obviously came back in the car then ran in this way.’
‘Right,’ said Mo, ‘what’s been nicked this time?’
‘Nothing as far as I can see but – well, I couldn’t tell you this in front of the vicar but – looks as though this is his own place.’
‘Ruddy Nora!’ she mused. ‘What else?’
‘Come and look in the study.’ Again Gerry led them across the hall. There wasn’t much in there worth looking at until you looked over the desk. On one side, weighed down by a half-empty bottle of Scotch, lay all the papers and maps that had gone missing in the past few days. A diary lay open, a week-at-a-glance one, with a red circle drawn around Friday. As she glanced over it all. Mo blew out a breath between her teeth.
‘Bill done this lot for prints?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Gerry, you’re a bloody marvel. Thanks. I’ll need to stay and look this lot over – may be able to tell where he’s gone today. McEnery, you get back to the station and use that initiative. I don’t reckon our little man’s going to show up here again – not if he’s got as much to do before Friday as I think, but this place had better be watched in case. Plain clothes job, of course.’
‘Right, Boss.’
‘Oh, and ask Our Father what kind of car it was and put out a search. Don’t rouse his suspicions, if you can help it.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘I’ll get one of Gerry’s girls to drive me back.’
They left her sitting at the desk.
‘Hard taskmaster, is she?’ Gerry asked on the drive.
‘Bloody granite-features!’ snapped McEnery. ‘Old Scarface!’
In the middle of the desk a book lay open. Mo covered her hand with a snot-rag and flipped to the front. Principles of Hysteria by Leon Berkowski. She frowned. Numerous pages had been turned down in one corner, and the text had been gone over thoroughly with a red pencil. There were heavy underlinings and occasional comments in an illegible scrawl. She read the fly-leaf.
In this, his latest work – one that can only prove seminal – Dr Berkowski, Founder of the Institute of Neural Research in Vienna, has turned his attention to the various manifestations and causes of the hysterical state. His thesis covers ground from the earliest recorded religious frenzies to the latest outbreaks of football hooliganism and pop idol-worship. In particular, he extends his previous examination of the powers of hypnosis to suggest that there is a mass-hypnotic foundation to all documented instances of the para-normal, not least the more celebrated biblical and legendary miracles and the widespread success of faith-healing. Berkowski draws on his first-hand knowledge of both Jewish history and the media to formulate startling conclusions concerning the potential of the human mind en masse to dictate the patterns of history.
Mo had read enough. Things were rapidly falling into place. She sifted through the piles of papers beneath the whisky bottle and found cuttings from the Yellow Pages and some specialist magazines. He had removed all the addresses and phone numbers listed under Fortune-telling, Magicians, and Publishing. Und
er the heading Titles on a memo pad was written ‘Psychosomatic Apocalypse – too pop?’
The telephone rang and the answering machine clicked into action. Mo carefully lifted the receiver and listened.
‘… and do not expect to return before late next week. My wife and family are also away until that time. They can be contacted at Penfasser 53642. Should you wish to leave a message, please do so after the tone and you will be contacted as soon as possible.’
The tone sounded, there was a sigh and whoever it was rang off. A child laughed in a neighbouring garden. Mo pulled open the top drawer of the desk and looked through it. Nothing. Staples, paper and some photos. The dolly-bird was nice. Classy little bit. She picked out the man’s photo and set it on the desk before her. Then she flicked through the directory. Jugs. Juhoor. Juicy. Jujitsu. Jukes. Jukes, Reverend Philip. She dialled the number and waited.
‘Reverend Jukes? Hello. It’s Detective Inspector Faithe here, yes, that’s right. I was calling to ask you to give a description of the man you saw in your neighbour’s house last night … No, just routine. Nothing’s been taken. If you could just …? Thanks … Tall? Ah, yes. Thanks a lot, Reverend. You’ve been a great help. My regards to your wife. Goodbye.’ She replaced the receiver and sat tapping her fingertips on the photograph frame for a few seconds. Then she pulled out her notebook and glanced through the list of numbers. She dialled one.
‘Hello. Faithe here. I’ve been looking over the burglary with Sergeant Bingham. Yeah, that’s right. Oh, he’s already told you. Well, if you can come and pick me up now, darling, that’s great … yeah … hang on. Before you hang up on me, I want you to look up a number for me. Yeah? … OK. The number is Penfasser 53642. That’s right … just the address. No. I’ll wait, thanks.’ Mo held the receiver under her chin and looked down at the photograph. Without the glasses he might have looked quite like Dad. Bit too thin, though. She tapped her pen on the glass, muttering at the impassive face, ‘Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha!’
There was a flash.
‘Gotcha!’ laughed the man from the Standard. ‘The First Lady of Crime goes into action and another one bites the dust.’
‘Oh Christ! I’d forgotten I’d invited you.’
‘I know. Sad isn’t it? Still, I don’t mind. I met your friend with the hair outside on the drive and she told me you were in here.’
‘Now look,’ Mo’s tone was savage, ‘you know you can’t print anything about this place – not even the photo – until we’ve got something definite? I mean, we don’t even know he’s our man for sure, yet.’
“Sail right. Keep your hair on,’ he leered, ‘just wanted the exclusive, that’s all. Tell you what.’
‘What?’
‘You keep me informed, and I promise – cub’s honour – I won’t tell another soul.’
‘I’m not having you follow me around like bloody Lassie.’
‘If you don’t agree, you’ll only get a whole pack of us.’
‘Sod.’
‘Wanta tell me how you got that impressive scar, then?’
‘Oh … you’ve got the address?’ She held her palm over the mouthpiece and looked up at her assailant. ‘I’ll deal with you in a minute. Yeah, I’m listening, it’s just that I’ve got some wally with his Brownie up here. Fire away … La Korvy-what? How d’you spell that? … Stupid bloody name for a house!’
TUESDAY two
Venetia had woken on Tuesday morning to find her middle increased by another three inches. She had lain for a few minutes in the stupor of the freshly-stirred, gazing across the linen of her pillow at the pile of books on the chair by the wall, her mind an unruffled plane. Then, as her eyes picked their way, aimless, through the titles, and as her ears homed in on the sounds of the others preparing to leave, her bodily developments of the past forty-eight hours slid back into her mind and roused it inhumanly. She sat up and was disgusted. It felt as though an infant’s naked buttocks were resting on her lap. She lifted the bedclothes, prepared for the worst and saw it. With a brave little sigh, she lay back so that her passenger would make its presence less felt. In the sunshine that poked through her half-opened curtains, the panicky schemes of the night gone by were ludicrous. She wondered what her father would do in such a predicament and at once found her lost resolve. If he lost a leg, if he grew a third one, if his colleagues confessed that they thought he was losing his mind, the one thing he would never stop doing was his work.
She rebuked herself for the dullness with which she had moped her way through the previous day. Since the affliction was so plainly psychosomatic, the worst thing she could do was to give it space for thought. So resolving, Neesh clambered out of bed, regained her balance and, pulling a dressing-gown around her, went on to the landing to salute the world. Seth had just disappeared towards the car, Evelyn was in the process of joining him. She looked up and smiled.
‘Hello, darling. I tried not to wake you.’
‘You didn’t. I wanted to get up. I must ruddy well get on with some work. Any post?’
‘No.’
‘How long are you both out for?’
‘All day. At least, I am. Seth doesn’t rehearse this afternoon, but I think he’s going for a walk with Bronwen.’
‘Peace and quiet.’
‘Yes. You make the most of it.’ She had seldom heard her mother so bland, and was entertained to see how her eyes strayed instinctively down to where her daughter’s waist had been.
‘Bye-bye,’ she said, and closed the bathroom door.
‘Bye,’ answered Evelyn, and left for the church.
Venetia refused to let her body think it was functioning abnormally. She took an invigorating shower, scrubbing the hateful mound as though it were Venus’ greatest boon, even dusting it with loving talcum powder. She pushed her feet under the bed and performed a few sit-ups before coming down to a hearty breakfast. Without a pause to congratulate herself on the absence of morning sickness, she took a handful of books and a file and set up a study at the garden table. She read and took notes for the next few hours, pausing only to answer the telephone or to replenish her glass of pineapple juice. The sun was bright, her belly was full, and she only had eyes for Donne. She finished the sermons and spent the rest of the morning wrestling with the religious sonnets. Then she retired to the kitchen where she turned on Radio One very loud and, rocking her burdened hips as if they were a nubile twelve-year-old’s, made herself a banana whip in the blender. Her favourite working lunch. She was just walking back to the garden with it when the telephone rang again. This time it was Daddy.
‘Neesh?’
‘Daddy! My God! Where are you? This must be costing you a bomb. Are you having a lovely busy time?’
‘Well. Yes. Quite. How are you?’
‘Very well. Thanks for your card. I found it in my room. What’s wrong? You sound all odd.’
‘Must be the distance. How’s Seth?’
‘Fine.’
‘And your mother?’
‘Fine. They’re both fine. I …’
‘Well, look, I’d better go. I was only ringing to say hello.’
‘Hello,’ she said, only he wasn’t playing.
‘And I’ll see you again very soon. Bye-bye.’
‘Bye.’ A click and he was gone.
Venetia replaced the receiver and stared at the last inch of her drink as she swung it around the glass. She hated calls from abroad. The inbred mistrust of over-spending made any relaxed communication impossible. Most unlike him. Perhaps Leon’s department had paid for the call. Maybe Daddy had chatted up a receptionist into giving him an outside line. It had been very clear – no interference at all. She recalled the pips at the beginning and realized that he must have paid for it after all. She drained the glass, catching the pieces of banana from the bottom on her tongue and relishing their taste after the pallor of the milk. Then she dawdled back through the kitchen to wash up the glass, and turn off the radio. There were footsteps on the drive. She peeped around the curt
ain. Harry Barnes.
Her resolve fled. She ran back up to her room and shut the door. She dared not let him see her condition – imaginary or otherwise. She had sensed that he was an attractively squeamish man. The bell rang. She started to wait, then thought better of it. Leaning towards the open window she cooed out:
‘Who is it?’
The morning had been spent with the orchestra getting to grips with the new composition by Roger Bevan. Holy Innocents was an oratorio of sorts. It combined texts from Isaiah and Revelation with sentences from eye-witness accounts of the bombing of Hiroshima. The work opened with a bass solo rendition of Saint Matthew’s verses dealing with the putting of all male infants to the sword. The score was as taxing as the text was fierce, and matters were not helped by the fact that the orchestral parts had been pasted up from photocopied hand-written manuscript. A morning of frayed horse-hair and tempers. Roger had been persuaded to score the hardest passages for a semi-chorus and small ensemble of orchestral first-desk players, who would need fewer hours for rehearsal, but time would be short even to cover the ‘simpler’ movements.
Evelyn wore her ‘Berio face’ – a countenance of grim determination she assumed when tackling compositions whose effort in performance did not seem matched by their rewards. Her tastes expired after Britten and early Tippett. She had little sympathy with Seth’s interests in late Bartok and Stockhausen. A very nervy three hours came to an end as Peter turned to Roger to ask yet again how exactly he meant this passage to sound. He dismissed the players, having decided that it would take a good hour to worm a coherent answer out of the man. Seth walked smiling over to Mother.
‘Chin up,’ he laughed.
‘I hate you,’ she said. ‘Hope you both fall off a cliff.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Jealous is not the word.’
‘If you take my violin home for me tonight, I promise to make supper for you before you come back.’
‘Done, but leave it on that chair over there. Bye.’
‘Bye. Don’t frown too hard.’ She laughed and he walked down the aisle.
