Thanet had a feeling that she could have said more, that there was in fact something specific that she was holding back. He had had a case once in which a similar family was involved, he remembered. And there, too, the extremity of the father’s views had led to tragedy. The roots of Karen’s anorexia had no doubt lain in the warped relationships within her family.
He said as much to Joan as they were getting ready for bed. ‘And I have a feeling that Bridget knows more than she’s telling.’ He swung his legs into bed and lay down, feeling the tense muscles of his aching back relax into the blissful support of the orthopaedic mattress in which they had invested some years ago.
Joan was patting moisture cream into her face. ‘You could be right. She and Karen were very close at one time.’ She finished creaming her face and got into bed. She sighed. ‘It’s such a waste, isn’t it, a young girl like that, dying unnecessarily. Anorexia is a dreadful thing and I’m only thankful Bridget never succumbed.’
‘As far as she’s concerned, the one positive aspect of all this is that it has given her something other than Alexander to think about.’
‘Quite.’
‘How’s she been today?’
‘Well, there’s no doubt about it, it’s been an awful blow to her self-confidence. She’ll bounce back eventually, I imagine, she’s pretty resilient, but it’s bound to take time. And, of course, hearing about Karen has rather overshadowed everything else. But as you heard downstairs, she is trying to be positive. She’s arranged to go and have coffee with Helen tomorrow morning.’
‘Helen will be pleased. Doc M. told me only last night that Helen was saying recently that she hadn’t seen Bridget for ages. She misses their cookery sessions, he says.’
‘And we’re going to Mother’s for tea.’
Thanet grinned. ‘It all sounds rather dull for a twenty-year-old, but highly therapeutic.’
To spend time with people who loved and valued her was just what Bridget needed, he thought next morning, looking at his daughter’s drawn face as she came into the kitchen. It wrenched at his heart to see her like this and to feel so powerless to help her. He was standing waiting for the kettle to boil and went to put his arm around her shoulders, give her a hug. ‘What are you doing up at this unearthly hour on a Sunday morning?’ Almost before the words were out, he knew he shouldn’t have asked.
‘I didn’t sleep very well.’
The opening was there, he had to take it. In any case they couldn’t go on avoiding the subject as they had been. ‘I was sorry to hear about Alexander,’ he said.
She twisted to look up at him; disengaged herself. ‘Were you, Dad?’ she said bitterly. ‘I’d have thought you might be relieved. You never did like him, did you?’
She was hurt and angry, he saw, angry with Alexander, with herself, with life. Now, briefly, her anger had found a focus in him. Well, there was no point in being anything but honest. But how to do it, without inflicting more pain? ‘I did like him.’ But his reservations showed in his tone of voice, he realised. ‘I just wasn’t sure he was right for you.’
‘Why not?’ said Bridget passionately. And then, ‘Oh, what’s the point in going over and over it? It’s finished now, anyway.’ And, putting up a hand to dash away the tears which had sprung into her eyes, she rushed from the room.
Thanet was reminded of the scene between Alice Randish and her father yesterday, which had been over much the same issue – parental disapproval of choice of partner – and had ended in much the same way, and he felt a pang of sympathy for Landers. Despite his rationalisation of a moment ago, he was upset. How not to administer comfort, in one easy lesson, he thought wryly.
He made the tea and, before sitting down to breakfast, carried a cup upstairs. Joan, he knew, would still be asleep, she usually had a lie-in on a Sunday morning before going to church. He tapped softly on Bridget’s door. ‘Cup of tea,’ he murmured.
No response.
With a sigh he deposited it on the floor and went back downstairs. She would come around, he knew. Meanwhile the memory of the brief and uncomfortable little scene lodged like a splinter in his consciousness. It would, he knew, lie there festering all day. It was rare indeed for him to be on bad terms with Bridget, however briefly.
He had little appetite for breakfast but knowing how uncertain meal times were when he was working on a case made himself eat some cereal. Outside, however, the sun was trying to break through, his pipe consoled him a little and by the time he arrived in the office he was feeling marginally more cheerful. It was depressing therefore to find that the usually ebullient Lineham, there before him as usual, was looking gloomy.
Reluctantly, Thanet removed his pipe out of consideration for the sergeant and tapped it out in the stout ashtray which stood on his desk for that purpose. ‘It can’t be as bad as that, surely, Mike.’
Lineham tossed the report he had been reading on to his desk. ‘Nothing!’ he said. ‘Nothing of any use, anyway. And if there’s nothing coming in at this stage, what’s it going to be like later?’
‘Oh come on, stop being so pessimistic. You know perfectly well one can simply never tell what’s going to turn up next. You’ve said yourself that’s one of the things you like about this job.’
‘True.’
‘So? There must be something to report, surely, even if it’s all negative.’
‘The PM report is in, but it doesn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know.’ Lineham passed it over and Thanet glanced through it. Randish had apparently been in very good shape and in layman’s terms had, as they surmised, quite simply bled to death as a result of the gash in his throat.
‘What about the girl DC Wakeham saw?’ said Thanet. ‘Has he tracked down the friend who knows her, yet?’
Lineham shook his head. ‘Couldn’t get hold of him last night, sir. Not surprising, as it was Saturday night. Wakeham’s gone off to have another go. If he fails, we could always make inquiries at the vineyard. If Randish did meet her through the firm who sold him his new computer system Mrs Prote would know who they are. If she’s not at work today – and it is Sunday, after all – we’ve got her address. She might even know who the girl is. As I said, it’s an expensive system and the firm might well have sent this girl to work at the vineyard for a couple of days to make sure their clients knew how to handle it. They often do. In which case, come to think of it, Vintage probably met her too.’
‘You’re assuming a lot, Mike. It might be pure coincidence that she works in computers. Randish could have met her in a dozen different ways. Still, I agree, it would be worth a try. Has Wakeham sent Mason’s shoes off to forensic?’
‘Yes. But they say they’re snowed under and can’t promise to come back to us for several days, at least.’
‘Surprise, surprise.’
The morning meeting was brief again, Thanet’s report once more being the longest. There was still no news of the results of Angharad’s latest test. They all hoped that in this case no news did indeed mean good news. They should know tomorrow morning, when Draco returned.
Back in the office Thanet found Mallard waiting for him, alone. Lineham had evidently gone off on some errand.
‘Morning, Luke. Don’t suppose you’ve got any queries about the PM, it was all pretty straightforward, but I thought I’d pop in just in case.’
Thanet shook his head. ‘Don’t think so, thanks. It’s all crystal clear.’
‘He would have been good for another forty or fifty years, you know, barring accidents.’
‘So I gathered.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘We’re feeling our way, as usual, not getting very far at the moment.’
‘Actually, I really called to ask how Bridget is. I don’t know if she told you, but she’s coming around for coffee with Helen this morning. Is Alexander the problem?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Briefly, Thanet gave Mallard a summary of the situation. ‘We’re hoping Helen will cheer her up.’
�
�She’s very good at cheering people up,’ said Mallard. ‘Look what a good job she did on me!’
‘True,’ said Thanet smiling.
Thoughts of his own past must have reminded Mallard of Draco’s present. ‘Any news of Angharad?’ he asked.
Thanet shook his head. ‘We’re keeping our fingers crossed.’
‘So am I,’ said Mallard grimly. ‘This is a really important test, you know.’
‘More so than the last? Why?’
‘How much do you know about leukaemia?’
‘Only snippets I’ve gathered here and there. I used to think it was invariably fatal, but we’ve all been astounded to see how Angharad has picked up over the last year.’
After the diagnosis they had all watched fearfully as Angharad had become a shadow of her former self. She had lost all her wonderful red hair and scorning a wig had taken to wearing exotic turbans. The ghost of her former, exceptional beauty had lingered only in the bone structure of her face. And then, miraculously, she had begun to improve. Little by little she had put on weight: had even, eventually, discarded the turbans and emerged like a freshly hatched chick with a fine frizz of hair the colour of a new-minted penny. Colour had begun to return to her cheeks and vitality to her movements.
‘As you know,’ said Mallard, ‘Angharad has acute myeloid leukaemia. It was diagnosed two years ago. So you’ll understand just how astounding that improvement is if I tell you that the average outlook is two years of life from diagnosis, with one or more remissions, each shorter than the last because of the disease becoming resistant to treatment. The first remission is on average one year, the second six months, the third – and you might not get one – four weeks. If someone recovers, it is always during first remission. If you have a second remission you will die unless you have a transplant, and that’s a very risky business.’
‘You’re saying that Angharad is still in her first remission?’
‘Yes. So far she’s been one of the lucky ones.’
‘I’d no idea. To begin with I think we were all afraid to talk to the Super about it, for fear of making him more depressed. No, to tell you the truth, I think we were just too cowardly, in case the news was bad and we wouldn’t know what to say.’
‘Understandable,’ said Mallard.
‘And then of course, when she seemed to start getting better I think we felt that to comment on the improvement would somehow be tempting fate. So we just stood by and kept our fingers crossed that it would continue.’
‘Yes. Well, I’m afraid we’re not out of the wood yet. Patients can do extraordinarily well and survive several years without relapses, but only about ten per cent of the total are cured and never relapse. After five years without a relapse you can be pretty sure. This particular test is important because for the first two years you have tests every two months and this is the last of the series. If she’s clear it’ll be a major landmark in her recovery.’
‘But even if she is, they’ll still have three more years to go before they can really begin to feel safe.’
‘Yes. But if it is clear this time, she’ll at least be in with a chance. From now on, all being well, it’ll be every three to four months between tests, for a further two years. Then every six months for a couple of years. Then every year.’
Thanet had always shied away from imagining too vividly what it must be like for a relatively young woman of thirty-seven like Angharad to live with the shadow of death always hovering over her, to have to summon up over and over again sufficient courage to live through yet another course of debilitating chemotherapy. He fervently hoped that for the Dracos the worst of the nightmare would now be over.
Lineham hurried into the room. The spring was back in his step, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. ‘We’ve got it, sir! Oh, sorry, Doc, morning.’
Mallard acknowledged the sergeant’s greeting with a nod, an indulgent twinkle in his eye.
‘Got what, Mike?’ said Thanet.
‘The girl’s name. DC Wakeham just rang in. It’s Elaine Wood. Wakeham’s friend wasn’t sure which firm she works for, though. He met her at some conference.’
‘This is Randish’s latest girlfriend, apparently,’ Thanet explained to Mallard. ‘Or could be.’
‘Well, don’t mind me. I’m just off anyway.’
‘Right. We’ll go out to the vineyard, then, Mike, test this theory of yours and see if they can tell us where to find her.’
‘Want a bet on it, sir?’
‘A pint, at lunchtime?’
‘Done!’
‘Tut, tut,’ said Mallard. He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. ‘Gambling in the ranks. What would Superintendent Draco say?’
TWELVE
With the resumption of work Sturrenden vineyard had come to life. The car park was surprisingly full for this hour on a Sunday morning and there were a number of customers in the shop.
‘Murder is always good for business,’ muttered Lineham cynically as they got out of the car.
Thanet grunted. The prurient attitude of the public towards anything to do with murder never failed to disgust him. Heads turned and necks craned as they went past.
Lights were on in the office but it was empty. Perhaps Mrs Prote wasn’t in and they’d have to talk to Vintage instead.
In the covered yard the press was in operation and hoses of different thicknesses and colours snaked off in all directions. Vintage had evidently found someone to help him out: a young man Thanet had never seen before was hosing down the pressing area. He was wearing a long black rubber apron and Wellington boots. As they picked their way towards him he dropped the hose, picked up a bass broom and began to sweep the water vigorously towards a central drain. Reflections of the neon lights above fragmented and reformed as the water rolled across them. A strong fruity smell hung in the air.
‘Sturrenden CID,’ said Lineham. ‘Is Mrs Prote in today?’
The young man stopped sweeping. He was about twenty, with cropped black hair and an incipient beard. There was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. ‘Who?’
‘Mrs Prote. The manageress.’
‘I’ve just come in for the day, to help out, so I don’t know people here. What does she look like?’
‘Tall, dark, horn-rimmed glasses.’
‘Yes, she’s about somewhere.’
‘There she is, Mike,’ said Thanet.
Mrs Prote was descending the outside staircase from the Tea Room, which was in the upper floor of the barn housing the shop. As they crossed the yard Thanet said, ‘Let’s hope she’s less prickly than she was yesterday, or you’ll have your work cut out.’
Lineham, they had agreed, was to take this interview.
They waited for her at the bottom of the staircase. Once again she was immaculate, not a hair out of place in the smooth French pleat, blouse pristine white, dark green skirt and cardigan an exact match, shoes gleaming like polished chestnuts. She didn’t look too pleased to see them: the brown eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles were hostile, resentful. ‘I hope this won’t take too long. I’ve got a lot to do today.’
‘We weren’t sure if you’d be in, as it’s Sunday,’ said Thanet.
She made no comment, simply led them into the office and sat down behind her desk, taking up the same pose as yesterday: knees together, feet side by side, hands folded in lap.
No doubt about it, thought Thanet, she would like life to be equally neat, well organised, under control. Maybe her hostility towards them stemmed from the fact that she didn’t know how to deal with it when it became messy. And murder was invariably messy, in more ways than one.
‘May we?’ said Lineham, putting a hand on one of the other two chairs.
‘If you must. As I said, I hope this won’t take long.’
‘We’ll be as quick as we can.’ Lineham swung the chair around to face her and Thanet moved the other one across to the window. This was Lineham’s idea, Lineham’s show.
‘Nice computer system,’ said Lineham. �
�New, isn’t it?’
Her eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Relatively, yes.’
‘How long have you had it?’
‘Three months or so.’
‘Which firm did you buy it from?’
Her shoulders twitched impatiently. ‘Look, is this relevant? I don’t want to be rude, but …’
‘If it wasn’t relevant, Mrs Prote, I wouldn’t be asking about it.’
She frowned. ‘I really don’t see how …’
Lineham sighed and said wearily, ‘Mrs Prote. Do you want your employer’s murderer to be found?’
‘Well of course I do! What a ridiculous question!’
‘Then perhaps you could be just a little more cooperative.’
‘But I am being cooperative!’
‘Are you? We obviously have different ideas of the meaning of the word. As far as we’re concerned you weren’t particularly cooperative yesterday and you’re not being particularly cooperative today. First you say you’ve got a lot of work to do so you’d like this interview to be as brief as possible and then you prevaricate, thereby prolonging it.’
‘I wasn’t prevaricating!’
She glanced at Thanet, as if expecting him to back her up. He folded his arms and stared back at her, his face unresponsive, making it clear that he agreed with Lineham.
‘I just don’t see what computers have to do with Mr Randish’s death.’
The point had been made. She was on the defensive now and Lineham recognised this. His tone was patient as he said, ‘Mrs Prote, we are the ones who are investigating Mr Randish’s death. Perhaps you’d allow us to judge what is or is not relevant.’
There was a brief silence, then Lineham went on. ‘So, would you now answer my question: which firm did you buy it from?’
No Laughing Matter Page 12
