“Anyway, at first I didn’t tell Hedley that I knew who his mother was, mainly because he hadn’t mentioned her to me. It was obvious that he was sensitive about her. But I did take a profound interest in the murder case. When Hedley was out at work,” – he rolled his eyes, and stressed the word with distaste – “I made it my business to research it as thoroughly as I could. I’m quite a keen amateur sleuth, you know,” – he batted his eyelids at Tim – “and as I gathered more and more information, I made a list of the things which puzzled me. Allow me to enumerate them now.” He shot back his cuffs and held up one slender immaculately manicured hand. He ticked off the points that he was making on his fingers, striking them lightly with the index finger of the other hand.
“Number One, Tirzah – I will call her Tirzah, since Hedley always does – had no motive for murdering her mother-in-law. Number Two, no-one managed to get to the bottom of the cryptic comment about Doris Atkins being ‘too fond’ of gardening. Number Three, Tirzah did not admit to the murder, but she did not deny it either. She must have had a reason for this. Number Four, all of these previous points could be explained if Tirzah were insane at the time, but I have found absolutely no convincing evidence to suggest that she was, and a great deal to the contrary. Number Five, some of the inmates of the shop at Westlode Street appeared never to have been questioned, even routinely, about Doris Atkins’ death – especially Bryony, her grand-daughter. In fact,” Peter Prance added, looking up at Tim with his black eyes snapping, “Tirzah’s daughter’s existence was so well-concealed that I have to confess that I did not find out about it during the course of my researches. No, no, it was Hedley who told me about her. Inadvertently he gave away some information about her, and one or two other things as well, during the course of the most terrible tantrum. I was quite frightened by it, I can tell you.”
Peter Prance nodded his head vigorously several times.
“Now,” he said, “this tantrum of Hedley’s was very important, because it helped me to make sense of some of these strange details – made the stranger, I have to say, by the fact that the police of the time did not pick up on them either.” He shot Tim a look of defiance. Tim returned his gaze steadily.
“The Atkins family – both Atkins families, the ones who lived at the shop and the ones who lived in Chestnut Avenue – were not close, as I think you will agree. Individuals within each family weren’t close, either, with the exception of Colin Atkins and his mother, who idolised each other. The first thing you may ask yourself, therefore,” – he steepled his fingers, and shot Tim another of his sidelong looks: Tim wondered if he was consciously parodying the typical language of a judge’s instructions to a jury – “is what persuaded the younger Atkins family, by which I mean the Chestnut Avenue branch, to move in, even temporarily, with the older branch, by which I mean the residents of Westlode Street.”
“Dorothy Atkins said that it was to help Colin look after his aged mother.”
“Yes, indeed: I know that she said that; and I also believe it to have been true. As I think we are both aware, Tirzah usually told the truth. But I’m not talking about Colin’s reason for their taking up residence in his house: I’m talking about Tirzah’s reason. Why did she agree to it? What possible reason could she have had for humouring her husband’s uncle?”
“Ronald Atkins thought that it was because she wanted to ingratiate herself with Colin, so that he would leave Ronald the house – as in fact he did in the end, though because it was not entirely his to leave – it had never formally been given to him by his brothers after their father died – it took rather a long time for him to get probate.”
“Yes, yes, but now you’re giving me Ronald Atkins’s reason. I don’t doubt that is correct, too. And also more or less proven is Tirzah’s acquisitiveness. I’m sure that she would have loved to get her hands on that property. But consider again: there is evidence that she was thinking of leaving Ronald. Presumably she would have stood to gain nothing from her husband’s relatives if she and he were separated or divorced.”
He paused to see what effect his words would have, and was evidently disappointed when Tim replied:
“If you’re talking about her affair with Frank Needham, I have met Mr. Needham now, and he tells me that the affair more or less fizzled out after Doris Atkins’ death.”
Peter Prance recovered his composure quickly.
“Yes, yes,” he said again, rather testily this time. “But that was with hindsight: for some reason she did not want to continue the affair with Mr. Needham after the calamitous events that happened to her in the autumn of 1975. According to Mr. Needham, whose recollections you have evidently gathered and whom presumably we have no reason to doubt. That is all part of the mystery, don’t you think? At least one of the people in that household – I mean the Westlode Street household – had some kind of hold over Tirzah. Whatever it was, it prompted her to do three things: to make the temporary move to Westlode Street to assist with the care of her husband’s grandmother; to break off the relationship with Frank Needham; and to take the blame for a murder which she didn’t commit.” Peter Prance allowed his voice to crescendo, then tossed his head back with a little laugh. He could see that this time he had both surprised and intrigued his listener.
“Oh, yes, Inspector. I realise that I can’t prove it conclusively, but I am absolutely persuaded that Tirzah was innocent of murder. Not only did she have no motive, but there was someone else in that house who had a very strong reason for killing Doris.”
“I suppose that you are going to tell me that it was Hedley? Ironical, isn’t it, that you seem to be exerting a hold over him in the same way that you say that someone was also threatening Dorothy Atkins?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say I was threatening Hedley. That is a very ugly word indeed! One has ultimately to face up to one’s heritage, a fact that Hedley appears to be able to confront with only the most extreme reluctance. But you are wrong about the irony – or shall we say, what you perceive to be a coincidence? Because actually it isn’t a coincidence at all, but the self-same thing. Hedley is afraid of the same thing that also terrified Tirzah. Would you like me to continue?”
Tim felt a very strong urge to slap Peter Prance’s malicious little face.
“Let’s have less beating about the bush, shall we? I know that there is an art to the building up of suspense, but you’ve had your bit of fun now. Tell us what this fucking ‘secret’ was that in your opinion seems to have haunted the Atkins’ family, and I’ll tell you whether I think that there is an ounce of credibility in it, or whether I just think that you’ve been wasting police time.”
“Oh dear, that isn’t very nice, is it? I shall have to . . .”
Andy Carstairs burst into the room.
“You’re wanted on the phone, sir, immediately. It is Chief Inspector Collins of the Liverpool Police.”
Chapter Forty-Four
I see the wheelchair as soon as I step on to the platform. Someone has parked it against the wall of the station, facing towards the exit, perhaps because a chill wind is sweeping through the draughty outside waiting areas. I can therefore only see her in profile, and that not clearly, because her face is half-hidden by a scarf and most of her body is obscured by the same cellular blanket that she was swathed in when first I met her. I know that it is she, nevertheless. She is wearing her navy-blue felt hat, for one thing, but even if she were not, the outline of her face itself would have enabled me to recognise her instantly and without doubt. There is no mistaking those fine, bird-like features, so exactly like Peter’s.
I know that she cannot be here alone. Someone must have accompanied her, must have helped her manoeuvre herself and the wheelchair into a taxi and out again, must have pushed the wheelchair containing her on to the platform. I scan the crowd of two dozen or so people who are waiting, trying to catch sight of a familiar face; trying to glimpse Jillian, in fact. Jillian must be
here, somewhere. Peter has told me to watch out for her, above all.
I wonder why they are not at home. What can have impelled them to come to the station so early, on such a raw day? Perhaps they are planning a holiday. Perhaps the old lady is ill, and needs to see a doctor. Perhaps Jillian has a sixth sense, some inner warning mechanism that has told her of my impending visit.
Suddenly I am very angry. I realise that, but for this lucky chance sighting, my journey might have been in vain. I might have reached the house and found no-one there. As it is, I am going to have to act swiftly, and in a public place, too. I shall have to change my plan of execution completely. I shall have to improvise.
The obvious method would be to push her on to the track in front of a train. But I quail at the barbarity of it. I’m also not certain that I can pull it off: I imagine it is much more difficult to shove someone in a wheelchair on to the tracks than someone who is merely standing on the platform. Besides, the ostentatiousness of such a move repels me.
I scan the platform again. There seems to be an area beyond the building that is deserted. It would be possible to push her out of sight of onlookers and then strangle her. I contemplate the practicalities. I’ve never strangled anyone before. How difficult will it be? Will she scream, or put up a struggle? Will she make a fuss before I can remove her from view? I look across at her again. She is completely inert, though not, I think, asleep. I may be imagining it, but I’m sure that I see the gleam of a boot-button eye beneath the hat.
I decide to approach her. I’ll have to be quick, before Jillian returns. I decide that I will have more chance of abducting her if I creep up on her from behind. I walk past her on the platform, keeping as close to the edge as I can so that I am as far away as possible when I pass her. I turn on my heel, walk fast towards the building and position myself just a few yards from the rear of the wheelchair. She moves her head slightly, but does not turn round. I can smell her now, her old-lady smell, overlaid with the lavender toilet water that she uses.
I’m suddenly beset by doubt. How will I cope with taking a life, even a life as old and compromised as hers? Bryony and I took an old life when we were children and it has haunted me for more than forty years. I remember my promise to Peter, and stiffen my resolve. I edge closer to the wheelchair. I am within three feet of it now.
Two young girls are walking towards me, their arms linked. I dread to see their faces, but feel an irresistible compulsion to look. It is as I had feared: they are Kathryn and Bryony. They are giggling. They pass within a foot of me, without greeting me, without pausing in their chatter. They are closely followed by a spry older woman. This time I will not look. I refuse to meet her eye. I stare at the station building. “Aren’t you going to say hello, Hedley? After all these years?” I raise my head, again unable to resist. She has Doris’s face, but while I am still trying to meet her eye, it ripples, changes, and turns into Tirzah’s. I feel panic now. They are closing in on me. Closing in. My family.
I see with a sudden marvellous clarity that it is all about my family. Peter and his family are an irrelevance, they are nothing to do with me. If Peter needs to alter the situation within his family, he must do it himself. He has no business asking me. I have my own family to attend to. Besides, it would not be right.
I am shaken, and shaking. I might have done this poor woman in the wheelchair a great wrong. And I like her, as well. She has done nothing to deserve harm by my hand. I must ask her forgiveness.
I hasten to stand before her and drop to the ground. I feel for her hands beneath the covers, and fall sobbing on to her knees. She is alarmed, and tries to snatch away her hands, but I reassure her.
“I’m sorry,” I cry. “I am so, so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me, please.”
She is shouting for help. A man is running towards us. He is carrying a plastic cup of coffee, which he is spilling as he runs. When he reaches us, he yanks me to my feet.
“Who are you?” he shouts. “What are you trying to do to my wife?”
Two policemen appear. They are wearing lime-green waistcoats – gilets, I believe they are called. They are labelled: British Transport Police. They haven’t tried to pass themselves off as Ronald or Colin. I am suspicious.
“You’ve not played fair with me,” I say, the tears coursing down my cheeks. “You can’t get away with a straight bat now. I shall report you for deceiving me by wearing other people’s faces.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Hedley Atkins had been apprehended, not, as had been planned, outside Mrs. Prance’s house in Birkenhead, so that he could be charged with her intended assault, perhaps with intent to murder her, but on the platform at Liverpool Lime Street Station. He was now being held in custody in a secure mental unit. He appeared to have suffered a complete mental breakdown, according to Chief Inspector Collins, but Tim Yates was sceptical. Having met Hedley’s mother, he suspected that he might have inherited the same formidable gift of dissimulation. He would wait until he saw Hedley, and judge for himself.
Tim decided not to tell Peter Prance of Hedley’s arrest, because he wanted him to finish the narrative that he had begun in the early hours of that morning, and he was afraid that he might change his story if he knew that Hedley was no longer at large. There was no guarantee that Peter would tell the truth in any case, but it was worth giving it a try. If Peter could give Tim a logical explanation for the events that had happened in the Atkins family over the past forty years, he might be persuaded to believe that it was the truth.
Tim looked at his watch. It was almost 9 a.m. Earlier, Peter Prance had asked permission to wash, and Chris McGill had used the opportunity to go home and take a shower himself. Peter Prance had also been provided with breakfast. Tim himself felt grimy. His adrenalin high was beginning to wear off and he had drunk so many cups of coffee during the night that there was a dull ache in his stomach. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They felt as if they were coated with a thick film of something unpleasant; something gluey and industrial. He resolved that he himself would go home to shower and change after this next, and, he hoped, final interview with Peter.
They had agreed to reconvene at nine o’clock. Peter Prance was escorted to the interview room punctually by Andy Carstairs. Peter regarded Tim with a kind of wary triumph. He no longer seemed afraid, or even remorseful.
“It’s disgusting, having to get dressed again in the clothes that I was wearing yesterday,” he observed.
“I’m sorry for that, Mr. Prance. I understand that you were offered some fresh clothes.”
“You don’t think that I would have contemplated even touching those rags, do you, let alone put them next to my skin? Goodness knows where they have been, or what kinds of person have worn them already.”
“They may not match your usual standards, but they have been laundered, sir. That was the point of offering them to you: they are clean.”
“How much longer do you intend to keep me here?”
“That rather depends on you, sir.”
“You’re bluffing,” said Peter Prance, rather nastily. “As you said yesterday – and, as it happens, I knew it already – you have to bring me before a judge or a magistrate within twenty-four hours. Or let me go.”
Tim looked at his watch.
“I see you’re an expert on the law. If you’re correct, we’ve still got a good few hours left, then, sir.”
Chris McGill entered the room at that point. He looked from one to the other of its inmates, evidently picking up the tension in the atmosphere.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “Shall we sit down?”
“Would anyone like coffee?” asked Andy Carstairs. Tim waved him away for answer, but Peter Prance said unctuously:
“I should like a cup.” Andy left the room.
“We don’t have to wait until he comes back,” said Tim. “If you’re ready, Mr. Prance, I should like to pic
k up where we left off earlier. You were about to tell me what it was you thought was haunting the Atkins family, and to offer me your version of the events that took place in the house at Westlode Street in 1975.”
“Was I really about to do that? It seems a long time ago, now.” Peter Prance narrowed his eyes. “Why did you halt the meeting earlier, Inspector? I heard the comment about the policeman in Liverpool. Have they found Hedley?”
“I’ll answer your questions later, if I may, sir. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to answer my questions first. Please remember that, by your own admission, you could still be charged with conspiracy to commit murder.”
“I very much doubt that you could make that stick. I’ve told you already, I just wanted him to frighten Mummy. Besides, if you have found Hedley, as I suspect, it was because of the information that I provided, wasn’t it?”
Tim sighed. Chris McGill intervened.
“I suggest that you answer the questions, Mr. Prance. The information that the Detective Inspector is asking for can’t incriminate you, and, as I mentioned last night, if you are co-operative it is likely to benefit you later.”
“Oh, very well.”
“I’d like you to continue from where you broke off earlier, Mr. Prance. You were about to tell us why you thought Tirzah agreed to take up temporary residence at the house in Westlode Street.”
Peter Prance settled himself back in his chair, and prolonged the pause, for effect.
“Fear of scandal,” he said, steepling his fingers again and observing Tim over the pyramid that he had constructed. “Colin wanted everyone under the same roof for his own purposes. He wanted as many people to be in the house as possible if the need arose to take drastic action before his mother could change her will, so that he could dilute suspicion. He blackmailed Tirzah into agreeing to come to help his sister look after his mother, knowing that she would arrive accompanied by Hedley and Bryony.”
In the Family Page 31
