Dying to Help (Anna McColl Mystery Series Book 1)

by Penny Kline

  Ten minutes later as I passed the swimming baths I saw two figures standing together at the far end of a narrow alleyway. I recognized the man at once, the long thin legs and leather jacket, the jet-black hair. Although he was only in his twenties Rob was terrified of going grey. Once he had pulled out a hair and brought it to show me, and when I told him everyone has the occasional white hair he had shaken his head as though it was the beginning of the end.

  I wanted to march up to him, ask why he kept pestering me and watch his face to see how he reacted. But now was not the right time or place; and supposing he was innocent? I would look thoroughly stupid and I might even put ideas into his head.

  He was deep in conversation and far too preoccupied to notice me passing by. The other figure was small, slight. I couldn’t see the face properly but it looked like a girl. I hoped it was a girl. If he had found himself a girlfriend he would soon lose interest in me. As quickly as he had started he would stop hanging about outside my flat and following me round the town. There would be no point in pestering me with picture post cards, full of death and degradation, no point in breaking into my flat and leaving absurd reminders of his presence. At last he would leave me in peace.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was four o’clock, time for Mrs Hillman’s weekly appointment. I flinched, not because I disliked Mrs Hillman but because she was so honest about her feelings and because her situation was painfully similar to my own. We had arranged to have six sessions with the aim of helping her to make up her mind what she wanted to do.

  She arrived dead on time, smartly dressed in a navy suit and a pale blue shirt. She had come straight from her job as a buyer for one of the department stores and she was eager not to waste a moment of her session. I asked her how she was feeling and she raised her eyes to heaven, then started describing her week.

  She had been having an affair with Barry for nearly five years. He had absolutely promised to leave his wife when the boys were grown up but still he prevaricated. Mrs Hillman had had enough. But she couldn’t break free. She knew she was being stupid. She despised herself. She wanted to kill him.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ I said.

  ‘Do you? The thing is I’ve put so much into the relationship, wasted so much time. I’m nearly forty-six, you’d think I’d have learned some common sense.’

  What she meant was, at forty-six did she have any hope of finding someone else? Widowed in her late thirties she had shut herself away with her two teenage boys then, after a year or two, realized she would have to make an effort on her own behalf. She had joined clubs, done all the right things. Wasn’t it typical that the man she had fallen for was someone at work? And married — of course.

  ‘Perhaps you could make a time limit,’ I said, realizing immediately I was thinking about myself.

  ‘Yes I know.’

  ‘I mean, make it for yourself. You needn’t tell Barry.’

  She stopped herself from sighing. ‘What good will that do?’

  ‘It will give you back your self-respect. Stop you feeling humiliated.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Her face brightened. ‘And then he’ll like me better. I won’t be so sorry for myself. Men always find that unattractive.’

  What could I say? She started telling me again about the time he had lied to her about how he and his wife slept in different rooms. I listened with half an ear, tried to concentrate, but kept thinking about the key on a string which had failed to materialize after a rigorous search through all my cupboards and drawers. But even if Chris still had it I could think of no possible reason why she would want to spend time in my flat.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was listening. I just — ’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mrs Hillman smiled reassuringly. ‘I don’t know how you stand your job. You must be as strong as a horse.’

  After she left I found a note attached to the door. It was from Heather, who had gone home early to take her daughter to the orthodontist. Bruce phoned. Please would you call him back.

  I returned to my desk, rang the Housing Department and asked for Bruce’s extension. A secretary told me to hang on, he was on the other line. After two or three minutes I heard him pick up the phone and clear his throat.

  ‘Yes.’ He sounded tired, strained.

  ‘It’s Anna.’

  ‘Oh, Anna, sorry to keep you waiting. I meant to ring you before but you know how it is.’ So Chris had passed on the message after all. ‘Karen Plant — you needed some information.’

  ‘Not needed exactly, Bruce, but it might help. Someone I’ve been seeing at work.’

  ‘Yes, I see. I’m not certain I’ll be able to tell you anything more than you must have read in the paper.’

  ‘Actually, Bruce, I was wondering if you knew anything about her flat-mate.’

  ‘Flat-mate?’ He was playing for time, pretending to sound surprised.

  ‘It said in the paper her name was Fleur something. I just wondered … ’

  I heard him draw in breath. ‘Yes, that’s right. What did you want to know? She’s a student at the university. Computer Science. I remember Karen was worried about her, thought she wasn’t fitting in too well.’

  I felt I owed him an explanation. ‘The thing is I’ve been seeing someone who thinks Keith Merchant was innocent.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Only for a moment or two but phone calls always accentuate the importance of silences.

  ‘I’m not taking it very seriously,’ I said. ‘It’s a relative so it’s understandable she’d like to clear his name.’

  ‘Yes, I see. I don’t think there was much doubt that he did it. To tell you the truth I only met Karen once or twice, although I spoke to her on the phone now and again. She was very conscientious, tended to become over-involved.’

  ‘Don’t we all.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but Karen was — well, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but she was pretty neurotic. You know, over-anxious, the kind of person who keeps their house ultra-tidy, doesn’t like people messing up the cushions.’

  What was he trying to tell me? To leave well alone? That Karen was a born victim who had brought it on herself?

  ‘Yes, well thanks, Bruce.’

  ‘She was a strange person, not all that easy to get on with, I imagine.’ He drew in another deep breath. ‘Oh, Anna.’ He was trying to sound nonchalant while really telling me something rather important. ‘D’you mind not talking to Chris about it, only she was pretty upset when it happened.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I suppose she thought it could’ve been me. Unstable clients, people holding grudges because you can’t give them what they want. She got herself in a bit of a state.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Chris.’

  ‘No.’ There was another silence. I decided to help him out.

  ‘Anyway, let’s just forget all about it, right? I’ll see you soon. Meanwhile pretend I never asked and of course I won’t mention it to Chris.’

  ‘Thanks. Oh, incidentally, the flat-mate moved out after it happened so it’s no good going round to where they lived. Right then. I’d better go. Bye, Anna.’

  ‘Bye, Bruce.’

  I was thinking about what Bruce had told me when the phone rang. I assumed he was calling back with more information or another warning not to tell Chris about our conversation.

  ‘Yes. Hallo.’

  ‘Is that Anna McColl?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is Owen Hughes. Psych. Unit. There’s a seminar next Tuesday, four fifteen. Visiting speaker coming to talk about Munchausen’s Syndrome. I just thought you might be interested.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, I would. Thanks very much.’

  I wanted to ask where the seminar would be held but he rang off before I could ask. Still, presumably I would find out if I turned up in plenty of time.

  Munchausen’s Syndrome. A condition describing a small group of people who like having operations. Some of them travel round
the country, feigning violent stomach pains. They’re taken into hospital, opened up for investigation, and it’s only when the scars on their abdomen start to mount up that doctors become suspicious and start checking round. Some people think they’re crazy but I’ve always had a certain amount of sympathy. Maybe it’s only in hospital that anyone pays them any attention.

  Owen Hughes’ call had cheered me up. I was humming to myself as I ran down the stairs and out into the car park.

  ‘You’re cheerful,’ said Beth, easing herself into the driving seat of her Fiat as though she was eight months pregnant instead of eight weeks.

  I grinned. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Not being sick?’

  ‘A bit, but that’s all part of the fun.’

  During the short drive home my good mood began to evaporate. The flat always felt so empty and it even occurred to me that my secret intruder might be an invention in my mind. I was missing David. The intruder was a substitute. For a moment or two I almost convinced myself the theory was a plausible one.

  Picking up a couple of letters that had come in the second post I carried them into the kitchen and put them on the table while I filled the kettle.

  One was a telephone bill, the other a post card covered in familiar block capitals. YESTERDAY YOU VISITED THE CHEMIST’S. THEN YOU BOUGHT A NEWSPAPER, A BIRTHDAY CARD, AND A TUBE OF MINTS.

  I swallowed hard. It was true. Whoever had sent the post card must have been standing quite close by. I had no recollection whatever of any of the other shoppers but surely I would have noticed him. I tried to recreate the situation in my mind. In the chemist’s, handing over bath oil and a green sponge, looking in my purse for change. There was a girl behind the counter. Young with dyed blonde hair. Or was I thinking of the girl in the newsagent’s? I had been in a hurry, worried about being late back after spending my lunch hour at the hairdresser’s.

  I turned the card over and found a reproduction of Picasso’s Woman in an Armchair. She lay head thrown back, mouth gaping. Her rubbery elongated limbs entwined the chair, a mane of hair stuck out from the back of her distorted head. I thought I knew what Picasso had been getting at but the sender of the card probably saw it quite differently. It was a picture of me, naked, vulnerable. Just the kind of thing that would appeal to Rob Starkey. Just his idea of a funny joke.

  I carried the card to a drawer and put it with its companions. Then left the flat, slamming the door behind me.

  I had no idea if he still lived in the same place, but at least it would be a starting point. The house was the other side of the river, part of a terrace of dilapidated properties, most of them rented out as bed-sits.

  I had been there once before, during the time Rob had been coming to see me regularly. A garbled message from a payphone had alarmed me and I had gone round to his room and found him lying on his bed, snoring heavily, with an empty bottle of Southern Comfort on the floor beside him. At the time I had been annoyed. What had been the point of phoning when the only thing wrong with him was that he needed to sleep off a hang-over? But seeing him in his home environment had shocked me, not because the room was so untidy — smelling of unwashed clothes and alcohol — but because it brought home to me what a distorted view I acquired when I only saw clients in my room at work.

  The experience had made a strong impression, and since then it had been a regular topic of discussion at our weekly case conference. Martin and Beth were all for keeping things separate. We saw the clients on our territory. If they needed to be visited at home they should be referred to the Social Services. But Nick and I disagreed. Nick quoted an experiment in Italy when psychiatrists had decided to come out of their rarefied consulting rooms and help their patients with practical problems like finding somewhere to live. Apparently the experiment had been a huge success — as long as the psychiatrist who had instigated it was around — but after he left the area it had petered out. As with everything else it had been the enthusiasm that mattered, the commitment.

  I drove along Coronation Road, with the Avon on my left and on the other side of the river the new development that overlooked the Floating Harbour. Rob lived less than a quarter of a mile away yet his street was a world apart from the smart flats and town houses of Baltic Wharf.

  Passing the iron footbridge that crossed the river I turned right, then right again, and recognized Rob’s road straight away. At the end was what looked like the remains of a demolished factory. Three small boys, who looked too young to be out now the light was fading, were kicking a ball at a brick wall, laughing as it bounced back and hit one of them on the head. Rob had told me of rumours that the area was to be redeveloped. That would mean that people like him would be forced out by the increased rents, but in the meantime it suited him well enough and it was handy for the city centre.

  Leaving my car a few doors down from Rob’s place, I rang the bell, then realizing that it was broken knocked lightly on the front door. No sounds came from inside. No doors opening, footsteps in the hallway. I knocked again more loudly and this time I heard coughing and the sound of shuffling feet. An old woman opened the door and stared at me. She had some kind of skin disease. One side of her face was rough and greenish. She was wearing a white cotton jumper, a brown crimplene skirt, and a long shapeless cardigan.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘I’ve come to see Rob Starkey.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The young man who lives on the top floor.’

  ‘Oh, him.’ She stood back to let me pass. I turned to thank her for letting me in but already she had disappeared back into her room.

  The stair carpet was a death trap. Half-way up my foot slid beneath a frayed piece and I had to clutch at the wooden rail to prevent myself from falling. I continued on to the second floor, running the palm of my hand up the wall, searching in the dark for a light switch. But even if I found one it was unlikely the bulb would be working.

  On the second floor I paused, trying to remember which of the two doors belonged to Rob. I called his name but there was no response. Placing my ear next to one door, then the other, I heard nothing. When I turned the knob on the right-hand door it opened with a loud creak and I peered into the darkness and recognized the layout of Rob’s room. Perhaps all the rooms were much the same but when I lifted back a corner of the drawn curtain enough light came in for me to see the pictures stuck on his wall. They were Rob’s all right. Fantasy figures, drawn with felt pens. Red and yellow and acid-green, outlined in black. Some of them were dressed in futuristic suits of armour, all of them carried weapons. Broadswords, laser guns, spiked balls on chains.

  The bedclothes were piled up at the pillow end of the bed and for a moment I expected Rob to emerge from under the jumble of blankets and greyish sheets. But the room was empty. I was trespassing in private property.

  ‘Rob?’ I said quietly, as though to make certain he wasn’t hiding in the rickety wardrobe or under the bed.

  In the room below someone had switched on the radio. More than likely the old woman downstairs had forgotten about me. I was free to inspect Rob’s room, look for clues, unearth a tell-tale pile of picture post cards. But I couldn’t do it. What was the point? I had come to talk to him, calm him down, not to try and catch him red-handed.

  Above my head a woman, dressed from head to foot in black leather, stared down at me. Her hair stood out from her head in spikes and round her neck she wore a heavy crucifix with a small bleeding figure. In one hand she held a whip, in the other a man no larger than a toy soldier. The picture had been coloured in with enormous care and I remembered that Rob had spent a term at art school before he dropped out because it ‘got too boring’. He could draw well, must have learned at school, or just had a natural gift.

  I glanced round the room, taking in the jumble of clothes, a pair of heavy boots, numerous plastic carrier bags piled up against the wall.

  The first bag seemed to contain a collection of old electric plugs an
d adaptors. In the second was a brand-new sweatshirt, still in its cellophane wrapping. Did Rob go shoplifting? Perhaps the sweatshirt was a present he still hadn’t unwrapped. From his mother? But she had moved to Shropshire and Rob couldn’t be bothered to keep in touch.

  I lifted another bag off the floor and peered inside at the mass of crumpled papers, old magazines — and picture post cards. They were reproductions of paintings, mostly Pop Art — Andy Warhol’s cans of tomato soup and multiple images of Marilyn Monroe — but one was a Magritte, depicting a figure, part woman, part fish, washed up on the beach with the waves lapping her naked body.

  Pushing them back into the bag and leaning it against the wall, I paused for a moment, then left, closing the door behind me. As I tip-toed down the stairs, deafening vibrating music was coming from a room on the first floor. A door opened a crack, then slammed shut again.

  The ground floor was silent and there was no sign of the old woman. Would she tell Rob someone had called round to see him? It seemed unlikely since she had not even known his name. In any case, I wasn’t worried. On this occasion I had failed to catch up with him but it was only a matter of time before I found him lurking about outside my flat. Sooner or later he would decide to tell me what was on his mind. In the mean time I would stop worrying about being tailed round the shops, just wait and see when the Magritte turned up on my doormat.

  As I drove away an image of the black-leather woman returned. The tiny helpless man held in her fist. But I was not in the mood for clever psychological interpretations. I was wondering what David was doing, whether, if I drove up Jacob’s Wells Road, then on to Kingsdown, I would see the green Citroen parked in the drive outside Iris’s front door. I hesitated at the zebra crossing, trying to make up my mind, then realized that even if the car wasn’t there I would be no better off. Glancing in the driving mirror, then turning sharp left, I changed gear and prepared to climb the steep hill that led up to Clifton-wood. I had done quite enough spying for one evening.