This, then, was how such matters were settled. Whisky and soda, soft armchairs, a warmly lit room where bargains had been struck for decades past, influence, patronage, compromise, favouritism: was this the only way? If Harry had not been able to boast Dysart as a friend, how could he have set about learning what Dysart had proposed to glean with no greater effort than a suitable request whispered in an appropriate ear?
‘If Kingdom’s whereabouts on the eleventh of November are unaccounted for, Harry, it’s time they received closer attention. Suffice it to say that we have the resources here to establish whether he was in Rhodes at the time – assuming he travelled by plane and did so under his own name. As for Jack Cornelius, discreet enquiries can be made of Hurstdown Abbey and the reason for his absence that week verified. I think this represents the limit of what I can do on a semiofficial level, but it will suffice, won’t it?’
Oh, it would suffice. There was no doubt of that. Indeed, information-gathering of the sophistication Dysart had at his disposal made Harry’s self-sufficient blunderings seem hopelessly redundant. Perhaps that was what he resented: the suggestion that now he had come so far it was best for matters to be taken out of his hands into altogether more sensitive ones, the implication that he had done enough to warrant being withdrawn from the firing line and rewarded with a little hospitality.
‘Why not come down to Devon after Christmas, Harry? You’ve never stayed at Strete Barton, have you? Virginia would love to meet you again after all these years.’
Virginia’s enthusiasm for Harry’s company existed, of course, only in Dysart’s imagination. Nevertheless, Harry had accepted the invitation, because he saw in it a way of remaining faithful to his original purpose. To retrace Heather’s movements as far as he was able meant to follow wherever the photographs led. And they led next to Dysart’s Devon home. Therefore the invitation could not have been more timely.
Besides, Harry consoled himself as he crossed the road and headed up the side street where he had left the car, he was on the track of a more conclusive insight into Dr Kingdom’s motives than a mere record of whether he had flown from Geneva to Rhodes on 10 November. If Zohra could copy the contents of Kingdom’s file on Heather, if they could thereby obtain clear evidence that Kingdom was, as Zohra believed, a man obsessed, why then …
The instant Harry saw the car in its parking space ahead of him, he saw also the white shape behind the nearside windscreen wiper. Why he did not assume it was a parking ticket or some worthless piece of advertising he could not have explained. Perhaps thinking about Zohra had planted a fear in his mind that this pale and insignificant object seemed somehow to fulfil. Whatever the cause, his hand was trembling as he reached out to touch it.
It was a blank envelope, barely damp, as if it had only been there a matter of minutes. And there was something inside. Harry pulled it free of the wiper blade, stepped back into the light cast by a nearby street-lamp and tore it open.
A photograph. Black and white, tinged amber by the lamplight. A footpath in a cemetery, viewed through a thicket of gravestones. A sideways view of two people walking along the path, one behind the other. A young dark-haired woman in a duffle coat. And a greying middle-aged man in an anorak. It was Kensal Green Cemetery three days before. The woman was Zohra Labrooy. And the man was Harry, captured on film one split-second before he heard the shutter close.
42
‘HELLO?’
‘Zohra! Thank God you’re all right.’
‘Harry? What on earth’s the matter?’
‘I thought … Well, it seemed as if … Never mind. Let’s just say the waiting got to me.’
‘I’m afraid it’ll have to go on for a little longer yet. I haven’t had even the ghost of a chance. He’s been very careful.’
‘I hope you’re being careful too.’
‘Of course I am. Now, don’t worry, I’ll let you know as soon as I make any progress.’
The shortest day of the year was in many ways the longest for Harry as he paced the house in Swindon, not daring to go out in case Zohra rang in his absence, not succeeding for a single moment in forgetting the risks she was running on his behalf. His mother could not understand his behaviour, but derived some wry satisfaction from his insistence on being the first to answer the telephone. As he discovered, she had not exaggerated the number of anonymous calls, greater surely than any amount of misconnections could explain.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry? This is Zohra.’ It was the afternoon of the following day. Her voice sounded different: guarded, uneasy, disturbed. ‘I have what we need.’ He could scarcely believe it: she had copied the file. ‘Can you meet me in London in a few hours’ time?’
‘Where and when?’
‘The Victoria and Albert bar, Marylebone station, six o’clock. Don’t speak to me when I come in. Don’t even look at me. I’ll have the papers in a carrier bag, which I’ll put down beside you. I’ll have one fruit juice, then go, leaving the bag behind. We can talk later.’
‘Why the precautions? Has something gone wrong?’
‘No. It went without a hitch. I’m nervous, that’s all, probably for no good reason. Now I must get back. See you at six.’
The Victoria and Albert was crowded, but not crammed. Groups of office workers swapped jokes and gossip before bolting their drinks to be sure of catching the 17.57 to High Wycombe. Others sat alone, reading evening papers and sipping halves, reluctant, it seemed, to be on their way. Harry chose a bar-stool next to a pillar, ordered a pint and checked that he could see the door in the mirror behind the bar.
Zohra arrived at three minutes past six. Harry saw her pause just inside the door and scan the row of backs confronting her before recognizing his, but he was sure nobody else would have thought she was doing anything more than taking in her surroundings. She wore a raincoat and flat-soled shoes, held the promised carrier bag in her left hand and looked exactly what it was best for her to look: simply one forgettable face in the stream of commuting humanity. She walked to the bar, eased herself into a space beside Harry and lowered the bag to the floor. Harry raised his glass to his lips and kept his eyes on the mirror. There was no-one, behind or around them, who was paying them the slightest attention.
‘St Clement’s, please.’ Zohra’s voice sounded calm and controlled.
‘That’ll be ninety-eight pence, love.’
‘Thank you.’ Zohra drew up a stool, started her drink, unfolded an evening paper and studied the horoscopes, finished her drink, put the paper away and left. Harry looked at the clock. It was ten past six. Then he glanced down at the carrier. A large brown envelope was visible inside. He was on the point of draining his glass and going when he remembered the need for caution. He took his time. It was seventeen minutes past six when he walked from the bar, swinging the carrier casually in his right hand. And three hours later, in the privacy of his bedroom in Swindon, when he opened the envelope.
Dr Kingdom’s involvement with Heather Mallender commenced with a letter from a senior member of staff at Challenbrooke Hospital thanking him for agreeing to take her case. The letter was dated 23 November 1987 and referred to Heather’s admission a fortnight earlier. A note from her GP was enclosed, a Dr Lisle of Wellingborough. Heather had taught at Hollisdane Primary School, Wellingborough, and it was there that she had suffered an hysterical collapse at the children’s firework display on Guy Fawkes’ Night. Kingdom wrote back on 26 November confirming his acceptance of the case. Detailed clinical notes followed, listing the incidence of certain symptoms and the dosages of various drugs, all impenetrable to Harry amidst the jargon of psychotherapy and the milligrammage of pharmacy. There was a chilling reference in early December to ‘ECT not yielding positive results’; he had at least some inkling of what that meant. Dr Lisle had written in mid-December seeking a progress report and Kingdom’s reply exhibited nothing but an energetic professional concern for his patient’s welfare.
The original suggestions of a stress-relat
ed disorder have not been borne out. Heather’s condition appears to me to be related less to feelings of inadequacy in the teaching environment than to feelings of inferiority towards her late sister. These are so deep-rooted and have been so completely suppressed until the recent crisis that drawing them out may prove a long and difficult process.
By early January, in another letter to Lisle, Kingdom was expressing qualified optimism:
Heather has displayed remarkable strength of character in confronting the series of neuroses leading to her illness. Certain convictions of a quasi-hysterical nature remain, but on the behavioural level there is no doubt that she is making excellent progress.
And by late January he seemed certain that she would soon be ready to face the outside world:
I have discussed with her family the importance of providing a secure and supportive post-discharge environment. A return to teaching is out of the question and I would also be unhappy about her living on her own. Her parents seem willing for her to live with them, however, and in due course there is the prospect of undemanding part-time employment with her father’s company. I am therefore approving a series of weekend home visits during February and March and will review her progress in the light of how successful those visits prove.
All seemed to have gone well, because on 10 March Kingdom had written to Charlie and Marjorie Mallender, with a copy to Lisle, saying that Heather was now ready to leave Challenbrooke Hospital on a permanent basis. ‘This’, he had stipulated, ‘is on the strict understanding that she will sustain a regular series of consultations with me for six months so that her recovery can continue to be monitored.’ Was this, Harry wondered, suspiciously stringent of him? Was this the first hint that he was reluctant to let Heather go?
A note from the registrar at Challenbrooke Hospital followed dated 18 March 1988: ‘Miss Mallender was formally discharged at ten o’clock this morning into her parents’ care.’ And so began the phase of Kingdom’s relationship with Heather in which Harry was most interested. Every week, she travelled to London to see him. And every week he recorded his remarks on her progress. At the base of each sheet appeared the initials PRK/ZL which told Harry that Zohra had typed them. Predictably, therefore, they remained correct and dispassionate in every particular. ‘Heather is adapting well to living with her parents.’ ‘Heather is enjoying the modest challenge of returning to the world of work.’ ‘Heather is becoming noticeably more relaxed and self-confident.’ Suddenly, on 12 July, Zohra’s initials vanished from the photocopied pages. Immediately, Harry’s concentration tightened. If the real Peter Kingdom was ever to emerge into the open, this was the moment.
At first, the only obvious change was in the quality of typing. If the content became less cautious and more revealing, it was only marginally so. Yet one comment of Kingdom’s did seize Harry’s attention. ‘I have decided to re-examine Heather’s claim that her sister was murdered. It has become for her an intellectual premise, but I intend to demonstrate that it retains a schizohysterical root.’ Why, Harry wondered, had Kingdom reverted to this painful subject? Could it be because it offered him a vehicle for sustaining a relationship which was no longer medically necessary?
Two weeks later, describing a meeting at Kew Gardens, Kingdom had written: ‘Heather remarked on how like a courting couple we must seem to others, strolling amongst the blooms. That she felt able to say such a thing illustrates the beneficial sense of equality that now obtains between us.’ Beneficial to whom? Harry would have liked to ask. A brief note on 9 August recorded that Heather had broken her appointment. When she returned a week later, the relief detectable in Kingdom’s prose could almost have been that of a lover discovering that he had not been jilted after all.
My fears were groundless: a family dispute is the explanation for Heather’s absence last week. It revolved around evidence she claims to have uncovered of corrupt business practices at Mallender Marine. She is clearly convinced that it supports her notion that her sister was murdered, a notion which is in danger of assuming obsessive proportions.
There was not one hint Harry could detect that Kingdom blamed himself for having focused Heather’s thoughts on what he had now dubbed an obsession.
August 23:
We discussed the advisability of Heather pursuing enquiries into her sister’s death against her family’s wishes. I recommended that she start cultivating friendships and interests unconnected with Weymouth and Mallender Marine. She has had, it seems, no close friend outside the family circle since a colleague at Hollisdane School with whom she was on excellent terms left to teach abroad last summer. Perhaps such a friendship would have averted her breakdown. Perhaps, she agreed, it would help her shed her preoccupation with the events of last year.
A purpose behind Kingdom’s observations began to hover at the margins of his words. To assist her in abandoning her obsession with Clare’s death – an obsession which Kingdom had gone some way to encouraging – Heather needed a good and reliable friend. Had Kingdom been grooming himself for this role? Harry wondered. Had he hoped to become her friend? Or something more?
Kew Gardens was the venue once again on 6 September. ‘Heather asked me to escort her to a restaurant in Surrey,’ Kingdom had written, ‘where she hopes to learn something crucial to an understanding of what happened to her sister.’ The next sentence was underlined. ‘In view of the exceptional nature of the circumstances, I agreed.’ Curiously, given the significance Kingdom had evidently attached to Heather’s request, there was no subsequent note describing their visit to Haslemere, no reference to it at all in the pages that followed. A bland and solitary sentence recorded that Heather had broken her next appointment and the following consultation, on 20 September, was described in sparse and grudging tones as if Kingdom were still recovering from some setback, some loss of confidence or blow to his pride. Harry knew, of course, that Heather’s reason for going to the Skein of Geese had been precisely the one she had given Kingdom. But perhaps he had thought it a mere pretext. Perhaps he had fondly believed Heather wanted to cultivate him as a friend. If so, the discovery of his error must have been a profound disappointment, an intolerable assault on his self-esteem. And there was worse to follow.
October 11:
Heather announced that she had accepted an invitation from Alan Dysart to spend a few weeks in his villa on Rhodes. She seemed deflated, even depressed, all her former confidence that she was right to doubt the accounts she had been given of her sister’s death drained out of her. She seems very tired and as much in need of a rest as a change of air. Rhodes offers both, but, technically, she needs my permission to suspend our consultations. I expressed certain reservations, based on the fact that she knows nobody on the island and may therefore fall prey to loneliness and hence further depression. She responded by pointing out that the six-month consultancy I had laid down as a condition of her discharge from hospital had now expired and that she knew of no grounds for it to be extended.
Nor, evidently, did Kingdom, since he had lamely noted: ‘In the circumstances, I felt obliged to grant her request.’ What ravening sense of rejection may have lain behind his agreement? Harry wondered. Nine months before, Heather had been wholly dependent on this man’s care and sensitivity. Now she had made it clear she was determined to cut free of him. How had that made him feel? Whatever the answer, no more than the faintest hint of resentment had crept into his concluding remark.
I remain very concerned about Heather’s state of mind, for all her insistence that she is now self-sufficient. Obviously, I cannot accept her judgement in such a matter as final. The possibility therefore exists that further intervention on my part will be necessary.
It was the last comment on the last page. Nothing was resolved, nothing defined, nothing excluded. On 11 October, all Kingdom had been prepared to say was that further intervention on his part might be necessary. What form that intervention might take was not explained. All Harry knew was that one month later Heather had disappeared.
>
‘Hello?’
‘Zohra, this is Harry.’
There was a pause, then she said: ‘Have you read what I gave you?’
‘Yes. And you?’
‘No. There wasn’t time. I just copied what was there.’
‘Then we must meet. Soon.’
‘Come here Saturday morning, as early as you like.’
‘All right. But Zohra—’
‘Yes?’
‘Until we meet, be careful, will you?’
‘You sound worried.’
‘That’s because I am. Very worried.’
43
HARRY DROVE BACK to Swindon from Kensal Green on Christmas Eve with the knowledge that at least forty-eight hours of irksome inactivity separated him from any further progress towards his goal. After reading Kingdom’s notes on Heather, Zohra had agreed with him that it was no longer possible to believe that Kingdom’s presence on Lindos on 6 November had an innocent explanation. Proof that he had returned to Rhodes and played some sinister part in Heather’s disappearance on 11 November was still lacking, however. The man best placed to obtain such proof was Alan Dysart and Harry was due to be a guest at his Devon retreat from Boxing Day onwards. Since Harry did not know where he would be in the interim, the only sensible course was to wait until then. Certainly it seemed so to Zohra, who did not have to return to work and uneasy proximity with Kingdom until the Wednesday after Christmas.
What Zohra did not know – because Harry had not told her – was that somebody was aware of their association, somebody who had commissioned the man in the raincoat to dog Harry’s footsteps and to take a photograph of them walking together in Kensal Green Cemetery. Harry had meant to tell her, but, when it had come to it, had somehow lacked the heart to inflict the knowledge upon her. And throughout his return journey to Swindon he reckoned he had made the right decision: a trouble shared was in this case more likely to be doubled than halved. Not until he walked into the house and met his mother in the passage, indeed, did he doubt that he had acted for the best. Her eyes were wide with alarm and her finger was pressed at right angles against her lips.
Into the Blue Page 34
