by Ruth Rendell
‘Do you think he tried something on the women here? Davina herself, say, or Naomi? I can still hear the venom in his voice when he talked to me about them. The choice language he used.’
‘Would he dare? Perhaps. It’s something we’re never likely to know. Who was he blackmailing when he left home that Sunday and camped here? The gunman or the one Daisy didn’t see?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And why did he have to be here to do that?’
‘This sounds more like one of your theories than mine, Reg. But as I’ve said I think he was fascinated by this place. It was his home. He may have bitterly resented being turned away from it last year. We may well discover that he spent far more time up here and in the woods and just spying out the land than anyone’s dreamed of. All those times he was away from home and no one knew where, I reckon he was up here. Who knew this place and these woods? He did. Who could have driven through them and not got bogged down or hit a tree? He could.’
‘But we’ve said we don’t see him as our second man,’ said Wexford.
‘OK, forget his ability to drive through the wood, forget any involvement in the murders. Suppose he was camping in here on 11 March? Let’s say he intended to stay here for a couple of nights for purposes we as yet know nothing of. He left home on the motorbike at six and brought his stuff up here. He was in the cottage when the two men arrived at eight – or maybe he wasn’t in the cottage but outside, prowling about or whatever he did. He saw the gunmen and one of them he recognised. How about that?’
‘Not bad,’ said Wexford. ‘Who would he recognise? Gabbitas, certainly. Even under a woodsman’s mask. Would he recognise Gunner Jones?’
The bicycle was still there. The workman was still there, putting the finishing touches to his mended window. A thin persistent drizzle began to fall, the first rain for a long time. The water washed down the stables windows and made it dark inside. Gerry Hinde had an angled lamp on above the computer on which he was building a new database: every subject or suspect they had interviewed with his or her alibis and corroborative witnesses.
Wexford had begun to wonder if there was any point their remaining so close to the scene of the murders. It was four week tomorrow since what the newspapers called ‘the Tancred Massacre’ and the Assistant Chief Constable had made an appointment for an interview with him. Wexford was to go to his house. It would seem like a social engagement, a glass of sherry featuring somewhere in the proceedings, but the purpose of it all was, he was sure, to complain to him about the lack of progress made and the cost of it all. The suggestion would be made, or more likely the order given, that they move back to Kingsmarkham, to the police station. He would again be asked how he could continue to justify the night guard on Daisy. But how could he justify to himself the removal of that guard?
He phoned home to ask Dora if there had been any sign from Sheila, got a worried negative and walked outside into the rain. The place had a dismal look in wet weather. It was curious how the rain and the greyness changed the presence of Tancred House, so that it seemed like a building in one of those rather sinister Victorian engravings, austere, even dour, its windows dull eyes and its walls discoloured with water stains.
The woods had lost their blueness and grown pebble-grey under a scummy sky. Bib Mew came out from round the back, wheeling her bicycle. She dressed like a man, walked like a man, you would unhesitatingly put her down as male from here or nearer. Passing Wexford, she pretended not to see him, twisting her head round awkwardly and looking skywards, studying the phenomenon of rain.
He reminded himself of her handicap. Yet she lived alone. What must her life be? What had it been? She had been married once. He found that grotesque. She mounted her bike in man’s fashion, swinging one leg over, pushed hard on the pedals, swung off along the main drive. It was apparent that she was still avoiding the by-road and the proximity of the hanging tree, and this brought him a little inner shiver.
* * * *
Next morning the builders arrived. Their van was on the flagstones by the fountain before Wexford got there. Not that they called themselves builders, but ‘Interior Creators’ from Brighton. He went carefully through his case notes, filling by now a large file. Gerry Hinde had them all on a small disc, smaller than the old single record, but useless to Wexford. He saw the case slipping through his fingers now that so much time had elapsed.
Those irreconcilables remained. Where was Joanne Garland? Was she alive or dead? What connection had she with the murders? How did the gunmen get away from Tancred? Who put the gun in Gabbitas’s house? Or was this some ploy of Gabbitas’s own?
Wexford read Daisy’s statement again. He played over Daisy’s statement on tape. He knew he would have to talk to her again, for here the irreconcilables were most obvious. She must try to explain to him how it was possible for Harvey Copeland to have climbed those stairs yet be shot as if he were still at the foot of them and facing the front door; account for the long time – a long time measured in seconds – between his leaving the dining room and being shot.
Could she also account for something he knew Freeborn would laugh to scorn if he heard the matter raised? If the cat Queenie normally, indeed, it seemed, invariably, galloped about the upper floors at six in the evening, always at six, why had Davina Flory thought the noise upstairs was Queenie when she heard it at eight? And why had the gunman been frightened off by sounds from upstairs, which were in fact made by nothing more threatening than a cat?
There was another question he had to ask, though he was almost sure time would have blotted out her accurate memory of this just as trauma had begun to do so immediately after the event.
The car on the flagstones, as far away from ‘Interior Creators of Brighton’ as could possibly be managed without parking on the lawn, was one he thought he recognised as Joyce Virson’s. He was probably right in thinking Daisy would welcome a respite from Mrs Virson, perhaps an excuse for getting rid of her altogether. He rang the bell and Brenda came.
A sheet had been hung up over the dining-room door. From behind came muffled sounds, not bangs, not scraping noises, but soft liquid floppings and sluicings. Accompanying these was the builders’ invariable sine qua non, but turned low, the mindless dribble of pop music. You couldn’t hear it in the morning room nor in the serre where they were sitting, not two but three people: Daisy, Joyce Virson and her son.
Nicholas Virson took time off whenever he felt like it, Wexford thought, saying an austere good-morning. Whatever he did, was business so bad in this recession time that it mattered very little whether he went in or not?
They had been talking when Brenda brought him in and he fancied their talk had been heated. Daisy was looking determined, a little flushed. Mrs Virson’s expression was more than usually peevish and Nicholas seemed put out, baulked in some endeavour. Were they here for lunch? Wexford hadn’t previously noticed that it was past noon.
Daisy got up when he came in, hugging close to her the cat which had been lying in her lap. Its fur was almost the same shade as the blue denim she wore, a bomber jacket, tight jeans. The jacket was embroidered and between the coloured stitching were a multiplicity of gilt and silver studs. A black and blue checked T-shirt was under the jacket and the belt in the jeans’ waistband was of metal, woven silver and gold with bosses of pearly and clear glass. Inescapable was the feeling that this was a statement she was making. These people were to be shown the real Daisy, what she wanted to be, a free spirit, even an outrageous spirit, dressing as she pleased and doing as she liked.
The contrast between what she wore and Joyce Virson’s clothes – even allowing for the great age difference – was so marked as to be ludricrous. It was a mother-in-law’s uniform, burgundy wool dress with matching jacket, round her neck a silver rhomboid on a thong, trendy in the sixties, her only rings her large diamond engagement ring and her wedding band. Daisy had an enormous ring on her left hand, a two-inch-long turtle in silver, its shell studded with coloured stones, that l
ooked as if it was creeping down her hand from first finger-joint to knuckles.
Having an objection to the word ‘intrude’, Wexford apologised for disturbing them. He had no intention of leaving and agreeing to come back later, and he indicated that he was sure Daisy wouldn’t expect this. It was Mrs Virson who answered for her.
‘Now you’re here, Mr Wexford, perhaps you’ll come in on our side. I know how you feel about Daisy being here alone. Well, she’s not alone, you put girls in here to protect her, though what they could do in an emergency, I’m sorry but I really can’t imagine. And, frankly, as a ratepayer, I rather resent our money being spent on that sort of thing.’
Nicholas said unexpectedly, ‘We don’t pay rates any more, Mother, we pay poll tax.’
‘It’s all the same thing. It all goes the same way. We came here this morning to ask Daisy to come back and stay with us. Oh, it’s not the first time as you know as well as I do. But we thought it worth another try, particularly as circumstances have changed as regards – well, Nicholas and Daisy.’
Wexford watched a terrible blush suffuse Nicholas Virson’s face. It wasn’t a blush of pleasure or gratification but, to judge by the wince which accompanied it, of intense embarrassment. He was nearly sure circumstances hadn’t changed except in Joyce’s Virson’s mind.
‘It’s obviously absurd for her to be here,’ Mrs Virson reflected, and her remaining words came out in a rush. ‘As if she was grown up. As if she was able to make her own decisions.’
‘Well, I am,’ Daisy said calmly. ‘I am grown-up. I do make decisions.’ She seemed quite untroubled by all this. She looked faintly bored.
Nicholas made an effort. His face was still pink. Wexford suddenly remembered the description of the masked gunman Daisy had given him, the fair hair, the cleft chin, the big ears. It was almost as if it was this man she had been thinking of when she described him. And why would she do that? Why would she do it even unconsciously?
‘We thought,’ Nicholas said, ‘that Daisy might come over to dinner with us and – and stay the night and sort of see how she felt. We were planning to give her her own sitting room, a sort of suite, you know. She wouldn’t actually have to live with us, if you see what I mean. She could be absolutely her own woman, if that’s what she wants.’
Daisy laughed. Whether it was at the whole idea or Nicholas’s use of the fashionable absurdity Wexford couldn’t tell. He had thought her eyes troubled and the disturbance, the anxiety in them remained, but she laughed and her laughter was full of merriment.
‘I’ve already told you, I’m going out to dinner tonight. I don’t expect to be back until quite late and my friend will certainly bring me home.’
‘Oh, Daisy . . .’ The man couldn’t help himself. His misery broke through the pompous manner. ‘Oh, Daisy, you might at least tell me who you’re going to dinner with. Is it someone we know? If it’s a friend can’t you bring her with you to us?’
Daisy said, ‘Davina used to say that if a woman talks about her friend, or her cousin even, or “someone” she works with or “someone” she knows, people will always assume it’s another woman. Always. She said it’s because deep down they don’t really want women to have relationships with the opposite sex.’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,’ Nicholas said and Wexford could see he hadn’t. He really hadn’t.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Joyce Virson, ‘but all this is beyond me. I should have thought a girl who had an understanding with a young man would want to spend time with him.’ Her temper was going and with it her self-control. It was always a tremulously balanced function. ‘The truth is that when freedom and a lot of money come to people too soon it goes to their heads. It’s power, you see, they become power-mad. It’s the greatest pleasure in life some women have, exercising power over some poor man whose only crime is he happens to be fond of them. I’m sorry, but I hate that sort of thing.’ She grew wilder, her voice tipping over the edge of control. ‘If that’s women’s lib or whatever they call it, women’s something, horrible nonsense, you can keep it and much good may it do you. It won’t find you a good husband, that I do know.’
‘Mother,’ said Nicholas, with a flash of strength. He spoke to Daisy. ‘We’re on our way to lunch with . . .’ he named some local friends ‘. . . and we hoped you’d come too. We do have to go very soon.’
‘I can’t come, can I? Mr Wexford’s here to talk to me. It’s important. I have to help the police. You haven’t forgotten what happened here four weeks ago, have you? Or have you?’
‘Of course I haven’t. How could I? Mother didn’t mean all that, Daisy.’ Joyce Virson had turned her head away and was holding a handkerchief up to her face while apparently staring with great concentration at the newly-opened tulips in the terrace tubs. ‘She’s set her heart on your coming and so – well, so had I. We really thought we could win you over. May we come back later, on our way home from this lunch? Can we just drop in again and try to explain to you just what we had in mind?’
‘Of course. Friends can call on each other when they want, can’t they? You’re my friend, Nicholas, surely you know that?’
‘Thank you, Daisy.’
‘I hope you’ll always be my friend.’
They might not have been there, Wexford and Joyce Virson. For a moment the two were alone, enclosed in whatever their relationship was, had been, whatever secrets of emotion or events they shared. Nicholas got up and Daisy gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then she did a curious thing. She strode to the door of the serre and flung it open. Bib was revealed on the other side of it, taking a step backwards, clutching a duster.
Daisy said nothing. She closed the door and turned to Wexford. ‘She’s always listening outside doors. It’s a passion with her, a sort of addiction. I always know she’s there, I can hear her start breathing very fast. Strange, isn’t it? What can she get out of it?’
She returned to the theme of Bib and eavesdropping as soon as the Virsons had gone. ‘I can’t sack her. How would I manage with no one?’ She sounded suddenly like someone twice her age, an embattled housewife. ‘Brenda’s told me they’re going. I said I only sacked them in a rage, I didn’t mean it, but they’re going just the same. You know his brother runs that hire-car business? Ken’s going in with him, they plan to expand and they can have the other flat over Fred’s office. John Gabbitas has been trying to buy a house in Sewingbury since last August and he’s just heard his mortgage has come through. He’ll still look after the woods, I suppose, but he won’t live here.’ She gave a kind of dry giggle. ‘I’ll be left with Bib. D’you think she’ll murder me?’
‘You’ve no reason to think . . .?’ he began seriously.
‘None at all. She just looks like a bloke and never speaks and listens at doors. She’s feeble-minded too. As a murderer she makes a really good cleaner. Sorry, that wasn’t funny. Oh God, I sound like that awful Joyce! You don’t think I ought to go there, do you? She persecutes me.’
‘You wouldn’t do what I thought anyway, would you?’ She shook her head. ‘Then I shan’t waste my breath. There are one or two things, as you rightly guessed, I’d like to talk to you about.’
‘Yes, of course. But there’s something I have to tell you first. I was going to before, but they kept on and on.’ She smiled rather ruefully. ‘Joanne Garland phoned.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t look so amazed. She didn’t know. She didn’t know any of it had happened. She came back last night and went down to the gallery this morning and saw it all shut up, so she phoned me.’
He realised Daisy might not be aware of their fears for Joanne Garland, might not know anything beyond the fact that she had gone away somewhere. Why should she?
‘She thought she was phoning Mum. Wasn’t that awful? I had to tell her. That was the worst part, telling her what had happened. She didn’t believe me, not at first. She thought it was a ghastly joke. This was only – well, half an hour ago. It was just b
efore the Virsons came.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
She was in tears.
It was because she was crying on the phone, incoherent with tears and gasps, that he had relented and, instead of asking her to come to the police station, had said he would go to her. In the house in Broom Vale he sat in one armchair and Barry Vine in another while Joanne Garland, incapacitated by the first question he had asked her, sobbed into the sofa arm.
The first thing Wexford noticed when she admitted them to the house was that her face was bruised. They were old marks, healing now, but the vestiges were there, greenish, yellowish, bruises around the mouth and nose, darker abrasions, plum-coloured at the eyes and the hairline. Her tears couldn’t disguise them, nor were they the aftermath of tears.
Where had she been? Wexford asked her that before they sat down and the question drew more tears. She gasped out, ‘America, California,’ and threw herself down on the sofa in floods of weeping.
‘Mrs Garland,’ he said after a while, ‘try to get a grip on yourself. I’ll get you a drink of water.’
She sat bolt upright, her bruised face streaming. ‘I don’t want water.’ She said to Vine, ‘You could get me a whisky. In that cupboard. Glasses in there. Have yourselves one.’ A heavy choking sob cut the end of the last word. From a large red leather handbag on the floor she pulled a handful of coloured tissues and rubbed at her face. ‘I’m sorry. I will stop. When I’ve had a drink. My God, the shock.’
Barry showed her the soda bottle he had found. She shook her head fiercely and took a swig of the neat whisky. She seemed to have forgotten all about the offer she had made them, which in any case would have been refused. The whisky was evidently welcome. The effect it had on her was quite different from that on someone who seldom drinks spirits. It was not so much as if she had been in need of a drink – that is, an alcoholic drink – as thirsty. Some special kind of thirst seemed quenched by what she drank and relief spread through her.
