by Ruth Rendell
Simisola
SIMISOLA RUTH RENDELL
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser © Kingsmarkham Enterprises Ltd 1994 Ruth Rendell has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work Microsoft Reader edition, 1843450380 Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader edition, 1843450399 This edition published in 2001 by Random House eBooks First UK print edition published in 1994 by Hutchinson Second UK print edition published in 1995 by Arrow Imprints of The Random House Group Limited www.randomhouse.co.uk www.booksattransworld.co.uk
To Marie
Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21
Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Acknowledgements About the author
Chapter One There were four people besides himself in the waiting room and none of them looked ill. The olive-skinned blonde in the designer tracksuit bloomed with health, her body all muscles, her hands all golden tendons, apart from the geranium nails and the nicotine stains on the right forefinger. She had changed her seat when a child of two arrived with its mother and homed to the chair next to hers. Now the blonde woman in the tracksuit was as far away as she could get, two seats from himself and three from the very old man who sat with his knees together, his hands clutching his checked cap in his lap and his eyes on the board where the doctors’ names were printed. Each of the GPs had a light above his or her name and a hook underneath it on which coloured rings hung: a red light and rings for Dr Moss, green for Dr Akande, blue for Dr Wolf. The old man had been given a red ring, Wexford noticed, the child’s mother a blue one, which was exactly what he would have expected, the preference for the senior man in one case, the woman in the other. The woman in the tracksuit hadn’t got a ring at all. She either didn’t know you were supposed to announce yourself at reception or couldn’t be bothered. Wexford wondered why she wasn’t a private patient with an appointment later in the morning and therefore not obliged to wait here fidgeting and impatient. The child, tired of marching back and forth on the seats of the row of chairs, had turned her attention to the magazines on the table and begun tearing off their covers. Who was ill, this little girl or her overweight pallid mother? Nobody said a word to hinder the tearing, though the old man glared and the woman in the tracksuit did the unforgivable, the outrageous, thing. She thrust a hand into her crocodile-skin handbag, took out a flat gold case, the function of which would have been a mystery to most people under thirty, removed a cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter. Wexford, who had been successfully distracted from his own anxiety, now became positively fascinated. No fewer than three notices on the walls, among the exhortations to use a condom, have children immunized and watch your weight, forbade smoking. What would happen? Was there some system whereby smoke in the waiting room could be detected in reception or the dispensary? The child’s mother reacted, not with a word to the woman in the tracksuit but by sniffing, giving the little girl a vicious yank with one hand and administering a slap with the other. Screams ensued. The old man began a sorrowful head-shaking. To Wexford’s surprise the smoker turned to him and said, without preamble, ‘I called the doctor but he refused to come. Isn’t that amazing? I was forced to come here myself.’ Wexford said something about GPs no longer making house calls except in cases of serious illness. ‘How would he know it wasn’t serious if he didn’t come?’ She must have correctly interpreted Wexford’s disbelieving look. ‘Oh, it’s not me,’ she said and, incredibly, ‘it’s one of the servants.’
He longed to know more but the chance was lost. Two things happened simultaneously. The blue light for Dr Wolf came on and the door opened to admit the practice nurse. She said crisply, ‘Please put that cigarette out. Didn’t you see the notice?’ The woman in the tracksuit had compounded her offence by dropping ash on the floor. No doubt she would have ground her fag end out there too but for the nurse taking it from her with a little convulsive grunt and carrying it off into hitherto unpolluted regions. She was unembarrassed by what had happened, lifting her shoulders a little, giving Wexford a radiant smile. Mother and child left the waiting room in quest of Dr Wolf just as two more patients came in and Dr Akande’s light came on. This is it, thought Wexford, his fear returning, now I shall know. He hung up the green ring and went out without a backward glance. Instantly it was as if those people had never been, as if none of those things had happened. Suppose he fell over as he walked the short corridor to Dr Akande’s room? Already twice that morning he had fallen. I’d be in the best place, he told himself, the doctors’ surgery – no, he corrected himself, must move with the times, the medical centre. The best place to be taken ill. If it’s something in my brain, a growth, a bloodclot. . . . He knocked on the door, though most people didn’t. Raymond Akande called, ‘Come in.’ This was only the second time Wexford had been to him since Akande joined the practice on Dr Crocker’s retirement, and the first visit had been for an anti-tetanus injection when he cut himself in the garden. He liked to believe there had been some sort of rapport between them, that they had taken to each other. And then he castigated himself for thinking this way, for caring, because he knew damned well he wouldn’t have involved himself with likings or dislikings if Akande had been other than he was. This morning, though, these reflections were nowhere. He was concerned only with himself, the fear, the horrid symptoms. Keeping calm, trying to be detached, he described them, the way he fell over when he got out of bed in the morning, the loss of balance, the floor coming up to meet him. ‘Any headache?’ said Dr Akande. ‘Any nausea?’ No, there was none of that, Wexford said, hope creeping in at the door Akande was opening. And, yes, he had had a bit of a cold. But, you see, a few years ago he’d had this thrombosis in the eye and ever since then he’d. . . . Well, he’d been on the alert for something like it, a stroke maybe, God forbid. ‘I thought maybe Ménière’s syndrome,’ he said unwisely. ‘I’m no believer in banning books,’ said the doctor, ‘but I’d personally burn all medical dictionaries.’ ‘OK, I did look at one,’ Wexford admitted. ‘And I didn’t seem to have the right symptoms, apart from the falling bit.’ ‘Why don’t you stick to the judges’ rules and leave diagnosis to me?’ He was quite willing. Akande examined his head and his chest and a few reflexes. ‘Did you drive yourself here?’ His heart in his mouth, Wexford nodded. ‘Well, don’t drive. Not for a few days. Of course you can drive home. Half the population of Kingsmarkham’s got this virus. I’ve had it myself.’ ‘Virus?’ ‘That’s what I said. It’s a funny one, it seems to affect the semi-circular canals in the ears and they control the balance.’
‘It’s really just that, a virus? A virus can make you fall down like that, out of the blue? I measured my length in the front garden yesterday.’ ‘It’s quite a length to measure,’ said Akande. ‘Didn’t have any illuminating visions, I suppose? No one to tell you to stop kicking against the pricks?’ ‘You mean visions are another symptom? Oh, no, I see. Like on the road to Damascus. You’re not going to tell me that was all Paul had, a virus?’ Akande laughed. ‘The received view is that he was an epileptic. No, don’t look like that. This is a virus, I promise you, not a case of spontaneous epilepsy. I’m not going to give you anything for it. It’ll get right in a day o
r two on its own. In fact, I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t get right immediately now you know you haven’t got a brain tumour.’ ‘How did you. . . ? Oh, well, I suppose you’re used to patients with irrational fears.’ ‘It’s understandable. If it’s not medical books, it’s the newspapers never letting them forget about their health for five minutes.’ Akande got up and held out his hand. Wexford thought it a pleasant custom, that of shaking hands with patients, the way doctors must have done years ago when they made house calls and sent bills. ‘Funny creatures, people,’ the doctor said. ‘For instance, I’m expecting someone this morning who’s coming on behalf of her cook. Send the cook, I said, but that apparently wouldn’t do. I’ve a feeling – without foundation, I must tell you, mere intuition – that she’s not going to be too overjoyed when she finds I’m what my father-in-law’s boss used to call “a man of colour”.’ For once, Wexford was speechless. ‘Have I embarrassed you? I’m sorry. These things are always just under the surface and sometimes they bubble up.’ ‘You haven’t embarrassed me,’ Wexford said. ‘It was only that I couldn’t think of anything to say that would be . . . well, a refutation or a consolation. I just agreed and I didn’t care to say that.’ Akande gave him a pat on the shoulder, or one that was aimed at the shoulder but landed on his upper arm. ‘Take a couple of days off. You should be fine by Thursday.’ Halfway down the corridor Wexford met the blonde woman heading towards Akande’s room. ‘I know I’m going to lose my cook, I can just see it coming,’ she said as she passed him. A miasma that was a mix of Paloma Picasso and Rothman Kingsize hung in her wake. Surely she hadn’t meant the cook was going to die? He went jauntily out, pushing open both of the double doors. Only one of the cars in the car park could possibly be hers, the Lotus Elan with the personalized number, AK 3. She must have paid a lot for that, it was one of the earliest. Annabel King, he speculated. Anne Knight? Alison Kendall? Not all that number of English surnames begin with K, but then she certainly wasn’t of English origin. Anna Karenina, he thought, being silly. Akande had said he could drive home. In fact, Wexford would have enjoyed walking home, he loved the idea of walking now he had stopped falling over or being afraid of falling over. The mind was a funny thing, what it could make the body do. If he left the car here he’d only have to come back for it later. The young woman waddled and the child skipped down the medical centre’s shallow steps. Full of good cheer, Wexford wound down his window and asked them if they’d like a lift. Somewhere, anywhere, he was in the mood to drive miles out of his way if need be. ‘We don’t take lifts from strangers.’ To the child she said very loudly, ‘Do we, Kelly?’
Snubbed, Wexford withdrew his head. She was quite right. She had behaved wisely and he had not. He might be a combined rapist and child molester cunningly disguising his nefarious motives by a visit to the doctor. Leaving, he passed a car he recognized coming in, an old Ford Escort that had been resprayed bright pink. You hardly ever saw a pink car. But whose was it? He often had a brilliant eidetic memory, faces and townscapes recorded in full colour, but the names got lost. He drove out into South Queen Street. It was going to be nice telling the news to Dora and he indulged himself by thinking what might have been, the horror, the communicated dread, the putting of two brave faces on it, if he’d had to tell her he’d an appointment at the hospital for a brain scan. None of that was going to happen. Would he have been brave if it had? Would he have lied to her? In that case he’d have had to lie to three people. Turning into his own garage drive, he saw Neil’s car already there, thoughtfully parked on the far left to allow his own passage. Neil and Sylvia’s car, he had better learn to say, for they had just the one between them now, since hers had been given up when her job went. They might not even be able to afford this one, the way things were now. I ought to be gratified, he thought, I ought to be flattered. Not everybody’s children come flying to the bosom of Mum and Dad when misfortune strikes. His always did. He ought not to have this reaction, this immediate response to the sight of the Fairfax car which was to ask: what now? Adversity is good for some marriages. The warring couple put aside their strife and stand united against the world. Sometimes. And the marriage has to be in a pretty bad way before this happens. Wexford’s elder daughter’s marriage had been bad for a long time and it was different from other people’s bad marriages chiefly in that she and Neil stayed doggedly together, ever seeking new remedies, for the sake of their two sons. Once Neil had said to his father-in-law, ‘I do love her. I really love her,’ but that was a long time ago. A lot of tears had fallen since then and a lot of cruel things been said. Many times Sylvia had brought the boys home to Dora and just as often Neil had taken himself to a motel room on the Eastbourne road. Her educating herself and working for the social services had solved no problems, and nor had their lavish foreign holidays or moves to bigger and better houses. At least, money or the lack of it had never been an issue. There was enough, more than enough. Until now. Until Neil’s father’s firm of architects (two partners, father and son) felt the recession, then its bite, then was punched and undermined by it into collapse. Neil had been without work for five weeks now, Sylvia for nearly six months. Wexford let himself into his house and stood for a moment, listening to their voices: Dora’s measured and calm, Neil’s indignant, still incredulous, Sylvia’s hectoring. He was in no doubt they were waiting for him, had come expecting to find him there, ready to be diverted from his brain tumour or embolism by their catalogue of troubles: joblessness, no prospects, increasing mortgage debt. He opened the living room door and Sylvia fell upon him, throwing her arms round his neck. She was a big tall woman, well able to embrace him without finding herself clutching his middle. For a moment he thought her affection occasioned by anxiety for his health, his very life. ‘Dad,’ she said, she wailed, ‘Dad, what d’you think we’ve come to? I mean, us. It’s unbelievable but it’s happening. You won’t believe it. Neil’s going on the dole.’
‘It won’t exactly be dole, darling,’ said Neil, using an endearment Wexford hadn’t heard on his lips for many a year. ‘Not the dole. Benefit.’ ‘Well, it amounts to the same thing. Welfare, social security, unemployment pay, it comes to the same. It’s all unbelievably ghastly, happening to us.’ It was interesting how Dora’s quite soft voice could penetrate this stridency. It cut through it like a fine wire splitting a chunk of extra strong cheddar. ‘What did Dr Akande say, Reg?’ ‘A virus. Apparently, there’s a lot of it about. I’m to take a couple of days off, that’s all.’ ‘What a relief,’ Dora said lightly. ‘A virus.’ Sylvia made a snorting sound. ‘I could have told you that. I had it myself last week, I could hardly keep on my feet.’ ‘Then it’s a pity you didn’t tell me, Sylvia.’ ‘I’ve got more things to think about, haven’t I? I’d be laughing if feeling a bit giddy was all I had to contend with. Now you’re back, Dad, perhaps you can stop Neil doing this. I can’t, he never takes any notice of what I say. Anybody’s got more influence with him than his own wife.’ ‘Stop him doing what?’ said Wexford. ‘I’ve told you. Going to the – what’s it called? – the ESJ. I don’t know what that stands for but I know what it is, the combined dole place and labour exchange – no, they don’t call it that any more, do they?’ ‘They haven’t called it that for years,’ said Neil. ‘The Job Centre.’ ‘Why should I stop him?’ Wexford said. ‘Because it’s hateful, it’s degrading, it isn’t the kind of place people like us go to.’ ‘And what do people like us do?’ Wexford asked in the voice that should have warned her. ‘Find something in the appointments section of The Times.’ Neil began to laugh and Wexford, his anger swiftly changed to pity, smiled sadly. Neil had been studying the situations vacant daily for weeks now, had written, he had told his father-in-law, over three hundred letters of application, all in vain. ‘The Times don’t give you any money,’ said Neil, and Wexford could hear the bitterness in his voice, if Sylvia couldn’t. ‘Besides, I have to know where I stand on our mortgage. Maybe they can do something to stop the building society repossessing the house. I can’
t. Perhaps they can advise me what to do about the kids’ schools, if it’s only to tell us to send them to Kingsmarkham Comprehensive. Anyway, I’ll get money – don’t they call it a giro that they send you? One thing, I shall soon know. And I’d better, Reg, I’d better. We’ve got just two hundred and seventy pounds left in our joint account and that’s the only account we’ve got. Just as well, I expect, since they ask you what savings you’ve got before they pay out.’ Wexford said quietly, ‘Do you want a loan? We could let you have a bit.’ He thought, swallowed. ‘Say a thousand?’ ‘Thanks, Reg, thanks very much, but it had better be no. It’ll only postpone the evil day. I’m very grateful for the offer. A loan ought to be paid back and I can’t see how I’d ever repay you, not for years.’ Neil looked at his watch. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘My appointment with the new claims adviser is for ten-thirty.’ Dora must have spoken without thinking, ‘Oh, do they give you an appointment?’ It was odd to see how a smile could sadden a face. Neil hadn’t quite winced. ‘You see how being unemployed demotes you? I no longer belong among those who can expect
social grace. I’m one of the queuers now, the waiters-in-line who are lucky to be seen at all, who get sent home with nothing and told to come back tomorrow. I’ve probably lost my style and my surname too. Someone’ll come out and call, “Neil, Mr Stanton will see you now”. At ten to one, though I’m due there at ten-thirty.’ ‘I’m sorry, Neil, I didn’t mean . . .’ ‘No, of course you didn’t. It’s unconscious. Or, rather, it’s a shift the consciousness makes, an adjustment in the way you think about a prosperous architect with more commissions than he can handle and someone who’s out of work. I have to go now.’ He didn’t take their car. Sylvia needed it. He would walk the half mile to the ESJ, and later on . . . ‘Get the bus, I suppose,’ said Sylvia. ‘Why not? Half the time I have to. If there are only four a day that’s too bad. We have to watch our petrol consumption. I expect he can walk five miles. You used to tell us your grandfather walked five miles to school and five miles back when he was only ten.’ There was a settled despair in her voice Wexford didn’t like to hear, much as he deplored her self-pity and her petulance. He heard Dora offering to have the boys for the weekend so that Sylvia and Neil could get away, if only to London where Neil’s sister lived, and he seconded that rather too heartily. ‘When I think,’ said Sylvia, who was given to doleful reminiscence, ‘how I slaved to get to be a social worker.’ She nodded to her husband as he left, resumed while he was still in earshot, ‘Neil didn’t exactly adapt his lifestyle to help. I had to arrange to get the boys looked after. I’d still be working at midnight sometimes. And what has it all come to?’ ‘Things must get better eventually, dear,’ said Dora. ‘I’ll never get another job with the social services, I feel it. Do you remember those children in Stowerton, Dad? The “home alone” kids?’ Wexford thought. Two of his officers had met the parents at Gatwick coming off a plane from Tenerife. He said, ‘Epson, weren’t they called? He was black and she was white . . .’ ‘What’s that got to do with it? Why bring racism into it? That was my last job as a child care officer before the cuts. Little did I dream I’d be a housewife again before those kids went back to their parents. Will you really have the boys for the weekend, Mother?’ That was the woman he had seen driving the pink car. Fiona Epson. Not that it was important. Wexford debated whether to go upstairs and lie down or defy the doctor and return to work. Work won. As he left the house he could hear Sylvia lecturing her mother on what she called acceptable forms of political correctness.
