A Greater Evil

by Natasha Cooper

  The phone rang, making her jump.

  ‘Trish?’ said the familiar voice of her accountant, sounding much more aggressive than usual. She tried to focus her mind on him, but the baby’s expression kept changing. Her face crumpled as though she was about to wail, but no sound emerged.

  ‘May I remind you,’ he went on, ‘that we’re now well into January and you promised me the figures for your tax return by the New Year at the very latest.’

  ‘Shit!’ Trish looked away from the sleeping face of the baby, towards the towers of paper on her desk. ‘I’m sorry. There’s a lot going on and I’ve been distracted. It’s almost all ready.’

  ‘Almost isn’t enough. Have you any idea how many of my clients leave it this long? Why d’you think I’m still in the office, when I should be eating a delicious dinner at home? Send me the figures tomorrow and I’ll do my damnedest to get them processed in time to avoid you having to pay a fine. Okay?’

  Felicity opened her mouth and another small cry escaped. Her eyes opened too. So far she didn’t look too worried. But that cry was followed by another, then another.

  ‘All right,’ Trish said, more meekly than she’d spoken to anyone for years. The tax authorities had always spooked her and for ages her accountant had done the same. Only recently had she allowed herself to believe he was both competent and aware of precisely what the Inland Revenue required of them both. He’d already sent her a list of paperwork for this year’s tax return. It was lying somewhere on her desk. ‘I’ll get down to it as soon as I’ve fed and changed the baby.’

  ‘Baby? What—’ he was asking when she put down the phone to answer Felicity’s increasingly frenzied mewing.

  Trish was clumsy as she performed the unaccustomed tasks, but eventually Felicity was changed, fed and back in her carrycot, and apparently content. Breathing almost as heavily as George during his daily run, Trish turned her attention to the pile of financial papers that had been gathering dust in a brushed-aluminium tray at the back of her desk. Once she’d got going, the whole process would be logical, not remotely difficult, possibly even pleasurable in the way washing-up could be. But it was hard to start.

  The first stage would be to dig out her copy of last year’s accounts and tax return to have a model to remind her of what she was supposed to be doing.

  Don’t be pathetic, she told herself in silence to avoid worrying Felicity. It’s not difficult. And it’ll stop you imagining what’s happening to Sam. You can’t do anything to help him now, so you might as well get on with it.

  Once the files containing her private financial documents were sorted in front of her, she laid the chambers accounts beside them, then tugged open the drawer that held her bank statements. Beneath that was the one where she kept her old chequebook stubs. There had been fewer of those for the past five years or so, since she’d taken to using credit cards or phone banking to pay her bills, but she’d never thrown any away. The old inability to trust anyone, including herself, meant that for ages she’d had a nightmare fantasy of some Revenue inspector demanding documentary proof of a figure she’d entered in a tax return twenty years ago.

  Trying to mock herself out of the silliness, she took out an old set of cheque stubs and saw the ink on the counterfoils had almost faded. She could just make out the date – 6.9.83 – and saw she’d spent twenty pounds on something at Miss Selfridge.

  Who on earth is ever going to need to know that? she asked herself. And what would the revolting Daily Mercury's tame psychologist make of my keeping it?

  Child of a broken home, she decided, desperate for security of any kind and unable to believe she’ll ever find it.

  I wonder, she thought, switching from her own neurotic habits into contemplating Cecilia’s. Who was it who said the truth of the past lay not in accounts of what had happened but in account books?

  Unable to talk to Sam, she grabbed the phone without thinking too hard about what she was going to do and called Gina Mayford again.

  ‘Cecilia’s financial records, Trish?’ she said a few moments later, sounding puzzled and a bit affronted. ‘What do you want those for?’

  ‘It’s just an idea I had. I know you want to know the truth, so I’ve been trying to think of any alternative suspects. Something struck me, which could be absurd, but might answer a lot of questions – if I could check. Did she keep all her bank records?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Gina’s deep voice was slow, as though she was having to force herself to talk. ‘But what’s the point anyway, now they’ve arrested Sam?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I thought you knew. I was told he’d brought the baby to you on the way to the police station.’ Gina’s voice was rising now: urgent, almost panicking. ‘Haven’t you got her, Trish?’

  ‘She’s here. And fine. I was only questioning the idea that his arrest means the police have got it right. Have they said why they’ve taken him in?’

  ‘All I heard was “new evidence”. That’s what the family liaison officer told me. No details. Now we need to make arrangements. You shouldn’t be burdened with Sam’s babysitting. I assumed that’s why you were phoning.’

  ‘I’m happy to do it. Until we know what’s going to happen to him, it’s more sensible if I—’

  ‘I’m afraid we already know what’s going to happen, Trish. You must be realistic. And the baby’s place is with me.’

  ‘Gina …’ Trish hesitated. ‘I just can’t help thinking of all those cases in which the police were sure they had the right man, only to find years later that the killer was someone else entirely.’

  There was a chilly pause, before the judge said: ‘No one could deny that has happened. Occasionally. Very well, I won’t interfere for the next forty-eight hours, but please tell me if you need help with my granddaughter.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  ‘Fine. Then what is it you expect to find among Cecilia’s financial papers?’

  ‘Something to tell us more about her university friends,’ Trish said, making it as general as she could. ‘Did she keep her papers?’

  ‘It’s possible. She was immensely methodical. If she did they’ll be at her house.’ There was a pause that Trish worked to stop herself from filling. ‘I have keys. Would you like to have a look? It’s not a police scene because the crime didn’t happen there. And I’m one of her executors. I can let you in, if you really think it’ll help. D’you want to go round now? We could meet there.’

  ‘You are kind.’ Trish heard Felicity moving in her carrycot, snuffling. ‘But I can’t do it yet. I … I have some urgent work I have to finish here. It could take me all evening. Might I perhaps collect the keys from your clerk tomorrow?’

  Another pause, which again Trish had no impulse to shorten. Then came Mrs Mayford’s voice, colder still: ‘I suppose that would be feasible. What time?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock,’ she said and was given reluctant assent.

  Trish’s next call was to her mother, begging her to come to London tomorrow to take care of Felicity, to avoid any possibility of being made to leave the baby with someone on Mrs Mayford’s staff.

  Court should start sitting at ten, Trish thought, glad the Christmas vacation had ended a week earlier than usual. So Gina will be well occupied and untouchable from then till at least half-past twelve. I don’t want her there while I dig up evidence that could explain so much, including her daughter’s terror of coincidence, even if it doesn’t identify her murderer.

  ‘Of course I will,’ Meg said at the end of Trish’s explanation. ‘How’s it going so far?’

  ‘Fine, but I’ve only had her for about forty minutes.’

  ‘Good. I hope the night’s all right. Just remember, if she starts crying: confidence and a slow, quiet, sure voice from you will help. As well as firm hands. Not tight, but firm.’

  ‘You sound almost scared.’ Trish tried to laugh.

  ‘Infants this small can be a nightmare in a strange place with strange smells an
d sounds and handling. She hasn’t had an easy start, which may make her more jumpy, and she’s a bit young for Calpol. If it gets bad, Trish, phone me, whatever the time. Promise?’

  Does she think I’m completely incompetent? Trish wondered.

  ‘Okay,’ she said into the phone. ‘In any case, I’ll see you tomorrow. About ten o’clock?’

  ‘Sure. Unless you’d like me to come over now and spend the night.’

  ‘I think I’ll manage,’ Trish said.

  By three o’clock in the morning, Trish wished she’d accepted the offer, but she was determined not to call for help. There was no anger in her, just a feeling of hopelessness. She couldn’t understand what the problem was that made Felicity cry with this terrifying intensity. There were moments when Trish thought her breathing was about to stop as the noise pumped out, louder with each second, and her tiny crumpled face grew redder and redder.

  She’d had clean nappies; she’d had a bottle; she’d had clean bedding; she’d even been taken into Trish’s bed.

  Thank God, she thought, George hadn’t planned to be here tonight.

  The only thing that kept Felicity quiet for more than a few seconds at a time was being walked up and down the living room, with Trish’s tuneless voice singing snatches of half-remembered folk songs or chunks of Gilbert and Sullivan to her. She only hoped the downstairs tenants couldn’t hear any of it.

  ‘Take a pair of sparkling eyes,’ Trish croaked, remembering the Losey film of The Go Between rather than any performance of The Gondoliers. ‘Take a pair of ruby lips.’

  Felicity turned her face towards Trish’s chest and sighed a little as she relapsed into sleep. Trish stopped singing with relief, but she didn’t dare stop walking for another ten minutes. By then the baby’s breathing was regular enough to give her a little more confidence. With great care, Trish ascended the spiral staircase and laid the child back in her carrycot. Hardly daring to breathe, Trish waited, staring down at the tiny face, terrified the eyes would open and the cheeks clench all over again. Nothing happened. Walking backwards, she moved away until her legs touched the end of her own bed. She crawled into it and let her head touch the pillow. Breathing became possible again. She let her own eyelids close.

  An urgent, unhappy, angry sound forced its way into her brain. With her mind screaming protests and obscenities, she dragged her eyes open and saw a pale-grey streak outlining the blinds that covered her dormer windows. She lay, watching it for a few seconds, unable to believe it could possibly be daylight, while the cries became even angrier.

  Running her tongue around a mouth that felt and tasted disgusting, Trish flung back the duvet and padded over to the carrycot. There she saw the expected crumpled face. With all her mother’s advice in her mind, she made herself smile and put a firm but gentle hand on the baby’s chest. Like a miracle the sound stopped. Felicity’s eyes opened and she started to suck at her bottom lip.

  ‘Good heavens,’ Trish said aloud, leaning down to scoop her up. ‘It works in the daytime.’

  She found the sling Sam had left, then had to lay Felicity on her bed in order to strap it on. The cries started up again at once. Resisting a momentary temptation to swear, Trish finished tying on the sling, picked Felicity up again and awkwardly deposited her in it. Once there, her cries began to dwindle. Trish hurried down to the kitchen to heat water and make up a bottle, while also brewing a pot of seriously strong coffee.

  Meg’s arrival was nearly always an event to be cherished, but this morning, when she rang the bell at ten, Trish practically fell into her arms. Meg laughed.

  ‘I thought it might be harder than you expected. You look like hell, Trish. Go and have a shower and get dressed. Whatever work you’re planning to do this morning won’t succeed if you embark looking like that.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gina Mayford’s clerk looked pretty frosty when she came out into the huge stone hall of the Royal Courts of Justice to find Trish, but she handed over the keys, adding: ‘The burglar alarm code is 9158. You have to punch it in when you hear the running beeps. When you’ve finished in the house, Mrs Mayford would like you to reset the alarm. You have to punch in the number again, then press button A, then press the white button on the lintel outside the front door when you’ve shut it. Then you must double-lock it. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better write it down for me,’ Trish said, not wanting to antagonize this woman.

  ‘I can’t do that. You might drop the note somewhere it could be picked up and used to burgle the house.’

  Trish summoned her reserves of patience and asked for the instructions to be repeated. She thought she could probably remember them between the Strand and Islington. As she stood on the steps a moment later, she saw a passing taxi with its light on, hailed it and was in the pretty early nineteenth-century street in less than fifteen minutes.

  No one approaching the neat white-painted house would see anything amiss, she thought. Its stripped-pine shutters, probably original, were all closed, but so were many in the other houses along the street. Inside, she managed to silence the alarm’s beeping without trouble and put the keys down on the radiator shelf so she couldn’t lose them.

  The house felt empty in a different way from the big spaces of her flat, which had an invigorating kind of energy. In this house the atmosphere was heavy and bleak, almost as though someone had been very unhappy here.

  Old-looking parquet covered the hall floor, and the walls were painted a sunny yellow, presumably in an attempt to add light. There was a thin veil of dust over everything. Looking back towards the door, she saw her own footprints. No one else had been inside for days.

  With no map or information to guide her, a systematic search seemed like a good idea. She started in the basement, where she found a traditional dining room, papered in a Regency stripe and furnished with antique mahogany and a lot of silver, which was already tarnished. Surprised by so much formality, Trish opened the sideboard doors and found nothing but bottles and flowered china. There were no other places where files and documents could be stored.

  The kitchen had all the unlikely high-status contents that had become desirable in areas like this: an Aga, still belting out heat even though there was no one around to use it, as well as innumerable machines for making bread and ice cream, rolling pasta, and reducing vegetables to uniform slices or juice. Even if Sam and Cecilia had been the kind of obsessive cookery enthusiasts George could be, they wouldn’t have needed all this. Trish thought of the double gas ring in Sam’s studio, the cracked pottery sink, and the few battered pans.

  Again the cupboards held nothing unusual and certainly no papers. The only oddity was a collection of full supermarket plastic bags in the centre of the kitchen table. Already powdered with dust, they proved to contain both dry and tinned food and more or less the same baby kit Sam had brought round last night. Beside one was a package wrapped in crisp white tissue paper and pink ribbon. A folded note with his name on it lay on top.

  Trish looked at it. There was no envelope, and no staples or Sellotape sealed it. Giving in to temptation, she flipped it open with one finger, as though physical gentleness made her curiosity less offensive:

  Dear Sam,

  This was Cecilia’s when she was a baby, knitted by my dearest friend. C always looked especially serene when wrapped in it. I would love it if it had the same effect on your daughter. Please let me know as soon as you need anything. I want to help, Sam.

  With love to you both, Gina

  Ashamed of prying, Trish replaced the letter, using the dustmarks as guides and retreated upstairs.

  Two ground-floor rooms had been knocked through to make one reasonably light drawing room, decorated in a style of slightly countrified elegance that added to the stultifying effect of the dining room and made Trish understand Sam’s less than enthusiastic attitude to the house. It reminded her of George’s place and the way she’d felt imprisoned in its chintzy softness in the early days of their re
lationship. She knew Cecilia had owned this house for several years before she’d met Sam. Perhaps he too had felt he could only breathe safely in his own studio in Southwark. Even so it still seemed odd that he was happy to live in a place where she’d been beaten to death.

  A pretty walnut bureau standing where the back fireplace would have been yielded nothing more than old Christmas cards and the records of any busy woman’s life. Trish pulled open each of the four drawers below the flap and found nothing useful. There were bookshelves in each of the alcoves beside the chimney breasts, with solid cupboards beneath them. The pair nearest the window held outdated hi-fi equipment, CDs and vinyl records. The next had a television on a complicated swinging arm that would bring it up to eye level for anyone seated on the sofa. And tucked onto a lower shelf was an old-fashioned computer with the kind of stout rounded screen not seen in any office for years. Clearly Cecilia couldn’t bear to throw away anything. The third cupboard looked more useful. There were neat rows of box files on both the shelves.

  Trish sat cross-legged on the floor and began to look. She found it much sooner than she’d expected: two box files full of cheque stubs, just like her own. To her delight, she saw Cecilia had kept her account with Coutts, who provided more information on their statements than any other bank. The statements must be somewhere close by. It would be easier to search those than the cheque stubs.

  Here they were, filed in the bank’s own dark-red leather folders. It wasn’t hard to work out which years Cecilia had spent at Brunel, or to chart the pattern of her spending: university bills, credit cards, the odd restaurant, and plenty of entries for small amounts of cash. She’d owned a tiny share portfolio, Trish discovered, which generated dividends of a few pounds every quarter, and there was a regular sum from Gina, which must represent her allowance, as well as the termly grant cheque.

  She had obviously been a careful student, rarely straying into overdraft and ticking off each entry as though she balanced her chequebook at regular intervals. The amounts hardly fluctuated. In some summers there were extra payments, presumably the proceeds of temporary jobs. Then, just after her last term at Brunel had come a large sum paid to her by Guy Bait.