Turning Nasty (Anna McColl Mystery Series Book 4)

by Penny Kline

  ‘How sad,’ said Grace. ‘And the other theory?’

  ‘Well, the Freudian explanation would be that confessing to a crime you haven’t committed is an attempt to rid yourself of some of your repressed guilt.’

  She thought about this for a moment. ‘But surely we all have things we feel guilty about?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but most people find other ways of dealing with the problem. Filling up every minute of the day with work or other activities, pushing themselves to the limit with physical exercise, doing good works.’

  Owen smiled to himself. ‘Training as a clinical psychologist and fitting in as many clients as possible.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said sweetly, ‘the perfect answer.’ I turned to Terry. ‘It wasn’t just false confessions I was looking at. False witnesses too. People who for no apparent personal gain claim to have witnessed a violent crime or seen someone answering a description put out by the police.’

  ‘So you’re going to do some work with the cops?’

  ‘Possibly. Only on a part-time basis. If I can I’m going to negotiate some kind of consultancy with the Somerset and Avon CID, but it’s early days yet.’

  Terry’s eyes were shining. I had never had such an attentive audience. So far he had only picked at his food, leaving most of his first course, although Grace had made no comment when she cleared away the dishes. ‘Reliability of witnesses,’ he said, ‘and reliability of police evidence. I can think of hundreds of situations.’ He pushed away his bowl. ‘Grace says you’ve agreed to help poor old Ian. That’s marvellous, a great weight off Bill’s shoulders. Bad enough losing your mother at that age but in those particular circumstances, with Maggie living apart and everything, I couldn’t begin to imagine the complex feelings someone might experience.’

  Owen suddenly burst into the conversation. ‘Oh, come on, Terry, you’d tell the boy it was best to forget about what had happened and get on with the rest of his life.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ Terry looked genuinely affronted. ‘That’s you, Owen. Not all of us academics are such cold bastards.’ He was on his feet, with his hands on my shoulder. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean it. Get carried away. Owen knows what I’m like. Look, let’s go back to the other room. Brandy — what about a brandy? Oh, come on, it’ll keep out the cold. Actually it’s rather a good one, I was given it by a grateful post-grad.’

  Grace had taken the plates to the kitchen. I felt obliged to join her and offer to help with the washing up.

  ‘Oh, hello, Anna.’ She turned her head and, catching her unawares, I was shocked at how unhappy she looked. ‘Don’t worry about this lot. I’m going to leave it to the morning. Now, coffee. Do you and Owen drink decaffeinated?’

  ‘Whatever you’re making. We’re not fussy.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ She had her hand on a cupboard door. ‘Terry’s become a health food fanatic. I suppose I ought to be the same but working with doctors… They get so exasperated when the patients read articles in the paper and come to the surgery with all kinds of half-baked ideas about what’s good for you and what should be avoided at all costs.’

  ‘I tend to stick to the idea that worrying about your health’s bad for you so it’s better to eat more or less what you like.’ ‘Yes, of course.’ But she was thinking about something else. The kitchen was immaculate, not a single thing out of place, in spite of the fact she had recently prepared a three-course meal for four. When I glanced at the row of recipe books on a shelf near the window I couldn’t help noticing how they had been arranged in order of size, with a fat Delia Smith, on the left, leading down to a miniature book at the other end, entitled How to use Herbs.

  ‘You enjoy cooking?’ I asked, for want of anything better to say.

  ‘Cooking?’ She looked as if she was coming out of a trance. ‘You know I hadn’t known Maggie all that long.’ She gave the hot tap a sharp twist. ‘In some ways she was rather intimidating, but she understood things, the kind of things it’s sometimes difficult to explain.’

  Was she referring to the fact that both she and Maggie had left their teenage sons with their respective fathers? Grace had done it in order to live with Terry. Had her son wanted to stay with his father or was it, as in Ian’s case, that it seemed better to remain at the same school?

  ‘Do you know if she did much work with the Asian community?’ I asked. ‘I heard she helped with some kind of club.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She was arranging four white bone china cups on a tray. ‘Maggie couldn’t bear injustice. I envied her the way she involved herself in so many worthwhile causes. It’s something most of us plan to do but we find excuses, say we haven’t the time.’ She had the tray in her hands and was making for the door. The pulse in her neck was throbbing fast, but by the time we were back in the living room the sadness had left her eyes and she had reverted to being the perfect hostess.

  We left just before midnight. For most of the last hour I had suspected Grace had been longing to go to bed, but Terry was enjoying himself, talking about his research, which seemed mostly involved with applying learning theory to children’s early development. He talked about babies and toddlers as though they were rats that could be conditioned to respond in the way their parents wanted, simply by rewarding ‘good’ behaviour and ignoring the bad. When I protested he started presenting me with the kind of watertight argument it is difficult to refute. I wanted Owen to join in on my side but he looked almost as tired as Grace. When he yawned loudly without bothering to put his hand over his mouth I used it as a cue to say it was time we made a move.

  ‘Oh, not yet.’ Terry sprang to his feet, then noticed Grace’s expression. ‘Well, you must come again soon. Very soon.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, jumping in quickly to cover up for Owen’s lack of response. ‘I’d invite you round to my place but I have to eat in the kitchen and there’s barely room for two to sit down. Maybe we could meet in the pub sometime.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Terry followed us to the front door, then insisted on showing us his latest pride and joy, a Morgan, bought less than a month ago from a retired wing-commander living in Exmouth. It was parked outside in the road but I had failed to notice it on our way in.

  As Owen circled the car, making scathing remarks about the rain coming in through the canvas top, Terry squeezed my arm and promised to get in touch next time he had a trip that took him zooming up the motorway, visiting a colleague in Birmingham.

  ‘Only joking, Anna, only joking. You know me.’

  Grace stood in the doorway, smiling. I walked back to thank her for the evening and compliment her on the food.

  ‘Terry doesn’t mean half of what he says,’ she whispered. ‘He’s nervous so he covers it up by talking too much. When you see Ian again give him my love. I clean up while he and Bill are out so I haven’t seen him for a day or two. I don’t know if you noticed but the house was in a terrible state. Poor Bill, perhaps one day he’ll re-marry. Some men can manage quite well on their own, but they never seem to make what you’d call a proper home. I’m afraid he’s desperately unhappy. Has been for a long time.’

  Out on the pavement I could hear Owen and Terry laughing about something that had happened at the university, something to do with a deputy vice-chancellor’s fur-trimmed gown. Now was my chance to ask Grace if she had any idea why Maggie might have made an appointment to come and see me. But something held me back. Grace would tell Terry and however much I impressed on her that no one else should know about it Terry might feel obliged to talk to Maggie’s colleagues at the university, asking if anyone knew if she had had a particular worry on her mind.

  ‘Grace,’ I said, my voice coming out in a ridiculous conspiratorial whisper that I had never intended. ‘What was Maggie like? I saw a photo of her in the house, the one taken on holiday in Cornwall with Bill and Ian, but it might help, I mean it might help Ian, if I knew more about what kind of a person she was. I can’t seem to build up a clear, consistent picture in my mind.’

&nb
sp; Grace thought about it, screwing up her face as if it was hard work trying to find the right words. When she finally spoke her voice was full of emotion. ‘People loved her or hated her. She was such a strong personality. So full of energy.’ She broke off realizing what she had said. ‘It was as though she’d been frustrated for most of her life, then suddenly found what she wanted to do. When I say it had gone to her head I don’t mean it as a criticism. If you stay at home all day you lose confidence, start seeing yourself almost as a second-class citizen. Then when an opportunity presents itself — well, it’s as though however much you do you’ll never be able to make up for lost time. Do you know what I mean?’

  She paused, glancing towards Owen and Terry. ‘You know when something nice happens how you always feel it’ll be followed by another event that destroys your happiness? Maggie dreaded having everything taken away from her. All those successes — the first-class degree, the PhD, followed straight after by a job at the university. She used to say it was too good to be true. Now it’s almost as if she had some premonition.’

  Chapter Six

  She lay on her back, pink, inert, with the man crouching beside her, his knee pressing against her arm.

  ‘Take a good look,’ he announced proudly, ‘the only lady in the world who can stay quiet for more than five minutes at a time.’

  A short flurry of hailstones rattled against the windows of the Methodist church hall. My breathing became more rapid.

  ‘Well, then,’ said the man, clearing his throat for greater effect, ‘why do you suppose we use the female of the species?’

  A woman at the back giggled. Her friend whispered something in her ear, then they both sat up straight, like good little children waiting for teacher to impart a pearl of wisdom.

  ‘It’s because of these,’ said the man, jerking his head in the direction of the dummy’s chest. ‘Ladies have two appendages that make it easier to remember where to apply the pressure. Just here between the nipples. Now who’d like to have a go?’

  I stood up, my heart pounding with the anxiety that precedes an almost inevitable loss of control. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I came here this evening to learn first aid, not to listen to a string of pathetic sexist remarks.’

  The room fell silent, all eyes focused in my direction. Stuck up cow. One of those. I could sense their hostility. A middle-aged woman, with a headscarf covered in bridles and horses’ heads, let out an exaggerated sigh and raised her eyes to heaven in mock exasperation.

  The first-aid instructor laughed, trying to retrieve the situation. ‘Sorry, miss, it wasn’t my intention to cause offence. If you’re ready you can be the first to resuscitate the patient.’

  I took a few steps forward, knelt beside the dummy and concentrated all my attention on her ridiculous Sindy-doll face.

  ‘Hand under the neck,’ said the instructor, ‘now head tilted back. No, not too much. Now pinch the nose and place your mouth over the… ’ He broke off, lifting a moisturized paper from a small container and wiping round the dummy’s cold, rigid lips. ‘Right, carry on. Good. Excellent. Very good.’

  The dummy’s chest rose and fell. I stopped breathing in air, placed my knuckle on the breastbone and pushed down three times in quick succession.

  ‘Good. First class.’ To his credit he had decided not to retaliate. In fact, an uneasy kind of bond had developed between us, one that definitely excluded Headscarf. Later, in the pub with his colleagues, he would talk about how there was always one in every class. A toffee-nosed bitch, too superior to take a joke. But perhaps not. Next time he might just watch his step, clean up his act. There was always a chance.

  On my way out a young man who had been sitting in the front row caught up with me, out of breath.

  ‘Sorry about that. Bloody awful wasn’t it? I was going to say something myself.’ ‘So why didn’t you?’

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘All those women, I suppose.’

  I nodded. He was a little older than I had thought at first sight, dressed in biker’s gear but with a face like a surprised-looking teddy bear. That was the first description that came into my head, probably something to do with the slightly mournful expression and dark, beady eyes.

  He smiled, wanting to be friendly, wanting to make up for his lack of support during the demonstration. ‘I don’t know about you, but the reason I came here this evening, I’ve always had this fear of coming across a road accident and not having a clue how to help.’

  ‘Yes.’ My coat was in the car and the cold was starting to penetrate my sweater, but the guy felt ashamed of his lack of support, wanted to make amends.

  ‘D’you s’pose we’ll remember,’ he said, ‘just by attending one class like that?’

  ‘It’s better than nothing. And we’ve got the pack of instruction cards.’

  He was adjusting his green and yellow crash helmet. A moment later he swung his leg over a powerful motor cycle, parked by the side of the building, and rested his hands on the handlebars.

  ‘Kieran,’ he said. ‘Kieran Rae. Friend of Heather. That’s how I knew who you were.’

  ‘Heather where I work? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize — ’

  ‘Why should you? Heather pointed you out in the supermarket. Once seen, never forgotten, eh? How’s the leg? Heather says the bloke with the dog had a tattoo on his neck. That means you’ll be able to spot him if you see him. If you give me an idea how he looked I’ll keep my eyes open.’ ‘Thanks, but I’m not even sure I can remember that accurately. A bird, an eagle maybe, and some kind of hooded figure.’ ‘And a name? I thought Heather said there was a name.’

  ‘Max. I think it was Max. Look, thanks for offering to help but… ’

  He guided the bike into the road and started the engine. ‘See you around then, I expect.’Bye for now.’ A moment later his tail light was disappearing down the road.

  There were no lights on in the house in Henbury. Ian must have forgotten I was coming or Bill had failed to pass on the message, saying I would be half an hour later than planned, and Ian had left the house in disgust.

  It had been a mistake, changing the time of the appointment. Ian was touchier than I had thought and had interpreted my wish to attend the first-aid class as a way of telling him I had more important things to do than driving all the way out to Henbury.

  I was wrong. As soon as I rang the bell I heard someone jumping down the stairs and a moment later the door was yanked open revealing Ian, dressed in a navy blue track suit, and white trainers, caked in mud.

  ‘Come in.’ He stood to attention, his manners as impeccable as ever. ‘Dad’s got an open evening at the school. I was in my room, working on my assignment. Sorry, I’m afraid I forgot to switch on the outside light.’

  ‘No problem.’ I hung my coat on a hook inside the door, regretting it a few minutes later when Ian led me into the icy-cold living room.

  Kneeling on a rug in front of the fireplace he switched on the living-flame fire, then stood up, brushing his legs. ‘Sorry, just habit. Floor used to be knee-deep in dust but Grace has cleaned the place from top to bottom.’ He ran his finger along the mantelpiece. ‘Very good of her, don’t you think?’

  ‘I expect she’s glad to help. Have you seen her recently?’

  Either he didn’t hear my question or he couldn’t be bothered to answer. ‘Is it cold in here? I should have turned the fire on before only I didn’t get back till quite late. If you prefer we could sit in my room.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘Or perhaps you wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘Your room would be fine,’ I said. ‘What time will your father be back?’

  He clasped his hands together, humming under his breath. ‘I’m not quite sure. Quite soon, I should think. Shall I go up first?’ I followed him up the stairs. His room was at the back of the house, which accounted for the lack of lights visible from the road. It was an average-sized three-bedroomed house, of the kind built in the 1930s, with one large bedroom and two sma
ll ones. Through the half-open door of the largest room I noticed what looked like a pile of brand-new clothes, wrapped in a stiff Cellophane bag, the way they arrive if you send for a special offer advertised in one of the colour mags.

  Ian turned his head, following my gaze. ‘Ordering stuff’s always much better than actually owning it. I told Dad to send them back but I expect it’s too much bother.’

  Ian’s room measured about twelve feet by eight. A divan bed was pushed against the wall beneath the window, and a pine desk, comprising a work surface, three drawers and several shelves, filled the gap between the top end of the bed and the opposite wall. A computer had been pushed to one side to make room for a pile of books and files and an A4 pad. In front of the computer was a chipped blue and white dinner plate bearing the remains of a greasy fry-up.

  ‘Your assignment?’ I asked, nodding in the direction of the file paper. ‘How much of your work is assessed by the teachers and how much is exams?’

  ‘About a quarter’s assessed.’ He sat on the bed and indicated that I could have the only chair. ‘I don’t think it’s fair really. I mean, some kids have parents that can give them a hand, help find the right books. Other kids have to do the best they can. It’s like doing research. Easy to cheat if you know how.’

  Was he talking about his mother’s research or was it just a general observation based on stories she had told him during her years of studying for degrees?

  ‘When you visited your mother she used to tell you about her work?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not much. Usually she talked about Dad and if we were having enough to eat, and if the washing machine had been mended. That kind of stuff.’ ‘You saw her every weekend?’

  He looked up, surprised. ‘Oh, there was no fixed arrangement. Mum and Dad never had to go to court or anything. It was all quite — what’s the word?’ ‘Amicable?’