by Penny Kline
‘Yes, all right.’ She looked a little doubtful.
‘Look, Heather, it’s nothing to worry about, just someone with nothing better to do. I remember when my brother and I were small we used to look up people in with peculiar names and phone them just for the hell of it. Are you Mr Longbottom? Well, what are you going to do about it? Pathetic.’
Heather looked unconvinced. I didn’t blame her.
Instead of taking my usual route home I turned right, then right again, and started up a narrow street which I hoped led though to the main road. Earlier in the day the traffic had ground to a halt at a spot where a gas main was being repaired. By circling round the park I hoped to avoid the worst of the disruption the rush hour was certain to cause.
The rain had turned to sleet. As I turned the corner I could see two teenage girls standing under a street lamp, one inspecting her nail varnish, the other talking nonstop, her face contorted with disgust. I only took my eyes off the road for a second but it was long enough for me to miss the old man coming out of an alleyway that led between two houses. He was walking head down and as he stepped into the road I had barely enough time to slam on the brakes. Behind me another car skidded to one side, pulling up an inch from my back bumper, then dropping back as the road curved sharply. It was a brown Allegro.
Shaken by the incident with the old man I slowed down, expecting the Allegro to catch up, then overtake, but when I glanced in my driving mirror the next vehicle to come along was a white van. Either the Allegro had taken a turning I had failed to notice, or it had reversed back the way it had come. Pulling up with two wheels on the pavement, I managed to manoeuvre a reasonably efficient three-point turn, but even as I did so I was aware there was very little chance of catching up with the brown car. Leaving my car and running through the streets was probably the best bet, but by the time I had found somewhere to park it could be miles away. If I stayed in the car and toured round for ten minutes or so there was just a possibility that the Allegro had been parked outside its owner’s house. Had it been following me, or was it pure coincidence that we had both been travelling down the same street? The last time I searched the area, looking for Janice and Trev’s house, I had ended up in a thoroughly bad temper, having wasted nearly an hour. There was no way I was going to repeat the exercise. Owen was right, my desire to get even with the owner of the dog was becoming an irrational obsession. I know what you’d say if I carried on like that, Anna} you’d tell me my wish for revenge was a displacement activity, something picked on as a focus for generalized feelings of stress and frustration.
A driver was hooting, too impatient to wait even a few seconds before the car coming in the opposite direction had passed and it was safe to pull out and overtake. I took no notice, sitting with my hands on the steering wheel and my brain seething with thoughts of dogs and tattoos and anonymous phone calls.
It was getting dark. When the road was clear I started up the engine, drove slowly down the street, trying to work out in which direction I was heading, took a left turn, recognized the cemetery railings and realized I had found my way back to Greenbank Road. Two men, one of them astride a motor bike, were talking and laughing, shouting above the noise of passing cars. The second man had a black leather jacket, covered with metal studs, and was leaning against a tree. Even if I had been going faster, and even without the help of the green and yellow crash helmet, I would have recognized Kieran Rae. The other man was ‘Max’.
Chapter Fifteen
Every so often I checked with Heather to see if Janice and Trevor Baker had made an appointment. They never had. Perhaps it wasn’t so much that they were avoiding me, they simply thought coming to see me had been a waste of time. But one question remained. Why, when they first called in to make an appointment, had they given Heather a fictitious address?
Was it remotely possible that Trev had been responsible for delivering the new bed to Maggie’s house? There was no doubt in my mind that he drove a van for Dreams Come True, it’s not the kind of name you forget, but he was not their only driver and, even if he had delivered the bed it didn’t mean very much. Except surely either he or Janice would have mentioned it. They knew about the fire and would have wanted to tell everyone how Trev had been to the house. Or would they? On the face of it, Trev was just the kind of person that Maggie, with her strongly developed social conscience, would have wanted to help. Supposing she had chatted to him, found out about his attempts to improve himself with the aid of a set of encyclopaedias, taken a friendly interest, then been outraged when he interpreted it as something else. Outraged, she would have ordered him out of the house. Trev could have taken the rejection badly and returned later with a can of petrol.
It was all pointless speculation, I was fairly certain Trev wasn’t the type, and, in any case, wouldn’t two men have been travelling in the delivery van? Beds are heavy, even divided into sections. The man who delivered my kitchen table had expected me to help him carry it up the stairs, but that had been different. The table had come from a secondhand shop in Fishponds Road and the owner had brought it round himself late one evening.
With a sense of mild relief it occurred to me that the police would have checked the name of the furniture shop where Maggie had bought her new bed, and the name of the driver who had made the delivery. If it was Trev he would have been questioned. And Janice would have insisted they were both at home all that evening watching the television.
I could have a word with Howard Fry, but that would mean telling him Trev and Janice had been my clients. Even if Trev had been eliminated as the driver, Howard would suspect I had another reason for contacting him and, before I knew it, the police would be round at the house with a barrage of questions. Still, at least I would discover where the Bakers lived.
Heather had suggested we could check up their address on the electoral roll, or ring up the reference library and ask them to check.
‘Can’t be done,’ I said. ‘You need the name and the address. Unless you give them both they won’t pass on any information.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well, I suppose it’s fair enough. People have a right to some privacy.’
‘Nonsense.’ Her voice was full of scorn. ‘We’re all on computers, have been for ages, and soon we’ll be carrying ID cards in our wallets.’
I wanted to tell her how I had seen Kieran talking to Max. All morning I had been hoping she would say something about it, but no mention had been made so I assumed she knew nothing about the meeting. How long had Kieran known Max? It was far too much of a coincidence to imagine that I had witnessed their first encounter, that Kieran had searched for Max, found him outside the cemetery, and I had just happened to be passing at that precise moment.
If he and Kieran had been friends for some time they could have discussed the incident with the dog and Kieran could have warned him that I was on the lookout for a brown Allegro or a man with a tattoo on his neck. I had a definite feeling Heather was holding something back, but short of suggesting her new boyfriend had things going on in his life he didn’t want her to know about there was nothing I could do to check up on him. It had even occurred to me that Kieran might be a member of the same racist group that Max belonged to. He didn’t look the part but right-wing extremists came in all shapes and sizes. Presumably at the top of the hierarchy there were men in dark suits, with briefcases and rolled umbrellas.
During my lunch break I drove to the park where Trev had described how he and Bradley played football with another boy and his father. The other boy was older than Brad and knew the names of all the players who had been signed by Bristol City during the last ten years. Poor old Trev, with the help of a second-hand yearbook, had been trying to mug up on footballing facts and figures so he could pass the information on to his son. Janice had sneered, pointing out repeatedly that learning stuff by heart wasn’t anything to do with real learning. She was the more intelligent of the two, and the more frustrated. Was that why they were having diffic
ulties with their marriage? If, in fact, that was what their problems were about. Now I would never know.
The sun was shining but the grass was still soaking wet. The park was larger than I had expected. On one side I could hear the roar of traffic on the M32, and straight ahead of me, in the distance, water glinted where a boating pool ran alongside the River Frome. A group of men were kicking a ball at an improvised goal, made out of two piles of coats. As I approached them I could see they were all a bit older than I had thought. Unemployed? Kicking a football about because it was better than lying in bed or watching the telly?
The ball flew in my direction and I kicked it back, relieved when it landed neatly a few feet away from the goal. The inevitable whistles and cat-calls followed. ‘Want to join us, love?’ ‘Who d’you play for?’ ‘Signed you up yet, have they?’
‘Sorry to interrupt your game,’ I said, trying to sound as informal, as unofficial, as possible, ‘but I wondered if any of you knew a man called Trevor Baker. He’s got a little boy — Brad.’
They thought about it, turning to look at one another.
‘Sorry, love.’ The man with the ball was attempting to balance it on his knee. He was wearing white shorts and a claret and blue shirt, and his rolled-down socks revealed short, muscular legs covered in wiry black hairs. ‘Anyone know a bloke called Trev, Trevor? There was a Trev Hearnshaw who lived in St Anne’s but he moved to Weston, must be four or five years now.’
A short man, with lank, sandy hair, gave a sudden shout. ‘Trevor Baker? Did you say his name’s Baker?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Do you know him? Know where he lives?’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, haven’t a clue.’ He turned to the man with the ball. ‘He’s the bloke that nearly put Craig Wallis in hospital. You remember, about a year back. Something to do with Craig’s kid bullying his boy.’ Turning back towards me he pursed his mouth as he tried to recall the exact details. ‘Friend of yours, is he?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Not the law, are you?’
‘No.’
He looked at the others, then back at me. ‘I’d stay well clear if I was you, love. Say something he doesn’t like and he’ll smash you in the face soon as look at you.’
Grace phoned to say Bill Hazeldean had asked to see me. At first I thought I must have misheard.
‘He wants me to visit him in hospital?’ ‘That’s what he said.’ She sounded as surprised as I was. ‘I think it must be something to do with Ian.’
‘Yes, I see. Ian’s staying with you is he?’
‘Ian? No, he’s still in Henbury. I went round earlier in the day to drop off some shopping and found him back from school early with a headache and aching arms and legs. His temperature was up a little, but nothing to worry about, he must have picked up the flu bug that’s been going about. I persuaded him to lie down for a bit but he insisted he could manage perfectly well on his own.’
‘I’ll call in at the end of the week, then,’ I said. ‘Probably best to leave him in peace for a day or two.’
‘Very wise. You don’t want to pass germs on to your clients.’
‘No, it’s not that. I just don’t want to turn up at the house uninvited and force him to come down and open the front door.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I could let you have the key if you like. No, probably not worth it. I’m sure he’ll be feeling better soon.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Isn’t it difficult with teenagers? Fifteen seems so young. On the other hand he’ll soon be sixteen and that’s old enough to leave school and get married.’
After her call it occurred to me that, with the current shortage of beds, Bill might be due to be sent home the following day, but a phone call to the ward confirmed that he was being kept in hospital until the end of the week, just to be on the safe side.
Before I left work I put my head round Heather’s door, hoping to give her one last chance to tell me about Kieran and Max. She had her back to me, bending down, searching for something in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. When I spoke her name she jumped.
‘Anna? Just off are you?’
‘How’s Kieran?’
‘Kieran?’ Her voice was light, high-pitched. ‘He’s fine, as far as I know. As a matter of fact I haven’t seen him for a day or two. He has this friend, with a sick wife.’
‘He’s finished the adventure playground?’
‘What? Oh, that. Yes, it was nothing ambitious, just a question of clearing a space for a see-saw and a couple of swings. Now it’s up to the council. The meeting’s not till next month.’
‘Yes, I see.’ She looked tired, depressed. The relationship wasn’t working out as she had hoped? I thought about Owen. Since the evening he had walked out of the flat neither of us had made contact with the other, not even a brief phone call. If I made the first move he would act as if everything was fine and, when challenged, would insist he couldn’t even remember what all the fuss had been about.
Heather had taken a tissue from a packet on her desk and was pressing it against her nose. Was she upset because Kieran seemed to be cooling off? Or was there something she wanted to keep from me, and the tissue was a kind of protection? I smiled at her and she smiled back, fidgeting with the zip on her cardigan, willing me to go away and stop asking awkward questions.
‘No more calls?’ I asked. ‘Messages about the mysterious Rod?’
She shook her head, relaxing a little at the change of subject. ‘They’re not funny, Anna. The voice is — well, in a way it’s quite menacing.’
‘Menacing? I thought you said it was difficult to hear what the person was saying.’
Her eyes returned to my face. She looked genuinely concerned. ‘You’ve still no inkling what it’s all about? If you ask me it’s an ex-client, with a grievance, although as far as I can remember you’ve never seen anyone called Rod.’
Parking anywhere within reasonable walking distance of the hospital was near impossible. In the end I had to drive on to the roundabout near Broadmead, then come all the way back again and take the turning up St Michael’s Hill. Eventually I managed to squeeze into a space down a short cul-de-sac. It didn’t say PERMIT-HOLDERS ONLY, but in my experience that was no guarantee I wouldn’t find a ticket when I returned.
The place where I had stopped was not far from Jon Turk’s consulting room. A phone call to Imogen’s flat earlier in the day had reassured me that she would probably be all right, at least for the next few days. She seemed to have the same flu bug that Ian had picked up but Rachel, who had essays to catch up on and very few lectures, was looking after her and seemed relieved to have found a way to help. I told her I would be in touch later in the week and she asked if the number of my office was in the book, just in case Imogen had mislaid it.
As I walked back to the hospital I started trying to work out why Bill Hazeldean wanted to see me. Grace would have told him there was no need to worry about Ian, but perhaps he felt he needed a second opinion. On the other hand, his accident could have acted as the catalyst that forced him to face up to the reality of Maggie’s death for the first time. Since Grace was familiar with his dislike of psychologists, he had led her to believe he wanted to tell me something about Ian.
It was three years since I had been inside a hospital but as soon as I entered the foyer the familiar smell took me back instantly. After checking Bill’s ward at the information desk I hurried past the flowers and magazines, and a counter selling sandwiches and tea in plastic mugs, and found the lifts.
An elderly white-haired woman, clutching a bunch of pink carnations wrapped in cellophane, joined me, pressing the button impatiently although we could see the lights as the lift began descending from the top floor.
‘Hate these places,’ she said, echoing the words of a million visitors.
‘Me too.’ My friend Chris was expecting another baby at the end of the month, but visiting Maternity would be different. Giving birth wasn’t like being ill, even though Chris made it sound
like a journey through hell.
When the lift arrived the white-haired woman and I went up in silence, eyeing each other occasionally, the way people do when they find themselves in a small, confined space, then both making for the same ward on the second floor.
Bill’s bed was next to the door. The first time I passed it I failed to recognize him and he had to call me back. ‘Over here, Anna.’
‘Oh, there you are.’ He was propped up against the pillows, wearing striped pyjamas and a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses, although there was no book or newspaper in front of him. His hair stood up in dark tufts and his eyebrows were shaggier than I remembered, giving him an appearance not unlike my father’s ten-year-old Aberdeen terrier.
Pointing to a chair next to the bed, he moved his uninjured arm in a gesture that invited me to sit down.
‘Don’t know why they’re keeping me here,’ he said, shifting his weight in bed, with a slight grimace of pain. ‘Stupid thing to happen, entirely my own fault. I mean who on earth expects the driver of a performance car to leave enough space for a bike trundling round a roundabout?’ ‘You saw the car, then?’
‘Nope. Nothing that would help the police with their enquiries, as the saying goes. Something big and dark. Could’ve been grey, who knows?’
It was hot in the ward, much too hot, but perhaps it was just the sudden contrast with the temperature out in the street. Over by the window, in the bed opposite Bill’s, a man was drinking tea through a straw. Behind him I could see what looked like the Cabot Tower on the top of Brandon Hill, but I could have been mistaken, I had lost my sense of direction after coming out of the lift. A nurse, wheeling a trolley of drugs, stopped at the end of Bill’s bed, lifted the clipboard and studied his notes, then asked if the pain in his shoulder had eased.
He muttered something inaudible and the nurse glanced at me and smiled faintly. ‘All right, Mr Hazeldean, but let me know if you have trouble getting to sleep.’
