Turning Nasty (Anna McColl Mystery Series Book 4)

by Penny Kline

  ‘You still there then?’ called Janice, her voice just audible above the noise from the television. ‘Come in, if you’re coming.’

  The front room had been stripped of furniture, apart from the TV set and a child’s seat made out of fluffy pink imitation fur, with two stringy legs with boots on the end. Bradley — I assumed it must be Bradley — was sitting on the bare boards, sucking the fingers of his left hand. He looked round when he saw me but his face remained expressionless, and a moment later his eyes returned to the huge, flickering screen.

  ‘Trev’s upstairs,’ said Janice, standing in front of the fireplace, with her arms folded. ‘I suppose you’ve been wondering why we haven’t been to see you.’

  ‘That’s up to you, Janice, I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.’

  ‘Well now you have.’ She was wearing the same jeans and sweatshirt, plus an old grey cardigan that stretched to below her knees. Brad had his dressing gown over a red jogging suit. The room was freezing cold.

  ‘How did you find the house?’ she said. ‘No, don’t tell me, there’s always someone got your life on a computer.’ The dog was sniffing my leg. Janice took hold of its collar and dragged it to the other end of the room where an old blanket had been made into an improvised bed. ‘Stay. I said stay!’

  ‘I haven’t come to check up on you,’ I said. ‘I was worried when you phoned. You sounded upset.’

  She shrugged, glancing at Bradley, then signalling for me to follow her out of the room. ‘Better come in the kitchen, there’s still a couple of chairs left in there.’

  Trev was coming down the stairs, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. He was still wearing his pyjamas, but with a thick sweater over the top. ‘So you’ve come for him, then,’ he said. ‘I thought you was different, not like the social workers. I thought if we said we was seeing a psychologist they’d leave us alone.’ He followed Janice into the kitchen, then sat down, staring straight ahead.

  Janice dragged out a chair and gestured for me to join them at the table. ‘You’re not having him,’ she said. ‘Over my dead body it’ll be.’

  ‘Having him? You mean Brad? Why would I want to do that? I only called round to make sure you were all right, that nothing had happened.’

  Janice glared at me. ‘So now you’ve seen us, now you’ll be able to report back.’ ‘Who to?’

  For a moment she looked puzzled. ‘Because of all this.’ She gestured towards the gaps between the kitchen units, gaps that had once housed a washing machine and a refrigerator. ‘Poor little kid, we made him swear not to say a word to anyone,’specially his teacher or any of that other lot at the school.’

  ‘You thought Brad would be taken into care?’ I was horrified. ‘Look, tell me everything, from the beginning. I thought you both had jobs, enough coming in.’ She jerked her head towards Trev. ‘He lost his, him and another was laid off. Last to be taken on, first to go. That’s how they do it these days.’

  ‘What about yours — in the pet shop?’ ‘Oh, I’m still there, but my hours have been reduced. I just work the busy times. Saturday morning. A couple of hours on Friday.’

  ‘You should have told me,’ I said, ‘explained how you were having problems. We could have worked something out.’ Janice licked her dry lips. ‘You’re a psychologist, not a debt collector.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but at the very least I could have put you in touch with someone else.’ I turned to Trev. ‘Your job — you were working for that furniture shop, weren’t you, Dreams Come True?’ He nodded, slowly raising his hand to push back his hair. I noticed that all his nails had been bitten to the quick and, of the two of them, he looked the more unwell, as if he hadn’t eaten properly for weeks. I thought about the bruise on Janice’s cheek and how the footballer in the park had confirmed my suspicion that Trev had a nasty temper. Looking at him now it defied belief.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Dreams Come True. Beds, headboards, chests of drawers, wardrobes, rugs. I bought a coffee table, twenty per cent off, but it went back, along with the rest.’

  ‘When did you get laid off?’

  ‘I forget. More than a month ago?’ Before the fire in Bishopston. So all my imaginings had been irrelevant. He had never been near Maggie Hazeldean’s house.

  If anything the kitchen felt even colder than the living room, but the cooker, with its glass door caked in burnt-on grease, reminded me of home. On the table an empty jar of peanut butter had a knife stuck in it, as if someone had been trying to extract the last dregs.

  ‘They’d have kept him on if they could,’ said Janice. ‘Can’t pay people for standing around doing bugger all.’

  ‘And you thought if you admitted you were in debt I’d tell social services and Brad would be… Look, no one wants to split up a family, not unless there’s absolutely no other way.’

  ‘They were beginning to check up on us,’ said Janice. ‘That questionnaire at the school, that was the start of it.’

  ‘Questionnaire? But those were people from the university. They were just using the school to collect material for their research.’

  She shrugged. ‘What’s the odds? Brad was in enough trouble already. We did it to him, me and Trev. All the arguing, and that time I had a bruise on my cheek, you thought Trev had done it but it was me having a go at Trev and him trying to calm me down.’

  It was easy to picture how things had been. The two of them fighting over the money they had spent and couldn’t afford to pay back. Bradley, quiet as a mouse at home, but making up for it by playing up in the classroom. Frightened, unhappy, but afraid of upsetting his parents. Too young to understand what was going on or why he was in constant trouble with his teacher.

  Brad stood in the doorway, still with most of his hand in his mouth. I longed to take all three of them to the nearest McDonald’s and fill them up with cheeseburgers, fries and strawberry milkshakes, play the role of Lady Bountiful that Ian Hazeldean disliked so much.

  ‘Look, we can’t sort it all out now,’ I said, ‘but I promise I’ll do everything I can. Someone can help arrange for you to pay back what’s owing, a small amount each week, and are you sure you’re claiming all the benefits you’re allowed? They can look into that as well.’

  Janice pulled Bradley’s fingers out of his mouth. ‘You must be pissed off we’ve wasted your time,’ she said, ‘coming to your office and talking a lot of cobblers.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ I stood up to leave. ‘I just wish you’d felt able to tell me about the real problems.’

  She said nothing, just followed me into the front garden, nodding her head when I told her I would be in touch the following day. When I reassured her, yet again, that there was no question of anyone taking Brad into care, she gave me a doubtful look, but I suspected she was feeling more relieved than she was prepared to let on.

  Inside the house Trev had switched off the television and I could hear Brad protesting loudly. Perhaps it was a good sign.

  The rain was splashing against the windscreen. I drove slowly, turning into Fishponds Road, trying to avoid the build-up of water where a gully had blocked. Most of the oncoming traffic seemed oblivious of the treacherous conditions, tired commuters and van drivers, desperate to get home and slump in front of the television. I thought about Janice and Trev. Paddy and Azim. It was easy to let the job get you down, that was why some social workers appeared so cold and business-like, it was the only way they could stay sane.

  As I reached the junction the lights turned to amber but a car coming up on the right shot past and turned towards the city centre. For a moment I thought it was Terry Curtis’s Morgan, then I realized it was a different colour and not quite so low to the ground. In spite of the weather the hood had been rolled back and the driver was wearing a leather helmet, like a fighter pilot. His passenger had a scarf round her head that she was holding on with one hand, while her other hand clutched the back of her seat. Suddenly something clicked in my brain. It couldn’t be right. Why had I neve
r thought of it before? It was the wildest, most unlikely explanation

  I could imagine, but before I set out to see Ian I had to check, just to make sure.

  The main staff car park was full but there was no sign of Terry’s Morgan. I toured round some of the side roads, then darted into a space left vacant as a minibus moved off, full of kids with their features distorted as they pressed their noses against the back window.

  As I left the car the rain started to ease up a little. An old man in the front garden of a building that housed one of the university departments was sawing a branch off a tree. He noticed me checking the parked cars, and muttered something incomprehensible as he climbed down from his ladder. Then he asked if I had come about the cleaning job.

  ‘No. I’m looking for a friend of mine. He drives a green Morgan.’

  ‘Mr Curtis, you mean? He’s a friend of mine, is Mr Curtis. Doesn’t work here though.’ He waved his arm in the direction of Whiteladies Road. ‘Over there.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Actually I was wondering where he parks his car. I arranged to meet him but he’s not in the staff car park.’

  ‘Leaves it behind the library most days. That road where you can’t get through, unless you go on foot. Reckon that way he hopes the vandals won’t spot it.’

  Of course. How stupid. The road where Terry and I had sat only two weeks ago, discussing his first wife’s suicide and his admiration for Maggie Hazeldean.

  ‘Thanks.’ As I moved away the old man was still talking about vandals, and how the students were no better, and how things weren’t the same as they used to be.

  Walking past the library I had the absurd idea that if I rushed inside I might find Owen looking through the journals. Some hope. By now he would be on his way home, or fighting his way through the supermarket to buy himself a chilled meal he could shove in the microwave. It was Friday. Would he phone, call round? After the Chinese meal he had gone straight home, complaining of a headache.

  Coming round the corner at a trot I spotted the Morgan, parked three-quarters of the way down the road, in almost exactly the same place as before. There was a large blue Transit van next to it but when I drew closer I could see Terry’s registration plate had a J, followed by the usual three numbers, then three letters. The letters spelled ROD.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Who was the anonymous caller? The person who had sent the messages about ROD? If I had made the correct link, between the Morgan’s registration plate and the letter and phone calls, it had to be someone who knew Terry. Dozens of people knew him, but the only people I could think of who also knew me were Grace, Ian and Bill. And Owen, of course.

  Bill. Hadn’t he once suggested I ‘look into Terry’s life’? At the time I had taken little notice of the remark, assuming that ever since Maggie had become so involved with the university Bill had started resenting all academics. Could it be more than that? Bill suspected Terry had something to do with the fire, but having no solid evidence, had decided the police would disregard whatever he had to say, assuming it was simply the bitter imaginings of a deserted husband.

  I had mentioned Rod during the meal at the Chinese restaurant, but no one had seemed particularly interested, and any interest there might have been had been eclipsed by Owen’s remark about the accident up by the Down. It had been news to me and, up to that moment the others seemed to have failed to recognize the significance of what Owen had said. It was Ian’s bike Bill was riding. In other words, if the ‘accident’ had been deliberate had Ian been the intended victim?

  I had planned to go home and have something to eat, then call round at the house in Henbury. Now, the visit seemed more urgent. I had to know if Ian had sent the messages and, if not, if he had any idea who it could have been.

  Ladywell Close was deserted. I rang the bell of number twenty-three and waited impatiently for Ian to come to the door. Nothing happened. Bending down I peered through the letter box and called his name. Silence. There were no footsteps inside the house, no sounds at all. Although the living room curtains were drawn across, it was possible to see through the crack where they failed to meet, I tapped on the glass, trying to focus my eyes on the far end of the room where a faint flicker in the grate indicated that the living-flame gas fire had been lit. If Ian was asleep upstairs wouldn’t he have switched it off? Perhaps he intended to come downstairs later when the room had warmed up a bit.

  The side gate that led to the back of the house was bolted. I could bang on the front door and try to wake him or I could find a way to climb into the garden and hope the back door had been left unlocked. It was raining hard. Pulling my coat over my head I half walked, half ran to the end of the road, forcing myself to stay calm but becoming increasingly more concerned by the minute.

  Supposing Ian had sent the messages about ROD. Did that mean he knew something about Terry, suspected he had killed his mother? But wouldn’t he have dropped hints when we were talking together? Perhaps he had. I struggled to recall a stray remark, something I had overlooked, something I had said that had convinced Ian he would have to find another way of pointing me in the right direction. Bill was right when he said Ian needed to know who the murderer was before he could start coming to terms with what had happened. In all my discussions with him it had been clear he refused to believe the arson attack had been the work of troublemakers, who had never intended it to result in a death. In desperation, Ian might have picked on Terry as the most likely suspect, simply because he couldn’t think of anyone else, or because he was jealous of him for some reason, disliked him. Had Terry encouraged Maggie to apply for a job at the university? Did Ian see her job as the final straw that had destroyed his parents’ marriage?

  An alleyway ran between the gardens of the houses in Ladywell Close and the parallel street behind. It smelled of dog shit and rotting vegetables. A black plastic bag had split open, disgorging part of its contents on to the muddy path. Old tea bags and potato peelings lay amongst a heap of slimy beanshoots and empty cans. Stepping over the mess I began counting the houses, working my way along until I reached what I hoped was the back of number twenty-three.

  The high wooden gate had been left unbolted, but when I gave it a push the top half moved but the lower part stayed wedged to the ground. Thick grass grew along the bottom, indicating that no one had opened it for months, if not years. The rubbish must be collected from the front of the house and the black sack had been thrown in the alleyway by some passer-by. Using all my strength I lifted the gate enough to force it open a crack and just managed to squeeze through.

  Next door someone was calling to a cat, banging what sounded like a wooden spoon on a plastic food bowl. ‘Ribby, Ribby, Ribby.’ Glancing up at the windows I was relieved to recognize Ian’s red and black curtains. So at least I was in the right garden. I thought about the green Morgan and felt almost certain I had over-reacted. The letters could be pure coincidence. I remembered how Terry had said the car had been bought in South Devon. ROD would be one of the local registrations. ROD, POD, COD. In places like Sidmouth and Budleigh Salterton there would be RODs by the score. But not in Bristol. Then I remembered sitting in the car with Terry, listening to how his first wife had committed suicide in her early twenties. Had it been suicide, or had she, like Maggie Hazeldean, discovered something that posed a threat to his overwhelming ambition? The friendly, easy-going manner, was it deliberate, part of a plan designed to conceal a personality that would tolerate no one who stood in its way?

  The kitchen door was locked but a top window had been left partially open. It was too small to climb through but if I found something to stand on I might be able to stretch an arm through and open the larger window below. Dragging out a dustbin, and emptying its contents on to the concrete patio, I turned it upside down and balanced precariously on the rim, steadying myself against the glass. At first my arm didn’t reach down far enough but with the help of a small garden fork I managed to knock the catch sideways.

  After that it was si
mple.

  If Ian was there he had heard nothing. I stood in the kitchen and spoke his name, not wanting to alarm him if he woke up suddenly and heard an intruder. No response. The house was in total silence. When I stepped into the passage I could see that the door to the living room was closed. The whole place felt chilled, almost as uninviting as Janice and Trev’s house, but when I turned the handle and wrenched open the door hot air came out in a rush.

  Ian lay on his back on the sofa — he had been invisible from the window — with the duvet from his bed pulled up above his chin. The gas fire had been turned up high and the glowing coals and flickering flames looked amazingly realistic. The room was far too warm and my first impulse was to turn down the heat, but if I adjusted the switch I might inadvertently switch off the gas, then find it difficult to re-light.

  Choosing a chair a good distance away from the source of the heat I sat down, impatient to talk to Ian but unwilling to wake him if he had been feeling unwell. I was surprised my fairly noisy entry through the kitchen window had failed to disturb him, but the tablets he was taking to bring down his temperature probably guaranteed a fairly heavy sleep.

  It was the first time I had studied the room properly. Had it looked much the same when Maggie lived there, or had she taken a few pieces of furniture with her when she moved out? Grace had made a good job of cleaning up, not a speck of dust in sight, and I was sure the daffodils in a jug on the mantelpiece had been put there by her. A book about the evacuation of Dunkirk lay face down on the floor in front of the television, together with an empty packet of cheese and onion crisps and a half-finished glass of Coke. Near the fireplace a cardboard box containing newspapers, old envelopes and what looked like a floor cloth had been pushed against the wall. The family photograph — Bill, Maggie and Ian, with their fixed artificial expressions — had been moved to a small shelf near the window.