by Penny Kline
A drink problem, thought Tisdall, I should be so lucky. He caught a glimpse of himself in the wing mirror that had been incorrectly positioned – or perhaps he had knocked it when he climbed into the passenger seat – and felt reasonably pleased with what he saw. Decent head of hair, gaining more grey by the month but so far losing none of its thickness, whereas some of his contemporaries had already started moving their partings. His gums hurt. He had brushed them until they bled but they still felt hot and swollen. One of these days he would have to make an appointment. His last dentist had gone private, which had given him the perfect excuse for putting off a check-up. Now he was paying for it.
Brake had a good head of hair and perfect teeth. He was humming under his breath, which probably meant he was finding the silence embarrassing.
‘No particles of skin under the victim’s nails,’ Tisdall said, ‘so it looks like the attack must have been unexpected, no preceding argument.’
‘They found an asthma inhaler.’ Brake changed to the left lane, to avoid going on to the Midlands, then to the right one, joining the traffic travelling east. ‘Is that what first put them onto this dog man?’ Mirror, signal, manoeuvre, and he’d joined the M4, pulled into the middle to pass a heavy goods vehicle then returned to the slow lane that was surprisingly free of traffic for a Friday.
‘Asthmatics are two a penny,’ Tisdall said. ‘They found an old collar too but it didn’t fit the stray. And a deflated football, part of a radio, and a dozen ice lolly sticks.’ He gazed through the passenger window and thought how simple life was when you were Brake’s age. If he told him about the God-awful mess his own life was in, the poor bloke would be shocked rigid. Well, maybe not, but it was best not to take the risk, even though he could have done with a sympathetic ear.
His thoughts returned to Ros Richards and the flat in Putney, on the top floor of a purpose-built block with an entrance phone and a foyer with a tankful of depressed-looking fish. Ms Richards had worked hard at giving the impression her life was a hectic social and professional whirl, with long days at the television studios followed by parties frequented by showbiz celebs, together with a smattering of Premier League footballers, rich entrepreneurs, and minor politicians. Tisdall had assumed most of what she told him was wishful thinking – after all, until Frith’s body was found neither he nor anyone else at the station had ever heard of her. Still, even if she did live in a world of make-believe, hiring a hitman because her ex had been given custody of her child was a bit over the top, quite apart from the fact that the boy had already been living with his father and Kristen Olsen for the past four and a half years.
A splosh of brown and white bird shit landed on the windscreen and Brake swore under his breath, spraying a liberal amount of washer but with only moderate success. ‘Typical,’ said Tisdall without meaning anything in particular. He was imagining what it would have been like if he’d made a fight of it and Grace had been faced with losing Serena. Not that he’d have had a hope in hell of the judge coming down on his side.
As far as he could tell William Frith had handed over most of the day-to-day care of his son to Kristen Olsen. Tisdall wondered how Grace would have felt if Serena was being brought up by someone who wasn’t even linked by blood. But Kristen seemed to be under the impression Ros had been happy to leave the boy with his father since that left her free to pursue her career as an actress. How much did Kristen really know about her? Only what Frith had told her. Even if, and in his opinion today’s trip was pretty much a waste of time, even if it was remotely possible Ros Richards had been involved in Frith’s death, would that mean the boy would be returned to Kristen as of right? There could be other relatives, a grandparent or aunt.
‘Inspector Cowie still seems stuck in the same way of thinking.’ Brake smoothed his immaculate hair.
‘She does.’ Tisdall was watching a hot air balloon. It looked in danger of coming down on the motorway, but drifting over a hill they always looked lower than they actually were.
‘You’ve a family, haven’t you?’ asked Brake. ‘Kelly and I are hoping to have kids, but not for a year or two.’
‘One daughter,’ said Tisdall, ‘from my first marriage.’
‘Right.’ Brake glanced at him, afraid he might have touched a raw nerve.
‘I see her once a week,’ Tisdall explained, letting him off the hook, ‘more often in the school holidays although she’s in a volleyball team and plays seven-a-side football so she’s out a fair bit. Anyway, she’ll be thirteen next month, won’t want to spend time trailing round Bristol with her dad.’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ Brake said tactfully, ‘girls are usually close to their fathers.’ Then, checking his watch against the digital clock, said, ‘Should reach the M25 by half past. Not due at Ros Richards’ until three and Putney’s only a stone’s throw from the Hammersmith flyover.’
‘Time for a fry-up,’ Tisdall said. ‘Stop at the next services, or are you and Kelly health food freaks?’
When they reached Ros Richards’ flat, Tisdall had to admit he had misjudged Martin Brake. Far from being impressed by her designer clothes and the flashy way her flat had been furnished, Brake looked as if he had taken an instant dislike to the woman. He kept fidgeting with the knot in his tie and glancing at the window, then at Tisdall.
‘Hot in here,’ he said, speaking too loud for fear he sounded tongue-tied, intimidated. ‘Would you mind if I opened a window?’
‘Go ahead.’ Ros gave Brake the kind of smile people usually reserve for a young child. ‘The bottom ones are sealed but if you manage to open one at the top you’ll be my hero for life.’
Tisdall stood up to study a large photograph of Theo. The boy was spending the afternoon with a friend, something that made talking to Ros considerably easier although Tisdall would have been glad of a few words with Theo, mainly so he could report back to Kristen Olsen that he was all in one piece. Is that what she would want to hear? In her position he would have had mixed feelings.
‘So,’ he said, cutting short Brake’s inquiry about the workings of the window catch, ‘the last time you saw your ex-husband was a little over a year ago when he brought your son to spend a long weekend with you here in Putney.’
‘That’s right,’ Ros drawled, ‘but I told you all that the last time and I do wish you wouldn’t keep calling him my ex. William and I were on perfectly amicable terms. After he died, I’ve no idea why, but I suppose a psychologist could explain it, I started thinking about the good times we’d had, the first year after we got married, and before that. The friend’s house where we met, how long ago was it? Did I ask you before, what was it that actually killed him?’
‘A head injury that led to a brain haemorrhage.’
‘Before or after he fell?’
‘There was an imprint of half a brick on his left temple, but it was probably the stone he hit when he fell from the bridge that proved fatal.’
‘I see,’ she said slowly and he got the impression this was no play-acting, that getting the facts right was important to her. It was for most people, the people closest to the victim.
‘And I suppose you did the usual house to house inquiries,’ she continued, ‘tell me, did you fix on this mugging theory right away or did it occur to you it could have been a crime of passion, or even the result a gay man approaching William and reacting badly when he was rebuffed?’
Brake was giving her his whole attention. ‘Any particular reason for thinking it could be a crime of passion,’ he asked, giving up on the window catch and joining Tisdall on the over soft sofa.
Ros shrugged. ‘What else did you want to ask me? All the same questions as before I imagine, in the hope that I’ll contradict myself and that will look highly suspicious and we’ll have to go through the whole rigmarole all over again. Well, I’m not in any rush.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Tisdall said, ‘but Richards isn’t your maiden name, just the one you adopted while you were at drama school.’
&
nbsp; Ros laughed, running her fingers down the arms of her leather chair. ‘Did I tell you or did someone look it up in the records? Higgs didn’t sound quite right somehow, although I’ve sometimes wondered if it might have been better to stick with it. “Ros Higgs” has a certain earthy bluntness about it, what do you think?’
Tisdall made no comment. The way she played at ‘being an actress’ was tiresome but also rather pathetic. She was ‘resting’ – must be or she would have told them how desperately busy she was, how she could only spare half an hour because of having to work on her script.
‘We checked what you were doing the day Mr Frith was killed,’ he said. ‘No problem there, all the names you gave us backed up your account.’
‘What a relief,’ she said without a trace of sarcasm. ‘That must have saved you a lot of bother. Presumably there’s been no sight nor sound of this dog man person or you wouldn’t be here now. Are you sure he exists?’
‘Your ex-husband,’ Brake said, ‘I wonder if you can tell us what he was like, Ms Richards. Sergeant Tisdall probably knows already but I’d be grateful if –’
‘My pleasure, Constable. Let me think. He was charming, those sorts of people always are, and good-looking although he never took much trouble with his appearance. Expensive shoes but didn’t bother to keep them clean. Could be a little moody but that sometimes adds spice to a relationship, provided you don’t allow yourself to be thrown off balance. And of course he was a genius.’
Once again there was no sarcasm in her voice. Brake removed two cushions from behind his back and placed them on the floor. ‘When you say “moody” do you mean he had a temper?’
‘Not particularly.’ Ros looked amused. ‘What I meant was, he tended to be unpredictable. Life and soul of the party on most occasions but if someone did something he didn’t like he could go into quite a sulk, sometimes for several days.’
Tisdall had been afraid Brake was going to make a fool of himself, but he was persuading Ros to give them a picture of William Frith that was considerably at odds with the one Kristen Olsen had provided, and also the one Ros had supplied during his first visit to Putney. Of course, it was possible Frith had behaved differently when he lived with Kristen. People did change, although in Tisdall’s opinion the change was usually superficial. When they returned to Bristol he would make more effort to look into Frith’s life before he left for America. From what Kristen had told them, most of his time was taken up either working at the university or helping to look after Theo, but the man Ros had just described sounded the type who would have valued his freedom, enjoyed a night out with the boys.
It would mean another visit to the basement flat in Bishopston, more upsetting questions which might or might not be answered honestly. Kristen Olsen was as keen as he was to find out who had killed her lover and deprived her of her ‘son’, but only if it came out the way she wanted it to, if Frith’s image remained intact.
‘Right then,’ Ros said, ‘have I told you all you need to know? You’re aware, I expect, that William saw himself as a bit of a philanthropist. No, that’s the wrong word, an altruist. Good works, helping the poor and needy. When he lived in London he enjoyed mixing with the down and outs, hearing their life stories, offering practical advice. I imagine there’s plenty of opportunity for that kind of thing in Bristol. If you ask me they ought to round them all up and enrol them in the army.’
‘We know Mr Frith worked two evenings a week at a hostel for the homeless,’ Tisdall said.
Ros gave him a beaming smile. ‘There you are then. You know, there’s a kind of person who’s fascinated by dirt and squalor. A friend of mine, one of those analyst people, says it means they’re fixed at Freud’s anal stage of development. Clever people are like that. I suppose it was his intellect that attracted Kristen to him. She’s an expert on “the gifted child”; that’s rather a good description of William, actually.’
5
‘I’m going to give you two objects to think about.’ Kristen handed out sheets of paper. ‘A paper clip and a blanket. Make two headings and try to think of six ways each object could be used, apart from the more normal one.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Barnaby said.
‘Yes you do.’ Hugo put his hands round Barnaby’s neck and pretended to throttle him, ‘like you could use a paper clip to scrape dog shit off the bottom of your trainers.’
The girl called Becky giggled. ‘My Dad fetched a blanket when the barbecue fell over. Mum nearly murdered him. It was her best rug.’
‘I’ve heard of this before,’ murmured Shannon, ‘Only it was six ways to use a brick.’ She glanced at Kristen, taking a small bottle from her pocket and squeezing a drop into each of her eyes. The rest of them gave her a wary look and set to work writing the headings on their paper.
Six uses for a brick. Right up to when they pulled back the sheet Kristen had hoped. William had promised to be back before Theo’s bedtime but it was not until well past midnight that she had contacted the police. Could he be with a friend, madam, or a relative? Have you contacted the local hospitals?
Bruising on the left temple, a deep gash on his forehead but the rest of his face was unmarked. His thick, straw-coloured hair had been brushed to one side, making him look different, younger. He could have been asleep. He looked so peaceful. But it wasn’t true. He looked terrible. She heard the policewoman ask if it was him and felt herself nodding jerkily, as if she had a stiff neck, then a hand took hold of her arm and guided her out of the cold. ‘We’ll drive you home, Miss Olsen, or would you prefer it if we dropped you off with the people who are looking after your son?’ He’s not my son, she had started to say, then stopped as her eyes and the policewoman’s met and she took in the woman’s concerned, sympathetic face …
Every so often, Kristen checked to see how the children were getting on and each time the frown marks between Shannon’s eyes deepened. On the third occasion, Kristen asked if something was wrong but the girl shook her head, returning to her work. She was wearing a white cotton sweater and a red skirt – the others were dressed in jeans or shorts – and she had badly bitten nails. She worked hard, but now and again Kristen had caught her staring into space with a puzzled, anxious expression. Was something bothering her, something to do with the classes? She seemed older than the rest but perhaps it was the rows of studs in her ears, or her slightly patronising attitude, particularly towards the boys. Apart from Hugo, they gave the impression of being a little afraid of her.
The door to the classroom burst open and Neville strode towards her, taking an envelope from an inside pocket. ‘Arrived on the morning post.’ He paused for a moment, studying the envelope. ‘Addressed to Mrs Frith.’
‘Frith?’ The room felt hot, airless.
‘I’m sorry.’ Neville’s discomfort was obvious. ‘I thought it had been delivered to the wrong place. I hadn’t realised you sometimes used William’s name.’
‘I don’t.’
He hesitated then handed her the letter. ‘Anyway I thought you’d better check.’
It was addressed in capitals to MRS FRITH, THE COLLEGE. Then the name of the road but no postcode. ‘Thank you. If it’s not for me …’ But Neville was already halfway through the door.
The letter was written on one side of a sheet of plain white paper, and was unsigned. The police have got it all wrong, she read. It wasn’t the dog man killed your husband. I can promise that. ‘Promise’ had been written with two m’s, then crossed out and written again correctly, and the writing was spidery, as though it had been done with the wrong hand. So the dog man – if he was the one who had written it – thought she and William had been married. She would have to talk to Neville and he would dislike the fact that the person who had written the note knew where she worked. Questions would follow, an offer of help, but underlying the offer would be irritation that the letter could herald the start of problems that might affect the reputation of the college. By the end of the morning Kristen was so exhausted she had to tu
rn down Brigid Howell’s offer of lunch.
‘I’d love to, Brigid, but I’m feeling rather…’
‘Yes, of course. Another time. I wasn’t going to say anything, Kristen, for fear of upsetting you, but that’s stupid, how could anything I said make you feel worse? Have the police been round again? Have they told you any more?’
‘Not really.’ Kristen stifled a yawn. She was grateful, hoped they would get to know each other better, but she longed to be on her own, in the car, cocooned against the world. So far she had managed to restrict her intake of alcohol to two or three glasses of wine each evening. How long would it last?
Brigid left and, knowing she would have to talk to Neville, Kristen stood in the corridor, working out what to say. As she was about to knock on his door, Shannon appeared, breathing hard, and asked if Kristen had a book she could borrow.
‘Yes, of course. Actually, you might like this one.’ She searched in her bag, found a book of lateral thinking puzzles and handed it to the girl who held it against her chest.
‘Miss?’
‘Do call me Kristen.’
‘Sorry.’ Shannon hesitated. ‘Only I … like, I was wondering … is Sarah any better? I don’t mean …’ Her face was contorted with anxiety. ‘What we’re doing is good. Bye then.’
When Kristen tapped on Neville’s door it opened immediately, almost as if he had been watching her through the keyhole. ‘Problem?’ He was holding an apple, eaten down to the core.
