by Penny Kline
‘I just wanted to explain about the letter.’ She had decided to tell him the truth. After all it was hardly her fault if whoever sent it had found out where she worked. ‘It’s anonymous, says the dog man didn’t kill William. A crank, I expect.’
‘Let the cops deal with it.’ Neville tossed the apple core into his waste paper basket. ‘My wife’s idea. Light lunch to help me lose weight.’ He smiled, then his face became serious. ‘My only concern was that it might not be for you, or it might be …’ He broke off, hitching up his trousers. ‘Any problems you know where I am. Incidentally,’ his voice had the over-casual tone of someone who has been planning to say something but wants it to appear as if the idea has only just occurred to him, ‘I was telling my wife about your thesis and she wondered if you’d like to have a chat.’
‘With your wife?’
‘Vi Pitt – you may have heard of her. She had an exhibition not long ago, that gallery near the floating harbour. Didn’t take up painting and drawing till she was in her forties, joined a class just for fun and discovered … I was going to say she discovered she had a talent she’d never known about, but Vi doesn’t believe in innate ability, thinks it’s all a question of hard work. Anyway, we’re not too far from where you live, top of the hill going down to Westbury. If you’re interested she’d love to meet you.’
He started writing his address and phone number on a pad then looked up a little uneasily. ‘Vi’s agent, the man who sells her stuff to a London gallery … Cameron Lyle, you may have come across him.’
‘Lyle? I don’t think so…’
‘No? The reason I mention it … he knew William. That’s why I thought you might be familiar with Vi’s work. Perhaps they were just acquaintances.’ He tore a page off his pad. ‘Vi would be delighted to see you. Tomorrow afternoon would be a good time unless you’re tied up with something.’
‘Perhaps you should check…’
‘No need. I’ll be having a round of golf. She’ll welcome the company.’
‘If you’re sure.’ Kristen tried to sound more enthusiastic than she felt. Still, it would pass the afternoon. She hated Saturdays, they brought back too many memories. And Vi’s agent had known William…
Tisdall called round first thing. The previous afternoon, Kristen had been to the police station and shown the letter to a Detective Constable Brake who had assured her she had done the right thing, getting in touch, although it was likely it would turn out to be the work of a nutter. Now, standing with his back to the window so it was impossible to see his face, Tisdall repeated DC Brake’s observation.
‘Both the note and the envelope have gone for fingerprinting.’ He began walking round the room. ‘Using his own handwriting, rather than cutting letters out of a newspaper, suggests the sender was not concerned about covering his tracks. You’d be surprised how much rubbish we get. Some people will stop at nothing to get themselves involved in a criminal investigation, making up evidence, providing false sightings. Fortunately most of them are well known to us, but there’s always the odd newcomer to join the ranks.’
‘You don’t think it was the dog man?’
He ignored her question, picking up a photograph of Theo and replacing it exactly where it had stood. ‘The letter was posted in Bristol, reasonable quality paper, available in most stationers, newsagents, and the like. How many people know where you’re working?’
‘I’ve no idea. Hardly anyone. The fact that it was sent to the college doesn’t mean you’ll have to go there, does it?’
His face showed nothing. ‘How many kids attend these classes?’
‘About twenty altogether, but there are adults at the college too, being coached for A levels.’
He thought about this for a moment, as if she had told him something important. ‘Sooner or later someone will pass on a conversation they’ve overheard. Once we’ve identified the man, we’ll either be able to charge him or eliminate him.’
Kristen raised her eyebrows. ‘I’d have thought if anyone was going to pass on information they would have done it by now. Why wait all this time? What would be the point? Your colleague said it was a dog that first drew attention to William’s body.’
Tisdall had resumed his journey round the room. Now he stopped in his tracks. ‘DC Brake told you that?’
‘What kind of dog was it?’
‘Black mongrel.’
‘Did you find out who it belonged to?’
He shook his head. ‘It went to one of those rescue places. Only young, probably let loose by someone who was going on holiday and couldn’t be bothered to put it in kennels.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Sorry? Given a home by an elderly lady, I believe. Now, the envelope the letter came in was addressed to Mrs Frith so whoever sent it thought you and Mr Frith were married.’
‘I worked out that much.’ With an unpleasant sensation in her stomach, it occurred to her that Tisdall thought she could have written the letter herself. Any minute now and he would start asking about her state of mind, whether the doctor had given her something to help her sleep. ‘If it turns out it was the dog man,’ she said slowly, ‘will he be charged with murder or could it be only manslaughter?’
‘To secure a conviction for murder, it’s necessary to prove intention – either to kill or inflict bodily harm that proves fatal.’
Manslaughter. She pictured the word in her mind’s eye. Manslaughter. Man’s laughter. ‘But you’ll never know exactly what happened.’
He flashed a brief encouraging smile. ‘Don’t worry, we will. Incidentally, when Mr Frith and his wife split up, was it by mutual agreement?’
‘No, it was Ros’s idea.’
‘That’s what he told you?’
‘She walked out, leaving Theo with his father, and moved in with another man.’
‘But it didn’t last.’ Tisdall looked at his watch. ‘When William was given custody she must have taken it pretty hard.’
Kristen shrugged. ‘She’s an actress, she needs to be free to go wherever the work is.’
He gave an unconvinced nod. ‘I saw her on TV not long ago, series set in a timeshare holiday home, shown on another channel the first time round.’ He had his hand on the door. ‘None of my business, I know, but are you up to doing this teaching? So soon, I mean?’
‘What do you suggest?’ she said angrily, ‘I need the money.’
He held up his hands in mock defence. ‘I was only thinking the job sounded quite a taxing one. Anyway, DC Brake’s got the address of the college and if I need to talk to anyone I’ll keep it as discreet as possible, you needn’t worry on that score.’
Kristen followed him to the bottom of the steps leading up to the street. ‘Why did you want to know how William and Ros’s marriage ended?’
‘No particular reason.’ His hand tested one of the points on the top of the iron railings. ‘I’ll be in touch again shortly and it goes without saying, if you receive any more anonymous communications you’ll pass them on to us straight away.’
Mrs Letts from the ground floor flat had come out, pretending she needed to water her window box. Tisdall squeezed past her, gave Kristen one last questioning look, and climbed into his car.
‘Any news?’ Mrs Letts lowered her voice to a breathy whisper. ‘You can always tell when it’s a policeman.’
‘They’re working on various lines of inquiry.’
‘Really?’ The old woman’s deeply lined face lit up then, sensing she was not going to be told any more. ‘How’s poor little Theo?’ She put her head on one side and adopted a sorrowful expression. ‘Must be missing Matthew, his friend from school. Thick as thieves, those two. Such a shame.’
The letter, Kristen was thinking. The dog man. The inquiry about the break-up of William and Ros’s marriage. She felt sick, shaky, and desperately needed someone to talk to, a close friend, a soul mate. William. But had she been William's soul mate?
6
Neville and Vi’s house turned out
to be an ugly bungalow, hidden behind a tall privet hedge. A short strip of concrete, leading to a detached garage, meant there was room to pull off the road and park, although if Neville came back before she left her car would block his way. While she was debating what to do, a voice called out something she failed to catch and a large, grey-haired woman appeared from round the back of the bungalow, clutching a black polythene bag in one hand and a garden trowel in the other.
‘You must be Kristen. Leave the car wherever you like. Nev won’t be back for ages.’
Vi was wearing a green skirt that barely covered her large knees, and a grey cardigan with sagging pockets. ‘I hope he didn’t twist your arm. For some odd reason he thinks I must be lonely here on my own.’ Then, seeing Kristen’s face, ‘I’m sorry, that came out all wrong. No, of course you’re not interrupting my work. You go ahead while I get rid of this.’ She swung the bag. ‘Neighbour’s cat managed to relieve itself in three different places. My studio’s the room built on, old outhouse converted by Nev, bet you never guessed he’d be the handy type.’
The back of the bungalow was more attractive than the front and the garden was a mass of flowers with a single tree that threw a shadow across part of the lawn. Seeing it reminded Kristen how Brigid Howell had once had her own landscape gardening business, and it had done quite well until some of her customers failed to pay up and she had a cash flow problem.
Vi’s studio door was open wide. Kristen stepped inside, expecting to see a jumble of jars, boxes, drawing books, and rags, and was surprised to find it looked more like a study belonging to an obsessively tidy academic. A finished painting of a suburban garden had been propped on a shelf alongside several smaller pictures, mostly of dolls and other toys. One wall had fitted cupboards and a sink unit, then a space where more paintings had been stacked on the floor. The two windows were small but it was clear Vi preferred artificial light. On the only easel stood a painting, done in bright acrylics, of a tabby cat with round, green eyes and a red collar.
Vi appeared in the doorway, took a packet of cigarettes from a pocket in her skirt, and lit up, taking two long drags and screwing up her eyes against the smoke. She was solidly built, with the round shoulders of someone used to working in a hunched-up position.
‘What d’you think? Small but beautiful – the room, not that thing.’ She jerked her head towards the cat painting and pulled up a basket chair. Her feet slopped in and out of fluffy slippers that had once been pink but were now a dusty grey. Balancing her cigarette on the edge of a table, she gestured to Kristen to sit down and laid a large, blue veined hand on her wrist. ‘Now, what would you like to eat?’
‘Oh.’ Kristen had forgotten about lunch. ‘Actually, I’m not very hungry.’
‘Me neither. Wait a bit, shall we?’ Vi hoisted herself up onto a stool. ‘Before we talk about anything else, I wanted to say how desperately sorry … If there was anything I could do but of course there isn’t. Life’s so unfair, so …’ She searched for the right word then gave up and pointed at the cat painting. ‘I can’t get the eyes right. I detest sentimentality. On the other hand, people who think a love of animals is sentimental have lost touch with their own humanity.’
Kristen stood up to get a better view. ‘What’s wrong with the eyes?’
‘The way they’re positioned makes the face look too flat. After all it’s not one of those ridiculous Persians bred to look like a human baby covered in fur.’
There was something fresh and original about the picture. Vi had achieved the level of realism, the attention to detail, that the gallery obviously demanded but had still managed to keep an almost childlike quality. No wonder this Cameron Lyle person that Neville had mentioned was happy to act as her agent. She had only been painting seriously for a couple of years but Lyle must have realised he was on to a good thing. ‘Show you some more later on,’ Vi said, ‘now tell me how you’re getting on with the gifted ones.’
‘You make them sound like Midwich Cuckoos.’
‘Before we go any further, you did want to come here, it wasn’t some awful ordeal, something you felt you had to do to keep Nev happy?’
‘Of course not.’ Kristen wondered if Neville had told her about the letter addressed to Mrs Frith. ‘He mentioned the thesis I’m working on?’
‘But I imagine taking a job needed every ounce of courage you possess. Enough of that, you’re trying to work out how someone like me comes to be living with a chap like Nev.’ Kristen started to protest but Vi stopped her. ‘Everyone always does. He’s got a degree in Maths – Pure Maths they call it for some reason – and I left school without a qualification to my name. We met when his sister was alive. I used to visit her, take her out in the car, poor love.’ She noticed Kristen’s expression and broke off. ‘Brigid Howell hasn’t told you. Jane was an invalid, born with a syndrome, not Down’s. Devoted to her, Nev was, wouldn’t dream of having her put in a home even though it was hard with his job. She had her good days but sometimes …’ She stared through the window, scratching the back of her neck. ‘I’ve a daughter, Jen, had her when I was still at school, or would have been except the headteacher found out when I was five months gone and threw me out. What a pillock, me, I mean, and to make matters worse I married the father.’ She was talking very fast. ‘The little boy – Theo – how is he? He must be missing you, poor lamb.’
‘He’ll be coming for the weekend quite soon.’
‘Good.’ Vi caught Kristen’s eye and looked away, sorting through the pile of unframed paintings. ‘I was going to say children are resilient, adaptable, but it’s not true.’
She gave Kristen a sympathetic smile. ‘And you loved him. William. Loved each other. And the little lad of course.’
‘Being with William was always so … Difficult, sometimes, but never boring. He liked to do things on the spur of the moment, go to Pembrokeshire for the day or …’ Kristen gave an involuntary gulp. ‘I think he loved me.’
‘I’m sure he did.’ Vi gave her a brief hug. ‘I’m so glad we’ve met. Tragedy freezes you, puts you in state of shock. You’re keeping a tight grip on yourself and if I were you I’d be exactly the same. People expect floods of tears, but it’s not like that, is it?’
‘Thank you.’
Finding the picture she wanted, Vi balanced it next to the one of a garden and moved back a few paces, twisting her head to take in Kristen’s reaction. It was a portrait of a girl of about nine or ten, holding a pet rabbit with its ears laid flat against its back, and as with the painting of the cat, extreme care had been taken with the whiskers and the soft pink nose.
‘Never completed it,’ Vi said, ‘not a good enough likeness.’
‘One of your grandchildren?’ Kristen asked.
Vi shook her head. ‘Jen’s two are both boys. Child of a neighbour … the family moved away … it was all rather unfortunate. Still, it was my first attempt at a portrait apart from a really shocking one of Brian.’
What was unfortunate? And who was Brian?
Vi stubbed out her cigarette in a saucer of pencil sharpenings and tipped the lot into a metal bin. ‘Nev mentioned Brian, I expect, he runs a class at the adult education centre, taught me everything I know, believes painting’s like anything else, you have to start from scratch, learn the basics. Drudgery it was at first, mixing shades of grey, learning about tones and the effect of one colour on another.’
She picked up a stiff sheet of paper and started fanning her face. ‘Women’s bodies, eh? What a money-spinner for the pharmaceutical companies, but they won’t get a penny out of me.’
Kristen laughed – the afternoon was turning out better than she expected – then she noticed Vi’s face.
‘You’re here because of Cameron.’
‘No, I wanted to meet you –’ Kristen began, but Vi interrupted her.
‘Spends half his time buying and selling old toys and the rest persuading galleries to take paintings by people like me who haven’t a clue how to go about selling their stuff.
‘You must have worked very hard,’ Kristen said.
‘Oh, I did that all right.’ Vi bent to search through a pile of drawing books on the floor. ‘You have to find one thing that really matters to you. Not one person. How could a single individual give you everything you need? I’ve no illusions my paintings are going to change the course of art history, but I’m clear in my mind what I’m aiming for and the beauty of it is I’ll never achieve that aim so I can carry on till I drop.’ She held up a painting of a Yorkshire terrier. ‘Woman down the road let him sit for me. Trouble is they’re all fur, no bones to speak of.’
Kristen took a deep breath. ‘Neville said Cameron knew William.’
Vi had her back turned. ‘I believe they met a few months before you went to America.’
‘William did voluntary work at a hostel for the homeless in Fishponds.’
‘Did he?’ Vi sat down heavily and found another cigarette. ‘Wouldn’t have been where they met, not Cameron’s style, not unless there’s a side of him he’s kept well hidden. Next time I see him I’ll tell him I’ve met you but if you wanted to speak to him yourself, he’s got a stall in that antique market down near the river, open all day Tuesday.’
‘He lives in Bristol?’
‘Kingsdown.’ Vi gave her a slightly anxious look. ‘I’ve never been there but I believe it’s a one-room flat, quite high up, a kind of artist’s garret.’
‘He paints too?’
‘Heavens no, nothing artistic about Cameron.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in natural talent.’
Vi pulled a face. ‘I don’t, it’s just the thought of Cameron painting. Footloose and fancy-free, that’s how he likes it, always on the move, no plans, no commitments, but for all his casual air when it comes to business matters he’s as tough as old boots.’
She sighed. ‘As usual, I’ve been talking far too much. I’m going to make us a snack and you can tell me all about yourself, or if that doesn’t appeal …’ She paused halfway through the door that led into the rest of the bungalow. ‘If you do decide to contact Cameron … only he can be a little … No, what am I saying? Make up your own mind. Only I wouldn’t want you to pin your hopes…’
