The Gifted Child

by Penny Kline

Driving past the club, Tisdall had heard the usual loud beat. Now someone seemed to have lowered the volume and when they started down the stone steps to the entrance the sounds were more reminiscent of an Indian restaurant than a nightclub.

  ‘Sure this was the place?’

  ‘Certain.’ From his sharp tone of voice, Brake was still thinking about the parents who should have made sure their kids were in bed. ‘Right name, right area.’

  ‘And how often was Frith supposed to have visited?’

  ‘He was a regular.’

  The man on the door had heard them coming. He held out a lethargic hand for their membership cards then looked up, squinting through thick steel-framed glasses. ‘Old Bill?’

  Tisdall gave a brief nod and the man fingered the large black stud in his ear. ‘I’ll take you to Mrs Ronane.’

  Brake had looked up details of the place before they set out. A drinking club with the occasional floor show. Bimbam’s was a bit of a crazy name but there was no record of any trouble and no complaints from anyone living nearby.

  The doorman led them down a short, dark passage and knocked on a door, waiting with his eyes darting all around, until a hoarse voice ordered him to ‘Come!’

  ‘Two officers to see you.’ The man’s earlobe was giving him trouble again.

  ‘Let them by then,’ said the voice. ‘Don’t block their way.’

  An ornate gold lamp on a low table provided the only lighting. At first glance the room looked sumptuously furnished but when their eyes became accustomed to the gloom it had more the appearance of a jackdaw’s nest. Everything was shiny, but to Tisdall’s inexpert eye it all looked like tat. Mrs Ronane sat behind a desk with a tumbler of whisky at her elbow. A heavy-breasted woman with jet black hair and a thickly made-up face, she was probably in her late fifties or early sixties, possibly Greek or Italian, although when she spoke again she couldn’t have sounded more English.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Tisdall.’ She checked his warrant card. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure? Stan does tend to turn the music up a little too loud but –’

  ‘We’ve had no complaints.’ Tisdall accepted the offered chair, the only one in the room apart from Mrs Ronane’s, leaving Brake standing.

  ‘I won’t get up.’ Mrs Ronane adjusted her position. ‘I’m recovering from a hip replacement, need to rest, but if you don’t keep close tabs on your staff things soon get out of hand.’

  Tisdall noticed that a fan had been switched on, although it seemed to have very little effect on the temperature. The curtains had a design of elongated dancing girls, and the same material had been used to cover a large floor cushion. Tisdall wondered what would have happened if it had been offered to Brake, and Mrs Ronane noticed his fleeting smile and asked if she had made a mistake and it was a social call.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘we’re making inquiries about a murder and my colleague’s under the impression the victim, William Frith, was a member of your club.’

  ‘Ah, poor William.’ A hand with several heavy rings moved up to pat her hair. ‘Tragic. A mugging, they say. Is it true Bristol’s becoming one of the most violent cities?’

  ‘Did he come here every week?’ Brake gave her an encouraging smile, displaying the straight white teeth that always made Tisdall draw his lips over his own.

  Mrs Ronane closed her eyes. ‘I’ll introduce you to Glen, he could tell you more than I can. At the time of the murder … if we’d known anything … naturally we’d have been in touch. Quiet, not a big drinker, came here to relax more than anything else. He and Glen used to have a drink together.’ She pressed a buzzer and a stoat-faced man appeared so fast he must have been listening outside the door. ‘Reg, would you fetch Glen, these two gentlemen would like a word.’

  Tisdall glanced at Brake then regretted it when Brake took the look to mean he was to ask more questions.

  ‘You say Frith was the quiet type but if he came here regularly he must had made plenty of friends. Anyone in particular?’

  Mrs Ronane sighed. ‘If you’re implying some kind of liaison, as I said –’

  ‘You didn’t know him well.’ Brake finished the sentence for her. ‘When was the last time you saw him? We need a precise date.’

  She looked at Tisdall as if to say she knew Brake meant well so she would overlook his brashness. ‘Glen will check the book. This is a membership only club.’

  A man had appeared in the doorway and was standing, with one hand clasping the fingers of the other. His spiky blond hair contrasted with his eyelashes and eyebrows, which were exceptionally dark.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Tisdall, Glen.’ Mrs Ronane seemed to enjoy the introduction. ‘And …’ She turned to Brake. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten…’

  ‘DC Brake.’

  ‘Of course.’ She and Glen exchanged glances as if they found the name slightly comical. ‘They’re making inquiries into the murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ Glen’s face flushed. ‘You mean Will?’

  Mrs Ronane was making an effort to rise from her chair. Glen moved forward to help but she waved him aside, refusing her stick. ‘If you want me I’ll be in the bar. Tell them everything they need to know.’

  Once she had closed the door behind her, Glen’s manner changed dramatically.

  ‘I thought you’d got the sod that did it. Some kind of mugging, it said, but Will would never have let himself get mugged.’

  Tisdall suggested Glen sit in Mrs Ronane’s chair but he declined the offer, pulling out two hard backed ones stacked in a corner and giving one to Brake.

  ‘He was here the week before it happened.’ Glen had been speaking almost in a whisper. Now his voice was loud and clear. ‘I checked. He’d only been back from America a short while. What was he doing down by the river? Had his wallet been nicked?’

  ‘What did you talk about?’ Brake’s tone was deliberately intimidating.

  ‘Talk about?’ A slow smile spread over the man’s face. ‘Birds crawled round Will like flies. Not that he encouraged them, just the opposite.’ He noticed Tisdall’s expression. ‘No, I don’t mean he was gay. Had a boy, I forget his name. The kid liked football so I used to give Will the stickers from the stuff I eat for breakfast.’ He was stumbling over his words. ‘Will thought the world of him. Poor kid, what’s happened to him?’ He was sweating profusely, wiping his face every so often with the cuffs of his shirt. ‘Pascale. You should talk to Pascale.’

  Tisdall had started walking round the room. ‘She works here.’

  ‘Only on Saturdays. She’s a singer – thinks she is. Mrs R gave her a chance but I reckon she needs more training, voice lessons. Will had all kinds of ideas, thought she hadn’t made the most of herself.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘Lives?’ Glen repeated as though Tisdall had asked the impossible. ‘Haven’t a clue, but she’ll be in on Saturday. Been staying with a friend. Bloke that repairs musical instruments.’

  Tisdall turned to Brake. ‘Can’t be too many of those in the city. What kind of musical instruments?’ But Glen was thinking about something else, licking his lips.

  ‘There was a bit of trouble,’ he said.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Will was one of those types that gets easily bored, likes a bit of action.’

  Tisdall was losing patience. ‘What kind of action?’

  ‘Anything a bit risky, anything that made him laugh.’ Glen warmed to the subject. ‘Walk down the street, any street, you’d never believe –’

  ‘What goes on behind closed curtains,’ Brake said coldly. ‘Why don’t you stop talking in riddles and get to the point.’

  ‘There isn’t any more.’ Glen’s face turned sulky. ‘You’ll have to find Pascale.’

  Kristen had moved Theo’s single divan into the living room, and pushed it against the wall so she could lie with her head on the pillow and flick through the channels till she found something to send her to sleep.

  The cheap wine
had made her head throb but since tomorrow was Saturday it didn’t matter if she woke feeling rough. William had disapproved of painkillers, refusing to have any in the house unless one of them had flu and insisting that drinking several pints of water was just as effective. Now she could buy whatever tablets she chose and the thought of her new found freedom caused her so much pain she spoke his name out loud in an anguished gasp.

  Reaching for the remote control, she knocked her glass with her elbow and watched the remains of the red wine spread over the rug William had brought back from Morocco, years ago, before she knew him. How annoyed he would have been. Yes, he would. The real William – not the idealised version that had been with her since his death – returned like a blow. But she had loved him just as he was, moody, impulsive, funny, intolerant. Now every aspect of him, every experience, every piece of information that had been stored in his brain, had been wiped out, died along with the rest of his body.

  If, instead of waiting until he had a permanent job, they had gone ahead and had the baby they longed for, part of him would still be with her. No, that was disloyal to Theo. But having William’s child would have made no difference. She would have loved Theo just as much. She was drifting off. The mornings at the college were exhausting but she preferred to be exhausted. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, and at the weekends, she stuck to a strict regime, getting up at the same time each day, working on her thesis and eating proper food. She ought to be looking for a cheaper flat but not yet, not until the autumn. When Theo came to stay … when he came back…

  By the end of the month, Ros would be having serious reservations, looking for a face-saving way of returning him to Bristol. I’ve been thinking, Kristen, losing his father and then moving here and losing all his friends … It’s only an idea but do you think if he did one more year at his old school … Only a thought, Kristen, and naturally he could spend all his holidays with me, as long as I wasn’t too tied up with work.

  The wine had soaked in, leaving a shape like a cliff and a shoreline. Cliff. Shaun. The names jogged her memory and she thought about a particular evening, nearly a year ago, when William had come home after working at the hostel for the homeless, incensed by someone called Shaun. No, not Shaun, that was someone else. Stan? Steve? When she asked what had happened he had changed the subject, told her the guy was an idiot, not worth a second thought. Steve. It could have been Steve. If she told Tisdall … But was there any point? The police already had their suspect, the one they called the dog man. A blurry image, half Doberman, half devil, rose into her consciousness then the alcohol did its work and she slept, only to be woken three hours later by a crescendo of music from the television as two people, a man and a woman, let go of their surfboards and sank to their knees on the Californian sand. Twenty past one. The night still stretched ahead and she would have to start the whole agonising process of getting to sleep all over again.

  12

  One of the children had a headache. Kristen had taken her to the main office, found her some painkillers and left her lying on a couch in the tiny waiting room close to the front door. By the time she reached the coffee room, the A level teachers had returned to their classrooms but Brigid and Neville were still there, talking animatedly but in low voices. When Kristen appeared they broke off, smiling too much.

  ‘Just discussing the selection of new applicants for the courses,’ Neville said. ‘Some of the present children, the older ones, will be stopping at the end of this term. As you know, we like to restrict attendance to nine and ten-year-olds, mainly because numbers need to be limited.’

  Kristen nodded. Being a temporary member of staff she had no say in decisions about the coming year. Brigid had turned away and was gazing through the window at the small strip of grass between the back of the building and the high boundary wall.

  ‘Jolly good.’ Neville touched Brigid’s arm, then Kristen’s, like a sheepdog rounding up its flock. ‘Should be some coffee left, Kristen, although I can’t vouch for how hot it’ll be.’ He pointed at a plate with two custard creams. ‘Finish them up, you’re not looking after yourself properly – at least, that’s my wife’s opinion, but she always has a mission to fatten people up.’

  After he left, Kristen turned her attention to Brigid, who had moved away from the window and had a tissue pressed to her face.

  ‘Are you all right?’ It was no use pretending she had failed to notice Brigid’s reddened eyes.

  Brigid managed a wan smile. ‘Just got myself in a bit of a state. Jordan Hickman’s father’s been teaching him all kinds of stuff I’m unfamiliar with and I’m beginning to think I’m not really up to the job.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ Kristen knew a little about modern Maths and it was hard to believe Brigid could feel threatened by a nine-year-old boy. ‘Did Jordan say something? I’ve always found him quite shy.’

  Brigid removed the clips in her hair then replaced them, making sure there were no loose ends. ‘You must come round to the house again, in the evening, for dinner.’

  ‘Thanks. Or perhaps you could persuade Alex to babysit and the two of us could go out somewhere.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brigid sounded less than enthusiastic. ‘In a week or two when Rebecca’s more settled. I think she’s cutting her first tooth. She woke three times last night. I expect that’s why I’ve let the classes get me down.’

  Shannon was waiting by the bus stop, talking to a woman with one baby in a buggy and another in a sling. Kristen drove slowly past, and Shannon saw her and waved. Earlier in the day there had been a slightly unpleasant incident that had started during a discussion about computers.

  Hugo had insisted one day there would be nothing a human being could do that couldn’t be done better by a computer. Computers would rule the world, he said, and only the cleverest people would be able to stop them. Hugo talked too much, everyone knew that, but the children’s usual way of stopping him was to start laughing. This morning however, while he was in full flow, Shannon had pushed back her chair and shouted, ‘You think you’re so bloody brilliant but you don’t know anything.’ Shocked and upset, Hugo had struggled not to cry and for the rest of the time up to the morning break the whole group had been uncharacteristically subdued.

  Kristen reached the end of the road and, acting on a sudden impulse, turned left then left again and started back towards the bus stop. If Shannon was still there, she would pretend she had to go in the direction of Downend and would be passing close to where she lived. If the bus had come and gone, she would take it as a sign that it was better to leave the girl to sort out her problems with her parents.

  Shannon, and the woman with two babies, had been joined by a small, wiry man who appeared to be asking Shannon something. He had a hand on her sleeve and looked as if he might be up to no good. Kristen drew up at the kerb a few yards beyond where Shannon was standing and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Jump in, I’ll give you a lift. I’m going up Fishponds Road today – to visit a friend.’

  Shannon hesitated, glancing at the baby in the buggy, almost as if leaving the others waiting at the bus stop would be unfair, then said an apologetic goodbye to the woman and climbed into the car.

  ‘Bus late?’ Kristen asked.

  ‘Actually I’m not sure when they’re supposed to come.’

  Kristen leaned across to check Shannon’s seat belt but it was clicked in place. ‘That man at the bus stop, what did he want?’

  ‘He asked about the classes.’

  ‘At the college? How did he know –’

  ‘He said he had a friend whose son went to them.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Shannon hesitated. ‘He asked if my teacher was called Mrs Frith.’

  ‘Have you seen him before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Let me know if he speaks to you again.’

  Who was he? He must have seen Shannon leaving the college. Mrs Frith? He could be the man who had sent the letter. The dog man.

  They
had reached the mini-roundabout. ‘Is the best way to go through the centre, Shannon?’

  She nodded, holding her breath and letting it out in a sigh. ‘I’m sorry about Hugo. I just felt so … I know you think it’s because of the classes but it’s not, I promise it’s not.’

  So there was something bothering her. ‘You’ve a sister haven’t you? Older or younger?’

  ‘I’ve got two.’ Shannon seemed surprised there was something Kristen didn’t know about her. ‘Jackie’s twelve, she’s at the school I’ll be going to, and Danielle’s seven.’

  ‘How do they feel about you coming to the college?’

  ‘Jackie’s sorry for me, she thinks, like, if you’re clever you have to do more work. Danielle doesn’t really understand, only she’s really good at reading for her age, better than Jackie, except Jackie doesn’t try.’

  Kristen could imagine the relationship between Shannon and Jackie might be tricky. They were close enough in age for comparisons to be inevitable. How did the parents deal with Shannon’s gift for maths? Presumably she was far ahead of her older sister in most other subjects too.

  Traffic was heavy and neither of them spoke again until after the turning at Trinity Road. Shannon kept yawning and rubbing her eyes but when Kristen glanced at her she smiled and folded her hands on her lap.

  ‘Hay fever,’ she explained, ‘they call it hay fever but really it’s an allergy. I’m allergic to dust mites and to dogs and cats. Have you got one? We’ve got a poodle but they don’t moult. He’s called Benji.’

  ‘You think it’s something in the car?’ Kristen remembered giving a lift to one of Theo’s friends and his border collie. Weeks ago it had been, not long after they returned from Ohio, but perhaps there were still hairs on the back seat.

  ‘It’s funny,’ Shannon said, ‘because, like, sometimes I’m all right for ages then it starts up again. You could meet my mum and dad, or would you rather drop me off at the end of the road? Dad’s on holiday but we’re not going away. Jackie may be out but Danielle will be there.’

  Kristen was flattered. ‘I’d love to meet them, Shannon.’