The Gifted Child

by Penny Kline

  From his father’s point of view, the world consisted of ‘people like us’ and ‘snobs’. The rich were either crooks, or people who had inherited cash, and his father had a fixation about blokes who had been to university – and as far as women were concerned … It was absurd, decades out of date, but somewhere along the line Tisdall must have picked up something of his father’s attitude and Grace going to college had felt like the beginning of the end.

  The department where Alex Howell worked was in a large purpose-built building with steps leading up to double swing doors. Tisdall entered the foyer and came face to face with a glass-fronted display with the names of each member of staff, along with a coloured photograph. Howell’s glasses obscured most of his face but it was still possible to see how he had wanted to portray himself; serious, important, but able to produce a faint, quizzical smile.

  As he gave his name to the uniformed man on the desk, Tisdall began going over in his head the best way to encourage Howell to talk openly about William Frith, his character, general attitude to life, and above all any extra-marital activities he might have hinted about to his employer. Strictly speaking, the university had employed Frith, but it was Howell’s research money that paid his salary. Was that how everything worked these days?

  Howell was expecting him but still managed to keep him waiting seven minutes. One of Tisdall’s wisdom teeth ached and exploring it with his tongue did nothing to relieve the discomfort. To take his mind off the twinges, he read the fire instructions twice, then a list of publications that must have dropped out of a student’s bag; either that or it had been discarded as not worth keeping.

  When a message finally came through that he could go up to Howell’s room he took the lift, emerging on the third floor to find Howell waiting in the corridor, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  ‘So sorry, Sergeant. Lucky you caught me. Been looking after my daughter while my wife was at work.’

  Tisdall noted with a faint smile that the fingers of Howell’s left hand were black, presumably from a marker pen. ‘As I said on the phone, I wanted to have a few words about William Frith.’

  Howell showed him into his room and pulled forward a metal chair with a padded seat. ‘Whatever you need to know. Are you still working on the same theory or have some new lines of inquiry been set up?’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind.’ Tisdall pushed back his chair to increase the distance between them. ‘I realise another officer spoke to you at the time of the murder, but that was to ask if you knew what Frith could have been doing down by the river that particular evening.’

  Howell removed his glasses then replaced them when a letter in his in-tray caught his eyes. ‘Afraid I couldn’t be any help. As far as I can tell, the Avon Forest, as they like to call it, is not specially noted for its interesting flora and fauna. Like everyone else, no doubt, I could hazard a guess William had been going on one of his runs. He was a fitness fanatic, took as much exercise as he could fit into his busy schedule.’

  ‘And this person he was meeting later, the one he thought might be able to help him find a job, you’ve no idea who it could have been?’

  ‘I’ve thought about that, gone over snippets of conversation, a talk I had with him shortly after he returned from the States. No, I’m sorry.’ Howell pulled at a loose thread on the cuff of his olive green shirt. ‘If anyone else at the university was interested in employing him I imagine I’d have heard about it. Must have been some other kind of work he was after. I’ve an idea he’d become a little disillusioned with academic life, found it too painstakingly routine.’

  Howell’s office was smaller than Tisdall had expected but most of his work was probably carried out in a laboratory. He was flicking through a desk diary and Tisdall wondered if something useful had occurred to him. But when he came to the end he closed it without further comment.

  Tisdall tried again. ‘And the brief conversation you referred to, that was the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘We were hoping to have him and Kristen round for a meal but our baby was only a few weeks old so we’d put it off for a while.’

  ‘What did you talk about – the last time you met?’

  ‘Why he hadn’t been able to settle in Ohio. Oh, and I made a few suggestions about a career change, but he seemed unsure what he wanted to do. Universities are market-orientated these days, there’s pressure to carry out research that guarantees a substantial grant rather than spend time on something that might or might not achieve an important result.’

  ‘That’s what Frith objected to?’ Tisdall was thinking about Grace’s course and how Howell would despise anything that had a purely practical application. ‘That’s the case in your field too?’

  Howell gave a bitter laugh. ‘My field’s no different from any other.’

  Consulting his notes, although everything he wanted to ask was in his head, Tisdall inquired if Howell had felt Frith owed him an apology. ‘After he returned from the States.’

  Farther down the corridor a door squeaked open and a group of students who must have come out from a lecture passed by, laughing and talking. Howell appeared oblivious to the racket. ‘For not sticking it out, giving the post a chance? Perhaps he thought I’d take him back but that was out of the question, we’d started work on another project and I’d taken on two new research assistants.’

  He was angry with Frith, Tisdall thought, but he was not going to admit it for fear of losing face. All the effort he had put into helping him onto the first rung of a promising career, and Frith had returned to Bristol within the year and more or less told him he could stuff the academic world.

  ‘I felt sorry for Kristen,’ Howell said, ‘she’d given up her teaching to go to America. Jobs in decent schools are not easy to come by.’

  ‘So she wasn’t too pleased about what happened either.’

  ‘As far as Kristen was concerned, William could do no wrong. I daresay she worried about uprooting Theo twice within the space of a year but kids his age are pretty adaptable.’

  Did Howell include adapting to living in London with a mother he had only seen for the odd weekend since the age of four? ‘One last thing, Dr Howell, would you say you knew Frith well – as a person, I mean?’

  Howell yawned. ‘There’s a question. If I had to give a thumbnail sketch I’d say he was highly intelligent and amusing company, but a bit of a maverick. Didn’t like being told what to do but that’s true of most creative people. I liked him. He could drive you insane, frequently did, but it was more than compensated for by the intellectual stimulation he provided. Do you have children, Sergeant?’

  ‘One daughter.’

  ‘Then you’ll understand how Kristen must be feeling. Ros Richards is the legal parent, no one can dispute that, but surely the first concern ought to be what’s best for the boy. My wife sometimes accuses me of being too logical, too rational, but as far as Kristen and the boy are concerned I’d be inclined to bypass the letter of the law and settle for some kind of rough justice. If I could think of anything that would stand up in court I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’

  17

  During the evening, Vi phoned to ask if Kristen would like to accompany her to an exhibition.

  ‘Not my stuff,’ she explained, ‘I haven’t nearly enough.’

  ‘That’s because it sells so well.’ Kristen was pleased that the slight coolness the last time they spoke had been replaced by a friendly invitation.

  ‘The exhibition,’ Vi said, ‘it’s children’s work. The winners of a competition organised by a Sunday paper. The first time I met Cameron was at an exhibition. What they used to call psychotic art. Horrible name for it, I expect they use something different these days, but wonderful work, so powerful, so original.’

  The first time she met Cameron. Hadn’t he said the first time had been at an amateur art show where Vi had won third prize?

  ‘I’d love to go with you,’ Kristen said.

  ‘Good. And perhaps we could h
ave some lunch together afterwards. We’d better make our own way to the exhibition.’ She gave Kristen the time and place. ‘See you soon then. Take care.’

  Just before she put the phone down, Kristen thought she heard a man coughing. Neville? Home already, telling Vi how Kristen had spoken to him about Shannon Wilkins and seemed intent on stirring up trouble? Was the invitation to the exhibition a way of providing an opportunity to sound her out? On the other hand, if Neville had anything to do with Shannon’s behaviour he was hardly likely to mention her name to Vi.

  Of course, the man in the background, the one with a cough, could have been Cameron Lyle. Had he told Vi about their meeting at the pub and the way Kristen had walked out on him? Since then she had spent sleepless nights going over his exact words – and her own – trying to work out why he had thought it a good idea to pass on someone else’s criticism of William. To prevent her hearing it from the police, that was what he had said, or was it because Lyle himself had an axe to grind?

  Theo’s latest letter was propped up on the mantelpiece. Kristen re-read it and her spirits lifted a little.

  Dear Kristen, it’s very hot here. We saw a dead rat floating in the river. Kimberly had to go and see her mother so John took me to the park. He’s not very good at football and he hurt his toe. We had spaghetti rings for tea.

  So Ros had talked John into looking after Theo while she attended an audition, or more likely met up with friends. The novelty of having her son living with her seemed to be wearing off faster than even Kristen could have imagined. What a bloody stupid situation. Ros either paid or cajoled people into staying with Theo while she, Kristen, sat alone in her flat with one thing uppermost in her mind: how to find a way to convince Ros he would be better off living with the person who had cared for him virtually every night and day since he was four and a quarter years old.

  The exhibition of child art had been touring the country for several weeks before it reached Bristol. Kristen vaguely remembered reading about it. Different classes for different age groups, an overall winner who was only six, but people always liked the younger children’s work best.

  She reached the gallery early and found Vi in the foyer, looking as if she had been waiting for some time.

  ‘I’m not late, am I?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so.’ Vi was wearing a brown cotton jacket and a pair of trousers that stopped well above her ankles. Her beige sandals had thick, shiny straps that spread across her knobbly toes and as Kristen watched she reached down to adjust one of them and straightened up, breathing hard.

  ‘How are you?’ She took Kristen’s arm and guided her into the first gallery. ‘Last time I was here it was an exhibition of Miro’s. Wonderful! Left me torn between wanting to give up altogether and feeling I ought to rush home and start on something completely new.’

  The room they were in had the entries for “Twelve years and above”. Vi scanned the walls, then turned to Kristen. ‘That time you phoned, about wanting to interview me for your thesis…’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Kristen brushed aside the apology but Vi refused to be put off.

  ‘I was feeling low, sometimes do, days when the hormones are playing up. Anyway, enough of that, how’s it going, your thesis? I meant to ask you before but as I recall I spent most of the time talking about myself. Have you found a full-time job for the autumn?’

  ‘Not yet.’ What was Vi leading up to? Something about the college, about Shannon Wilkins?

  They had stopped in front of a picture of an old woman, so beautifully drawn that Kristen was surprised it had failed to win first prize.

  ‘I agree.’ Vi had read her thoughts. ‘Who do you supposed does the judging? “Highly commended”, I ask you. A panel no doubt that includes a half-witted celebrity and a journalist.’

  Vi was peering into her face. ‘Don’t look so cross,’ she said. ‘No, I’m sorry, you look however you want. We’ll have some lunch later. I bet you never bother to cook yourself a decent meal. This is the same gallery where they had the exhibition of psychotic art I told you about.’

  ‘Where you met Cameron Lyle.’

  Vi looked at her curiously. ‘Actually, the first time was at an art society do. They’d hung my painting in a dark corner but amazingly the judges spotted it and gave me third prize.’

  So there was no mystery about how she and Cameron had met. Vi had temporarily forgotten. ‘Quite a time ago, was it?’

  ‘Two years. No, it was when …’ She broke off, raising her hand in a wave as a dark, exotic-looking woman, wearing an embroidered jacket, entered the gallery. And was followed a few moments later by Cameron Lyle.

  Vi rubbed her eye with her fist. ‘There’s the blighter. The two of you’ve met, haven’t you? Yes, of course, you’ve been to the antique market. We’re starting with the older children, Cameron, and working backwards. Kristen doesn’t have too high an opinion of the judges and I’m inclined to agree.’ Vi turned her attention to Lyle’s companion. ‘How are you, Naomi?

  ‘I’m good, thank you, Vi. Just returned from a trip to Rome. Only got off the plane late last night but Cameron persuaded me I ought to see the kiddiewinkies’ pictures.’

  Vi introduced Kristen, explaining how she was doing some teaching at the college where Neville worked, and the woman called Naomi smiled politely and started talking about the exhibition where Cameron had ‘discovered’ Vi.

  Cameron turned to Kristen but avoided her eyes. ‘Vi had done this tiny painting of a frog, a million miles better than anything else.’

  Kristen said nothing. A week had passed since their meeting in the pub. Reporting the words of the mythical ‘Steve’ was supposed to be a way of sparing her the humiliation of finding out from the police what William was really like. But the more she thought about it, the less she believed his explanation.

  Turning away, Lyle held an inhaler to his mouth and administered two quick puffs. Then he whispered something in Vi’s ear, making Kristen feel excluded. The two of them were roughly the same height although Vi probably weighed about three stone more, and they had the slightly flirtatious way of talking to each other that Kristen had noticed before between people of different generations. Moving on, Kristen pretended to be absorbed, looking at a drawing of a bicycle that was brilliantly executed but totally lifeless, although when you thought about it how could a bicycle be anything else?

  ‘Cameron’s all right when you get to know him.’ Vi’s hand was on Kristen’s shoulder. ‘Can be a little thoughtless but doesn’t mean any harm. I’m afraid we all use our own particular problems as an excuse for bad behaviour.’

  So what problems did Cameron Lyle have?

  ‘Nev’s ever so pleased with your work at the college,’ Vi continued. ‘He tells me a little about the children, especially the one called Shannon. Come on, let’s skip the rest of this room and go and see the stuff the little ones produce before they become self-conscious and lose their spontaneity.’

  Cameron Lyle spoke to them once before they left but only to make sure they hadn’t missed a family portrait by a five-year-old boy called Aaron. Mummy, Daddy, and Aaron were each the size of a small doll but “my sister Ellen” was enormous, dressed in scarlet and black, and with outsize boxing gloves for hands.

  ‘I can just imagine her, can’t you,’ Vi laughed, and Kristen joined in, although secretly she felt sorry for Ellen whose life must have been torn apart by the birth of her baby brother. Would Theo have enjoyed the exhibition or would he have found it boring? Boring was a word he had started using a lot after they returned from America, until one day William had lost his temper. For Christ’s sake, Theo, if you’re bored when you’re only eight, heaven help you when … He never finished the sentence. There was no need. When you’re my age.

  ‘Right.’ Vi steered her towards the exit. ‘Enough of that. There’s me criticising Cameron for being insensitive and all I’ve done is make you feel worse, although I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you I had no idea Cameron was going to
be here.’ So he had told Vi about their conversation in the pub.

  The row of terraced houses had front doors that opened directly onto the street. Tisdall noticed a dog looking through one of the windows, but on closer inspection it turned out to be a soft toy with glass eyes.

  ‘Marrakech,’ said Brake, lifting a length of wisteria to read the painted nameplate. ‘D’you suppose in Marrakech they call their houses Stow-on-the-Wold?’

  Tisdall laughed, mainly out of surprise at Brake’s attempt at a joke. When they first started working together, he had found Brake’s presence a strain, but recently the man had started to ease up a bit. Not that his level of interest in Frith’s murder had abated. Most of the dog man’s victims had been re-interviewed during the last few days but, hard as Brake had tried, nothing of any interest had come up. Malcolm Wisdom was the last on the list and Tisdall, who had heard about Wisdom from Dave Wood, who was now doing a spell in uniform, had decided it was best if he accompanied Brake for this particular interview.

  Wisdom was an academic, like Alex Howell, but worked at a different university and lectured in computing. Dave Wood had said he was the sort that went on Gay Pride marches dressed in nothing but a pair of cycling shorts and with his arm round another bloke’s neck.

  ‘Lives alone, does he.’ Brake smiled to himself. ‘What d’you suppose he was doing down by the river?’

  ‘I believe he has a partner.’ Tisdall deliberately allowed a short pause. ‘I imagine he was going for a walk, getting some fresh air, or maybe he’s a fitness freak like William Frith.’

  Brake inspected the back of his hand. ‘Maybe Frith was on the turn and only lived with a woman so there was someone to look after his kid.’

  They had left the car down the road. People disliked the neighbours seeing a policeman call at their house, even a plain clothes one, and if the vehicles in the road were anything to go by the area was more upmarket than Tisdall had expected. Of course you met the odd person who was more interested in his car than his house, saw it as an extension of himself, a kind of suit of armour and lethal weapon rolled into one. Tisdall had no strong feelings about where he lived, nor about the car he drove as long as it kept going on the motorway and didn’t refuse to start on icy January mornings.