The Gifted Child

by Penny Kline

  ‘Steve wanted to know if William played any musical instruments.’

  ‘Musical instruments,’ she repeated. ‘Why would he want to know that? He learned the piano when he was a child but never kept it up. Oh, and he had a concertina but it needed repairing.’

  ‘Have you still got it?’

  ‘I gave it to Theo.’

  He nodded. ‘You must miss him like hell. I noticed the photos, looks just like his father, and quite like you as a matter of fact but they say adopted kids get to look like their parents. If you’d adopted him…’

  ‘That wouldn’t have been possible, not as long as Ros was alive. She’d never have agreed to it.’

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry, not just about the pub. Everything. Has your doctor given you something?’

  ‘Some happy pills, you mean. William believed the best cure was vigorous exercise.’

  He looked away. ‘Being unhappy is not the same as suffering from clinical depression.’

  She shrugged. ‘He thought depression was a weakness, an inability to pull yourself together. Exercise stimulates the hormones, gets the right chemicals coursing through your blood.’

  ‘Chemicals!’ He spat out the word. ‘How bloody fucking moronic.’ He started coughing then managed to control it, holding his chest as if it hurt him to breathe.

  Kristen said nothing. His reaction was much the same as her own had been when William told her how an acquaintance of his had topped herself but it need never have happened, not if she’d looked after her body instead of concentrating on what was going on in her head.

  19

  Kristen’s car needed servicing and now she was paying for it. As she struggled to start the engine, a man was watching her, aware no doubt that it was a lost cause. Why was he so interested? Was he going to offer to help? Dressed in a beige anorak that was too large for him, and badly fitting jeans, he looked faintly familiar although she was probably imagining it. Was she imagining it? Not a stalker, please God not a stalker. She was becoming paranoid. He had no interest in her and, on second thoughts, he looked a little like the man Shannon had been talking to at the bus stop. Or did he? Hundreds, thousands of men looked like that. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she get a grip on herself? Lack of sleep. Perhaps she should get some sleeping tablets, the chemicals Cameron despised so much.

  ‘Trouble?’

  Neville had appeared and was bending down until his face was level with Kristen’s. ‘The battery, I imagine; doesn’t sound as if you’re going to have much luck. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home and you can ring up the garage, ask them to sort it out and run the car back to you later on.’

  As soon as they were in the car, he started talking about the classes. ‘When we began it was one small group, then news spread and for a time we were inundated with applicants, many of them quite unsuitable. Sarah Pearson will be back in September, when the Saturday class resumes, but since the waiting list of children hoping to join us is starting to build up again I’m hoping to persuade the powers that be to let us have a third classroom in another part of the building. If it comes off I’d be more than happy to keep you on.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Kristen was uncertain if she wanted to tie up her weekends. ‘I’ll have to do supply teaching during the week until I can find something permanent. I’ve been asking around but the idea of full-time work…’

  ‘Of course. Mustn’t overdo things, not until you’re back on your feet. How’s your thesis progressing?’

  ‘Slowly.’ She thought about the notes laid out on her floor.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ Neville said brightly. ‘Will it include work on people who can do one thing brilliantly, reciting the telephone book or playing the piano, although their general intelligence appears to be well below average?’

  ‘Memorising strings of numbers seems to be a technique anyone can learn if they have enough patience.’

  ‘Really?’ Neville was sweating profusely. He put up a hand to ease his collar and Kristen noticed his tie was knotted so tightly that the loose skin on his neck overhung his collar. He began asking her opinion of the nature-nurture debate, how much of intelligence is innate, inherited, and how much depends on experience, environmental influences. She made a few comments but mostly he seemed happy to spell out his own ideas, together with information from recent journal articles he had read.

  ‘I’ve a book you might like to borrow,’ Kristen said, ‘I could bring it on Wednesday.’

  ‘Good. I’d like that.’ He was silent for a minute or two then he started talking about Vi’s paintings, asking what Kristen thought of them and, before she had time to answer, suggesting her taste was probably a little more esoteric. He seemed to know the quickest route to Bishopston without her giving him directions.

  ‘This book,’ he said. ‘Perhaps when I drop you off I could take it with me, or are you still using it?’

  ‘I borrowed it from the university library but it doesn’t have to be back till the end of the month.’

  ‘So you’ve kept up your connections with people at the university.’

  ‘Since I’m registered for my thesis, I’m allowed a library ticket.’

  He passed the turning to her road and cursed under his breath. ‘Sorry, wasn’t thinking, we’ll have to go on to the junction and round the other way.’

  He had a sprinkling of dandruff on the shoulders of the jacket he wore whatever the weather, and his hands on the steering wheel were red with large veins standing out on the backs of them. Kristen wondered if he and Vi shared a double bed. It would have to be a large one! How had he felt, getting married so late in life, and after all those years looking after his sister?

  As they swung round the next corner, Kristen put out a hand to steady herself and caught her nail on the seat belt fastening. Looking down at the rough edge, it reminded her of the deal she had made with Shannon. Stop biting your nails and on the last day of the course I’ll give you a reward. Shannon had laughed – it was relief to see her looking cheerful – but Hugo had said it was unfair, like the story of the Prodigal Son.

  ‘I gave Cameron Lyle your address,’ Neville said suddenly, ‘I hope that was what you wanted. He said he had a picture to drop off at your flat, one you’d had framed. He and Vi are thick as thieves but I hardly know him myself, although he was generous enough to give me a hand with one of my fundraising projects. Took a tin round the antique market, collected a fair bit. My sister suffered from a rare genetic disorder. So rare in fact that the medical profession has shown very little interest.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Since her death I’ve raised money for an organisation that helps provide breaks for the carers. I was fortunate myself. Vi helped enormously, as did various other friends. Some of the carers have a hell of a life. On her good days Jane could be left for a short while. Others need supervision more or less twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘Her death must have been a terrible shock.’

  ‘Yes, well, there we are.’ Neville cleared his throat noisily. ‘She’d already outlived her life expectancy, but it’s a mistake to imagine being prepared for a death makes it any less traumatic when it actually comes.’

  Were all men so tactless? Or was it that she was so obsessed with William’s death, she was incapable of putting herself in anyone else’s shoes.

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know how hard it is for you.’ Neville glanced at her then back at the road. ‘You’ll tell me it’s best to keep busy but in the circumstances I’m not sure I could have carried on.’

  You would, she wanted to say, because you’d have had no choice. Instead, she told him he had reached her turning and he’d be welcome to come inside and collect the book.

  The phone rang when Kristen was having a shower. Leaving wet footprints on the lino she raced into the other room, petrified in case it was Ros putting off Theo’s visit again.

  It was Cameron Lyle.

  ‘Not in bed, were you?’ His voice
was only just audible above the background noise of clinking glasses and the loud thump of piped music.

  ‘I was having a shower.’

  A short pause followed and she thought she heard someone telling him to get a move on.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘Thursday evening, how are you fixed? I’m going round to Vi’s to select some paintings to take to London, wondered if you like to join us.’ He made a dry wheezing sound. ‘Sorry, air in this place is unfit for human consumption. Actually, it was Vi’s idea. Pick you up about seven thirty?’

  For a moment she thought they had been cut off, but then he came back, his voice raised above the music. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have the police been in touch since I saw you last?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only I was thinking. Obviously the pickpocket guy knows he’s suspect number one. The thing is, he could be afraid you might pass something on to them.’

  ‘If I knew anything I would.’

  There was another short pause. ‘Yes, well, let’s assume, just for moment, that the dog man, so-called, had nothing to do with it. That means someone else … and if whoever it is suspects the police have given up on their original line of inquiry … Yes, all right.’ She had said nothing but he had responded to the silence. ‘You can look after yourself, don’t want me muscling in. So I’ll see you Thursday, right?’

  She returned to the shower and turned the water on hard. She was thinking about the man Mrs Letts claimed to have seen in her garden. She could hear something now. Only water dripping. The overflow pipe from upstairs. That meant it would splash into the yard for weeks before the landlord got round to asking someone to fix it.

  Letting up the blind, she peered into the darkness and was surprised to discover for the first time for weeks that it was raining. She thought she could see a light. Mrs Letts? But the old woman had told her she was in bed by nine thirty. The light was moving about, flickering on and off, then it went out altogether and Kristen thought she heard someone mutter an expletive. She could go out and check but that would mean getting dressed.

  Cameron’s phone call and the light in Mrs Letts’ garden might be too much of a coincidence to ignore. Was it some kind of joke? William had enjoyed planning practical jokes, some of them so elaborate they were bordering on the cruel.

  During their brief stay in Ohio, he had become cynical, disparaging of everyone they met, and Theo had begun to copy him. When she asked if he regretted leaving Bristol he had shouted that he hadn’t had much choice since Alex’s research was going nowhere. Had Alex put pressure on him to leave? Because he found him so difficult to work with? Steve couldn’t stand the guy, said he was a troublemaker, caused havoc wherever he went.

  How much did Cameron Lyle really know about William? Perhaps they had been friends, gone drinking together in the evening William didn’t work at the hostel. Next time she saw him she would question him more closely. What did he want from her? Did he know who had killed William? Was it even possible he had been involved in William’s death himself?

  20

  Vi had propped up her paintings round the wall, about a dozen altogether, and two more, one on the easel, another on the mantelpiece. Cameron had inspected each in turn, without comment, and while it was going on Vi had kept glancing at Kristen and pulling a face as though to say “He doesn’t think much of them and he’s trying to think how to let me down lightly”.

  Ever since Cameron arrived, Vi had been chain-smoking and it had surprised Kristen how nervous she appeared. Her relaxed, comfortable expression had been replaced by a series of little facial twitches and every so often she pushed her cigarette to the corner of her mouth and started clasping and unclasping her hands. Kristen had expected Neville to be there but Vi explained how he spent Wednesday evenings with friends he had known since the days when he belonged to a sports club on the edge of the city. Nice for both of us. Nev has a night out with his mates and I can watch the telly, whatever rubbish I fancy.

  ‘Good.’ Cameron stepped back from the paintings and gave Vi a reassuring smile. ‘The gallery won’t take as many as this so either I could show them the lot and let them make their own selection or we could decide now which will go down best.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Vi lit another cigarette and balanced herself on the arm of the sofa. ‘Is it better to choose ones that go together or pick as varied a selection as possible?’

  He thought about this, jerking his head as he counted up the exact number of pictures on display. His hair had been cut and he was wearing new jeans and a white T-shirt with a reproduction of a Paul Klee drawing on the front. ‘Normally galleries like each picture by a particular artist to be more or less a clone of the last one. But your gallery’s more concerned with showing paintings people actually want to hang on their walls.’

  Vi gave a snort. ‘You mean they don’t care two hoots as long as it matches the wallpaper.’

  Cameron looked at Kristen and raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘See what I’m up against? Half the battle’s believing in yourself.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ Vi protested. ‘That’s why you get your cut so I won’t have to do the humiliating part. You know, Kristen, painting’s nothing compared with trying to sell the wretched stuff.’

  Kristen smiled. ‘I believe you. I’d be hopeless at it.’

  ‘Whereas Cameron,’ said Vi, ‘was born to charm the birds off the trees or, put it another way, to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes.’

  The painting on the easel was of a garden with a summer house at the far end and a wooden seat where a man – Neville had been the model – sat reading a book, with a small grey terrier by his side. Kristen found it hard to imagine Neville staying still long enough – he always seemed to be in a rush, on the move – although the time he had come to her flat to borrow the book he had assured her he was in no hurry and accepted her offer of coffee and a sandwich.

  Ever since her conversation with Alex Howell on the Downs, Kristen had been thinking about Neville’s sister and the circumstances of her death. Alex had implied negligence, or even that someone had deliberately turned a blind eye when she climbed up into the loft. Carers sometimes lost control – who could blame them – but Neville had sounded as though his sister’s death had been a shattering experience, and collecting for charity was the only way he knew of trying to come to terms with what had happened.

  Recently Kristen had started waking at four in the morning then every hour, more or less on the hour, until it was time to get up. Lying in bed, one question followed another. Who had William been planning to meet that evening? Had he made up the meeting as a way of stopping her accompanying him? But another much more worrying question kept returning. Why, in spite of his lack of a job, had William always had plenty of cash? No, not plenty, that was an exaggeration. Plenty for what he wanted to do; plenty for when he took it into his head he needed a new laptop or an electronic game for Theo.

  Blackmail.

  The word kept coming back into her head. Nothing too ambitious, nothing that anyone would be able to check. Just a word, a look, and the handing over of small but regular sums of money?

  Vi and Cameron were watching her. Kristen opened her mouth to say something complimentary about one of the paintings but Vi got in first, asking when Theo was arriving.

  ‘Saturday morning.’ Kristen was surprised she knew about the visit. Brigid must have told Neville who had passed the information on to Vi. ‘He’s staying until Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘Good.’ Vi gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘He must be looking forward to it.’

  ‘Right, I think they’ll accept up to eight.’ Cameron lifted the garden painting from the easel and exchanged it for one from the shelf. ‘I suggest I take a dozen and we’ll see what happens. That one’s great.’ He pointed to the picture of the Yorkshire terrier. ‘What do you think, Kristen? It’s the detail people go for, the hair on the ears, the shiny black nose.’

 
; ‘Yes, I like that one too.’ Kristen felt awkward, out of place, wondering why she was there, wondering if the two of them had been talking about her behind her back. Had the real reason for the invitation been because Vi had spoken to Cameron and the two of them wanted to question her about Shannon Wilkes? ‘Painting something that’s all fur must be difficult,’ she said, ‘and the eyes are wonderful.’

  'Fluff,’ Vi said, ‘that’s the name of the poor little bugger. Got a mummy who dotes on him, feeds him chicken breast and lamb’s liver.’

  ‘Got a Burberry for the winter, has it?’ Cameron asked. ‘God, the way people anthropomorphise their pets, it makes you wonder what kind of a life their owners have, whether they’ve ever risked a relationship with a human being.’

  ‘Don’t be so cruel.’ Vi gave him a shove in the back and the atmosphere in the studio relaxed. ‘Fluff’s owner’s been happily married for thirty years or more. Love’s not a finite commodity that has to be apportioned.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Cameron picked up another painting and turned to Kristen. ‘Talking of dogs, it occurred to me this dog man character the police came up with may not even exist. How many crimes is he supposed to have committed? Supposing someone used the trick of pretending he’d lost his dog then a totally different person decided to do the same, and on the basis of a couple of incidents –’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Kristen had been hoping that for once the subject would be left alone. ‘There were at least six cases.’

  ‘Six cases before …’ He broke off, rubbing his chin. ‘There haven’t been any since?’

  ‘Pick your paintings,’ said Vi crossly, ‘and I’ll find us something to drink. When do you suppose you’ll be going up to London, Cameron?’

  ‘Next week.’

  Vi ran a hand through her hair. ‘And is the gallery likely to make a decision on the spot?’

  ‘It won’t take them long. In any case I reckon they’ll want the lot. And don’t keep giving me the evil eye. My intention was not to upset Kristen, just the opposite. Until William’s killer’s been charged, how can any of the people who knew him get on with the rest of their lives?’