The Gifted Child

by Penny Kline

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Yes. What do you want?’

  He pushed the folded scrap of paper into her hand and waited while she smoothed it out.

  ‘What is this?’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

  He was shaking so much he could hardly speak. ‘This evening.’ His voice was husky and he had to clear his throat. ‘Go there this evening, see for yourself.’

  She glared at him. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Then her expression changed. He was the man at the bus stop, the one who had asked Shannon about the classes. ‘You? Was it you who sent the letter?’

  ‘Letter?’ He started backing away. ‘He didn’t have nothing … The dog man, he never done it. I only wanted …’ He never finished the sentence. Neville had come into the car park. The man gave Kristen one last beseeching look. ‘Go there this evening, see for yourself.’ And he started to run.

  The address she had been given was a short distance from the road where Shannon lived. Kristen drove to an adjacent street and sat in the car for several minutes, studying the map. It was already seven thirty and she was due at Brigid and Alex’s at eight but as soon as she had checked the address she could drive straight to Redland and with any luck would be only a few minutes late.

  After the man gave her the slip of paper she had considered contacting Tisdall, then decided against it. She was almost certain he was the one who had been talking to Shannon at the bus stop so this could be something to do with Shannon and quite unconnected with William’s murder.

  Two boys, aged about ten or eleven and dressed in England kits, were heading the ball between them. They paused, then resumed with practised skill and timing after the car had passed by. Since Theo’s visit the feeling of loss had become almost unbearable. The best she could hope for was that Ros would remain in England and allow Theo to visit Bristol several times a year. But would he want to? After a time it might seem like a chore. No, I can’t play in Saturday’s match, I have to go and see a friend, or my aunt, or this woman my father used to know.

  She was letting herself become morbid, self-pitying. Theo would never think of her like that, but the only way to keep in touch was to make sure she never put any pressure on him, never encouraged him to behave as a go-between, passing on gossip about Ros.

  The boys had given up their football game and were sitting on a low wall, sharing a bag of crisps. Kristen climbed out of her car and started walking back towards the main road. The noise of the traffic sounded further away than it actually was, but in her present state all sights and sounds appeared slightly distorted. Four days had passed since Cameron had called round at the flat. She had expected a phone call but by now he would be up in London, taking Vi’s paintings to the gallery and doing whatever else he did. Where did he stay while he was up there? With the woman called Naomi who had come to the exhibition of child art?

  Turning into the next road she found a house with a number on the gate and realised she was at the wrong end and would have done better to have continued on, past the place where she had left her car, then turned left and left again. Why had she come? Was it really because of Shannon, or was it because someone at the house just might turn out to know something about William? During the last few weeks she had even started to wonder if it might be better if the murder remained unsolved. Once the police had arrested someone all kinds of stuff could come out, stories in the newspaper that could ruin Theo’s memory of his dead father.

  Number thirty-three. Now she had reached it what was she supposed to do? Watch it from a safe distance? Go round the back and peer through a window? In the end she decided to ring the bell and tell whoever answered the door that she had lost her cat and was hoping someone might have spotted it. Of course, it was possible she was walking into some kind of trap, but if the man outside the college had some reason for wanting to harm her he was unlikely to have gone about it in such an amateurish way, and shown himself so openly. Her main impression of him was that something was making him very afraid.

  The house was red brick, attached to another identical one. A short paved path led up to a porch that was really just a sheet of Perspex held up by two lengths of wood attached to the wall. Someone had trained a wisteria over it in an attempt to make it look more attractive. The ground floor window was open at the top and Kristen could hear the buzz of conversation, enough voices to make it sound like a party was going on, although there was no music.

  She pressed the bell and the voices stopped for a moment. Then she heard laughter and saw a figure appear, just visible through the fluted glass in the front door.

  ‘Yes?’ The woman was middle-aged, wearing a blue, belted dress and with a string of glass beads round her neck.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’ Kristen looked beyond the woman, hoping to see into the house. ‘I’ve lost my cat, it’s black with two white paws.’

  The woman smiled. ‘I don’t live here, dear, but I’ll ask the owner. Hang on, shan’t be a minute.’

  Several people had come out of the room at the back, women dressed in calf-length skirts and silk blouses, with exotically coloured hair and high-heeled shoes. One of them had a cigarette and was waving away the smoke that was drifting towards her face. She approached the front door while still looking at someone over her shoulder.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘My cat,’ Kristen repeated, ‘he went missing the day before yesterday and I was wondering…’

  ‘Were you indeed,’ said a familiar voice, and a third woman appeared from the shadows. ‘I haven’t a clue who gave you this address but since you’ve taken so much trouble to find us the least we can do is invite you inside.’

  It was Neville Unwin.

  24

  The man who had written a book about genius was called Jed Croner. He was short, slightly built, with small indeterminate features and pockmarked skin. He came from Toronto, and took himself very seriously.

  Brigid had made an effort with the food. Spiced grapefruit with black grapes, followed, as Alex informed them, by something called Chicken Basque Style. Kristen had no appetite and had to struggle to finish what was on her plate. Her thoughts kept returning to the house in Fishponds, and on several occasions she was forced to guess what one of them had just said to her then watch Brigid and Alex exchange glances as though they were afraid she might be losing her grip.

  The room smelled of carnations, although there were no flowers in sight and Brigid never wore perfume, disliking, as she had once told Kristen, the way it was exorbitantly priced and turned the people who bought it into idiots. Kristen had taken more trouble than usual with her appearance, but Brigid was wearing a skirt she often wore at the college, and a slightly crumpled top with a stain on one shoulder.

  Alex was telling Jed Croner the history of the floating harbour and how Brunel had been responsible for a special lock, built to broaden the entrance.

  ‘Two hundred and sixty feet long and fifty feet wide. Disused now of course, closed by a concrete wall, but still an interesting feature of the dock landscape.’

  ‘Sounds worth seeing,’ Croner said politely. ‘So far I haven’t had too much time to look around, although I’m aware the history of the city goes back to Roman times.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Alex said, steering the conversation round to Croner’s book and Kristen’s thesis, ‘would an individual defined as a genius be in a special category or simply at the top of the intelligence ladder?’

  Croner looked at Kristen then realised the question had been directed to him. ‘Both views have their adherents.’ He had a very small mouth that barely opened when he spoke. ‘And then there’s the question of being born at the right time.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Alex drained his glass and pushed it across the table to be refilled by Brigid. ‘Oh, you mean, if Einstein had lived a century earlier … but what about Mozart? If he was alive now surely he would still be a genius?’

  It took Croner some time to finish chewing his mouthful. ‘It�
�s possible,’ he said at last, ‘I’d need to think about that for a while.’

  Brigid frowned irritably. ‘Surely deciding who is a genius must be fairly subjective.’

  ‘Yes and no.’ Croner had to think about that one too. ‘Musicologists rating composers have been shown to be more or less in agreement, at least as far as the first few contenders are concerned.’

  ‘Beethoven,’ Alex interrupted, ‘Bach. But what about those lower down the list?’

  ‘That’s where the problem lies.’ Croner started to list some lesser composers, while providing figures for degrees of disagreement with regard to their status.

  Kristen stifled a yawn. No doubt Croner’s book was well-researched but he was one of the most boring men she had ever met. She thought about her conversation with Neville the day her car refused to start and he had given her a lift to the flat. Compared with the dry, cautious approach of most academics, Neville’s interest in intelligence and personality, and the whole nature-nurture controversy had been in order to understand the practical outcomes of differing theories. At the time she had assumed he was thinking about the gifted children. Now she wasn’t so sure. Why did men cross-dress? Because their mothers had wanted them to be girls, or because they were jealous of their sisters? Most things in life were far more complicated than that. Once she had got over the shock of recognising him, dressed as a woman, there was something endearing about the trouble he had taken with his appearance. But what did Vi think about it? Presumably, she didn’t know. And the man who had told her to go to the address in Fishponds? If he was the dog man, why did he think she should know about Neville? He had been watching her when her car refused to start and Neville offered to give her a lift? Did he think Neville had something to do with the murder? What did he want? Was he following her, checking up on her?

  ‘Would you agree with that, Kristen?’ Brigid asked, and Kristen had to ask her to repeat what Croner had just said.

  Alex laughed. ‘Jed was quoting Francis Galton. How with two men of equal ability the one with a truth-loving mother would be more likely to become a scientist.’

  ‘So it’s not all in the genes.’ Brigid began clearing away plates. ‘Tell Jed about the work you’ve been doing at the college, Kristen.’

  The baby had woken. Brigid made a move but Alex jumped up, assuring her he would deal with it while she carried on serving the next course.

  ‘Not time for a feed, is it?’ he asked.

  Brigid shook her head. ‘If she won’t settle bring her down and give her some milk.’

  The rest of the evening dragged. Kristen drank very little and her head remained clear. Too clear. The shock of seeing Neville was wearing off and she was left with a depressing awareness that nothing she said would convince him she had been tricked into turning up at the house rather than taken it into her head to spy on him. Naturally she had no intention of telling Vi what she had seen, but Neville had no way of knowing that. As far as he was concerned he would want her to stay well clear of Vi – and of the college when the term ended in two days’ time.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Kristen tried to sound as if what she was going to say had only just come to her, ‘I meant to ask you before, Brigid, there’s been a rather odd-looking man hanging about near the college.’

  ‘Odd in what way?’

  ‘He was talking to Shannon at the bus stop but at the time I assumed he was asking about the times of the buses.’

  ‘And now?’ Alex stood in the doorway, minus the baby who must have gone back to sleep. ‘You’ve seen him again? What does he look like?’

  ‘Thin. Losing his hair.’

  ‘Age?’ Alex sounded like a policeman.

  ‘I’m not sure. Late twenties, early thirties. I thought Brigid might have noticed him too. I expect he’s harmless, probably unemployed, bored.’

  ‘All the same,’ Brigid said, ‘I think you should tell Neville, don’t you, Alex?’

  Alex sat down again and took a sip of wine. ‘Better safe than sorry. Anyone hanging about where children go in and out…’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ For the first time Jed Croner looked quite elated. ‘We had a case back home. Kid raped and strangled less than a hundred yards from her friend’s home. My two are eleven and nine but Beth and I never let them out on their own. Just isn’t worth the risk.’

  Brigid stared at Alex, willing him not to start an argument. Kristen agreed – Jed Croner wasn’t worth it – and something far more important had jumped into her head. The scruffy man had looked mystified when she asked if he was responsible for the anonymous letter, but it was an act, he had sent the letter and he had no wish to harm her, he wanted to help. And to help himself too by finding out who was responsible for William’s death, the real killer. He was the dog man so he knew he was innocent. The police had got it all wrong.

  Tisdall was not looking forward to talking to Kristen Olsen. The day had started badly and would finish even worse. Julie wanted to fix up a holiday for the two weeks leave he had due at the end of September. Unable to raise any enthusiasm for a fortnight in the Algarve, he had told her he would think about it, then groaned inwardly as she pushed aside her breakfast and burst into tears.

  Grace had never cried, not when she found out about Julie, not when Serena had told him she never wanted to speak to him again, not when he had packed a couple of suitcases and moved out. Even then there had been doubts in his mind. But it was no good blaming Julie. She had put the maximum pressure on him to move in with her, but he could have used it as a way of ending things between them.

  A fortnight in the Algarve. What would they do? Lie on the beach, trail round endless bars and clubs, take trips to local tourist attractions, eat too much, drink too much. He couldn’t face it. As soon as Julie mentioned his leave in September he had realised, without thinking about it consciously, that he had set the end of September as a deadline. Grit his teeth and make a go of it, or leave.

  Did Julie suspect what was going on in his mind? He doubted it. The arguments were becoming more frequent, more vitriolic, but she put it down to lack of space in the flat and the fact that he had to pay out so much of what he earned for Serena. When Serena left school … When they could afford a house … Lately she had started on again about babies. In the beginning she hadn’t wanted children, couldn’t stand the thought of being pregnant, getting fat. Now all that seemed to have been forgotten. He was forty-four, could leave the force in a few years’ time, but not if he had a young kid. Him and Julie and ‘the baby’, years of nappies and interrupted nights, buggies, tantrums…

  What was he doing? Trying to justify his decision, trying to convince himself he was being rational, that leaving would actually be in Julie’s interest in the long run. If he put his foot down about the baby she might go. But that was the coward’s way out, quite apart from the fact that it wouldn’t work. And the real fear, the one that was with him all day, and most of the night, supposing Grace had found someone else.

  When he knew he would have to talk to Kristen Olsen again, he had decided to take Brake along for moral support. It would have been sensible to phone her first but then she would have wanted to know what it was about. Now, they had reached the flat in Bishopston and rung the bell but there was no reply, just a shuffling sound as the old woman from the ground floor flat leaned over the railings to see who was there.

  ‘She’s out.’ She finished whatever she had been eating and forced a fingernail between two of her teeth.

  Tisdall managed a pleasant smile. ‘You don’t happen to know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ The old woman started down the steps. ‘Didn’t recognise you in this light.’

  Tisdall signalled to Brake to return to the car but Mrs Letts was blocking their way and had no intention of moving.

  ‘She’s said I expect, about the man who …’ She broke off, checking to make sure she had their full attention. ‘Said he was the father of one of Theo’s little friends from school.
Only later I thought … Didn’t make sense see because –’

  ‘When was this?’ Brake asked. ‘What man?’

  She fixed her eyes on each of them in turn. ‘He come in a van, see, parked it down there.’ She pointed in the direction of the main road. ‘Mrs Frith was out but I told her all about it, just in case. Mind you, at the time I believed him when he said he was Matthew’s dad. Afterwards I wasn’t so sure.’

  ‘Matthew is Theo Frith’s school friend?’

  ‘Nice little boy, both lovely boys. Could be noisy, mind, but never rude, never cheeky. Theo was down last weekend, just for the day. He was going to stay the night but …’ She glanced at Tisdall and decided she had better get on with her story. ‘Thing is, later I remembered it was me said he must be Matthew’s father and he just agreed. D’you s’pose I could’ve put the idea into his head and…’

  Tisdall nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Had a feeling about him,’ she continued, ‘because of the van, I s’pose. Wreck of a thing it was and why was he here such a time?’

  Brake asked if she had noticed the colour and make or, with any luck, the registration. She thought for a moment, scratching the back of her head, disappointed that she hadn’t more clues to give them.

  ‘Grey, I think, or it could’ve been blue. Couldn’t tell you the kind of van, all look the same to me.’

  ‘And the man?’ Brake asked.

  Her smile returned. ‘Now that’s easy. Thin, skinny type. Losing his hair here.’ She touched the place where her own hair was scraped back from her forehead. ‘What was he wearing? Jeans. One of them zip- up jackets, not leather.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tisdall said, ‘you’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘So you think he was up to no good. Oh!’ She clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘You don’t think he was the one, the one who…’

  ‘One last thing,’ Tisdall said, ‘did you notice anything about his breathing?’