by Morag Joss
Sara gasped. ‘That’s awful. Awful. You don’t mean the bitch in the basement? That’s what they call her. She’s a monster. Terrible woman, apparently. They can’t stand her.’ She hesitated. ‘Or couldn’t, rather. Oh, but for someone to kill her, that’s . . .’ She shook her head, unable to finish. She gulped from her glass and swallowed as if the champagne were a lump in her mouth.
‘We’re beginning to gather that,’ Andrew said. ‘Her other neighbours are polite about her, just. She was clearly a professional complainer. James’s London number didn’t help, actually. Answering machine’s on. We’ve left messages there and in Brussels.’
‘I’m pretty sure he’s in Brussels,’ Sara said absently. ‘He’s judging something. New works for piano. Tell me more about this old lady, though. D’you know who did it yet?’
‘Got a pretty good idea.’
‘Go on. Tell me more.’
Andrew shook his head. ‘It’s fairly cut and dried. The woman was threatened in public a few days before she died. A row with a couple of animal righters. One of them’s harmless, just a spoiled twerp of a girl. But the other’s got a record. Vicious little bastard, actually. We’ll get him.’
‘Animal righters? I thought they bombed laboratories and mink farms, not old ladies. Are you sure?’
‘Sara, thanks, but this is my job.’
‘And it’d be pretty stupid, killing someone after you’ve threatened them in public.’
Andrew smiled and shook his head at her again.
She was smiling back, looking a little ashamed now. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said sheepishly. ‘Mustn’t start thinking I’m a super-sleuth, must I? Your department.’
‘Well, your experience of murderers is a little specialised. It would be stupid to kill someone after you’ve threatened them, but actually, most murderers are stupid. Makes my life easier. Intelligent murderers are so much harder to catch. Anyway, I am pretty certain about this one. He disappeared from his bedsit some time over the weekend of the bank holiday. He must have put the device together somewhere else, there’s no trace of materials or equipment in the room. And he probably left town as soon as he’d delivered it. There’s nothing mysterious about it.’
‘But you said the other neighbours were barely polite about her. Maybe someone else did it, for some other reason.’
Andrew, intent on restoring an atmosphere of homecoming, was not going into the details of the police search for Brendan Twigg or anything else. ‘Sara. Sara, you’re the cellist. I’m the detective, remember?’
Sara sighed, nodding. ‘Sorry, Detective Chief Inspector. It’s lovely to be back,’ she said.
Andrew rose and topped up her glass, unnecessarily, and returned reluctantly to his chair. He tried to tease from her an indirect admission that she had missed him. ‘So, what did you miss most, away on your own all that time?’
She thought. What she had missed was him, desperately, but she had driven out the longing by trying to picture him thoughtless of her and re-ensconced with Valerie. She had schooled herself painfully into the belief that he was not hers to miss, and so was not now going to let him know it.
‘The Archers,’ she said.
She would not settle, not even in front of the fire with her glass of champagne; the fire that he had lit for her and the champagne that he had brought to welcome her home and (he had to admit the possibility) also to engineer a mellow, sensual setting for what he had wanted for so long. Now she was not even drinking, just dipping one finger in the glass and sucking it almost unwillingly. He thought of proposing some toast, to ‘Homecoming’ or even ‘Us,’ but it sounded so stupid. He was suddenly unsure of his ground. Perhaps in her absence he had been transforming their relationship in his mind until it was inevitable that the real thing should jar like this and he would feel as wrong-footed and disappointed as he did. And perhaps the reason for her corresponding awkwardness with him was that she had not thought of him once in all the time she was away.
She sighed. ‘This is lovely, Andrew.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘It’s really special.’
She drank thoughtfully from her glass. ‘Andrew?’ Her voice was very soft. ‘It’s really lovely, but there’s something I’d like instead. Something I’ve been looking forward to.’
She put her glass down on the floor. He rose at once from his chair and came to sit next to her on the sofa. She turned, uncurled her legs from under her and faced him cross-legged, serious-eyed, leaning towards him. He took her hands and kissed her on the lips, much more gently than he really wanted to.
‘Andrew?’
‘Sara, I’ve missed you so much.’
‘No, but Andrew, the thing is . . .’
‘What is it? You missed me, didn’t you?’
‘Andrew, I just meant, don’t be hurt, but it’s been such a long time . . .’
‘What, darling? You’re tired, I know, I know. We can wait.’
‘No, no, no, I didn’t mean that. Andrew . . .’
‘Oh, Sara, let’s not then. I want you so much.’
This time she returned the kiss, at length. His hands moved on to her thighs.
‘Andrew, no. I mean, I wanted to ask . . .’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be hurt. The thing is, there was lots of champagne on the plane. What I’d really like is a proper cup of tea.’
AFTER ANDREW had gone, Sara, guided by the light which beamed out across the grass from the back of the house, climbed the path to the hut at the top of the garden. She unbolted and opened the double doors. The dry spidery smells of old Julys, which had been trapped inside, spilled out upon the night. She found matches, lit one of the storm lanterns hanging in the roof and dusted off the old chaise-longue before sitting down. She stared out from the hut into darkness over and beyond the roof of the house below, a darkness unleavened by moonlight, and thought she could remember, without seeing them, the precise places of the six lime trees in the meadow across the valley. Tomorrow she would look out and see that their leaves, although still green, were sharper and crisp-looking, already curling back to show the undersides of branches. Before the green turned to yellow, most of the leaves would fall. She was wide awake now. But it was too chilly to stay out and too hazardous to start thinking about Andrew, Herve, the poor dead woman from Camden Crescent and her own feelings in relation to them all. She blew out the lantern, closed the hut and came back down the path to the house. She got ready for bed, glad to be back in her own room. Sinking under the duvet in the dark she thought it ironic that although she had now reached an age when she appreciated sleeping in her own bed, the combination of her mind behaving as if she were about sixteen and her body behaving as if it were noon would probably keep her awake most of the night.
CHAPTER 7
VALERIE SCRAPED THE remains of the children’s meals into the bin, holding the plates well away from her. She was dressed for the rehearsal, and a splodge of garlic butter on her jumper was not the effect she was looking for. She wouldn’t be having to do this at all if Andrew were here as he was meant to be, but she squashed her resentment, knowing that it sat ill within the new tolerant scheme of things. Instead, she tried to feel sorry for him, for having to work on with the Bevan enquiry instead of coming with her to the rehearsal. When he had telephoned he had sounded already weary of the case, and she had believed him when he had said that the day had not gone well, although they both knew that he would never tell her otherwise by telephone and that she had just been taking a polite interest. So she loaded the dishwasher while Nicola the babysitter stood and watched and failed to say, Oh, leave those, Mrs Poole, I’ll see to them. Off you go, don’t spoil your lovely cashmere jumper.
It was actually only lambswool but she had brushed it up to make it look a little like cashmere and she had bought it in a larger size which she thought made it look better made and more expensive. The dark colour was good with Valerie’s looks which were of that English kind which seldom ages well: nic
e hair which she now had to think of as dark blonde, and a pale, creamy complexion which, although still nearer to single than clotted, was yearly growing coarser. She was confident that the navy jumper with her big fake pearl earrings gave her the Hermès look, only without her having to buy the scarf, which would cost roughly the amount that she might spend on a winter coat. And the checked wool trousers and loafers added to the effect, because M&S were so good, these days, at doing things that didn’t look M&S.
As she drove round looking for a parking space close to Helene’s flat in the Circus, she wondered what Helene would be wearing. At the dozen or so rehearsals before the group had broken up for August, Valerie had still not seen anything twice, although Helene’s outfits all shared certain characteristics, like members of the same florid and slightly eccentric family. She went in for a lot of expensive knits, done in theatrical shiny yarns with bobbles and often with beads or ribbony bits, in colours like ‘taupe’ and ‘avocado’; sludge brown and slime green if you were feeling ungenerous. They were invariably two-piece ensembles: a skirt made of knitted flared panels and the matching, much-embellished top which would drape floppily over Helene’s boned underpinnings. Her shoes were high, usually decorated with gold buckles or monograms, and were too tight, so that the fronts of her feet swelled up like two pads of unbaked dough. She wore her dark hair loose and down to her shoulders in what she probably imagined were careless, tumbling locks, and although her jewellery was plentiful, large and inclined to chink, it was real, and added to the impression that Helene was really a prosperous, protein-filled gypsy rather than a retired opera singer. Valerie considered that Helene was doing well for fifty-five but not as well as she herself would when it came to it in fifteen years’ time, if she carried on doing the Rosemary Conlon video and stuck to her Nimble.
She parked in Queen Square and walked up Gay Street to the Circus, preparing the excuses she would have to give for Andrew and composing, partly for herself but mainly for the benefit of the other members of the Circus Music Group—Helene, Jim and Phil (Adele hardly counted in that sort of way)—the right facial expression for the patient, understanding chief inspector’s wife that she aspired to be.
‘No Andrew?’ Helene was swift to conceal the splinter of annoyance in her voice. ‘Oh dear, he is busy, poor man! Is it the woman in Camden Crescent? I saw it in tonight’s paper and just shuddered. Poor woman. But you’re here, Valerie, dear!’ Helene, splendid in lace-knitted teal flecked with bronze and with toning eyeliner, pulled her across the threshold. ‘Everyone’s here. Come on in.’
Valerie made her way along the hall towards the drawing room door with Helene following and talking rapidly to her back. ‘What a dear little jersey. You are lucky, you look so nice in simple things. I always look so dull in ordinary jumpers, but I expect that’s just years of being on the stage. One always thinks costume when one should be thinking nice sensible clothes for the colder weather! If only I could wear classics! Go straight in! There’s a surprise waiting!’
Damn her, Valerie thought, she didn’t even give me a chance to say it was cashmere. From the doorway she took in at once that there were extra people here. Not Adele, who would probably be down in the basement kitchen preparing coffee. Jim was sitting in his usual place in the small armchair by the gas fire; Phil also was perched in his corner of the deep sofa. But beside Phil sat a new couple who were looking up expectantly. The woman jumped to her feet and advanced. The man rose sluggishly and stood behind her.
‘Meet the surprise: our wonderful composer, Cosmo Lamb! This is Cosmo and this is his lovely Poppy,’ Helene gushed. ‘Poppy Thwaites. Cosmo is our composer-in-residence, I could say. They’re staying here for the duration, they’re almost family! This is our dear Valerie.’ She beamed round the room. ‘Oh, this is a moment! Isn’t it? Everyone? For the group? All of us, giving our talents, sharing the language of music. Joining together, giving whatever we can, whoever we are, that’s what I love about it!’
Valerie tried to smile but her lips pursed instead into a pink little cat’s bottom of disapproval. Helene was being at her most—unreal was the most generous way Valerie could think of it. In the face of exuberance like this something in Valerie invariably shrivelled up and refused to play along. A woman of Helene’s age should not be saying these things. Helene knew as well as Valerie did that you do not go through motherhood, in Helene’s case with its own very particular difficulties, and come out of it going tra-lah about anything much, not sanely or sincerely, anyway. Now the particular difficulty in person, Adele herself, was edging past with a loaded tray and shuffling over to the grand piano on the far side of the room. Valerie watched the girl’s serious face and the slightly tilted head as she stooped to deposit the tray on its closed lid.
Helene suddenly broke off from her eulogy and shrieked in a high-pitched sing-song, ‘No, dear, not there! Wait, dear, the cloth’s not down! Oh, goodness gracious, help! Someone? Cloth someone, cloth please!’
Quick-footed Phil darted at once to the piano stool where the folded cloth lay, whipped it out across the piano lid, took the tray from Adele and placed it down carefully, smiling at her uncomprehending face.
‘No problem, see?’ he said, smiling gently.
‘It goes there,’ Adele said, looking back at him seriously and talking at rather than to him. ‘Tray goes there. That’s where I put it.’
‘But Mama puts down the cloth first, darling,’ Helene said. ‘Cloth then tray, only Mama forgot this once. Cloth then tray. Try to remember.’
Adele turned away and with her head tilted busied herself with pouring coffee, saying to no one in particular, ‘No problem see tray goes there. No problem see tray goes there.’
Helene smiled wanly round and her eyes settled on Poppy, who returned the look.
‘That’s autism for you,’ Helene said to the room. ‘Her routines, you see. Poppy and Cosmo are quite used to it now, aren’t you? And she’s much better than she was. It’s a matter of the right kind of environment for her. She must be in a caring group.’ To Poppy and Cosmo she continued, ‘As you know I really started the music group for her. I mean, of course it’s for everyone, but with her in mind. As I’ve explained, she needs the right group. But you wait till you hear her sing. She has my voice.’
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ breathed Poppy, nodding. ‘Wonderful for you. Isn’t it, Cosmo? That gift. You must feel so blessed, I mean, despite the er . . . handicap. I mean not that it’s, er . . . but the voice, gosh.’
While Phil took round the coffee, Adele sidled up silently with the biscuits. Arranged perfectly on an enormous plate were three circles, each made up of two different biscuits in an alternating and overlapping pattern. The outer one was of garibaldis and chocolate digestives, the next Jaffa cakes and lemon puffs, and the smallest, inner circle was fig rolls and jammy dodgers.
‘Six kinds, three circles, two kinds each circle, one round, one square. Twenty-six. You can have a biscuit,’ Adele intoned to Poppy. ‘You can have a biscuit. You’re allowed a biscuit.’
Poppy simperingly took a digestive and said, ‘Oooh, scrummy. Thank you, Adele.’
‘Adele doesn’t mind you breaking the pattern.’ Jim had risen and joined them. ‘She used to mind a lot if any of her nice arrangements were upset, but she doesn’t mind so much now. Do you, Adele?’
Adele looked up at Jim and offered him the plate. ‘You want one. You’re allowed a biscuit. Twenty-five now,’ she said solemnly.
‘Thank you, Adele,’ Jim said, and took a garibaldi next to the space left by Poppy’s digestive. Then he gently shoved the other biscuits in the circle round a little way, so that symmetry was restored. He gave Adele’s shoulder a kind little squeeze. ‘Well done,’ he said.
Adele turned away with the plate and with the same tilt of the head made her way over to Phil, who appeared to be waiting for his biscuit.
Helene suddenly clapped her hands and waved everyone back into chairs.
‘To the task in hand, ever
yone!’ she called.
Valerie made her way quietly round the edge of the group, fetched her coffee from the tray and sat down on the piano stool to watch Helene resume her grip on the gathering. She judged that Helene, in broaching the question of Adele with Cosmo and Poppy, would have recited the same script as she had when Valerie, a new member, had come to her flat one afternoon for an ‘informal little chat’ about the group. The once-great Helene Giraldi had sat her down and confided her private tribulations to her, mere Valerie Poole. She had been flattered. Helene’s only child was severely autistic. Years of useless treatments and regimes had been endured before the correct diagnosis was made, by which time her marriage had collapsed. Helene had done everything a mother could, including giving up her own career to look after the child who could not show affection, who communicated only sporadically and painfully and whose destructive rages, sleeplessness, irrational terrors and obsession with routines had ruled the household. Helene’s handkerchief had come out at this point and her eyes had been dabbed, without disturbing her maquillage, in the unreal way that Valerie now recognised so well. And yet, and this almost made it worse, Helene had gone on, Adele had at quiet moments the power of total, absorbed concentration and displayed the most extraordinary gifts: an agile, pure, radiant soprano voice (she was her mother’s daughter in that respect) coupled with a bizarre memory for music. She could also draw beautiful, stylised patterns of unerring symmetry, disdaining as subjects anything as imperfect and untidy as people, animals or landscape. My little changeling child, Helene had said, twisting her handkerchief.
Valerie had also learned that Adele, now aged twenty-five, no longer tore wallpaper or screamed daily, although her obsessive need for order and symmetry could still sometimes get the better of her and bring on a tantrum. She still made odd collections of useless things from which, for as long as the obsession lasted, she would not be parted. She could speak, but not well, and was most often silent. She had learned many tasks but could carry them out only by rote, remaining unable to vary her actions to take account of varying circumstances.
