by Penny Kline
She stood up and walked towards me. She had tears in her eyes that she hadn’t bothered to wipe away.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ I said.
‘That’s all right.’
She walked ahead of me, holding on to the rail as though she was having difficulty hauling her small, stocky body up the stairs. Once inside my room she sat down, with her shopping bag on her knees and her head sunk to her chest.
She had been referred by Dr Sims, who had complained about Mrs Powers’ non-compliance to treatment. A diabetic who was failing to stick to a sensible diet and seemed set on deliberately ruining her health — or that was the way Dr Sims saw it.
‘I can’t go on,’ she said wearily.
‘I’m sorry you’re feeling so depressed.’
‘I can’t see the point. If it wasn’t for Ted I’d do away with myself.’
‘Tell me about it.’
She sighed. ‘Ted’s been to the library again.’
‘What did he find this time?’
‘An autobiography by a woman who’s been diabetic since she was six years old but hasn’t let it interfere with her life. Now she’s the owner of a chain of stores selling leather and rubber goods.’
I smiled. So did Mrs Powers. It was the first time I had seen her face light up.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘next time you come, do bring Ted.’
‘I can’t, he’s at work.’
‘He could get time off. Or you could come at five. Surely he could manage that.’
‘He doesn’t like you.’
‘He’s never met me.’
‘Ted wouldn’t let a little thing like that stand in his way.’
Mrs Powers, my most reluctant client, was beginning to trust me.
After she left I phoned William Stringer but he was at a meeting.
Martin put his head round the door and asked if I was coming for lunch. When I shook my head he sat on the arm of a chair and gave me one of his reproving looks.
‘The Luke Jesty business, is it? If you want my opinion, which I’m sure you don’t, I think you should let the hospital take over.’
‘It’s not that simple, Martin.’
‘No, it never is. What isn’t?’
I wanted to tell him about the blue and white sweater and how the murderer might have assumed that Luke was wearing it, and how that meant Luke could have been the intended victim. But there was no murderer. It was all in my over-active imagination. It had even occurred to me, while Mrs Powers had been telling me about her sister-in-law’s migraine, that Luke might have lent his sweater to Paula for the precise purpose of confusing the issue.
‘Well,’ said Martin with mock exasperation, ‘I can’t force you to join us, but I can tell you that Beth’s coming round with the baby and Nick and I are having lunch with her in the garden of the White Hart.’
‘I’ll come,’ I said. ‘Don’t go without me.’
*
On the way to the hospital I began listing all the different hypotheses and disposing of them one by one. First I had been afraid that Luke was responsible for Paula’s death, that against his will he had acted out one of his fantasies. The tension of wondering if he was capable of behaving so violently had become too much. Pushing Paula in front of the traffic had been a kind of release, even though afterwards he had been appalled at what he had done. I remembered games with my brother Steven, when he was nine and I was six or seven. He would give me time to hide then count to a hundred and call: ‘I’m coming to get you.’ Sometimes the tension of waiting to be found became so great that I ran out from my hiding place shouting, ‘Catch me, catch me.’ Anything to get it over with. Had Luke felt the same? No, of course not. It wasn’t a comparable situation.
Michael Jesty’s account of their sister’s death had eased my anxiety — but only for a time. Speaking to Howard Fry had been a mistake but it had been the only way I could find out what Paula had been wearing. Now both Fry and Whittle suspected that I knew something but was holding back from telling them, protecting my client — or somebody else. They wouldn’t put any pressure on me, not yet, but their suspicions would grow as they mulled things over.
Then another thought occurred. Howard Fry would be wondering if Luke had anything to do with Paula’s death but there was another possibility. Supposing Paula had been pushed, but not by Luke? Who could have wanted to get rid of her? Carl Redfern’s girlfriend, Liz, who was so insanely jealous? Carl himself? But what possible motive could he have had?
I switched to thinking of Luke as the intended victim. Luke had found out something about Doug and Doug had decided to silence him before the information could be passed on to Elaine. Or Doug had been afraid Paula knew something about him and was about to tell the police. This would account for Doug’s unexpected reaction when he inadvertently let slip that he had met Paula once in the shop. It would also explain why he had pretended to be at the framing class.
A sign by the side of the road warned of road works and temporary traffic lights two hundred yards ahead. The traffic was slowing down. I joined the queue and wound down the window, unwilling to breathe in petrol fumes, but desperate to let in more air. Enough was enough, my brain was reeling. I was a hopeless private investigator, endlessly speculating when I should have been sticking to hard facts. The trouble was I had so little in the way of definite information.
In a lay-by, on the right-hand side of the road, a group of travellers had parked their vans and set up camp. It would be days, maybe weeks, before the police moved them on. In the meantime they were making the most of their new surroundings. Two small boys were careering round on what looked like brand-new tricycles. A girl of about fifteen or sixteen was sitting on the grass, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. In spite of the heat she was wearing thick trousers, heavy boots and a denim jacket. A puppy peered out through the jacket opening, wriggling to get free and letting out high-pitched squeaks. I smiled at the girl but she ignored me and as the traffic moved on I saw her jump up and disappear inside one of the vans. For the first time it came to me that being a traveller might be quite a pleasant way of life. Plenty of hassle, of course, but also plenty of variety. New places, new people, very little responsibility. Who was I fooling? I couldn’t cope with the squalor! Imagine having to do without a bath.
I turned off the main road, pulling down the visor as the sun shone directly into my eyes. The fields looked yellow and parched but the hedgerows were still green and lush. Here and there the road became dangerously narrow as cow-parsley stuck out, obscuring the view and leaving insufficient space for two largish cars to pass, let alone a couple of trucks or a tractor.
In less than five minutes I would have reached the hospital and there would be no time to think about what I was going to say to William Stringer. But in any case it was no use trying to work anything out in advance. I would have to follow his lead, accept any criticism he had of the way I had handled Luke’s case and take it from there.
I turned in to the hospital gates, parked, and steeled myself for whatever William Stringer had in store for me.
*
Luke was in the Occupational Therapy building. Henry Anayake was off duty, but another nurse, a large auburn-haired woman with a friendly, easy-going manner, told me the OT would be quite happy for me to interrupt the class.
‘D’you know how he is?’
‘Luke? Oh, he’s much better, love. Doing well.’
‘Really? D’you mean he’s stopped talking rubbish? He’s behaving rationally?’
If it was true I was furious that Stringer had failed to get in touch.
The nurse pursed her lips, thinking about what I’d just said. ‘If you want my opinion, for what it’s worth, I’d say he’s a little tired, a little anxious, but over all not too bad at all.’
I tapped on the door of the OT building and entered, looking quickly round the room and spotting Luke at the far end, bent over a large piece of drawing paper. I introduced myself to the therapist and asked if I co
uld talk to him.
‘Yes, of course.’ She looked a little fraught, as though the job was getting her down, or maybe she had problems of her own. ‘Today’s Luke’s first time with us. He’s doing some drawing.’
‘Hallo, Luke,’ I said, crossing the room and sitting on the empty chair beside him. ‘How are you?’
He had seen me come in but had chosen to keep his head down.
I tried again. ‘What are you drawing?’
He kept his right arm on the paper and with his left hand selected a black felt-tipped pen. It was the first time I had noticed he was left-handed, although, come to think of it, it was the first time I had seen him holding a pen. He had drawn a series of enclosed shapes, like amoebas or small puffy clouds. The shapes were joined by thin wavy lines. In one corner of the paper was the head of a man. A face with its cheeks blown out, like the West Wind at the edge of a map or a giant in a children’s story book. He could draw quite well but had attempted to disguise his skill by adopting the style of a child of three or four.
I watched as he outlined the shapes in thick black waterproof ink. Then, without a word, he stood up, handed the paper to the occupational therapist and left the room.
He was waiting for me outside and one look at his expression convinced me that the play-acting had come to an end.
‘They want me to leave.’ He was standing on one leg with his other foot wrapped round his ankle.
‘Is that what Dr Stringer said?’
He shook his head. ‘I can tell.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘you wait in the ward and I’ll go and speak to him.’
He started walking away, fast, and I had to run after him to ask which ward he was in.
‘Down the end,’ he muttered. ‘Clarence Ward.’
‘All right, you stay there, I won’t be long.’
William Stringer’s door was ajar but he was away from his office. I searched for the auburn-haired nurse and found her locking up the drug cupboard.
‘Sorry to bother you again, but d’you know where I could find Dr Stringer?’
‘He’s in a meeting, love.’
‘Another one?’
‘That’s right.’ She didn’t ask who I was. Neither did she tell me when the meeting would be over.
‘I wanted to talk to him about Luke.’ She thought for a moment, sticking her fingers in her mouth and tapping her nails against her teeth. ‘You could speak to Dr Chin. She might be able to help.’
‘All right, where would I find her?’
The nurse started walking and I followed. Halfway down the passage she knocked on a door and put her head round.
‘Someone about Luke Jesty.’
Dr Chin came out and invited me in. She was small, only five foot one or two, and had a rather beautiful face apart from the faint pockmarks on her cheeks.
‘How d’you do?’ She pulled out a chair, then sat down beside me, not behind her desk.
I explained who I was, how I had come to visit Luke but now had the impression the hospital wanted to discharge him.
‘Dr Stringer tried to get in touch with you,’ she said. ‘Luke can go home as long as he has someone to look after him.’ Silently I cursed Heather, who must have forgotten to pass on the message. Just wait till I saw her, although on second thoughts I would probably let it pass.
‘What did Dr Stringer think? What was his diagnosis?’
‘Oh, nothing too serious. Luke is a very nervous young man, I think, but there’s no evidence of psychosis.’
‘So all the time he was behaving like — ’
Dr Chin held up her hand. ‘Sometimes we all need to hide. For Luke perhaps this was the only way he knew.’
‘He lives in lodgings,’ I explained, ‘but they’re very good to him. I’m sure it’ll be all right.’
‘Good.’ She opened a folder lying on her desk and turned several pages. ‘When Luke was admitted there was some doubt about the diagnosis.’
‘Yes, he had some of the symptoms of a paranoid schizophrenic — ’
‘But to you it didn’t ring true.’
‘No. At least — ’
‘You were quite right. More of a compulsive neurotic, I’d say. And you’ve been treating him for how long?’
‘Just a few weeks.’
She smiled and closed the folder. ‘Well, I hope you’ll be carrying on the good work.’
She wasn’t being patronizing, just doing her job. Her perfectly reasonable aim was to play down any problems and hand the responsibility for Luke back to me.
‘You want me to take him now?’ I asked. ‘I think perhaps I should phone the people where he lives — to let them know we’re coming.’
‘Of course.’ She pointed to the telephone on her desk, then stood up and left the room.
It seemed like a long time before Elaine answered. I had expected her to be at work and it threw me a little when I heard her voice, although I wasn’t sure why.
‘Elaine, it’s Anna.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She didn’t ask what I wanted.
‘Look, I’m at the hospital, and the thing is, Luke’s much better, almost back to his old self, so they want to discharge him.’
There was silence at the other end of the line and for a moment I thought we must have been cut off.
‘Elaine?’
‘I don’t think he should come back here.’
‘Oh.’ I wanted to say ‘Why not?’ but I controlled my impatience — just. It would be best to give her a chance to explain in her own words.
‘I’m not sure we know enough to help him,’ she said. ‘I mean, you’re a professional, it’s different for you.’
‘He’ll still be coming to see me once a week,’ I said feebly. ‘Perhaps more often.’ But even as I spoke I knew I was wasting my time. Elaine was the type who made up her mind about something and stuck to it.
‘I’m sorry, Anna, I really am.’ She didn’t sound it.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said coldly, ‘I understand. I’ll talk to you later when I come to collect his things — if that’s all right.’
‘Of course. Whenever you like. There’s usually one or other of us at home.’
I sat, staring at the desk, wondering who to phone next. Mr and Mrs Jesty? But the White Cottage was hardly the best place for Luke’s convalescence and it was always possible that Peter Jesty would think up some excuse for refusing to have him. His brother Michael? I had no idea of the size of his flat in Portishead but if, as I thought, it was in the new development on the waterfront, he was bound to have a spare bedroom. Portishead might be better for Luke. Quieter, by the sea, away from the scene of the accident and the herbal remedies shop.
Taking Michael’s business card from my wallet, I dialled the number of the cleaning agency.
‘Good morning, can I help?’
It was a man but it certainly wasn’t Michael.
‘Could I speak to Michael Jesty, please?’
‘I’m afraid he’s in London.’ The voice was slightly effeminate. I imagined a young man with his hair in a pony tail and a collection of rings in his ear.
‘D’you know when he’ll be back?’
‘Couldn’t say, I’m afraid. He may be staying overnight. I could give him a message when he returns.’
‘No. No thanks.’
Elaine and Doug had let me down. Peter and Brigid Jesty were out of the question. Michael was away. I could try Social Services but how would Luke react to being placed in a hostel surrounded by total strangers? That left two choices, which might as well be narrowed down to one. I could plead with Dr Chin or William Stringer to keep Luke for another few days, or I could take him back to my flat. Perhaps that was what I had wanted all along. A chance to discover what was going on in Luke’s mind. A way of remaining involved, of keeping control of the situation.
When I left the room there was no sign of Dr Chin. I walked slowly down the corridor to Luke’s ward and found him sitting on the bed with his zip-up bag beside him. He looked u
p and rubbed the back of his head. He reminded me of a dog hoping to be taken for a walk. I thought about the accident, six years ago. What kind of dog had it been? Something large and black, that was how Michael had described it. Most likely Peter Jesty had taken the poor creature to the vet the same day and had it destroyed. Eventually I would persuade Luke to tell me about it. But that conversation was some time off.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’ll go and look for the doctor, then I’ll take you home.’
8
Luke was in the bathroom, washing his hair. I took it to be a sign that he was feeling a little better. On the way back from the hospital he had hardly spoken a word. When I explained that he would be staying with me for a few days he just nodded. He looked pale, washed out, defeated. But back in the flat he had begun to look a little more cheerful. The sun was coming in through the living-room window. Ernest, sitting in his wheelchair on the lawn, had looked up and waved.
‘It’s not really my garden,’ I explained, ‘but if you want to go down Pam and Ernest won’t mind at all.’
He had made no comment, just asked if there was any shampoo, and when I showed him the bottle muttered something inaudible and closed the bathroom door in my face. He wasn’t being rude, just Luke-like. I was disappointed, I suppose I had hoped the shock of Paula’s accident would be cathartic, shake him out of his withdrawn state, give him a new start.
I had decided to give him my bedroom and sleep on the sofa in the living-room. That way, in the morning, he could have a lie-in and I could eat my breakfast and prepare for work in peace. There was a slight problem about where to keep my clothes but I would have to remember to collect what I wanted the evening before. Anything that needed hanging could be left on a hook by the front door.
Luke’s zip-up bag was lying on the bed. I cleared the top drawer of the chest of drawers so he could put away his few possessions. It hardly seemed worth it, but when I had collected the rest of his stuff from Doug and Elaine’s there might be enough to fill one small drawer.
The bathroom door opened and Luke emerged, holding out his dripping hands.
‘Oh, sorry.’ I fetched him a clean towel, then told him I was going to make something to eat. Would pasta be all right?
