A Crushing Blow (Anna McColl Mystery Book 3)

by Penny Kline

  He shook his head. ‘You’re thinking of Graham Whittle.’

  DS Whittle was Howard’s colleague, a keen supporter of Bristol City, married to a nurse at the Infirmary, easy to get on with, uncomplicated.

  ‘Computers,’ said Howard, ‘would that do, d’you suppose?’

  ‘You’re interested in computers?’ I sounded cross and was in danger of giving away the fact that I had hoped the invitation was a social one or at the very least a mixture of social and professional. ‘Yes, computers would do.’

  ‘I gave him one of those electronic notebook things.’

  ‘Lucky boy.’

  ‘He takes it everywhere, used to anyway, but I suppose he might enjoy a spell with the police computers.’

  ‘Good idea, when are you seeing him next?’

  ‘Oh, in a month or so,’ he said vaguely, then he relaxed, leaning back in his chair and spreading his fingers on the table. ‘Thanks, that’s very helpful. Right, you’ll want to know how the Leigh Woods murder inquiry’s going.’

  He had sensed that something had upset me but had no idea what. Now he was going to placate me by letting me in on a few trivial facts about his latest case.

  ‘Walter Bury,’ he said, ‘does the name mean anything?’

  ‘Only that he got his head smashed in.’

  ‘He was a widower. Wife died two and a half years ago in a hit-and-run accident.’

  ‘Poor man.’

  He thought about this for a moment, as though he had never identified personally with the victim. ‘His skull was fractured, not that a fracture itself is ever fatal. It’s the damage to the cranial contents.’ He paused, checking to make sure I wanted to hear more. ‘A heavy blow just beneath the left ear, administered with some kind of heavy hammer or mallet. Nasty. It damaged the vertebral artery.’

  ‘So the attack was premeditated.’

  He nodded. ‘The chances of a random killer administering such a precise blow must be virtually nil.’

  ‘And the body was found by some children. How long had the man been dead?’

  ‘According to the pathologist, about thirty-six hours, maybe a little longer. It was hot at the time, even hotter than it is now, so the body had started to — ‘

  ‘What happened to the two kids?’

  ‘How d’you mean? Oh, they should’ve been in school. As far as I can tell they didn’t look too closely, weren’t even certain the man was dead.’ Turning over a beer mat he examined the writing on the back: an invitation to take part in a competition, with a prize of two weeks in the Canary Islands. ‘He lived in Abbot’s Leigh,’ he said. ‘Walter Bury.’

  ‘Yes, it said in the paper.’

  ‘Seems to have been a loner, hardly any friends. The last person to see him alive was a neighbour who barely knew him. That’s the trouble, nobody did.’

  ‘Where did he work?’ Against my better judgement I wanted to know more. Until recently it had been just another murder. Now I kept running into people who seemed to have been affected quite strongly in one way or another. Geraldine Haran, hibernating in her flat. The girl on the Suspension Bridge, morbidly obsessed with every detail of the crime, claiming to have inside information.

  ‘He didn’t have a job,’ said Howard. ‘Took early retirement eighteen months ago. Before that he sold insurance.’

  ‘So you’ve no leads.’

  ‘Nothing definite. There’s a certain amount of forensic evidence, some interesting marks on the skull, but without a suspect or murder weapon it’s not a lot of use. Two or three people have been brought in for questioning. A woman from the university was studying the plant life in the area surrounding the Gorge, although at the time of the murder she was working lower down, near the river. And a couple of men who Graham Whittle thought might be worth interviewing.’

  I thought about telling him I had met a girl on the Suspension Bridge, someone he might like to interview. Then I decided against it. ‘So enquiries have ground to a halt.’

  ‘Not quite. There’s a sister in Kent. The local CID went to see her but she was ill in hospital, recovering from a serious operation. When she’s fit enough to be interviewed, who knows? Bury may have mentioned people he knew in Bristol, places he frequented.’ He stood up, believing I had lost interest in the case. ‘How’s the Psychology Service?’

  ‘OK. Good some days, frustrating others. Actually I’m on holiday for a couple of weeks, as of now.’

  He nodded, smoothing back his hair with both hands. ‘Good, I expect you need it. Anyway, thanks for the advice. I don’t know if I can follow it but I’ll have a go. Will a letter be all right or do I have to talk about the problem face to face?’

  ‘Oh, face to face,’ I said, managing a feeble smile.

  ‘By the way.’ He lifted his jacket off the back of the chair. ‘Walter Bury’s wife, the hit-and-run accident I told you about. According to his sister Bury was obsessed with what had happened, talked of little else.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He stared at me, wondering why I sounded so edgy — or still thinking about the murder? ‘The police never found the driver. There were no witnesses, nothing, just one of those random tragedies that make no sense to the bereaved person left behind.’

  *

  Chris phoned just after eight. She felt so awful, didn’t know how to break the news, but the doctor had just been round, Jack and Rosie had mumps.

  ‘Poor things,’ I said. ‘Still, it’s better to get it over with while they’re young, isn’t it?’

  She groaned. ‘Look, Anna, you could always go on your own. It’s only a kind of chalet thing but you’d be all right, there’s three or four others nearby.’

  ‘No, don’t worry; but I suppose we’ll still have to pay for it, won’t we?’

  She hesitated. ‘Well, if you really don’t want to go Bruce knows someone in the Housing Department who says she’ll take over the cost, go down on Saturday with her boyfriend.’

  ‘Fine, tell her that’s fine.’

  ‘You’re certain? I feel so bad about it.’

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  ‘You mean you’re not that disappointed?’ Had she sensed something in my voice? ‘Of course I’m disappointed, but we can go another time. Let me know how Jack and Rosie are and I’ll call round when they’re feeling better.’

  The feeling of relief was overwhelming. How could I ever have agreed to a week in a chalet in west Wales? If I needed a holiday it had to be something expensive, exotic, preferably in the company of an attentive and exceptionally attractive man. Someone kind but independent, sensitive but not self-obsessed, someone with a trouble-free life, a fascinating job — and no wife.

  When the phone rang again I thought for one awful moment it might be Chris saying the mumps was a lie and she had just been testing me out to see if I really wanted to go.

  It was Sandy Haran.

  ‘Anna? I’m not interrupting anything, am I? Only I wanted to say how sorry I am. Putting all that pressure on you, it was very unfair, completely selfish. Just forget I ever asked. You must come round again, have a meal — when Geraldine’s better.’

  ‘Sandy?’

  ‘Yes?’ He sounded as though he was preparing himself for an onslaught.

  ‘If it’s what she’d like I’ll have a talk with Geraldine on Monday. Then decide if I think I can help.’

  There was a slight pause. ‘What about your — ’

  ‘I’ll explain when I see you. Would eleven o’clock be all right?’

  He breathed out deeply. ‘Anna, you’ve no idea. You’ll accept the going rate — if you decide you can help Geraldine? I’m willing to pay whatever it costs. More.’

  ‘We’ll discuss that when I see you.’

  ‘Yes, of course, and there’s something else I might be able to offer in return. I’m doing up a cottage out towards Clevedon. When it’s ready I could let you have it at a very reasonable price.’

  ‘Thanks, Sandy, but the country
depresses me, all that peace and quiet.’

  ‘I’ll see you on Monday, then. You’ve just no idea how grateful I am. I can’t thank you enough.’

  Why had I given in? But in my heart of hearts I knew I hadn’t given in at all. Geraldine Haran’s agoraphobia had aroused my curiosity. There was something odd, even inexplicable about it. Could she really have been so shocked by the close proximity of the murder that she was now unable to leave the house? Of course, different people reacted differently to a traumatic event. According to Sandy nine-year-old Thomas had taken it in his stride, and as for the girl on the bridge, she had talked as though the whole gruesome business had no more reality to her than a TV movie. And Sandy himself, the property dealer turned counsellor, the leopard who’d changed his spots, he had been shocked by Walter Bury’s violent death, but only for a day or two, only till the news had sunk in.

  I pictured Geraldine Haran, sitting straight-backed in her chair by the window, and began ticking off a mental list of the conditions necessary for brief, intensive therapy, the kind that only requires five or six sessions. The client’s problem must be clearly identified. The client must respond positively to interpretations of how the problem may have come about. The client must have the motivation to focus on the problem and work hard to help herself. Then I remembered Howard Fry’s parting remark, about Walter Bury’s obsession with the hit-and-run driver that had mown down his wife. Was it possible Geraldine knew something about the murder but was too frightened to reveal it, even to Sandy? Did the girl on the bridge have something to hide? And what about the tenants in the ground-floor flat? Bryan and Helen Sealey with their newly adopted baby who was being looked after by an elderly nanny. There was something intriguing, and slightly disturbing, about the household. How much did the occupants of the two flats see of each other? Did the Sealeys guard their privacy or were Sandy and Thomas welcome in the ground-floor flat? Geraldine of course was housebound, alone for much of the time and showing no signs of wanting visitors to drop in for a chat. Before the murder had she talked to Helen Sealey, taken an interest in the baby? Then had something happened that made her want to cut herself off from the rest of the world?

  If anyone in the house knew anything about the murder they were keeping very quiet. But the feeling of tension that surrounded the place was impossible to miss. Howard Fry had virtually admitted the police were getting nowhere, had no real leads. With any luck, working at the house might provide the opportunity to do rather better.

  Chapter Five

  ‘How nice of you to come.’ Geraldine was perched uncomfortably on the edge of the window seat with her hands folded against her stomach. She was still dressed in navy blue but this time she wore loose-fitting linen trousers and a plain white shirt. Her rigid smile conveyed a considerable degree of anxiety — or it could have been resentment.

  ‘I feel such a fraud, so silly.’ She looked at her feet, waiting for me to tell her she wasn’t silly at all. When I said nothing her mouth tightened a little. ‘What would you like me to talk about? I had a friend who saw a counsellor once, marriage guidance or something. She was supposed to bring her husband with her but he refused.’

  ‘Did she find it helpful?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. She dreaded going, but afterwards … ’ She took a handkerchief from her pocket and held it close to her mouth. ‘Are you interested in colour? You’re spring, light and bright. You should wear clear blues, peach, apricot.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m summer, so my hairdresser tells me.’

  ‘It’s not something I know much about, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, well why should you.’ She studied my face, avoiding any eye contact. ‘You’ve far more important matters to concern yourself with.’

  ‘How did you feel about me coming to see you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Oh, just terribly grateful of course.’

  ‘Why grateful?’

  ‘Well, you sparing the time, especially when you’re supposed to be on holiday.’

  ‘It was my decision.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s right.’ She screwed up the handkerchief in the palm of her hand. ‘Now what? I’m afraid I can’t bear silences, they seem to affect my breathing, it’s so ridiculous.’

  ‘The murder,’ I said, aware that visits to clients in their own homes were always in danger of turning into social occasions. ‘It must have been a dreadful shock, taking place like it did, so close to your house.’

  ‘Oh, it was quite a way from here really, the other end of the woods.’

  ‘And you haven’t been out at all since it happened?’

  She shook her head. ‘Lynsey does all the shopping. That’s our helper. Lynsey Wills, she’s called, but apparently she’s not related to the tobacco people. Sandy’s working on the cottage so he’s much too busy, and in any case I’d hate to have him rushing round because of me.’

  So that’s where Sandy was. I had expected him to let me into the flat but it had been Geraldine who answered the intercom and released the lock. Perhaps, having fixed up the treatment, he thought it best to stay well clear in case he was accused of interfering. I had no knowledge of his financial situation but from hints he had dropped I was fairly certain doing up the cottage was more of a hobby than a necessity. Presumably he had made several lucrative property deals and decided to call it a day while the going was good. Sensible investments would provide him with a reasonable standard of living for the rest of his life.

  ‘She’s a wonderful worker,’ said Geraldine, twisting her wedding ring round and round, then pushing her hand in her pocket. ‘Lynsey, she’s a wonderful help.’

  ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘She has a friend who works on a make-up counter in one of the stores. John Lewis or Debenham’s, I forget. It’s one of those franchises and Sandy knows the area manager.’ She broke off, shaking her shoulders as if a shudder had run down her back. ‘I’m sorry, I’m talking rubbish, it’s just that I’m not sure what you need to know.’

  I wanted to know more about Lynsey. ‘So Sandy told his friend he was looking for someone to help round the flat and — ‘

  ‘Sorry?’ Geraldine was studying her fingernails, then she started rubbing her right index finger round the palm of her left hand. A rhyme from childhood jumped into my mind. Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear. Upstairs, downstairs, and tickle him under …

  ‘This Lynsey,’ I repeated. ‘This friend who works in one of the department stores knew Lynsey was looking for work so Sandy’s friend arranged for her to come and see you.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘You hadn’t advertised for someone?’

  ‘No, it was all quite informal, just one of those lucky coincidences. Of course, her friend may have told her about the ground-floor flat being let to a playwright. People like to meet people in show business.’

  ‘Lynsey said something about the Sealeys?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘No, nothing, only we wondered why a bright girl like her was prepared to do such a menial job.’

  ‘Perhaps she’d been looking for work for some time.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Sandy tried to take up references but I thought there wasn’t much point. After all I was only going to give her a shopping list, she didn’t even have to come inside the flat.’

  ‘She could’ve run off with the money.’

  ‘Could have,’ said Geraldine dreamily, ‘but everything’s worked out beautifully. She was so good with the shopping Sandy asked if she could do some cleaning too, and a bit of gardening although she’s not so keen on that. She doesn’t like the insects.’

  I was thinking about Sandy. I had been thinking about him, on or off, all weekend. A well-constructed piece of research had demonstrated that when a group of agoraphobic women started to get better their husbands got worse, became anxious, depressed. It appeared that the stability of the marital relationships had depended on the men involved feeling needed, indispens
able. When their wives recovered they felt insecure.

  Still, in Sandy’s case this couldn’t be right — could it? After all, he had hired someone to help with the shopping, rather than doing it himself, and he had seemed desperate that I find a cure for Geraldine.

  ‘The murder,’ I repeated, hoping to jolt Geraldine out of her trancelike state. ‘Tell me a little about how you were feeling before it happened. Was there anything worrying you, making you feel more nervous than usual?’

  ‘Oh, no, nothing. As far as I know I was — well, normal.’ She smiled briefly, then the blank look returned. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right — about Lynsey. Her friend told her about a silly woman with agoraphobia and she thought there might be a little job for her. Very sensible, used her initiative.’ Nothing she said rang true. Beneath the self-denigrating manner I sensed anger she was having difficulty in keeping under control. Now and again she glanced in my direction, mostly her eyes were fixed on a yellow lozenge shape in the centre of one of the Persian rugs. I wanted her to relax her stiffly held shoulders, to stop twisting the ring, to say something real.

  ‘This is difficult for you,’ I said. ‘You probably don’t know why you’re feeling so anxious.’

  Her eyes met mine, just for a split second. ‘No, you’re right. As a matter of fact I’ve always seen myself as living a charmed life. Kind, considerate husband, wonderful son. I don’t know if Sandy told you but we used to have the whole house, when my parents were alive. After they died it was far too big for just the three of us so Sandy had it converted.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Oh, I was in total agreement.’

  She had a way of speaking fast, then pressing her lips together with a little laugh. ‘The ground floor’s only let on temporary contracts so there’s no fear of getting stuck with tiresome neighbours. You’ve met the Sealeys?’

  ‘No, just Miss Halliwell and the baby.’

  ‘Rona Halliwell,’ she said. ‘Imagine looking after a baby at her age. It must be so exhausting.’ She knelt on the window seat. ‘Do you have a garden? I used to love gardening, before all this. I planted wildflowers for the butterflies.’