by Penny Kline
Perhaps if I asked a few questions it would speed up the process a little. I cleared my throat. ‘Where did you work before you came to Bristol?’
‘London, Dundee, a year in Birmingham.’
‘Why did you choose Bristol?’
‘I didn’t. The job came up, seemed like a good opportunity.’
‘To do the kind of research you were interested in.’
‘Yes.’
We were by-passing the centre of Chepstow, taking the road that follows close to the estuary, through Blakeney and Newnham, and eventually on to Gloucester.
‘We’ll turn off at Lydney,’ said Owen. ‘Let’s hope the rain’s cleared by then.’
So we were back to talking about the weather. I wanted to ask him about his wife, cut through the small-talk and get on to the important things, but it was difficult enough to persuade him to tell me about the Research Unit let alone anything personal, painful.
‘You’ve lived in Cotham some time now, have you?’ I said.
‘Two years.’ He pointed towards a group of beech trees. ‘Thought it was a merlin but I think it’s only a sparrowhawk.’
‘You like bird-watching?’
‘I like birds. Wouldn’t make a special trek to see some rarity that had been spotted in the back of beyond.’
‘My father likes the countryside.’
‘But you prefer the town. Where do they live, your parents?’
‘Kent. My mother died three years ago. I’ve a brother in Australia.’
We continued in near silence for almost an hour. Now and again Owen pointed out something of particular interest — a lake, just visible between the trees, a place where he had once seen two fallow deer. When we stopped for a cup of tea, at a small, rather scruffy place with two flimsy tables only a few feet away from the road, he asked where I had done my first degree.
‘London.’
He nodded. ‘Did I ask you that before?’
‘I don’t think so. You might have done that first time I came to the Unit.’
Changing the subject I started telling him about the house the other side of the Suspension Bridge, mentioning no names of course, until I came to Bryan and Helen Sealey.
‘A new play, is it,’ he said, ‘and his wife, she’s an actress? Should I have heard of her?’
‘No, she’s a model, used to be.’
‘And you say they’ve adopted a baby?’
‘A little girl. She’s seven months.’
He thought about this, picking up a teaspoonful of sugar and letting it drop back into the bowl. ‘And in spite of being on holiday you’ve taken on an agoraphobic woman? Workaholic are you, like me?’
‘Not really, it just seemed an interesting case.’
His face showed all the signs of someone who has suffered badly, but would I have interpreted it that way if Martin hadn’t told me about his wife? Perhaps he just had a melancholy personality. He was quiet, too quiet, but wasn’t that better than the kind of person who says anything that comes into his head, just to keep everything light, cheerful, effortless? I noticed a few dark hairs on the back of his hand and just for a moment I was reminded of the bears at the zoo.
Sensing my change of expression he looked up. ‘What’s the joke?’
‘Nothing. I was just remembering how I took a friend’s children to the zoo.’
‘The ones with mumps?’
I nodded. ‘D’you wish you’d had children?’
‘Me?’ He looked as though I had asked the most astonishing question. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m too impatient, too intolerant.’
Then he pushed back his chair. ‘Ready to go?’
We returned via Monmouth, taking the road along the Wye Valley which meant we would have completed more or less a circular tour.
‘Did you read about the murder a few weeks ago?’ I said, choosing a subject he couldn’t possibly object to. ‘I’ve a friend in the CID who’s working on the case.’
‘Which murder’s that?’
‘In Leigh Woods, quite close to the house I was telling you about. The police don’t seem to have any real leads. According to Howard Fry, this friend of mine, there’s a certain amount of forensic evidence but without a suspect or a murder weapon it’s not getting them very far.’
‘You’re interested in forensic science?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. They have all these new techniques. DNA sampling, chromatography, something called electrostatic detection apparatus that allows you to read the imprint of handwriting on another page.’
‘Oh yes, checking up on police notebooks to see if they’ve fabricated evidence. I remember reading about it.’
‘Not just that,’ I said crossly, reacting as though it was my job to defend the integrity of the whole police force. ‘Apparently a man pushed a note through a building society door, warning it was a hold up, and his address was imprinted from a letter he’d written on a previous sheet.’
Owen laughed. ‘Your friend told you this? I’m no expert on crime but they say the average criminal has a fairly low IQ.’
‘The average one, maybe.’
‘But not the kind that interests you. You prefer the evil sociopath.’
‘The murder victim in Leigh Woods,’ I said, ignoring his gibe, ‘no one seems to know much about him. He was on his own, unemployed, his wife had died three years ago and he’d never got over it.’
I stopped. It was one of those times when you say the one thing you swore to yourself you would never mention. The Polish have a word for it but as far as I know there’s no equivalent in the English language.
Owen was staring straight ahead. ‘Anyway, I expect they’ll find the killer sooner or later,’ I said feebly. ‘Of course it could be someone with a psychiatric history, just a random killing, the hardest of all to solve unless someone informs, although Howard’s pretty certain it was premeditated.’
He turned his head, wondering why I was gabbling on like an idiot. ‘My wife was interested in crime,’ he said. ‘Fiction more than fact although towards the end of her life she turned to true life cases, crimes passionnel, that kind of thing.’
When we reached Tintem Abbey the traffic started to build up. Owen coughed several times as though he had something to tell me and was preparing himself for what was going to be an unpleasant few minutes. He would say how much he had enjoyed the afternoon but suspected I had found him rather dull company. He disliked talking about himself whereas I was obviously interested in what made people tick. Then he would suggest I made an appointment to see him at the Unit, if I was still interested in going ahead with my research.
‘I was offered a job while I was in America,’ he said. ‘Better salary, plenty of money for research, hardly any teaching.’
‘But you turned it down?’
He nodded.
‘Why?’
He changed down to overtake a cyclist, then glanced at me and smiled, his eyes meeting mine for a brief, intense moment before he looked back at the road ahead. ‘I’ve no idea.’ he said.
*
Circling the traffic island at the top of Whiteladies Road I noticed a black BMW with a roof-rack. When the lights changed and the car passed within a few yards of us the driver turned his balding head to face the woman in the passenger seat. She was nodding in agreement, leaning forward to point in the direction of the private hospital. That gave me a chance to see her face properly. It was Helen Sealey.
*
I was half asleep with my head resting on a cushion, watching a French film I had wanted to see for ages but having difficulty keeping my eyes open. When the phone rang I hauled myself into an upright position, glanced at the clock — it was getting on for midnight — and snatched up the receiver, worried in case my father had been taken ill.
The voice at the end of the line sounded serious, official. ‘Anna, Howard Fry. That house you told me about, the one near Leigh Woods where your friend lives, there’s been a break-in.’
‘When? What happ
ened?’
‘The nanny apprehended an intruder. She’s none the worse but it could have been nasty.’
‘He attacked her? You’re sure she’s all right?’
‘A young man broke in through the kitchen window. Miss Halliwell was getting ready for bed but she heard him and was foolhardy enough to pretend she had a gun.’
‘A gun?’
‘Her hairbrush in fact but it was dark and the intruder chose the wrong door to escape. She locked him in the utility room.’
I laughed. ‘Good old Rona.’
‘Oh, you know her? She could have been badly injured.’
‘That wouldn’t put her off. The Sealeys were out, were they?’
‘That’s right. Apparently the baby slept through the whole thing, all the banging and shouting. Look, the reason I’m phoning at this late hour, the young man’s name is Dean Koenig. He lives in Whitchurch, with a woman called Deborah Cavendish. Mr Haran says she’s a friend of Lynsey Wills, the girl who’s been helping his wife. I remembered your involvement and wondered if there was anything you could tell us.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘We’ll question Miss Wills in the morning but — ’
‘You think she had something to do with the break-in?’
‘Not necessarily, but she could have told Dean Koenig where the Sealeys were staying.’
‘She dislikes him.’
‘Oh, you’ve been talking to her, what did she tell you?’
‘Nothing much.’ Surely it could have waited till the morning. ‘Nothing that would be any help.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line then he started talking less formally. ‘Look, Anna, I wasn’t going to mention it but the young man was carrying a club hammer. Short handle, heavy head, you know the kind of thing.’
‘What for? To break open the window?’
‘He said not, claimed it was planted on him.’
‘By Rona Halliwell? That’s crazy.’
‘Of course. After questioning he said he found it lying in the grass near Leigh Woods.’
‘And you believed him? When was all this? How long have you had him at the station?’
‘An hour or so. Hang on a minute.’ His voice faded, there was someone else in the room, I could hear papers being shuffled, drawers opened and closed. ‘Anna, are you still there? Look, the reason I phoned — the hammer — it’ll take time to check but there’s blue paint on the head and there’s just a chance it’s the same as the paint collected from Walter Bury’s skull.’
Chapter Nine
Lynsey blamed herself. She was thick, an idiot, deserved to be given the sack. Wasn’t she the one who had told Deb where Bryan and Helen Sealey were staying? Then Deb must have told Dean and the stupid bastard had thought the Sealeys were loaded, enough to make a break-in worth his while, enough to set him up with CD players and video-recorders for life.
I could see that Geraldine had heard the story several times over but when I suggested Lynsey tell me about it later she said it was all right, Lynsey needed to talk, wasn’t that how people came to terms with traumatic events? ‘What d’you think, Anna, this young man must’ve watched the house, waited till he knew the Sealeys had gone out, then forced open the kitchen window.’
I thought about it. ‘But only an idiot would have risked waking a baby.’
Lynsey sighed. ‘I don’t suppose Deb mentioned Rona and the baby. Dean works shifts, for British Telecom, those numbers you ring for special offers and that.’
‘Apparently he’d lost his job,’ said Geraldine, ‘but not told his wife.’
‘Oh, they’re not married,’ said Lynsey, ‘always lies to Deb, he does, that’s one of the reasons I moved out.’
The police had come and gone. Yesterday evening it had been Sergeant Whittle and a WPC with a name Geraldine had forgotten. This morning they had returned, but this time with Inspector Fry, who Geraldine had been rather taken with but Lynsey described as a hard-faced pig. As far as I could tell nothing had been said about the hammer in Dean Koenig’s pocket. Sandy had told Graham Whittle about the connection between Dean and Lynsey. How he knew about it I had no idea but presumably Lynsey had talked about Deb’s friend Dean and Sandy had remembered the name and put two and two together.
It was one of the days Lynsey fetched the shopping but all that had been forgotten for the time being. She sat on the floor with her knees pulled up and one of her legs swinging backwards and forwards. She had a heavy cross hanging from a thick silver chain round her neck. It looked expensive.
The break-in seemed to have had a good effect on Geraldine. She was in better spirits than usual, quite enjoying dealing with Lynsey, calming her down as you might an over-excited child.
‘Find yourself a chair,’ she said sharply, ‘you’re making me dizzy, with your leg moving about like that.’
‘Sorry.’ Lynsey pulled herself up on to the sofa, dragging off her boots and hoisting her legs up under her. ‘Expect he’s done it before, expect that’s where he got his money from, not that he ever had much. Good looking, he is, if you like that kind of thing, flashy but dead boring and thick as a plank.’
‘Anyway,’ said Geraldine, stretching out a hand to pat Lynsey on the shoulder, ‘there’s absolutely no reason you should feel responsible, is there, Anna?’
‘No, of course not.’ But already a number of possibilities were circulating in my brain. Did Lynsey really feel so outraged, or was she just putting on a convincing act? Had she and Dean, as Howard Fry clearly suspected, planned the break-in together, hoping to share the cash from the sale of stolen goods? And what about Lynsey’s friend, Deb, was she involved in some way? It occurred to me that Deb might have asked Lynsey to move out, not because she and Dean were at each other’s throats but because they were becoming attracted to one another.
‘D’you know what I reckon?’ said Lynsey. ‘I reckon like something happened in this house hundreds of years ago. Something so horrible it’s never been mentioned since.’
I glanced at Geraldine but she was smiling faintly. She was used to Lynsey’s fantasies and had no intention of allowing herself to be affected.
‘Anyway,’ said Lynsey, glaring at each of us in turn, ‘I saw that inspector before, at the time of the murder. I was going to tell him what I knew only like he wouldn’t listen to someone like me.’ She jumped up, nearly knocking a glass off the table. ‘Right then, I’ll take Thomas to the shops, shall I, so he can buy his comic.’
‘Yes, all right.’ Geraldine’s cheerful mood seemed to have evaporated. ‘But it’s such a bloodthirsty thing, couldn’t you help him to choose something more … ‘
‘Something more what? They don’t do any harm — comics, horror films, that kind of stuff.’ She turned to me. ‘You tell her. They get it out of your system, don’t they, should be handed out free then there wouldn’t be so much violence in the world, so many muggings, knifings, bashing people over the head … ’
When I made no comment she laughed. ‘After the shopping I promised to look after the baby for a bit. Rona’s going out and Helen wants to see some stupid exhibition.’
Geraldine frowned. ‘Helen’s asked you to look after the baby?’
‘Why not? Nothing to it. Anyway it likes me. Funny-looking thing, keeps pulling faces and grabbing hold of your hair.’
After she left Geraldine seemed agitated, moving round the room, picking up ornaments and putting them down. ‘It’s poor Miss Halliwell I keep thinking about although apparently she’s none the worse for her adventure. I think if I’d heard an intruder I’d have kept very quiet, pretended the place was empty.’
‘That’s what the police advise you to do.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘Helen’s going out, then,’ she said, ‘and Rona. Wouldn’t you think they’d have stayed at home today?’
I shrugged. ‘Probably best to carry on as normal. Sandy’s at the cottage, is he?’
She turned round sharply. ‘He was here when the polic
e came back. He told them everything they needed to know. After that there didn’t seem much point.’
‘No, of course not.’
She stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. ‘I’m going to make more coffee,’ she announced. It was like a challenge. I was there this morning on her terms, not mine. ‘You don’t like us drinking coffee, do you?’ she added for good measure. ‘It makes things too informal.’
‘Perhaps today we could make an exception.’
I had expected Sandy to stay at home, making sure everyone was all right, that the window had been repaired. But all that must have been attended to before I arrived. I wondered how Lynsey’s friend Deb was feeling. Dean would be kept in extended custody, questioned at length. Had Deb been told about the hammer in his pocket? Had the police searched the house in Whitchurch, letting her think they were looking for stolen goods when, in fact, they were hoping to discover something that could connect Dean with Walter Bury’s murder. I remembered Lynsey, the first time we met, hinting that she knew more than she was letting on. At the time I had ignored her remarks, seeing them simply as a way of drawing attention to herself, keeping my interest. I tried to recall her actual words, but it was impossible. She had tossed out so many remarks, that day and since, but nothing Howard Fry needed to know about; after all he had questioned her himself and could do so again if he felt inclined.
Geraldine came back into the room, carrying a small circular tray. ‘Poor Lynsey, it’s a shame she feels responsible. Did Sandy tell you, he gave her a lift to London the week before last. Well, Reading actually. He has an old uncle in Henley-on-Thames so he dropped Lynsey off at Reading station, then collected her later in the day.’
‘That was kind of him.’
‘Oh, it was no trouble.’ She held her cup to her mouth but it was too hot to sip. She was waiting for me to ask why Lynsey had wanted to go to London but already too much time had been taken up talking about Lynsey and the break-in. Now it was up to me to salvage what was left of our morning session.
