A Crushing Blow (Anna McColl Mystery Book 3)

by Penny Kline

  ‘Where’s Thomas?’ I said.

  ‘In his room. He’s supposed to be practising his violin but he won’t, not when Lynsey’s around.’

  ‘She and Thomas seem to get on well.’

  She swallowed hard. ‘Oh, yes, isn’t it a blessing? D’you think we could stop now, it’s nearly ten to.’ She opened the door letting in the rumble of the washing machine. ‘At the weekend he’s travelling to Plymouth, to play in an orchestra. It’s quite an honour.’

  ‘He must be good!’ I shouted above the noise.

  She put her hands over her ears. ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’

  When I left Rona Halliwell was hanging a tiny pair of flowered dungarees on the line. She caught sight of me out of the comer of her eye and raised an arm. ‘Hang on a minute, can you?’

  Close by the baby, Chloe, was lying on her tummy with her head held up and her legs making scrabbling movements as she attempted to move across the grass. Frustrated by her lack of success she began experimenting with a range of high-pitched sounds. Eee-oi. Dow. Bah!

  Rona turned away from the clothes line and collapsed on to a garden seat. ‘Wanted to ask you something.’ She looked exhausted, as though it was an effort keeping her eyes open.

  ‘Oh, yes, what was that?’

  ‘Psychologists — what are they exactly? Like psychotherapists or more like doctors?’

  ‘Psychotherapy usually takes quite a long time,’ I said. ‘Counselling and other forms of treatment tend to be briefer. It’s really a question of economics.’

  ‘Oh, more than that surely, I should’ve thought anything long term could be counter-productive, make the patient too dependent.’

  ‘That’s what some people think.’

  ‘But not you.’ She lifted the baby and dragged her pink joggers over her soft padded bottom. ‘Too hot, these outfits, elen buys them by the score. You know the trouble with your job. No moral values. Everyone bending over backwards to avoid any concept of good and evil.’ She rubbed her knee, grimacing with pain.

  ‘Rheumatism?’ I asked.

  ‘Huh, what would you know about that? At my age you can take your pick. Tell everyone about your aches and pains and have yourself described as a dreary old bat, or carry on as per normal and endure people telling you how wonderful you are.’ She sat the baby on a play mat and handed her a brightly coloured rag book. ‘The latter course is marginally preferable but you have to give up any notion of sympathy for the fact your physique seems to be deteriorating by the day.’

  I laughed and she pretended to be offended, then joined in briefly. ‘D’you go in for bereavement counselling? There’s counselling for everything these days. In my day trials and tribulations were just seen as part of being alive.’

  ‘People only need bereavement counselling if the normal process of grieving becomes blocked.’

  ‘Blocked? I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a dictionary of psychology if you’re going to use all that jargon.’

  ‘Have you lost someone?’

  ‘Me?’ The red clothes-peg held between her finger and thumb snapped and fell to the ground. ‘Oh, only my sister.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘She was younger than me, seventeen years, born when my poor mother was in her forties, a mistake.’ She sighed, ‘People tell you all kinds of things, I suppose. Great long-winded tales of woe. I don’t know how you stand it.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Biddy? Oh, months ago. She was christened Bernadette but they changed it to Biddy when they realized she had a screw loose. They were going to put her in an institution but somehow nobody got round to it and really she was no trouble, a sweet child, apart from the tantrums. Of course by the time Mother died Biddy was in her late twenties but still with a mental age of about three or four.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘How d’you mean what happened?’ Chloe was starting to complain. When I offered to pick her up Rona seemed not to hear so I hauled her into the air and sat her on my knee with her back resting against my stomach.

  ‘After your mother died. What happened to your sister?’

  ‘I had three elder brothers but they were married and in any case they wouldn’t have known how to handle Biddy.’

  ‘It must have been hard.’ I picked a daisy, handed it to the baby, then removed it hastily when she tried to stuff it into her mouth.

  ‘Of course, by then I’d been more than twelve years with the Richardsons — Helen’s parents — but Helen had started at boarding school and there was no real reason for me to stay.’

  ‘So you left to look after your sister.’

  ‘We lived in my father’s house for a time, then after he died I sold up and bought a flat in Sutton. That way, when I departed this world at least there’d still be money invested for Biddy’s future. Am I boring you? Do say so if I am.’

  ‘You’re not. What about your brothers, couldn’t they help?’

  ‘Oh, it was all perfectly fair. Father left the house to me on the understanding that — ’

  ‘I didn’t mean just money. It’s not right the way it’s always women who have to act as carers.’

  She raised her eyebrows, implying that I might have no sense of duty but she was different. ‘I wasn’t married,’ she said, ‘and besides I was used to looking after people. Who else could have done it?’ Then her mood changed suddenly and she smiled to herself. ‘Poor Biddy, she had very little in the way of language. Just a few key words. Now. More. No. Won’t.’

  ‘Like a baby.’

  ‘What?’ She screwed up her face, then decided to ignore my rather insensitive comment.

  ‘She loved shopping. Sending tins of baked beans crashing to the supermarket floor, jumping up and down in delight while I attempted to explain, although people are very good about that kind of thing once they realize.’

  Chloe had a fistful of my hair. I extracted it as best I could and began bouncing her up and down on my knees.

  ‘Television was a blessing,’ said Rona. ‘She could hum the jingles, catching every pause, every intonation. I used to wonder why the skill had failed to generalize and allow her to carry on a relatively normal conversation.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘And quiz shows. She loved the buzzers and bells. After she died I used to hear them in my head. High-pitched like a bicycle bell if the answer was right. Low and flatulent if it was incorrect.’ She made a kind of sucking sound, putting her hand up to her face as though afraid the memory of Biddy might reduce her to hysterical laughter. ‘Quite attractive to look at, she was. Those children never seem to age. I suppose it’s because they experience very little, have no awareness of the tragedy of human life. Blue eyes, a beautiful dark blue, nothing like mine, and very fine hair that had to be held back with a clip or it fell over her eyes and made her toss her head repeatedly. Why is it, d’you suppose — toddlers are demanding, uninhibited, but people worship them like gods, whereas an adult like that is a source of embarrassment all round?’

  ‘I suppose people are afraid,’ I said, ‘not sure how to react.’

  Rona snorted. ‘Like they’re afraid of death, you mean. Walter Bury, the poor creature who came to a sticky end, I asked Bryan if the police had any leads and he told me off for mentioning the subject in front of Helen. What are we supposed to do? Forget it ever happened? Forget the fact that the killer could be living a stone’s throw from here and might strike again when there’s a full moon?’

  ‘You don’t believe that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t I just. Ah well, can’t sit here all morning. What day is it? Not Tuesday anyway. Helen goes up to London every Tuesday — to see her friends, I suppose, have her hair done. Isn’t life cruel? We all pretend it’s jolly good fun with the occasional misfortune but if you want my opinion it’s the other way round, a vale of tears with the odd diversion that convinces us we ought to be gloriously happy and content.’ Her hand came down on my shoulder. ‘Oh, take no notice, touch of the sun
. Next time you’re seeing Mrs Haran drop in for a cup of tea — if you’ve nothing better to do.’

  A car stopped by the gate, out of sight but with its engine running noisily. Then it moved away and a moment later Helen Sealey appeared, carrying two stiff, shiny carrier bags. She stood in front of the house for a moment, shading her eyes from the sun, then she walked up to us and dropped the bags on the grass.

  ‘Is Bryan back?’

  ‘Not yet, my love.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I expect he’ll turn up soon.’ Rona’s voice was soft, soothing, like a mother reassuring a spoilt but adored child.

  ‘He hasn’t even phoned?’

  ‘Probably stopped off to buy some raspberries. He knows you love them.’

  Helen frowned, then turned towards me. ‘Sorry, am I interrupting something?’ She touched the baby lightly on the cheek. ‘Have you been a good girl for Nanny?’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ said Rona crossly.

  ‘Oh, now what? She’s Chloe’s nanny, aren’t you, sweetheart?’ She took the baby from me, holding her awkwardly as though she was a doll that didn’t bend in the middle. ‘Well, what should we call you, then?’

  Rona shrugged. ‘By my name?’

  Helen glanced at me, wondering what I was making of the little charade. She was wearing the same white trousers as before, but this time with a red and yellow shirt and a floppy cotton sun hat. There was no sign of any photographic equipment.

  ‘There’s this shop in Clifton Village,’ she said, ‘one of those wildly expensive places with designer clothes for babies. So extravagant but I couldn’t resist.’ She looked inside one of the carrier bags, then lifted out a pale lemon outfit and held it up for us to admire. ‘Isn’t it amazing. It’s got special padded knees for when she starts to crawl.’

  ‘It’ll show every mark,’ said Rona, standing up and taking the baby.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a killjoy. Lynsey’s wonderful at washing and ironing, just like a professional laundry.’

  So Lynsey was taking over more and more of the chores in both flats. I hoped they were paying her properly, not using her as cheap labour. Not that Lynsey was incapable of demanding her rights although it would be typical of her to gain an absurd satisfaction from feeling exploited, hard done by.

  Rona was walking towards the house.

  Helen gazed across the lawn at the flowering shrubs as though she thought someone might be lurking in the garden. ‘Poor Rona,’ she said, ‘I was afraid looking after a small baby might be too much for her. But she was absolutely adamant. D’you think it’s too much?’

  ‘I think it’s what she wants to do,’ I said, wondering as I spoke what right I had to feel confident to speak on Rona’s behalf.

  ‘Has she told you about her sister?’ said Helen. ‘I didn’t know what had happened — not until I phoned to tell her about the baby.’

  ‘Some people like to grieve alone, for a time.’

  ‘Do they really?’ She stared at me, as though I had imparted some highly technical information. ‘I’d love a job like yours, something worthwhile, but I’d be no use to anyone.’

  *

  Chris phoned at nine o’clock. The children were in bed at last and Bruce had some stupid meeting, couldn’t I come round and tell her all about my trip to the Forest of Dean with Owen Hughes.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Liar, you just want to keep it to yourself. Oh, don’t tell me you’re still hankering after that policeman.’ I heard her lighting a cigarette. So the resolution to absolutely, definitely give up had lasted less than a week. ‘Has he phoned? Owen whatever his name is — has he phoned?’

  ‘We’re going to the cinema tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Well, come round in the afternoon.’

  ‘How’s the mumps?’

  ‘Bloody awful. Oh, you’re not afraid of catching it. Haven’t you had it? Of course you have.’

  ‘Not as far as I can remember.’

  ‘Liar. By the way, that murder in Leigh Woods, have the police got any nearer to finding who did it?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Not as far as you know,’ she repeated. ‘Is that a way of saying your inspector hasn’t been in touch, or have you signed the Official Secrets Act?’ She snorted. ‘Anyway I met someone who knew him, the guy who was bashed over the head.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A friend of a friend who does photography. Arty pictures of early morning mist, the fog over Avonmouth, you know the kind of crap.’

  ‘What did she say about him?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really, just that he’d had some kind of breakdown, then recovered and taken on a new lease of life.’

  ‘What kind of new lease?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Isn’t it just typical? Struggling on, wanting to top himself, then as soon as he’s feeling a bit better someone smashes in his skull.’

  ‘This friend of yours,’ I said, but she laughed and put down the phone. If I wanted to know more I would have to call round at the house. I doubted if there was any more.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Bryan Sealey,’ said Owen, ‘I saw one of his plays in London, something about the hypocrisy of rich left-wing liberals, not too bad if you like that kind of thing.’

  ‘This one’s about relationships between the sexes,’ I said irritably, ‘traditional values — marriage, security — or a series of relationships, job changes.’

  ‘And he’s given you a couple of tickets for the first night. When is it?’

  ‘So you want to come?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The evening had started badly. After waiting fifteen minutes outside the book shop at the bottom of Park Street it had suddenly struck me that Owen had meant the one nearer the university. It was my fault, not his. That made it even worse.

  Now we were on our way to the cinema. Owen had asked if I liked Chinese films. When I hesitated he had laughed and said neither did he but we could see some gruesome thing about a serial killer that was on at the Odeon. Outside St Nicholas’ Market a boy was sitting on the pavement playing a wooden flute. Owen put his hand in his pocket and dropped a coin into the nest the boy had made out of a grubby cotton scarf.

  ‘You surprise me,’ I said, ‘I thought you disapproved of begging.’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘You did. You said the welfare state had undermined people’s self-respect.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, I say all kinds of things.’

  ‘Just for effect.’

  ‘I expect so.’ He took a battered diary from his inside pocket and flicked through the pages. ‘Right, then, when’s this visit to the theatre, I’ll make a note of it.’

  As we walked up Vine Street I told him about my phone call from Chris and how she had met someone who had been a friend of Walter Bury.

  ‘The man they found in Leigh Woods?’

  ‘Actually I think it was a friend of a friend. This person, whoever he was, is interested in photography.’

  ‘That’s significant, is it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  He peered at my face. ‘You’re angry with me.’

  ‘No. Something happened at the house but I’ll tell you about it later.’

  ‘Tell me now. You’ve no idea what a frustrating day I’ve had.’

  The cinema queue stretched up the street but it was moving, we wouldn’t have to wait long. In front of us a couple were arguing about where they had left their car, the woman insisting parking was allowed there after six o’clock, the man muttering about what would happen to her if she had got it wrong and they returned to find it had been wheel-clamped.

  ‘The day we went to the Forest of Dean,’ I said, looking round guiltily as though I was giving away classified information, ‘someone broke into the Sealeys’ flat.’

  Owen stopped consulting his diary. ‘Really? Get away with much?’

  ‘No, but the guy who broke in was
a friend — well, an acquaintance — of the girl I was telling you about.’

  ‘Which girl is that?’

  ‘The one I met on the Suspension Bridge. The girl who cleans the Sealeys’ flat and does the shopping for the woman — ‘

  ‘She had something to do with the burglary? Rather stupid to risk losing her job.’

  ‘She may have told the guy who broke in that the Sealeys lived there. As far as I know she had nothing else to do with it.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’ He searched in his pocket and found a crumpled piece of paper. ‘I was supposed to phone someone at UC. University College.’

  ‘Yes, I know what UC stands for,’ I said. ‘The point is, the intruder was carrying a hammer and it’s just possible it’s the same weapon that was used on Walter Bury.’ I pulled myself up short. ‘Only I don’t think the police have released anything yet so — ‘

  ‘But your inspector friend’s given you the low down. By the way, what’s his name?’

  ‘Howard Fry.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Divorced.’

  He nodded. ‘And he tells you about his cases.’

  ‘I met him a couple of years ago when I was receiving threatening letters — well, post cards as it happened.’

  ‘Ah, that would explain it. The inspector came to the rescue of the fair maiden and you’ve never looked back.’

  Two and a half hours later we came out of the dark air-conditioned cinema and stood in front of the windows of Mothercare, taking a few moments to adjust back to the real world, staring at the display of child-sized dolls, dressed in brightly coloured jogging pants and sweatshirts. Then the lights changed on the pedestrian crossing and Owen set off across the road.

  ‘Was the film as bad as you expected?’ he said, walking fast, with his head turned towards the shop windows.

  ‘Yes but I enjoyed it, especially the part on the scenic railway.’

  ‘Good, well, I suppose we ought to find something to eat. Any particular place you like?’