by Penny Kline
As they stepped on to the third floor the girl removed her glasses and pushed them in the pocket of her shirt, and I realized she was older than I had thought, about twenty-six or — seven. Bryan nodded to her, then walked up to one of the food counters and ordered two coffees. I should have left them to it; after all it could be a perfectly innocent meeting, just someone who was working at the theatre — the set designer, stage manager — and in any case it had nothing to do with me.
The woman chose a table next to one of the pillars and I watched her, what I could see of her, through the artificial ivy. In spite of the general clatter of trays and cutlery, and the droning beat of the musak, when Bryan returned it was just possible to listen in on their conversation.
‘I’ve written down the address.’ The woman reached into her bag then pulled out a small notebook which she placed open on the table, turning it so Bryan could read it the right way up. ‘She had lunch in South Kensington — an Italian place, expensive.’
‘On her own or with someone?’
‘A woman of about the same age but not so smartly dressed. Jeans, very short hair, a green denim jacket.’
‘Don’t recognize the description. Anything else?’
‘Later she visited the same place I told you about before. She was there about an hour and a half.’
Bryan sighed. ‘Oh, God. It’s whether there’s any connection with the weekly visits and the other thing.’
‘You think there could be?’
‘I don’t know, Megan. All I do know is she’s hiding something. If I ask her even a few harmless questions she either clams up completely or works herself up into such a state she has to take one of her wretched pills.’
‘You were at home that evening.’
‘Looking after the baby.’
‘Where was the nanny?’
‘She’d been away for a couple of days. She was on her way back.’
‘And Helen said she was seeing a friend.’
‘Some woman she met at an exhibition.’
He glanced in my direction, then turned back to the girl called Megan.
‘You know this woman?’
There was no reply. Perhaps he shook his head. Slowly, cautiously, I took a step backwards. Then I turned my head sharply so if Bryan looked in my direction it would be impossible for him to be certain who I was. A moment later I was in a gift shop, buying garish cards with pictures of people with thermometers in their mouths and spots all over the visible parts of their bodies, nothing like the symptoms of mumps but Jack and Rosie would love them just the same.
*
‘Thought you’d probably be out,’ said Sandy. ‘I was just passing, on my way back from the cottage, decided to call in on the off chance, hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not.’ I didn’t bother to point out that there was no route from Clevedon to Bristol that took in Cliftonwood.
He looked exhausted. There were dark shadows under his eyes and the eyes themselves looked yellowish and slightly bloodshot.
‘You’re not just about to go out, are you?’ he said. ‘If you are do say. I should’ve phoned but it wasn’t something I’d planned. I suppose, because of you seeing Geraldine, I felt I had no right.’
‘Sit down, Sandy, I’m going out at seven thirty. That gives us — ’
‘Oh, it won’t take that long.’
I was spending the evening with Chris. She wanted to have a serious talk — about men. In her opinion it was time I settled down, either with my policeman (who had turned out to be still involved with his ex-wife), or with my academic (who appeared to want a platonic relationship, someone to accompany him to the cinema but make no emotional demands: someone to tide him over until he came to terms with the death of his wife).
‘I wanted a chance to speak to you on your own,’ said Sandy, settling himself down in an armchair and waving aside the offer of a drink or a cup of coffee, ‘just to let you know how much I appreciate the way you’re helping Geraldine.’
‘I’m not sure I am.’
‘Of course you are.’ He looked genuinely surprised. ‘Her whole manner, way of talking … I bought some special food for her birthday, cooked it all myself, not that it needed much culinary expertise, just bunged it in the microwave. Anyway for once she ate the lot, seemed to enjoy it.’
‘I’m glad. But she’s shown no signs of wanting to leave the flat.’
‘Oh, surely it’s not that simple. I mean, one person could manage a few yards down the road but still be feeling pretty terrible. Whereas another might take time to get up courage to go out but basically be a whole lot better.’
‘And you think that’s how Geraldine feels?’
He nodded enthusiastically, then stood up and started walking backwards and forwards as though preparing himself to let me in on the real reason for his visit. Another discussion about training to be a Jungian analyst?
‘What d’you think about the break-in?’ he said. ‘I got in touch with the police and the young man’s still being questioned. Seems a bit over the top to me but I suppose they know what they’re doing.’
So he hadn’t been told about the incriminating hammer. ‘Yes, I expect so,’ I said. ‘Sit down, Sandy, you’re making me dizzy.’
‘Sorry.’ He perched on the arm of a chair. ‘Rona Halliwell, you get on pretty well with her, don’t you? What about Bryan and Helen? Of course Bryan’s working flat out, the play opens the week after next, and that leaves poor Helen on her own a fair bit of the time.’
I interrupted him before he started on another member of the household. ‘Sandy, is there something worrying you, something you wanted to ask me — about Geraldine?’
‘Oh, nothing like that. Certainly not about you and Geraldine. She doesn’t tell me much but that’s as it should be, she trusts you, I understand completely.’
‘Perhaps it makes you feel left out.’
‘Not in the least. Actually there is one thing.’ He stood up again and walked to the window. ‘It’s about Helen.’
‘Helen,’ I repeated.
‘This is rather embarrassing. I don’t know how to … The thing is, sometimes I give her a lift in the car, drop her off at some beauty spot, then pick her up an hour or two later. She wants to develop a career as a photographer. I expect she’s mentioned — ’
‘It must be rather inconvenient for you.’
‘Not really, I can usually fit it in with something else, a visit to the DIY shop, timber yard.’
‘Does Geraldine know?’
‘Geraldine? Probably not. I haven’t bothered to mention it, didn’t seem much point.’
‘She told me how you took Lynsey to Reading station.’
He hesitated, frowning as if he was trying to remember. ‘Oh, that was weeks ago. Jabbered on nonstop all the way there and back, left me with a throbbing head and a promise to myself never to repeat the exercise.’
‘Someone else might have told Geraldine about you and Helen.’
‘Me and Helen? You make it sound like … Oh, you mean Lynsey. Yes, I thought of that. Means no harm but does like to turn life into a soap opera if she’s given half a chance. No, I usually pick up Helen at the end of the road, well out of sight of the house. Saves a lot of fuss and bother. As a matter of fact it breaks up the day for me. Working on the cottage from morning to night — well, I’m sure I don’t have to explain.’ He drew in breath, patting himself on the chest as if he had a touch of asthma. ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, I suppose I’ve encouraged Helen — to talk, I mean. She’s a complicated person, insecure, low self-esteem.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me.’
‘Got a lot of problems, things going back to childhood. She’s an only child, like Thomas, wanted for nothing as far as I can tell but her parents believed in a boarding-school education. She was sent away when she was twelve, seems to have taken it as some kind of rejection.’
‘So you’ve been acting as her therapist.’
He slum
ped in a chair with his legs spread wide. ‘Stupid, isn’t it? Bitten off more than I can chew. Tried to run before I could walk.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve done much harm.’
‘Thanks, Anna. The trouble is we’ve reached a stage where — ’
‘Have you any idea why she gave up driving?’
He looked up surprised. ‘Oh, that.’ Hoisting himself into an upright position, he crossed one leg over the other, then uncrossed it again. ‘Just some silly incident. Took a corner too fast, skidded on a wet road.’ He swallowed, putting his hand up to his throat. ‘She’s not a happy person.’
‘And she’s started to become too dependent on you, too demanding. If she has all these problems I’m surprised they didn’t come out when she applied to adopt.’
‘Social workers can only know what people choose to tell them. Oh, you think they should’ve read between the lines. Anyway, it’s not the baby that’s the problem.’
‘Sandy?’
‘Mm.’
‘Are you in love with her?’
I expected him to jump up, expressing outrage at the very suggestion. Instead he smiled and for the first time during his visit looked almost relaxed. ‘Is that what you’re thinking? Well, I suppose I can’t blame you. No, there’s nothing like that. She’s a beautiful creature but far too repressed. I like people who can express their feelings. No, I just wanted to help. I suppose helping people’s become a kind of obsession, almost like falling in love, but far, far more important.’ He looked up, running his fingers through the tufts of hair above his ears, willing me to give him my seal of approval.
‘There’s nothing wrong in trying to help but you can’t run other people’s lives for them.’
‘I know. Just help them to help themselves.’ He stood up and started moving towards the door. ‘Thanks, Anna, that’s been really useful. I’d better go or Geraldine will be wondering what’s happened to me. By the way, Inspector Fry, he’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?’
‘I know him. Yes.’
‘I just wondered if they were making any progress. The murder. The reason I’m asking, if they got the bastard it might help Geraldine to feel more secure, what d’you think?’
‘The best hope of a conviction seems to rest on a certain amount of forensic evidence.’
‘Really? They’ve found something?’
‘I don’t know many details,’ I said, ‘but if I find out anything that might make Geraldine feel better … Look, about this business with Helen, I should ease up a bit, for your own protection. Perhaps you could suggest she waits till they’re back in London then looks for some professional help.’
‘Good idea. Thanks. So stupid. I’ve been worrying for weeks. Felt guilty I suppose. Felt I’d brought it on myself, falling into the usual trap. Wanting to take on someone else’s problems, make myself feel useful, needed.’
‘You’re being a bit hard on yourself.’
‘Am I?’ He smiled and some of the tension left his face. ‘I’ve been reading this book. Jung’s lectures, back in the thirties.’
‘Long time ago.’
‘Yes. Amazing.’ He was thinking about the book, not the fact that the lectures had taken place sixty years ago. ‘Someone asked Jung a question — about the interpretation of dreams. His answer, it surprised me, but when I thought about it of course he was perfectly right.’
He moved towards me, hesitated for a moment, then kissed me on the cheek.
‘Thanks, Anna, I knew you’d understand.’
*
Just as I was falling asleep something jerked me awake again. Nothing I had heard just something that had been going round in my brain all day but not at a conscious level. Rona and her sister Biddy. I thought of all the conflicting feelings Rona must have had when Biddy died. Relief that the exhausting role as a carer had come to an end, guilt because of the feeling of relief, and a terrible sense of loss — of Biddy herself, but not just that, loss of a whole way of life. Was that why she had been so keen to take on the care of the newly adopted baby? I wondered how long Biddy would have lived if it hadn’t been for the accident. She could have outlived Rona and had to be found a place in a residential home or some kind of sheltered accommodation. Then I thought about Rona’s flat. It was in Sutton, the right side of London for a day trip to the south coast. On to the M25, then the road that leads to Gatwick and on to the Sussex Downs. I remembered how Howard Fry had said Walter Bury helped to organize outings for the handicapped. Walter Bury, who had once lived in Kent, and still had a sister in Canterbury. Walter Bury, who for no apparent reason, had met with a sudden, violent death less than a mile from the house where Rona was staying.
Chapter Fourteen
Thomas was away for the weekend. Child musicians from schools throughout the south-west would be playing together in an improvised orchestra. The venue was Plymouth.
The previous day I had witnessed Geraldine and Sandy saying a fond farewell. The poor boy had looked less than enthusiastic but Sandy had assured me he would love it when he got there. I found this hard to believe. Bending to pick a thread from the sleeve of his bottle-green blazer Geraldine had explained how the mother of one of Thomas’s friends would be calling by any minute to pick him up and take the two boys to the assembly point. Her voice had sounded bright, unnatural, like someone trying to play the role of a good mother but with her mind on something entirely different. Sandy had given Thomas a hug, then turned away with the anguished look people usually reserve for times when a loved one will be absent for several months. If all three of them felt so bad about the long weekend why had they arranged for Thomas to go?
Presumably it was a necessary part of his development as a musician …
Today was Friday — my last session with Geraldine. My last chance to find a way to release her from her self-imposed prison. Overnight the weather had turned cooler and she was wearing the sweater Sandy had given her for her birthday. Just as I had thought, the pastel colours suited her, she looked softer, gentler.
‘Thomas phoned yesterday evening,’ she said. ‘He was sick on the coach but I think he’s going to be all right.’
‘That’s good.’
‘He won’t be back till Monday evening.’
‘Oh well, I expect the time will go quite quickly.’
‘Yes.’ She traced the outline of one of the birds on the front of her sweater. ‘Helen and Bryan are away too. Somewhere in Cornwall, near St Austell. Bryan wanted a complete break before the final rehearsals.’
‘I thought the house seemed quiet.’
‘Oh, Rona’s still here — and the baby. They were taking Chloe with them but she developed a cold. Just a snuffle but even at the best of times babies that age never like sleeping away from home.’ She sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘This is our last meeting, isn’t it? I feel I’ve let you down badly. You’ve helped me so much but I still haven’t been able to leave the flat.’
‘We must talk about what’s going to happen next.’
She leaned forward, clasping her knees. ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for that. I’m feeling a little more confident each day. Who knows, this time next week I might try walking round the garden.’
‘Why not try it now?’
She sighed. ‘You’ll think I’m being awfully cowardly but I really don’t feel up to it, not today.’ Then she smiled, the same false little smile I remembered from our first meeting. ‘You don’t believe in agoraphobia, do you? You think I ought to pull myself together.’
‘I believe it’s a response to stress,’ I said.
‘No, go on, tell me what you really think.’ She seemed amused, as though she had caught me on the hop. ‘I do think it’s important we’re completely honest with each other. I know you’re a professional but I’ve come to see you as a friend. Is that wrong?’
‘There’s a story,’ I said, ‘about an agoraphobic man who’d been confined to his house for several years.’
‘A man?’ She seemed astonishe
d.
‘It could have been a woman but in this particular case … Anyway, he was so fed up with being stuck at home that he decided to drive to a cliff top, convinced that long before he reached his destination his anxiety would give him a heart attack and put him out of his misery.’
I looked up, wondering how she was taking it, afraid I had misjudged her. But her eyes were shining and her mouth was slightly open, willing me to go on.
‘Well, he reached the cliff and having got that far he realized that for the first time in years he felt fine. No more anxiety, no more agoraphobia.’
She laughed. ‘So the moral of the story — you think something awful will happen but it doesn’t. Is it a real case or did you read it in one of your psychology books?’
‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’
‘Oh, I think so. You’re telling me I could go out if I had a mind to, I’m just being thoroughly obstinate.’
‘No, it doesn’t mean that. It just means the solution to a problem can end up becoming the problem.’
‘And what’s my real problem?’
‘That’s what we’ve been trying to find out.’
She clasped her hands together and kept her eyes on the carpet. ‘The day of the murder,’ she said slowly. ‘No, the day after — whenever it was they found the … ‘
‘Go on.’
‘When I was a little girl. Oh, about eight or nine I suppose. A neighbour of ours killed his wife.’
‘How awful.’ I started to say what a shock it must have been but she held up her hand.
‘If they’d told me it wouldn’t have been so bad. I suppose they wanted to protect me but at that age you pick up stray remarks, take in far more than anyone realizes.’
‘No one told you what had happened?’
‘Not at first. She was having an affair, you see. The wife. A girl at school told me she’d been hacked to pieces with an axe. But it wasn’t true. She’d been strangled. I only found that out later, years later.’
