by Ruth Rendell
‘If you’re happy to go on talking about Sarah,’ Wexford began, ‘I’ll ask you if you can remember the name of her boyfriend, the man who left when she found she was pregnant.’
‘It so happens that I can. It was the same as mine. Oh, not Kilmartin, nowhere near as distinguished. My maiden name, Watson. His name was Gerald Watson, known as Gerry.’
‘I know it would be too much to ask if you know what the rapist was called.’
‘It would be,’ said Thora Kilmartin. ‘He wasn’t someone Sarah knew. But she had seen him before and she knew where he lived. It was in a flat in a newish, rather expensive block called Quercum Court quite near where my husband and I live now. But that was all and I think he moved away very soon after the rape. Maybe he suspected that Sarah would go to the police, I don’t know, but he disappeared and of course I was glad for Sarah’s sake. Imagine having him around when she knew he was the father of her child.’
Wexford tried to imagine it but found this too difficult a feat. ‘And Gerald Watson? Do you know his whereabouts?’
‘He was younger than Sarah,’ Thora said ruminatively, as if she were probing her recollections. ‘About five years younger. He lived at home with his parents. A great mistake, I always think, if you’re over twenty. He used to come to the flat to take Sarah out. The evening of the rape they were going out together, they were going to a concert. But he phoned and said he couldn’t come, he had to stay at home with his mother who was upset over the death of a neighbour who had been killed in a road accident. I know. Can you imagine? That’s what comes of staying tied to your mother’s apron strings. Sarah went alone.’
‘And that was when she was raped?’
‘As you say. That was when she was raped.’
‘What did he do for a living?’
‘He was a solicitor.’
‘How close was the relationship? I suppose he stayed in your flat over weekends and he and Sarah went away on holiday together?’
‘Oh, no, you’re wrong there. Sarah wouldn’t have had that. I can see I haven’t made it plain to you how deeply moral Sarah was. Absolutely out of date, more like someone living sixty years ago than in the present. She wouldn’t have had – well, sexual relations with a man until she was married to him. I don’t even know if she and Gerry Watson intended to marry.’
Thora helped herself to a chocolate marzipan slice. ‘I wish you’d eat something.’
Wexford shook his head. ‘You said in your letter to her that you weren’t surprised when you heard she’d been ordained. You expected it?’
‘Not exactly that,’ said Thora. ‘It was more that she was always religious and she had high principles. In that way you could say that the rapist, the handsome Asian, picked on the most vulnerable and innocent woman he could have. No, perhaps not innocent but very vulnerable. She always saw the best in people but she knew about the worst. I would like to have heard one of her sermons and it’s too late now.’
‘Would you be surprised to hear she had a boyfriend? Strange word for a middle-aged man but that’s what I was told.’
‘I’d be surprised to hear they had a sexual relationship.’
Burden sounded very much more interested in Gerald Watson than Wexford had been. He must be found. He might be that significant figure from Sarah Hussain’s past that they were all looking for. It was a phone conversation and Burden had seized upon Gerald Watson before Wexford had reached the rape.
‘No, we’ll find him,’ Burden said with that confidence not only in the Internet but also in Kingsmarkham Crime Management team’s ability to carry out the search. It was a confidence common to people twenty or even ten years younger than Wexford. He, for his part, was just about able to get hold of Google and somewhat shakily direct it to produce information.
‘You’re thinking an ex-boyfriend would bear a grudge like that over eighteen years? Enough to have killed her?’
‘I just want to talk to him, get the picture. According to Dennis Cuthbert there was a current boyfriend. If so, where is he? Why has no one else mentioned him? We must meet.’
They fixed on two days later for lunch, Wexford reserving the rest of Sarah and Clarissa’s story till Wednesday. He returned to Gibbon and the martyrdom of St Cyprian. It is not easy to extract any distinct ideas from the vague though eloquent declamations of the Fathers, or to ascertain the degree of immortal glory and happiness which they confidently promised to those who were so fortunate as to shed their blood in the cause of religion. They inculcated with becoming diligence, that the fire of martyrdom supplied every defect and expiated every sin; that while the souls of ordinary Christians were obliged to pass through a slow and painful purification, the triumphant sufferers entered into the immediate fruition of eternal bliss . . .
‘Thirty grand?’ said Fiona. ‘You have to be kidding me.’
‘You’ve got it. You told me. You’ve got more than that invested.’
‘And that’s where it stays, invested.’
‘It’d still be invested,’ said Jeremy, ‘invested in property everyone knows can’t lose. It’s a nice little house, I looked over it this morning, and I reckon I could ask five hundred a week rent.’
‘You could? Who’s going to pay the mortgage? Me?’
‘I could pay it out of the rent.’
‘I’m not going to let you have it, Jeremy, I’m just not. It’s no good asking me any more. We do all right as we are, we don’t need another property. What’s the matter now? Why that face?’
Jeremy’s face had fallen into gloomy lines and his lips protruded. ‘I’ve heard from Diane,’ he said.
‘So?’
‘It’s not the best of news.’
‘What is it?’
‘She’s split up from Brett and she wants to come home to live. It was all in this email that came this morning.’
Fiona sat down. ‘I don’t see why that’s bad news. So she’s split up with Brett. She’s not your wife, Jeremy, she hasn’t been your wife for ages. What’s it to you?’
‘That place in Peck Road is hers. That house where Jason Sams lives, she’s the tenant, not me. She’ll want to live in it.’
‘Oh, come on. Ever since she left you for that Brett she’s been living in the lap of luxury. Why would she want to live on a council estate?’
‘It’s not what she wants, Fi, it’s what she can get,’ Jeremy said. ‘It’s a house and she’s the tenant. We lived there, her and me, until she left.’ He added, ‘But you know all that,’ as if claiming virtue for telling Fiona the truth, perhaps a rare occurrence.
Fiona considered what he’d said. ‘Good thing you’ve got me to support you, isn’t it? What about the other place where you lived with your mum? Maybe that really belongs to Mr and Mrs Patel, does it?’
Jeremy didn’t answer. There was no need to. He knew it was one of those questions that weren’t meant to be answered, that were meant to be clever. Maybe Fiona would give him the money if she got pregnant. She’d be so happy that she’d do anything for him. Or that was his theory. But when would that be? Possibly months or even years and meanwhile someone else would buy that house in Ladysmith Road. Another worry was the house in Peck Road. If he told Diane that he’d been letting her house, the chances are she would tell him to get rid of those tenants who should never have been there in the first place. And she would tell him in no uncertain terms. Why did he always have to get involved with domineering women? The reason was obvious, even to him, so he didn’t dwell on it.
On the other hand she might take on the tenants herself. What Fiona said was probably true: after what she’d been used to Diane wouldn’t want to live on a council estate and would rent somewhere else for herself. He would have to find out what her plans were. Jeremy was not very skilled with the computer but he could just about reply to an email or send a new one. Replying was the easier way. ‘Hi Diane,’ he keyed in. ‘What do you want done re Peck Rd?’ Telling her he had let her house wasn’t going to be easy at all. Maybe instead
he could say he was living there. One of the best things about emails was that the recipient couldn’t tell where they came from. He had never told her about Fiona or the cottage or even his mother’s death. He continued, ‘Let me know when you arrive in UK. I could meet you at Gatwick.’ It was the nearest London airport to Kingsmarkham and flights came in from Spain all the time. He didn’t want to have to go there, he never really wanted to go anywhere, but anything was preferable to having her turn up in Peck Road in a taxi. He didn’t end with ‘love’ or even ‘yours’ but simply ‘Jeremy’, put his finger on send and pressed.
It seemed to him, though he could hardly have said why, that it would be careless of him just to ignore the house in Peck Road until he heard from Diane. He ought to be keeping an eye on it. He ought to go there even if he did nothing more than look. Jeremy’s life was generally calm and uneventful. His wants were catered for by Fiona, he was fed, his limited sexual needs were satisfied, no one interfered with his television watching or expected him to get up early or wear a tie or get his hair cut. He had never been a drinker, he didn’t like the taste, but when something happened to disturb the equilibrium of his existence he took a couple of swigs of strong spirits, brandy sometimes or, a recent discovery, grappa. That rare something had happened now and he swallowed a gulp or two of brandy straight from the bottle, shuddering afterwards at the taste.
Fiona had gone to work in her car. Jeremy got into his, not deterred by having drunk what amounted to a wineglassful of brandy. It cheered him up and that was all that mattered. It moved him from a state of mild anxiety to something not far from one of his fugues. He sat in the driving seat, feeling calm and a bit sleepy but that passed after a few minutes and he was more than capable of driving over to the Muriel Campden Estate. Parked a short way down Peck Road, he had a clear view of Diane’s house. For some unknown reason, he had expected to find it changed by what had happened, as if its appearance might have been altered by her decision or as if it might not even be there any more. But it was just the same, even that cracked windowpane was still covered up in cardboard and sticky tape.
There was no sign of Jason Sams or his wife, girlfriend, whatever she was, but the front door opened and Jason Sams’s mother came out with the little girl in a pushchair. How fast they grew, Jeremy thought rather gloomily. Last time he’d seen her she’d been a baby. Perhaps if Diane made them move out they would go and live with Mrs Sams. It would be cheaper. He drifted into a half-fugue, half-dream, in which Diane was handing over a cheque for a thousand pounds to Jason Sams to persuade him to leave and, inexplicably, thirty thousand to him, Jeremy, to put down a deposit on that house in Ladysmith Road.
A pounding on the car window brought him to full consciousness. ‘You’re on Residents’ Parking,’ said an angry voice belonging to a bull-necked man with shaven head. ‘Get off outta here.’
Jeremy obeyed in silence.
It was one of their less successful lunches. For one thing, it was in a Japanese restaurant, and while Burden loved Japanese cuisine, Wexford, who had only had it once before, hated it, especially sushi. Burden, who had never been like this in the past, Wexford thought, once or twice told him how good for him it was.
‘I don’t believe anything you don’t like can be good for you.’
Burden made no reply. After taking apart a square of sushi that looked to Wexford like a liquorice allsort, white and black with a green blob at its centre, he said that their visit to the Congolese people in Stowerton had been ‘a waste of time’.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I had a talk with Nardelie and I thought of going back there.’
‘Don’t bother. Lynn went back and no one could tell her anything. Several of them had been to St Peter’s but apart from shaking hands with her when the service was over, they had no contact.’
Wexford had already given Burden a condensed account of his conversation with Thora Kilmartin but had left out the rape and its consequence. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his friend or think him anything but an excellent officer; still, he had a suspicion Burden might be one of those policemen who would say of a woman who had been sexually assaulted that she had been asking for it or that, talking as she did, dressing as she did, she got what she deserved. He was wrong. A dark flush reddened Burden’s face.
‘My God,’ he said, ‘and Clarissa was the result? Why on earth did she keep the child? Now that women can more or less have abortions on demand and especially in rape cases, what possessed her?’
‘I suppose she wanted a child,’ Wexford said mildly.
‘We’ve found Gerald Watson, or we’ve found where he is. Vine’s going to see him tomorrow. You can go with him if you like. No sign of the current boyfriend. But rape – it’s appalling. Why didn’t she come to us? But no, I know why. Eighteen years ago police officers were still very sexist, still blaming rape victims. Sarah Hussain doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman who could have willingly stood up in court and described what had happened to her.’
‘I doubt if any woman would like it.’
‘Did you gather she knew her rapist?’
‘Thora Kilmartin says Sarah told her he was Asian and very good-looking. She also knew where he lived in Reading. In a block of flats called Quercum Court Thora described as newish and rather expensive but he moved from there soon after. But, Mike, are you really thinking of him as a suspect? Why would a rapist who hadn’t been charged or appeared in court or even been caught, want to kill his victim?’
Burden said nothing but pushed his half-empty plate away. ‘It’s not like me,’ he said, ‘but it’s made me feel sick, this rape thing.’ He drank some water. ‘What we don’t know is if she ever met him again, if, for instance, they got to know each other. Does Clarissa know the circumstances of her conception and birth? Does she know who her father is?’ He picked up the menu, looked at it with something near distaste. ‘Do you want any more to eat?’
‘I don’t think so. Mike, would you feel like broaching this subject with Clarissa? I certainly don’t. Do you think Lynn could or Karen?’
‘You mean, find out how much her mother told her and take it from there?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Wexford.
‘We might be able to find him without troubling the girl. There can’t have been many Asians in Reading – not then – living in an expensive block of flats and we do know the name of the block.’
‘I know how you feel, Mike,’ Wexford said rather sadly, ‘but you know yourself you can’t really proceed with this line of inquiry without talking to the girl first.’ He hazarded a small, not very successful, joke. ‘If I wasn’t retired I’d be minded to charge you with wasting police time.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
LIKE MOST WOMEN of her age, Fiona Morrison was unwilling to face the fact that the cessation of her periods, two of them absent now, might mean the onset of the menopause. She did face it reluctantly for a couple of days and then she bought a pregnancy test. It was still a surprise and a very welcome one to discover that she was expecting a baby in less than seven months’ time. She was, as she put it when telling Jeremy the good news, on the crest of a wave. Though aware that most women in her situation don’t find it necessary to reward the begetter, Fiona felt an enormous and unexpected gratitude to Jeremy. She had begun to feel in the previous weeks that her partner was a useless kind of man, not much good for anything except rather shady property deals and rent collecting. Now she saw that he could be a progenitor and she decided to reward him. After all, she would benefit as well. After the crest of a wave had given place to cloud nine and she had given Jeremy a good many hugs and kisses, she told him he could have the thirty thousand for the house in Ladysmith Road.
Before he knew of his good fortune – by which he meant the money rather than the coming child – Jeremy had visited the estate agent and been to look over the house. It was in better condition than he had expected, with a new kitchen and a quite respectable bathroom. He could easily and very cheaply get a bunch o
f local cowboys to paint the place inside. He told the estate agent he would think about it and went home where another email from Diane awaited him. She was postponing her return as she’d been invited to spend a month in the Algarve but she would be back – she had already booked a flight from Faro – on 30 November. There would be no need for him to meet her as she had arranged with a friend to pick her up at Gatwick and drive her to Peck Road.
Jeremy always appreciated postponements. When something was put off, some event and possibly a good one often intervened to change things pleasantly. 30 November was a long way off. Having called the estate agent back to offer ten thousand below the asking price, he sat on the sofa in front of a recording of The X Factor to await the outcome.
Gerald Watson was a notary public as well as a solicitor and when Barry Vine and Wexford arrived at his office in Stevenage, it was in this first capacity that he was engaged with a client who was swearing to the facts set out in a film contract. This was far more interesting than his usual line of work as he explained when excusing himself for keeping them waiting. His affability declined sharply when Vine told him that, while he was a detective inspector, Wexford no longer held any rank, was retired and accompanied him only in his capacity as an adviser.
‘I wouldn’t have thought a DI needed an adviser,’ he said in a cold tone. ‘Not that I know what this visit is about. I hope the local police know and permit it.’
Wexford said in as pleasant a tone as he could manage that they did.
‘Something was said on the phone about the murder of a vicar. What connection I can have with that I really don’t know.’
‘You don’t read newspapers or watch television, Mr Watson?’
‘I’m far too busy,’ Watson said. Belatedly, he asked them to sit down. ‘I don’t suppose I’ve read a newspaper for ten years.’
