by Ruth Rendell
‘I didn’t think I would feel like this,’ Steyner said. ‘My feelings are a complete surprise to me. I thought our meeting would be almost a business thing, setting the record straight, that sort of thing. Instead I felt an enormous emotional sort of pull towards her. Believe it or not, Mr Wexford, but I loved her. I do love her. I can’t account for it unless it’s somehow my blood calling to her blood.’
Rubbish, Wexford thought, or, in the current expression he never used, bonkers. He said in a calm level voice, ‘She’s very good-looking, very charming. I expect that accounts for it. It will pass.’
‘I love her. I can’t get her out of my head. I want her to live with me and be my daughter. That’s what she is, my own child.’
‘You’d seen her before. You saw her at the memorial service.’
‘It didn’t affect me in the same way. If she wasn’t my daughter and I wasn’t gay I’d think I was in love with her. But that isn’t so. I love her as a father loves his girl, I’m sure of that. She lived with her mother. I’m as much her parent as Sarah was. Why can’t she come and live with me?’
‘Maybe she can.’ Wexford was wondering how he had got himself into this. He had called – why had he? Not because Steyner had invited him. Simply perhaps to be polite, ask how the man was after what had been an ordeal for him, see him close to, see his partner – because people were an abiding, a consuming interest? No, there had been something else which had slipped his mind.
‘You mean I should ask her? She screamed when I told her who I was, who she was. I’ve said some of this to my partner. Not all of it. After all, it’s him I love. I’m utterly committed to him. Can’t there be room in my life for both of them?’
The man was opening his heart to an unprecedented degree. Such a release of feeling was the last thing Wexford had expected. ‘Your partner doesn’t care for the idea?’
‘He thinks I should have some sort of counselling, maybe psychotherapy. He’s a very cool, rational man, very different from me. Perhaps that’s why we get on so well. He says it’s too late, Clarissa’s grown up, she’s even thinking of getting married –’
‘I don’t think so,’ Wexford interrupted. ‘You can put that out of your head. But you can ask her. Obviously it would be better for you and her to be on good terms, just visiting each other from time to time. Can you imagine that? Would Mr Arkwright agree to that?’
‘Oh, he’d agree. It’s just that I don’t think it would be enough for me. I know it wouldn’t be. I’ve even thought of moving out of here so that I could be on my own and have Clarissa with me.’
Wexford got up. ‘I’ve told you what I think. This will pass, especially if you don’t see her. Take your partner’s advice.’ He moved towards the door. ‘I hope all goes well for you.’
Walking down the street towards South Kensington tube station he asked himself why all these people had begun confiding in him. How he would have welcomed it when he was a policeman! Now, unasked, they poured out their hearts, this man, Georgina Bray, Clarissa, Tony Kilmartin. Possibly the cool and rational Arkwright would be the next one. Suddenly he remembered what he had intended to ask Christian Steyner. What, if anything, did he know of Duncan Crisp? Was he, could he be, the man Crisp said he had seen through the glass of Sarah Hussain’s French windows? But he was fair, not dark, and there was no way, Wexford thought as he waited for the Circle Line train, that he could imagine this pale, worn yet passionate man as Sarah’s murderer.
Among those who unexpectedly confided in Wexford was one other. Mike Burden, who had seemed, if not invulnerable, self-confident enough to withstand attacks from those he thought ignorant and publicity-seeking. But now the media onslaught, increasing almost daily, was affecting him so badly as to threaten his health, and it was to Wexford – in his office because the Olive and Dove was a dangerous place to be – that he poured out his fears.
‘I expected them to accept Crisp as the perpetrator. Is it my fault that Dennison and Birjar murdered him before he came to trial?’
‘No, obviously not. But it would help if you could find either of them.’
‘The Mail says I should resign and the Sun says I was always unfit for the job.’
‘At least they can’t say what the Star said of me, that I was getting senile,’ Wexford said. Strange, he thought, how words which when uttered or written pierced to one’s very soul, could later on be reflected on not just with wry humour but actually make one laugh. ‘You won’t resign, will you? If ever there’s an admission of failure, that would be it.’
‘I won’t resign.’
‘Is there any more of that sherry left?’
‘For you,’ said Burden, ‘but better not for me.’
In calling on Sylvia on his way home, he hoped to see Clarissa. Robin he had already seen when going into Questo for a cut wholemeal loaf. But asking after her seemed clumsy. She must be asked herself and answer herself. All the news Robin had was common to every employee in the store. Their sometime manager, Jason Sams, was being, if not released, given a temporary freedom on police bail until his trial in April.
‘With a tag on his left ankle,’ said Robin, but this was something Wexford didn’t believe. It brought him unexpected pleasure to think of Jason, tiresome and absurd though he was, being reunited for a while with his baby daughter Isabella.
Robin wasn’t yet home when Wexford got to Sylvia’s house.
‘She’s been in a bad way,’ Sylvia said, ‘but Robin’s done her good. He’s altogether good for her. I’m not sure I can say the same for her – that she’s good for him, I mean.’
‘Their engagement is all nonsense, I suppose.’
‘We’ve heard no more about it. She’s upstairs, you know, if you want to see her. She absolutely adores you now. You’re her flavour of the month.’ Wexford’s silent reaction to this was to note how this metaphor or rubric had simply disappeared from contemporary usage. What had it been the flavour of? Some kind of sweet or chocolate bar, he thought vaguely. The unwelcome thought came to him that his daughter was middle-aged. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I can hear her coming down. She must have heard your voice.’
Clarissa came in. If anything could have deprived her of all attraction and beauty the clothes she was wearing did. She had on torn jeans, the knee parts missing, a whitish frilly blouse almost covered by metal chains, the familiar black leather jacket, and on her feet dirty grey trainers, their laces undone and flopping. But her head covering was in both senses the crowning horror. There must be a name for this style of headgear but he didn’t know what it was. A spirit-something? The knitted cap was a cloche that covered her whole head, concealing her hair, and with long flaps that hid her ears and fell several inches below her neck. Wexford wanted to laugh or simply stare to take it all in. Instead, he greeted her and asked her how she was.
‘I’m good now,’ she said in an earnest tone, ‘I’ll be OK,’ as if she were recovering from a life-threatening illness. Of her adoration of him she gave no sign but said, ‘I couldn’t have done it without Robin. He’s been so lovely.’
He found himself adopting the role of peacemaker without really intending to. After a small hesitation in which he wondered how to refer to Clarissa’s father, he began, ‘I’ve been to see Christian Steyner. I went to his house in London.’
She interrupted him. ‘It’s not his house. Robin says it belongs to his partner.’
He nearly said, then is my house not my wife’s? but decided to let it go. ‘He talked about you a lot. He wants to see you, Clarissa.’ Should he say more? Should he say he wants her? No, let Steyner do that if this meeting could even be achieved.
She was silent, staring at him, Christian Steyner’s blue eyes very wide. Then she said, ‘What’s the point? I think it’s creepy. I know it happens all the time, IVF and stuff, but it’s like science fiction. I don’t want to have been born like that.’
What to say but that she had been and nothing would change that?
‘If Robin sa
ys I ought to I will. I really trust him, you see. Well, I trust you and Sylvia but it’s not the same, is it?’
‘No, I don’t suppose it is.’
‘If I went up there to see him would you come with me? I mean, would you take me?’
He was touched. ‘Of course I will. Do you want me to tell him?’
On his way home he encountered Georgina Bray. He would have liked to avoid her but there was no hope of that as she came homing down upon him, running across the road almost in front of a minibus and causing the driver to scream imprecations.
‘Just the language Trevor used to use to me,’ was her greeting. ‘All over now, though. I’ve left him. At last. No more insults, no more sarcasm.’
He didn’t know what to say so he said, ‘Congratulations.’
‘Yes, well, thanks. It was this change in the law, you know, that did it. I mean the law against domestic violence now to include psychological violence. I thought, but that’s what he’s been doing to me all these years, so when he started on one of his sneering campaigns I upped and said, That’s it, I’m going, I’m out of here in the morning, and I was.’
‘But you’re back.’
‘Only to fetch my stuff. I’ve got a man with a van and we’re taking it to my daughter’s in Myringham. Just for a week. I’ve found a flat and a job.’
He said he was very pleased for her.
‘It’s good seeing my kids again. They’ve hardly been home for a long time, couldn’t stand their father’s nasty tongue.’
Dora knew all about Jason Sams. The latest instalment in the Sams saga had been told her that afternoon.
‘Maxine and I are bosom pals now. We ran into each other – almost literally – outside Questo and she was all over me. It’s you that’s persona non grata. She’ll never feel the same about Mr Wexford, she says. I’m afraid that’s something you have to live with, darling. She wanted to tell me the whole tale and it was so freezing cold outside that I took her into the Questo cafeteria and she ate two slices of carrot cake. Jason’s going to be charged with unlawful killing and the chances are he won’t do any more time, he’s been in prison three months already.’
‘How does he like it in Ladysmith Road?’
‘Oh, you know what he’s like. Anywhere would be paradise so long as he’s with his Isabella.’
‘I hope you’re not having Maxine back.’
‘Oh, no. Trust me. I couldn’t do without Parveen. Oh, and Reg, Parveen and I are turning out your study. I know no one’s supposed to go in there but this is a rule that’s made to be broken. It can’t be cleaned properly, it’s so cluttered. There are a whole lot of newspaper cuttings I’ve found, they’re all old, and I want to know if I can chuck them. I’ve put them on your desk. Would you have a look at them and see what you want to keep? And soon, please, darling.’
He sat at his desk, looking at this stack of newsprint. What had he kept all this stuff for? He’d look through it but not now. It was wiser, he thought, to take his time about calling Christian Steyner. Wiser, too, to make that call in the morning when Timon Arkwright would very likely not be there. The number he had was recognisable as a landline. If Steyner had a mobile phone he hadn’t been given the number. Wexford began to see that the situation might be awkward if he turned up with Clarissa when Arkwright was at home in his own house and this girl he had made clear he didn’t want to know arrived to be reunited with his partner. It seemed important to know if the house was Arkwright’s and Steyner a beloved guest or if it belonged to both of them and was shared or even if it was Steyner’s and Arkwright just visiting. This, after all, was how Victoria Steyner had put it. My son has a lovely house in Knightsbridge, was what she had said or something like that, adding that he shared it with Arkwright. Could Steyner just bring his daughter to live there if he wished? All speculation, Wexford told himself. The girl will never consent.
Next day was Sunday and after morning service the new vicar was having a pre-lunch drinks party in the Vicarage. Because Dora was invited Wexford was too. He drew the line at going to matins, not so much because he wasn’t and never had been a believer but for fear of being made to wince at the inelegant language of the Alternative Service Book. Alternative, he thought, it wasn’t. ‘Default’ was more the word. The officiating cleric was expected to use it unless he had a good reason for putting the Book of Common Prayer in its place. It was absurd really for him to care that one generation after another of possible church attenders was growing up without the least knowledge of that beautiful work, probably without even knowing it existed. So he didn’t go to church but met Dora at the Vicarage afterwards.
The living room where it had happened had been re-carpeted and its walls repainted. The pictures on the walls were photographs of rows of undergraduates sitting cross-legged, the tall ones standing behind, and a cricket team, its captain holding up a trophy. He was wondering what had happened to the portrait of Clarissa when a voice behind him said, ‘I’ve got it. They gave it to her and she gave it to me.’
He turned to say hello to his grandson. ‘She isn’t here?’
‘Oh, no. She couldn’t bear to see people – well, merrymaking, in this room. Can I come with you to Christian Steyner’s place?’
‘Better not. Anyway, I don’t intend to stay, just to leave them together if it looks like working out.’
‘Did you know his mother had died?’
That pathetic bedizened woman . . . ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘There was a death notice in yesterday’s Times. Mum told us. I mean, it’s weird, but she was Clarissa’s grandma.’
Wexford went to make his presence known to his host who was talking to Dora. Alan Conroy said, ‘I invited your grandson, really because I couldn’t have invited poor Clarissa. Now I understand she’s had another bereavement, her grandmother?’
So he didn’t know the facts of Clarissa’s provenance. Just as well if it could be kept that way throughout Kingsmarkham society. Wexford went off to get himself a drink from a tray being carried round by a boy who introduced himself as the vicar’s nephew. Conroy was probably gay, a thought which brought him back to Christian Steyner. Not a good idea to phone the man so soon after his mother’s death. He had better wait a day or two.
He was savouring the rather good burgundy the vicar had provided when Dr Crocker came up to him. ‘I hear your grandson’s got himself engaged to little Miss Hussain.’
‘They’re going about together. I doubt the engagement.’
‘Maxine tells us she’s the product of insemination by her mother’s husband’s twin brother. Can that be anything but fantasy?’
‘I wish it was,’ said Wexford. ‘Naive of me but I thought it was a secret. How does Maxine know?’
‘What a question. Maxine knows everything. In this case it’s through the boyfriend of her daughter Kelli with an i being a bootboy, dishwasher or some such at the Olive where your transactions apparently took place.’
‘Behind closed doors,’ said Wexford with a sigh.
‘If walls have ears, doors have keyholes.’
It was another four days before he phoned Christian Steyner, beginning by sympathising with him in his loss.
‘Yes, thanks,’ Steyner said. ‘It comes to us all, though. She was very old.’
It sounded callous. What do you say to that but agree or keep silent?
‘Clarissa wants me to bring her to your house.’
‘Oh, right. That’s fine with me.’
They arranged a day. Steyner sounded subdued, as perhaps was to be expected from a man who had just lost his mother. Wexford could think of nothing else to say but the conversation such as it had been left him feeling uneasy. He told Burden about it but it was greeted by his friend with very little interest and no enthusiasm. The calendar on Burden’s office wall had been turned to the month of March and a photograph of a disused police station, overgrown with ivy, in a Manchester suburb.
‘Dennison has disappeared,’ Burden said. ‘You’d thin
k disappearing was impossible these days. No matter where anyone had got to he could be tracked down. But not so. We know all about Dennison. Where he’s lived, where he’s worked – when he has – his wives. He’s had two and two divorces. Both of them would like to shop him but they don’t know where he is. The same goes for girlfriends. If he’s left the country he must have done so immediately after he killed Crisp and well before the body was found. Arben Birjar is probably in Albania but how can we know? If he came in illegally he went out illegally. Probably the man or men who employed him are hiding him. Until we have him we don’t know who they are.’
‘One of them is the man Crisp saw through the window.’
‘I’ll need a good deal more evidence before I accept that,’ said Burden.
He thought of driving to London. It was something he did regularly when he and Dora were spending a weekend at the little house Sheila had put at their disposal. But it was one thing to come off the westbound M25 and dip down into Hampstead where he had a garage to put the car in, another to make his way through the park to Knightsbridge and there find somewhere to park, no longer needing small change to feed a meter but making phone calls to a local authority while the car sat guiltily on a double yellow line.
‘We’ll take the ten-o-eight to Victoria. I don’t suppose we need to book ahead.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Clarissa said. ‘I’ll book online.’
Robin, who knew his grandfather’s technological limitations better than she did, said they could pick up the tickets when they went for the train, instructing him how to do this and adding that it was simple. In fact, when they got there, it was.
Wexford had expected her to be dressed as usual: the torn jeans, the leather jacket, probably the woolly hat with the long knitted lappets. But something had impelled her to dress up: her realisation that this was an occasion, her first real meeting with her father, a meeting that might change her life? She wore a short black dress but not too short, black shoes with high heels but not too high, a red jacket inadequate for the time of year and the icy wind.
