“Will you see him today?”
Kincaid hesitated, then made another spur-of-the-moment decision even though he knew it was partly fueled by reluctance to confront the Major. “I’m going to Dorset.”
“Again?” Gemma’s tone was distinctly critical. “I think you’re wasting your time. There’s enough here in London to concentrate on without chasing wild hares in some little godforsaken west-country village. What about Roger?”
He grinned. “I’m glad to see you’re back in fine argumentative fettle. Since you’re so keen on the lovely Roger, you can handle things yourself. See if you can find anyone other than his mum and Jimmy Dawson who’ll vouch for his whereabouts on Thursday evening. We’ll see if Roger’s managed to inspire any loyalty other than Meg’s.”
The motorway took him as far as the New Forest. Although according to his map the motorway designation ended where the forest began, a divided highway still cut a straight swath across the irregular patch of mottled green on the page. He crossed the theoretical line demarcating the forest on the map, and any anticipation he might have had of primeval trunks and leafy, green tunnels was quickly put to rest. A wide expanse of moorland stretched away on either side of the road, broken only by gorse and distant shaggy shapes he thought might be New Forest wild ponies. He decided he’d just as soon they stayed in the distance—he’d hate to suffer a further disappointment by discovering that they were only small, hairy cows.
Halfway between Wimbourne Minster and Dorchester he passed the turning for Briantspuddle. The village lay tucked away behind the folds of the hills, invisible from the main road, and the lane leading to it dived down between the high hedges like a secret shaft. In a moment’s idle fancy he entered the village and found time turned back, saw himself meeting a twenty-year-old Jasmine as she walked out the door of her cottage. What would he say to her, and how would she answer him?
He shook his head, laughing at the absurdity of it, and thought that if he didn’t sort this out soon he would go right round the bend.
“A bit hard to find” turned out to be an accurate description of Farrington Center. He’d stopped for a sandwich in Dorchester, at a tatty teashop at the top of the High Street, then blithely taken the road north.
A half-dozen wrong turnings and three stops for directions later, he drove slowly down a farm lane. The last helpful pedestrian, an old woman in an oiled jacket and heavy brogues, out walking her terrier, had assured him “this wurrit be,” so he kept on in good faith. A high chain-link fence appeared at the top of the bank on his right, and rounding a curve he caught a brief glimpse of red brick before it was again hidden by trees.
The fence continued until it angled back upon itself at an unmarked junction. An asphalt drive led up the hill in the direction from which he’d come, and a faded sign informed him he’d reached the visitor’s entrance of the Farrington Mental Health Center. He followed the drive through the trees and parked the Midget in the small, empty carpark at its top. Before him spread a vast, Victorian pile of red masonry. The place had an almost tactile air of neglect and decay. Chipboard-covered windows gave the buildings a blank, abandoned look, and the grounds were overgrown with a thicket of rank vegetation. Apart from the main complex of buildings stood a chapel built of the same orange-red brick, but its windows were broken out and the door hung from its hinges.
Kincaid locked the car and walked toward the only visible sign of habitation, a small wood and plaster annex attached to the front of the nearest building. He pushed through the double glass-doors and found himself in a lino-floored hallway. Doors stood open along the corridor and he could hear the soft clicking of electronic keyboards and an occasional voice.
A young woman hurried from the first door on his left, a sheaf of papers clutched in her hand. She stopped when she saw him, a startled expression on her face. Apparently casual visitors didn’t make a habit of dropping in at Farrington Center. “Can I help you?”
He showed her his warrant card and smiled. “I’m Duncan Kincaid. I’d like to see a patient here, a Timothy Franklin.”
“Tim?” She seemed even more nonplussed than before. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to see Tim,” she said, then seemed to collect herself. Shaking his hand, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m Melanie Abbot. The Director’s not in the facility today but I’m his personal assistant.” She looked both confident and capable in her brown sweater and slacks, her glossy, brown chin-length hair framing a round cheerful face. “Why do you want to see Tim, if you don’t mind me asking? It won’t upset him, will it?”
“Just some routine inquiries about someone he might have known a long time ago.” Kincaid gestured around him. “What’s happened to this place? It looks like it’s barely survived a bombing.”
“Nothing so drastic. County policy’s changed over the last few years. Most of the patients have been farmed out, so to speak. Halfway houses, foster homes, supervised independent living,” she said earnestly, seemingly unaware of the contradiction in the last terms. “We help them become functional, self-actualizing members of the community. This facility,” she repeated Kincaid’s circular gesture, “is used mainly for administrative purposes now.”
“But you still care for some patients?”
“Yes,” said Melanie Abbot, holding her forgotten papers against her chest with one arm. Kincaid sensed a slight reluctance in her reply, as if she had somehow failed to live up to expectations. “There are a few who are simply unplaceable, for various reasons.”
“Like Timothy Franklin?”
Nodding, she said, “We’ve made tremendous progress treating schizophrenia in the last decade, but Tim is one of the rare schizophrenics who does not respond to medication.” She looked down at the papers still clutched to her chest and glanced at her watch. “Look, I’ve got to use the fax. Let me show you to the patients’ sitting room and I’ll ring a nurse to bring Tim down.”
The floor in the patients’ sitting room was covered in lino even more stained and yellowed than that in the annex’s corridor. Straight-backed chairs, cushioned in cracked orange vinyl, sat haphazardly pushed against the walls. A fuzzy picture flickered on a television in one corner, and a rubber plant drooped dispiritedly in the other. In a wheelchair parked in front of the telly sat a woman wearing a green cotton hospital gown and felt slippers. Her head listed to one side like a sinking ship, and spittle oozed from the corner of her open mouth. Kincaid could not bring himself to sit down.
The door opened and a man came into the room, followed by a white-uniformed nurse. “Here’s the gentleman to see you, Timmy.” To Kincaid she added brightly, “He’s having a good day today. I’ll be just up the corridor if you need me.”
Kincaid knew that the man who stood staring so placidly at him must be near fifty, but his physical beauty gave the impression of a much younger man. Timothy Franklin’s dark hair held no gray and the skin around his dark eyes was unmarred by lines. He was about Kincaid’s height and build, but the fit of the baggy cardigan and corduroys he wore made Kincaid think he might recently have lost weight.
“Hello, Tim.” Kincaid held out his hand. “My name’s Duncan Kincaid.”
“Hullo.” Tim allowed his hand to be grasped but returned no pressure, and his tone, while not unfriendly, held no interest at all.
“Can we sit down?”
Instead of answering, Tim shuffled over to the nearest orange chair and sat, resting his hands on the scarred wooden arms.
Kincaid pulled a chair around so that he could face him and tried again. “Do you mind if I call you Tim?”
A blink, and after a long pause, “Timmy.”
“Okay, Timmy.” Kincaid cursed himself for the false heartiness he heard in his own voice. “I want to ask you about someone you knew a long time ago.” Timmy’s eyes had strayed to the soundless television. “Timmy,” Kincaid said again, as normally as he could. “Do you remember Jasmine?”
The dark eyes left the television and focused on Kincaid, then a smile lit
Tim’s face and transformed it. “’Course I remember Jasmine.”
It was a few seconds before Kincaid realized that the expected How is she? What’s she doing? responses were not going to follow. “You were friends, weren’t you?” he asked, wishing he had more knowledge of how Tim Franklin’s mental disorder affected his thought processes. Was his memory intact?
“We’re mates, Jasmine and me.”
“You went around together, didn’t you, in the village?”
Tim nodded, his gaze drifting back to the television.
Kincaid tried a little more aggressive tack. “But your mum and Jasmine’s Aunt May didn’t like your being friends. They tried to stop you from being together, didn’t they?”
Tim made no response and Kincaid grimaced in frustration. “Do you remember Jasmine leaving, Tim? Did that upset you?”
Although Tim’s eyes remained fixed on the telly, one of the hands which had been resting loosely on the chair arm clenched convulsively. Under his breath he muttered, “Pretty hair. Pretty hair. Pretty hair.”
The woman in the wheelchair moaned. Kincaid looked around, startled. He had forgotten about her as completely as if she’d been a piece of furniture. She moaned again more loudly and Kincaid felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The sound carried primitive pain, more animal than human.
Tim Franklin began to shake his head, although his eyes never left the television. The back-and-forth motion grew faster, more agitated, as the woman’s moans increased in frequency.
Kincaid stood up. “Tim. Timmy!”
“No-no-no-no-no,” Timmy said, head still moving, both fists now clenched and pounding on the chair arms.
Fearing that the situation would soon be completely out of control, Kincaid rushed to the door and called out into the corridor, “Nurse. Nurse!”
Her white-uniformed figure appeared around the corner. She smiled cheerfully at him. “Things getting a bit out of hand, are they? First thing to do is to get Mrs. Mason back to her bed.” Kincaid stepped aside as she entered the room, still talking. “It’s all right, dear, we’ll just have a little nap now,” she said soothingly as she wheeled the woman’s chair to the door. “Be hours now before we get that one settled down,” she added, nodding her head toward Tim. ‘You’ll not get anything else out of him.”
Kincaid looked back as he followed her from the room. Tim Franklin was still pounding and chanting, his head jerking to a rhythm Kincaid couldn’t hear.
CHAPTER
18
The hands on the Midget’s dash clock read straight-up six o’clock when Kincaid pulled up to the curb in Carlingford Road. He killed the engine and sat in the silent car, unable to shake the depression that had ridden him all the way back from Dorset. If he’d listened to Gemma he wouldn’t have wasted a day on a fool’s errand and still be facing what he’d dreaded in the first place. Telling himself there was no point in putting it off any longer, he still stalled, taking his time locking the car and fastening the tarp over its cherry-red paint.
There was no answer to his knock on the Major’s door. He waited a moment, then climbed the stairs and let himself into Jasmine’s flat. A sleek, black body wrapped around his ankles as he turned on the lamps. “Hullo, Sid. You doing okay, mate?” Reaching down, he stroked Sid’s head until the cat’s green eyes closed to contented slits. “Be patient, you’ll get your supper.”
Kincaid unlocked the French doors and stepped outside. The Major knelt before the roses he’d bought in Jasmine’s memory. Only the pale fabric of his trousers across his buttocks and the rhythmic motion of the hand holding the trowel made him visible in the dusk. Kincaid descended the steps and crossed the square of garden, then squatted beside him. “You’re working late. The light’s almost gone.”
The Major gave one last dig with the trowel and sat back, hands on his knees. “Weeds. Can’t keep up with ’em this time of year. They’ll take over like the Day of the bloody Triffids if you give ’em an inch.”
Kincaid smiled. Maybe the Major had another secret occupation even less likely than choral singing—an addiction to watching late-night B movies on the telly. “I wondered if I might have a word with you.”
The Major looked at him for the first time. “Of course. Let me just wash up.” He stood up, his knees popping audibly. Kincaid trailed behind him as he cleaned his trowel in the work area under the steps, then followed him into the kitchen as he washed his hands and scrubbed his nails.
The small kitchen was spotlessly clean, the countertops bare except for a marked-down bag of potatoes and an unopened carton of beer. “Like one?” the Major asked as he wiped his hands on a tea towel, and when Kincaid nodded he twisted two tops off and stowed them neatly in the bin under the sink. “Pensioner’s luxury,” he said after he’d taken a swallow and smacked his lips. “Pinch pennies on necessities in order to buy good beer once or twice a week.” He smiled, his teeth still strong and white under the toothbrush mustache. “Worth it, though.”
They went through into the spartan sitting room. The Major switched on a lamp and motioned Kincaid to a seat on the sofa while he took the armchair himself. The brown, nubby fabric on the arms of the chair had patches rubbed shiny with wear and its seat cushion bore a permanent indentation. Kincaid imagined the Major sitting there evening after solitary evening with his bottle of beer and the telly for company, and he was more loath than ever to say what he knew he must. “Major, I understand you served in India after the war.”
The Major regarded him quizzically. “Understand from whom, Mr. Kincaid? I don’t believe I’ve ever mentioned it.”
Kincaid, feeling as though he’d been caught out in a distasteful act of voyeurism, fought the urge to apologize. “I’m conducting a murder investigation, Major, and as unpleasant as I may personally find it, I’ve had to check background on everyone who had even the slightest connection with Jasmine. We called up your service records. You were stationed in Calcutta during the time that Jasmine’s family lived there.” He waited for the explosion, but none came.
After a moment the Major took another swallow from his beer and sighed. “Aye, well, I’d have mentioned it myself if I’d known it was of any importance to you. It was all a very long time ago.”
“But you told Jasmine?”
“Aye, and wished I had not.”
“Why was that, Major?” Kincaid asked quietly, setting his beer on the end table and leaning forward. For the first time he noticed the age spots patterning the Major’s callused hands.
“Because I couldn’t tell her the whole truth and it created a falseness between us. She might not have noticed, but I could never feel as comfortable with her after that.” He paused, and when Kincaid didn’t speak he went on after a moment. “I’m a god-fearing man, Mr. Kincaid, but I don’t believe the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. To my mind, God wouldn’t be so bloody unfair. But Jasmine now, I thought she would see it differently, would take it upon herself, and she’d had her share of suffering, poor lass.” Taking a final pull on his beer, he held up the empty bottle and raised an eyebrow at Kincaid.
Kincaid shook his head. “No, thanks.” He waited until the Major returned from the kitchen with a fresh bottle, then said, “What would Jasmine have taken upon herself, Major?”
The Major stared at the beer bottle as he rotated it delicately between his fingertips. “Do you have any idea what happened in Calcutta in 1946, Mr. Kincaid?” He looked up, and Kincaid saw that his pale blue eyes were bloodshot. “Muslims seeking partition attacked and killed Hindus, and the rioting that followed spread through the city like wildfire. The history books refer to it as the Calcutta Killings.” He gave a snort of derision. “Makes it sound like a bank robbery, or some idiot gunning people down in a supermarket.” Shaking his head in disgust, he said, “They’ve no idea. You see horrors enough in your job, I dare say, but I hope you never see the likes of those days. Six thousand bodies in the streets by the time it was all over. Six thousand bodies rottin
g, or burning in the fires that smoldered for days. You could never forget the smell. It clung to your skin, the roof of your mouth, the inside of your nose.” He drank deeply, as if the beer might wash the memory of the taste from his mouth.
“Jasmine would have been only a child,” Kincaid said, doing some mental arithmetic. “Why should she have felt guilty?”
“Jasmine’s father was a minor civil servant, a paper pusher, with a reputation for not being particularly competent. He was in charge of evacuating a small residential area, a sort of civil defense sergeant.” The Major drank again, and Kincaid fancied he heard the edges of his words beginning to slur. “He bungled it. Only a few families got out before the mob poured through the streets. I’ve wondered since if he put his own family first, or if he just turned tail to save his own skin.”
Kincaid waited silently for what he now guessed was coming. He felt the rough, brown fabric of the sofa under his fingertips, smelled a faint spicy scent that might have been the Major’s aftershave, overlaid with the odor of beer.
“It took me three days to find my wife and daughter, and then I only recognized them by their clothes. I won’t tell you what had been done to them before they died—it doesn’t bear thinking of, even now.” The rims of the Major’s eyes were as red now as if they’d been lined with a pencil, but he still spoke slowly, reflectively. “I thought nothing of it when Jasmine first moved here, Dent’s a common enough name, after all. It was only when she began to tell me about her childhood that I realized who she must be.” He smiled. “Thought someone up there,” he raised his eyes heavenward, “was playing some kind of practical joke on me, at first. Then the more I came to know her the more I wondered if she’d been sent me as a replacement for my own daughter. Silly old bugger,” he added, the words definitely slurring now. Then he looked directly into Kincaid’s eyes and said more distinctly, “You see I couldn’t have told Jasmine, don’t you, Mr. Kincaid? I wouldn’t have hurt her for the world.”
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