by Penny Kline
‘No,’ I began, then remembered she was supposed to be a friend of mine. ‘No, she wasn’t, not at all.’
He sneezed. ‘Sorry, just getting over a nasty cold. Anyway, what d’you say we meet up for a chat? Tuesday evening? Around seven-thirty? I could wait for you in the pub and we could take it from there.’
‘The Night Sky?’
‘Wherever. Name your place and I’ll —’
‘No, that’s fine.’
‘Good. If Malcolm’s not there to introduce us I’ll be the one with the brown suede jacket and prematurely grey hair. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Jean, yes I remember Nikki talking about someone called Jean. You worked together once, in a hotel wasn’t it, when the two of you were on holiday from school?’
Chapter Eight
‘Hope I haven’t ruined your lie-in.’ Howard Fry sounded as if he had been up and about for hours while everyone else, of course, had been lazing in bed. Was it a social call? Some hope. ‘Look, the reason I’m ringing, a man was found stabbed to death in a street off Fishponds Road and —’
‘When?’
‘Hang on, let me finish. Early yesterday evening an anonymous call came through to us, saying Mrs Newsom and the murdered man had been close friends. The stabbing took place on Wednesday evening, probably around ten-thirty. He was still alive when a passer-by spotted him, but he’d lost a lot of blood, died in the ambulance. Cunliffe’s the name, Shaun Cunliffe. Mean anything?’
‘No.’
‘Newsom’s never mentioned it?’ I could hear Howard flicking through some papers. ‘He had very little in his pockets so we had a certain amount of difficulty finding out who he was. Newsom’s told Maltby he spoke to you on Wednesday evening but he can’t remember what time it was.’
‘Makes no difference. If Eric had gone out he’d have asked me to babysit. He’d never have left Charlie on his own.’
‘No? People do, you know. Happens all the time.’
I was trying to find a way of pinpointing Wednesday. Wednesday was the day there was a television series about genetics. I had missed the first part but made a special effort to watch the second since it was about anxiety and depression. ‘Wait a minute. Yes, I do remember. Eric called round to mend my doorbell. Must have been about seven, seven-thirty.’
‘How long did it take? To fix the bell?’
‘About half an hour. Afterwards we had a drink.’
‘You and Newsom?’
‘Yes, me and Newsom. I gave him a beer. By the way, did your Sergeant Maltby say anything about the previous tenant of the annexe? Her name was Tanya Thurston.’
‘She was at work at the time of the murder. A dozen people could have confirmed it.’
With an unpleasant sensation in my stomach I recalled how Charlie had been staying with his grandfather that night and, after failing to fix the bell, Eric had left the house and driven off in his van.
*
The foyer of the supermarket was crowded with people pretending they were choosing which Sunday paper to buy while secretly scanning the salacious tabloid headlines. MP’S ORGY WITH SEX CHANGE MODEL. TWO-TIMING ROYAL CHEF SPILLS THE BEANS. A woman, with breasts so enormous surely the picture must have been computer-enhanced, shared a front page with a heap of illegally-imported songbirds, and an international footballer at the wheel of his new Ferrari.
I selected two papers but with little expectation that the story I wanted to read about would be reported. It could have been in the Evening Post, or on local television, but it was unlikely to have made the nationals. The television news on Sunday often contained items that would have been ignored for lack of space on a weekday — house fires, muggings, road accidents — but it was now four days since the stabbing in Fishponds Road.
The police would have been round to see Eric as soon as they received the anonymous tip-off so that meant he had been interviewed the previous evening? Had he told them the truth about how he had spent the evening? Did he expect me to provide him with an alibi?
An announcement was coming over the tannoy system, something about Darren being wanted in Fresh Meat. Moving slowly past the shelves of pasta and tomato paste, trying to find something I might feel like eating later in the day, I suddenly caught sight of a familiar figure. Her clothes were different from usual: a thick sweater and old brown trousers with cycle clips round the ankles, but the two-tone hair was unmistakable. She was standing at the end of the next aisle, reading the back of a bag of crisps as if it contained the most fascinating information she had ever come across.
‘Janice?’ There was no way I was going to play a silly game of pretending we had not noticed each other.
Either she failed to hear, although people rarely miss the sound of their own name, or she deliberately ignored me. If she lived in Brislington what was she doing in a shop two miles away, especially since there was another, far larger supermarket off the Bath Road? When I took a step towards her she turned away, dropping a couple of bags of crisps into her empty basket, then moving off in the direction of the fruit and vegetables.
Later, when my shopping was going through the checkout I saw her reading the small ads on the wall near the exit. She glanced over her shoulder and I was sure she was watching me, but the next time I looked up she had disappeared and as I passed the cycle rack there was no sign of the old-fashioned bike with its huge wicker basket and black leather saddlebag.
*
A man was standing with his thumb on my doorbell. Realising it had failed to ring he knocked twice, then looked through the bedroom window, shading his eyes to block out the reflection. By the time he heard my footsteps I was only a few paces away.
‘Ah.’ He had jumped slightly but was going to pretend he had known I was coming up the path. ‘Dr McColl?’
‘Yes?’ I guessed who he must be but had no intention of letting him know I had been dreading his arrival.
‘Sergeant Maltby. I believe Superintendent Fry told you I might need to have a word.’
He was dressed in a light grey suit, with a cream shirt and an olive green tie. His hair was so fair it was almost white, and his eyelashes and eyebrows were virtually invisible. Maybe it was just something I had picked up from Howard Fry, but he looked the type that uses the necessity to behave in an objective professional manner as a mask to conceal his basic lack of human feeling. I shook his hand, feeling the dryness of his palm and the signet ring on his little finger. Our eyes met — we were roughly the same height — then I put my key in the lock, wrenched open the door, and invited him inside.
‘So the name Shaun Cunliffe means nothing,’ he said, taking a single sheet of paper from an orange folder.
‘No. Would you like to sit down?’
‘Thank you.’ He sat on the edge of the sofa, still studying his paper. ‘I thought Mr Newsom might have said something. His wife was a friend of Mr Cunliffe.’
‘So I hear, although surely since the information came from an anonymous tip-off you can’t be certain it wasn’t some malicious person just trying to stir up trouble.’
He looked up from his notes. ‘It’s always a possibility. Anyone else you can think of who might be able to help?’
‘In what way?’
‘In any way at all. Obviously at the time of Mrs Newsom’s death we made the usual inquiries but no particular name came up.’
‘You mean you never found a boyfriend?’
Opening his folder he pulled out a large glossy photo and passed it across. ‘It’s been blown up from a small print so I’m afraid it’s slightly blurred but still easily recognisable by anyone who knew him. It was taken from a wedding photo, all the relatives lined up, bridesmaids pulling silly faces. Unfortunately it was the only picture his foster mother could find, taken when he was twenty, so you’ll have to use your imagination as to how he might have looked four years on.’
I studied the face with its dark hair, combed straight back from a high forehead, narrow amused-looking eyes and flat cheekbones. �
�He was English, was he?’
‘Polish father. Both parents died in a motorway pile-up when he was still a young baby. No other relatives, at least if there were none of them was willing to take him in. He was put into care, then when he was three and a half a foster home was found.’
‘Why the delay?’
Maltby shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say. Perhaps it’s usual to wait a while, see how the child’s going to turn out.’
‘No, people prefer small babies. Was the foster home here in Bristol?’
‘Gloucester. His foster mother hadn’t seen him for a couple of years, took the news of his death rather badly considering, probably felt she should have done more to keep in touch.’ He returned the photograph to the folder. ‘So it means nothing, quite sure about that?’
‘Quite sure. You came here before, didn’t you, when Tanya Thurston was living here. What was she like?’
He showed no surprise at the question. ‘About the same age as you, a little older perhaps.’
‘Did she mention anything about being a befriender?’
‘A what? Oh, you mean the voluntary work she did, helping people to settle back into their homes after they’d come out of hospital. I’m sure Eric Newsom could tell you more about her than I could. We made a few brief inquiries but nothing came of it.’ He consulted his notes. ‘Now, to get back to last Wednesday evening. You say Newsom came to mend your doorbell? Incidentally, I don’t think it’s working.’
‘No, he’s going to buy a new one.’ ‘What time would it have been — when he came round?’
‘I forget exactly. Between seven and half past.’
‘And he stayed all evening?’
I hesitated, only a split second, but too long to go unnoticed by Maltby. ‘No, after he realised the bell couldn’t be mended he went back to the house, or I suppose he could have gone to the workshop.’
‘I thought you had a drink together. Did you see him later on?’
‘I’m not sure. No, I don’t think so.’ Any minute now he was going to ask if Eric had gone out, either on foot or in the van. ‘I was watching a television programme — about genetics.’
‘You’ve a good memory.’
‘No, it’s on every Wednesday; it’s a series.’
‘Really? Useful for your job, is it? Only last week I was talking to someone about the very same subject. Up at the university as a matter of fact. We were speculating, if more or less everything turns out to be genetic, how will that affect attitudes to crime and punishment? Can a person be held morally responsible for his genes?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Come to think of it, where will it leave psychologists?’
‘There’s some evidence that happiness is an inherited state,’ I said, ‘I expect we’ll be doling out happy pills.’
‘Interesting idea.’ To my relief he was replacing his notes in their folder. ‘You say this programme’s on a Wednesday. I must try and catch it next week.’ He stood up, giving the impression he had checked all he needed to know, but I knew his type. ‘You like living in this part of the city?’
‘I’m only here for a few weeks.’
‘Yes, of course, the fire in your flat. Superintendent Fry filled me in on a few details, just to save time. I gather the two of you have known each other quite a while. You were aware of Mrs Newsom’s murder before you rented this flat?’
‘I knew she’d died. It was only later I learned about the circumstances of her death.’
‘I see.’ He spoke the words as if what I had told him was of great significance.
‘One of my colleagues at work told me Mr Newsom was looking for a short-term tenant. It all had to be fixed up pretty well overnight. Anyway, he thought I’d read about the murder and would know about Mrs Newsom.’
‘Yes, of course, a short-term tenancy in case he decides to sell up and move elsewhere. Better for the boy I’d have thought. Still, if you’re a psychologist you’ll know all about that kind of thing. Better to stay, stick it out, come to terms, or escape from the unpleasant memories, start a new life. So you’d never met Mr Newsom before you came to see about the flat.’
His flat, expressionless voice was starting to get on my nerves. I remembered how Howard had said he was having trouble getting on with the rest of the team. A hard-headed go-getter, with no ties, no one to make emotional demands, and every aspect of his life organised down to the last detail. I was surprised the cardboard folder had not been replaced by a laptop computer.
‘No, I’d never met him.’ I wondered where Maltby lived. In a bachelor apartment overlooking the floating harbour?
‘Right. Good.’ He crossed to the window, then turned sharply. ‘This programme about genetics, you were watching it all evening?’
‘It lasts fifty minutes.’
‘And then?’
‘I didn’t go out if that’s what you mean.’
‘No. Right. Anyway, have a think about the name Cunliffe and if anything comes back you know where to get in touch.’
Outside the front door he paused for a moment, craning his neck to get a better view of Eric’s workshop, then smiling, for the first time, at the sight of Charlie balancing a football on his head. ‘Oh, by the way, I believe you’ve been doing some babysitting for Mr Newsom.’
‘Once.’
‘But not on Wednesday evening.’ He consulted his notes. ‘No, of course not, on Wednesday the little boy was staying with his grandfather and Deborah Bryant. You know Dr Newsom, I expect, and Miss Bryant.’
‘No, I don’t know either of them.’
He nodded. ‘Right, sorry if I’ve seemed in rather a rush. My wife’s in the last weeks of her pregnancy; had some pains in the night but they seem to have been a false alarm. Still, best not to leave her on her own for too long.’
*
‘Pop and prattle,’ said McGhee. ‘That’s all they want these days. They employed me because I could twitter on come hell and high water, through all the technical hitches, all the guests who failed to turn up or sat there in the studio at a loss for words.’
‘You worked in this area?’ Ever since we met I had been wondering if he could be the man who had thrown up on the pavement the first time I was on my way to The Night Sky. Had that man had a grey crew-cut? I had no memory of his hair, although like McGhee he had looked in his early forties.
‘No, I worked up North,’ he said, ‘the North-East. That Malcolm you met has got it into his head I went on the air one afternoon, thought I was tanked up nicely, relaxed, fluent, a laugh a minute, then had the plugs pulled for being half-cut.’
‘Is that what you told him?’
‘Me! I’m afraid it’s a bit of a habit, embroidering stories. Real life’s far too dull, wouldn’t you say?’
We had met in The Night Sky as planned, but left after one drink.
‘You like Italian. Good.’ McGhee had given me no chance to reply, just nodded to the landlady and made for the door.
‘Follow me, I know just the place. Not far, we can go via Christmas Steps. What kind of shoes are you wearing? Oh, no problem. Malcolm tipped me off when you came into the bar but I’d have recognised you anyway from his amazingly accurate description.’
On the way to the restaurant he had kept up a steady stream of anecdotes, mostly about people in the pub, and someone called Mrs Jarvis who lived in the flat next to his and had a dog called Tweedledum. ‘Great ugly thing with a coat like a hearth rug, dressed in a waterproof coat if there’s even the hint of a drop of rain. Actually, I’m only a stone’s throw from where you live, I mean your place in Cliftonwood.’
The restaurateur had showed us to a table near the back — McGhee obviously came there often — then handed us two excessively large menus. I was hungry, most of my recent meals had consisted of omelettes or something on toast, and perfectly happy to go along with whatever McGhee recommended.
‘Malcolm told me all about you,’ he said. ‘You seem to have made quite an impression.’
‘We only exchanged a few words.
’
‘Yes, but you can tell, can’t you. What is it they say, the first five seconds and they’ve made up their mind. That’s job interviews, but I imagine it’s the same with casual encounters. You know, when I called your number I thought I might have done the wrong thing. You sounded a little fraught. Tell me to mind my own business but had something happened?’
‘An anonymous caller, heavy breather, you know the kind of thing.’
‘You’ve checked his number? You should tell the cops.’ And he was off on some story about a friend of his who had changed her number only to discover she had inadvertently given her new one to the silent caller, who turned out to be an elderly colleague from work.
‘I’d better explain,’ I said. ‘My name’s not really Jean.’
He showed no surprise. ‘No? How intriguing. Let me guess. Kimberly, Samantha?’
‘Anna. I’m renting the annexe attached to Eric Newsom’s house.’
He shifted his position on his chair, apologising when his knee brushed against mine. ‘Anna. Yes, suits you much better. So you live alone?’
‘You said you remembered Nikki mentioning someone called Jean.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, well, that’s one lie apiece then. Fairly harmless, wouldn’t you say. Just smoothing the way.’ His fingers drummed on the table. He was never still. ‘How’s Nikki’s little boy, d’you know? I never met him, only saw photos, but he looked the image of his mother.’
‘That’s really why I’m here,’ I said, ‘because of Charlie. I’m a psychologist and —’
‘Oh, you’re helping the poor kid. Well, fair enough, I’m glad somebody’s doing something. God, what a thing to happen. He was there you know when they found the body, came back home with a relative and there she was lying on the kitchen floor.’
‘I wondered how much you knew about her friends, people at her office, people she saw after work.’
He leaned forward, pushing his cutlery aside with his elbows. ‘Let’s get one thing straight right from the start, Anna, Nikki and I were friends, nothing more. Lovely girl. Woman. Not supposed to call people girls these days. Oh, you’d never imagined there’d be anything else. Not very flattering but I won’t take it as too much of an insult.’
