‘It’s about Cassandra Preston,’ he said, nodding as I pointed at the coffee machine and stowing his umbrella in the plastic bucket I’d used for mine. ‘Yes, please. Black is fine. Thanks.’
Since I’d not yet set the heating to override I flicked the fan heater on and sat at Melanie’s desk, pointing him to the visitor’s chair, which was actually more comfortable than the equivalent in my office – a conscious tactic, as it happens, to deter protracted visits.
‘I’m going to visit Cassandra tomorrow,’ he said heavily. ‘Would you believe it, it’s the first time I’ve ever been to a prison? But I thought as a friend – as a former friend – I might be able to talk some sense into her about this obsession with finding what I still think are non-existent paintings in Wray Episcopi school. Thank goodness I’m not a governor there! I might bring some little influence to bear … I used to play bridge with her, for goodness’ sake!’
‘I suppose she thinks – assuming they do exist – that they might be valuable. But her solicitor’s letters have never specified an artist or artists. “Please return our Monets” I could understand. It’s very kind of you, Brian, but it could be stressful. Do you think you should wait till you’ve had the all-clear from your doctor?’
‘That may be some time coming. I didn’t have time to tell you last night, but he thinks I’m looking at bypass surgery – at the very least a stent or two. He’s booked me in to see a consultant. I thought I’d try to sort this out … while I can.’
Even while I was expressing hope and saying everything positive, I couldn’t shake from my mind what the villainous Edmund says in King Lear, about wanting to do some good before he dies. In the event, of course, Edmund was too late. And he did die. But I didn’t think modern medicine regarded stent insertion as anything other than pretty routine, if serious, surgery. But it became an evil little earworm … Wanting to do some good before … Wanting to do some good before …
‘Do you think,’ I asked quickly, as if to stop the words bursting out, ‘that her grandfather might have given them to someone else? Or asked someone to look after them?’
He looked as if Geoffrey had spoken. ‘But she’s adamant they were given to Wray Episcopi School.’
I nodded. ‘But people – what did Hillary Clinton call it? Misremembering? That’s it. People misremember. Tell her the school has been subjected to a police search. Tell her none of the staff ever recall ever seeing anything that could loosely be described as art, apart from the stuff the kids produce. And even the most delusional parent wouldn’t confuse little Johnny’s painting with a masterpiece in oils.’
‘They would these days,’ Brian said darkly. ‘Think of the parents who praise appalling violin scrapings or pretend the child can hop when it needs two feet.’
We shared a laugh. Geoffrey got up, wagging his tail.
‘That dog,’ Brian asked. ‘How did he arrive in your life?’
‘He’s not a permanent fixture, I’m afraid. His person has a leg injury – can’t give him his daily walkies. Sorry, Geoffrey, I didn’t mean we were going to have one now. Back to Squeaky Chicken. Good boy. So he’s only here till the weekend. I shall miss him and be relieved in equal measure – after that fiasco last night! I hope it didn’t embarrass you.’
‘If it did, my instant departure would have embarrassed you. So I think we’re quits, don’t you?’ He put down his mug. ‘I can see you came to work, so I’ll take my leave of you. But I’ll report back, if I may?’
‘I’d be more than grateful. Don’t let the visit upset you. Prisons aren’t nice places, though a women’s jail might be less awful than the male equivalent, I suppose. But remember your health is worth more than any picture.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Yoo-hoo! Geoffrey!’ It was Dolly’s mummy, like me braving the drizzle that seemed to be almost as drenching as the proper rain earlier in the day.
I wasn’t taking Geoffrey for his evening walk at seven-ten precisely for nothing. One reason might have been that he’d been housebound while I’d done a supermarket run and stocked up in a way that would have made Joy proud. However, more importantly, seven-ten was the time we’d met Dolly before. Would we meet them again? We were in luck.
Casually, I waited for them, keeping Geoffrey on a somewhat tighter leash. I didn’t want any public displays of lust tonight, not when I wanted to pick Dolly’s mummy’s brain. She obviously knew far more about the estate than I did, and I was sure she would talk as we walked. I would be hiding in plain sight: what could be less threatening than two women swathed against the weather walking two small dogs? The first thing was to establish her name. Mrs Jennings. But I was to call her Enid. All girls together, then. As we walked gently round, far more slowly than was Geoffrey’s wont, I asked her about each of the neighbours in turn – which had dogs, which hadn’t. Of course, her answers weren’t confined to canine ownerships. She gave me snippets about practically everyone. The downside of this was of course that she must gossip about me to everyone else: I must obviously keep my life as blameless as I could.
Number 2, I discovered, was owned, but rarely occupied, by a career criminal, who somehow managed to evade the new proceeds of crime legislation and keep his property. Number 5—
‘Someone was saying something about the people at number 4,’ I murmured.
‘Oh, that! It’s one of your friend’s properties. At least people say he’s your friend?’ The tone of her voice invited me to deny him, in the manner of St Peter, so she could dish the dirt.
‘Brian Dawes? Yes, he’s my landlord, and he’s the chair of the school governors – and very hard he works too.’
‘You’re not an item, then?’ Amazingly she managed to imply disappointment that I might be lovelorn and satisfaction that she could speak freely. ‘Some would say he’s a very good catch.’ As if I was a Jane Austen protagonist. She clearly didn’t think much of him, however.
I’d have loved to ask why not, but couldn’t manage to stoop so low. I gave a sort of sideways explanation of why there was no possibility we might be together, which had the benefit of being partly true. ‘You may have heard I was friendly with a police officer. He was grievously injured last year – he’s still in a deep coma.’
‘Oh, of course – you poor girl. But that doesn’t stop Brian Dawes sniffing after you. Well, that’s men for you – and you an attractive young woman, still, of course. Now, the lady at number 5 is a professional woman – like yourself. She works in a hospital. Number 7 – that’s the Staffie family – I don’t have much to do with them, though, not until they muzzle that dog of theirs.’
We got all the way to the high 30s with no information worth talking about.
‘There seemed to be a bit of trouble at number 39 the other night,’ I said mildly.
‘If you ask me, she’s no better than she ought to be.’ Where had she dredged up that expression from? ‘All these men trying to see her and she’s shouting the odds and slamming the door.’
‘You don’t get the idea they’re harassing her?’
There was a puzzled silence. At last she conceded, ‘It’s hard to tell with these foreigners. Time they all went home.’ When I didn’t immediately concur, she added, ‘It’d make your job a lot easier, all these migrants’ children taking up your time.’
‘We only have a couple – and they’re actually refugees, escaping from a terrible war zone. You probably remember that lovely service we had at the village church for a refugee child who was killed here, and the archbishop came. One of my pupils planted a tree.’ Was I being assertive enough? Probably not. I should be nailing my colours firmly to the mast. But perhaps softly, softly might in time change the mind of someone whose opinions I could never share. We waited while first one dog, then the other left a few messages. Then I had to use the poo-bag.
‘You know what some people have started doing? Bagging up their dog mess – as they should! – and then dumping the bag on people’s walls. And one hung some on my friend’s tree! Would y
ou believe it!’
I could be properly, genuinely shocked. By now we’d circled round and were approaching number 14. I got my house key out. ‘You were saying something about number 4 – Brian Dawes’ place,’ I prompted.
‘Was I? Well, I think it’s time he looked into it – there are a lot of flies around, even at this time of year. Mind you, it’s well maintained – the post’s gathered up every day, and the bins and sacks are put out and taken in on the right days. The garden’s a bit of a mess, but then, it is February and maybe they haven’t done their spring tidy-up yet. It must be in their contract to get it done, same as it is in yours.’
Now wasn’t the time to confide that part of my deal with Brian was that I had a regular gardener – at his expense. Or maybe I paid for it in a higher rental. That wouldn’t surprise me.
We came to a halt at the end of my drive. ‘I really enjoyed our chat,’ Enid said. ‘I feel so much safer being with another person, not just Dolly. If there was a problem, I’d be defending her, not the other way round.’
‘All I can say about Geoffrey’s heroism is that he howls very well. Is this the time you two usually take a walk? Because I agree with you. One equals exercise with a poo-bag, two means a nice chat.’ And spying on one’s neighbours.
I didn’t want to spy on Izzie West, just to contact her to ask how she was getting on after yesterday’s difficulties – but I didn’t have her number. Nor in all honesty could I ask Elaine Carberry for it. The best I could do was to ask Elaine to pass on my number in case Izzie should want to speak to me, so, while my supper was microwaving, I texted her to that effect.
Her reply came just as I was settling Geoffrey for the night.
Sorry. Major incident north of Thames – all hands on deck. But wd be gd to catch up tomorrow – have U got time for lunch over here in Ashford?
CU by the front entrance 12.30?
Better make it 1.00.
It was only as I finished my meal that it dawned on me that Elaine had never had time for lunch before. Neither had I for that matter. And despite an hour dealing with some really exciting statistics, a little niggle of anxiety remained. Did she know something about Will that I didn’t?
On Thursday morning I decided to drive past Joy’s house and mine en route to a session working at Wray Episcopi school.
I found Caffy in charge of the building site – while Paula was sometimes disconcertingly brusque, Caffy was often disconcertingly empathetic. ‘I still don’t see you moving in here,’ she said, although it was quite clear that progress was being made. ‘Too many associations with last summer’s case – and in particular Will.’
Sometimes I couldn’t stop myself wincing when someone mentioned his name. Caffy wrapped me in an immediate hug. ‘I’m sorry. But I suspect you’ll not stop worrying about the poor man until he’s finally allowed to die,’ she said, the kindness of her tone and the concern in her face belying the crudeness of the words. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to one of his care team?’
‘I’ve no official right to – and they have to observe patient confidentiality, of course. What I’m afraid of,’ I added, because I could always say things to Caffy that I didn’t even admit to myself I was thinking, ‘is that they’ll dredge up some distant relative who’s not seen him for years who will raise all sorts of legal objections to whatever the courts decide. Caffy, there was stuff in the papers about new tests showing that even those in the deepest comas could be stimulated into brief periods of quasi-consciousness: what if they do that to Will?’
‘It’d muddy all sorts of moral waters, wouldn’t it? Why’s your car shaking, Jane?’
‘I suspect it’s Geoffrey the dog telling me he’s bored. Have you got time to come and meet him?’
‘What sort is he? Because I can’t get near long-haired ones. Or cats, for that matter. I wheeze. I sneeze. I weep.’
‘He’s a short-haired, hypoallergenic one – a schnoodle. I think you’d like him …’
‘Maybe I’ll just wave through the window …’
An apologetic text arrived from Elaine as I parked near Wray Episcopi school: she was going to be tied up much longer than she expected: would tomorrow work? Better still Saturday? Maybe with Robin?
Saturday fine, I texted back. Nice pub near Lenham?
Saturday was the day I was due to return Geoffrey to Maggie Davies, and I had an idea I was going to need cheering up afterwards. Meanwhile here at Wray Episcopi there would be a mountain of work. While Tom would soon be back at Wrayford to deal with any crises there, here I had no second-in-command: Jess had asked to take off the whole half-term break to fulfil a longstanding commitment. Donna, the secretary, was due in, however, and would no doubt already be working her way through the correspondence so she could brief me when I arrived.
‘If the mist clears,’ as I unclipped him, making sure his lead was firmly attached as I did so, ‘we’ll have a nice long walk.’
Possibly. But just in case I’d bought a towel as well as some toys.
Donna was already at her desk when we walked in, greeting Geoffrey with pleasure. We worked through quite happily till lunchtime on pleasurable admin: very well, I exaggerate. But a bit of concentrated efficient work always made me feel better afterwards. Only as we ate our lunches did I deal with what was in some ways a more important question: Lulabelle Petrie. Of course, I had access to her file, with all the pupil records and reports in it, but long and detailed as they were – and these days had to be – they were so full of the phrases Ofsted like to hear that in fact they said nothing, not about the child herself. Orwell must be rotating in his grave at the number of clichés educated and intelligent people are almost required to use these days. But I wasn’t going to rant at an entirely innocent Donna over my taramasalata: I just wanted her take on Lulabelle, whom she probably saw around the village as well as in school. And where even the most irritating pupils generally moderated their behaviour when their head was on the prowl, the secretary might not have the same effect.
‘I knew her mother,’ Donna said. ‘Not well,’ she added in response to my slight gasp. ‘She was a teenager when I was a little girl. She was what was called “hoity-toity” in those days.’
‘Come on, Donna, you sound as if you were around when Lark Rise to Candleford was written!’
She looked at me with an unreadable expression. ‘You’re neither a Kentish woman nor a woman of Kent, Jane. You never will be. In many ways you’re lucky. Metropolitan. Travelled. Well, north of the M25. But people like my gran – she never even went to London till Princess Diana’s death when she wanted to lay some flowers – are horrified by all sorts of things you find normal, you know. Gay marriage. Bringing a black woman to teach in a white school. She wanted me to resign when she heard Jess was coming here. We had quite a to-do about it. I can say Jess is great, that we’re mates and go clubbing together – of course we do! Didn’t you know? – but Nan still has what she calls “reservations”.’
There was a lot I wanted to ask, but there was one question more important than the rest. ‘Do those kids try it on with Jess?’
‘They did. My God they did! But they picked the wrong woman. And I gather you said something to them?’
‘Not directly. I wouldn’t undermine her like that.’
‘Jess didn’t think you would. But Lulabelle went back into class in tears one day. She wouldn’t explain but the rumour went round she’d been seen talking to you in the corridor.’
‘She probably had. I’d been suggesting that she stood as a school council rep, but she was adamant she couldn’t, which surprised me because my take on her was that she was confident and articulate. Actually, I was very impressed by her poise when I came across her in public.’
Donna narrowed her eyes. ‘But?’
Was I as transparent as that? I sidestepped. ‘What do we know about her father? I gather her mother died.’
‘He’s like you, an incomer. Actually, he’s an incomer in two senses, if you see what
I mean: a very big income indeed.’ She paused so I could wince at her pun. ‘No one knows how he gets his money, but there’s always speculation in a village. They had Zunaid down as your love-child at one time, by that black police protection officer who came and stayed a couple of times,’ she added affably. ‘The thing is, Jane, you live not just in a slightly larger, more commuter-based village, you live in that funny little estate—’
‘It’s more like the suburb of a town than part of the village, isn’t it?’ I agreed.
‘But you join in. You’re involved with the cricket. Diane at the pub rates you. Joining the Speed Watch team was a big plus. To quote my nan, “If she stays another twenty years she might become one of us.”’
‘Tell your nan thank you from me. I think.’ It was the word ‘might’ that chilled me. ‘Now, Lulabelle. And her rich dad – who doesn’t seem to have put in too many appearances at parents’ evenings, especially since I arrived. I actually had to introduce myself to him. So embarrassing!’
‘Oh, that’s probably because he’s got a woman. Nan thinks she’s a tart, to use her word. In other words, a live-in lover.’
Poor woman, damned for doing something that was quite normal, just outside Nan’s ambit.
But Donna seemed to agree with her grandmother. ‘She does look a bit … a bit obvious,’ she continued. ‘A bit too much leg and cleavage. And much too much make-up, especially for the country. And you should see her shoes! I know you wore high heels when you came down here, but you soon twigged they were daft on our roads. Not her, though. Heels this high – higher.’ Her finger and thumb separated alarmingly, before she giggled. ‘What finished her off in Nan’s eyes was that they had little bows on the back! Whatever she is or does, she’s not trying to fit in,’ she concluded.
Our laughter disturbed Geoffrey’s slumber: the purposeful way he stood and stretched said all too clearly he needed a walk.
Head Wound Page 10
