There were only two chairs in the little room, one padded armchair and the upright chair by the bed on which Brian Gaynor had been sitting. He motioned to the chairs and took up his stance by the window, his whole bearing saying, ‘Let’s get on with this, and not pretend it’s a sociable visit.’
‘There’s been a bit of news about Joanna,’ Charmian began. ‘ It looks as though she did take a train to London. Waterloo Station. I don’t know if you knew that?’
‘No. Thanks for telling us.’ Brian looked at his wife. ‘Any news is welcome.’
‘Have you any idea where she might go? Any friends, family, that she might visit?’
‘My mother has a place in London,’ said Annabel in a soft voice. ‘But she’s in Greece. I don’t think Joanna would go there.’
‘Can I have the address, just in case?’ Charmian wrote it down, noting that Annabel’s mother lived in a pretty classy area. ‘Mrs Porter, Two Arden Place?’ Annabel nodded. ‘And you, Mr Gaynor, any family in London?’
‘My parents are both dead. No one else.’
The nurse appeared with a tray and three cups of coffee. ‘Let’s leave that for a moment then.’ Charmian took her cup and sat by Annabel’s bed. Annabel gripped her cup, holding it in front of her as if it could protect her. ‘How do you feel now, Mrs Gaynor?’
‘Better, thank you.’
‘And how did it happen, this attack on you? Can you tell me anything?’
From her armchair, Ulrika said gently, ‘Joanna hit you, didn’t she?’
Annabel lowered her eyes. A pale skin was already forming on the top of the coffee. She wasn’t going to be able to drink it, she hated skin. ‘ Yes,’ she said suddenly.
‘Why did she do that?’
‘I was trying to stop her running away.’
Charmian took a hand. ‘Why was she planning to do that? Was she in any trouble?’
Annabel fell silent. She avoided looking at anyone in the room. The only safe place to look was the coffee cup and she concentrated on the drink.
‘It was a pretty violent thing to do, wasn’t it?’
‘We aren’t on good terms. She doesn’t like me.’
‘A family quarrel, is that it?’
‘You could call it that,’ said Annabel, still not looking up. ‘There was something that happened that I didn’t take her part over. Let her down. She thought so. Maybe it was so. I was angry, and I turned the anger on her.’
It was hard to make out what she was saying, she was squeezing the words out.
‘Has someone been hurting Joanna?’ asked Charmian. ‘Something physical?’
Annabel made a small noise and spilt the coffee. With shaking hands, she tried to tidy herself up.
Ulrika looked at Charmian. ‘Leave this to me,’ the look ordered. ‘Mr Gaynor, tell me what your wife means. I think you know.’
Brian Gaynor said roughly, ‘It was my fault. Something I did.’
‘To Joanna?’
‘Yes.’ He had turned to face the window. ‘Something I shouldn’t have done. I can’t explain it. It happened.’
‘You molested your daughter? Sexually molested her? Is that what you are saying?’
Brian Gaynor covered his face with his hands.
‘Come on now, Mr Gaynor. Let’s have it.’
‘Nothing overt,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘Just … touching. Once or twice.’
There was a silence.
‘She’s been so full of violence ever since.’ Annabel was crying quietly. ‘And so have I, so have I. It tore us apart. We were a family torn apart with a great hole in the middle.’
She might have been quoting Ulrika.
As the two women made their way out some time later, Charmian said, ‘Thanks for what you did in there.’
‘It wasn’t so much.’
‘I think it was everything. Your presence there brought the whole thing right out.’
‘I believe they were getting ready to tell it. In fairness to Brian Gaynor, I have to say I think he was about to do so. I just gave him the chance.’
‘Poor kid … Could what happened, and after all, from what he says, and if we believe him, it wasn’t a complete sexual invasion, could it provoke the reaction we think? Turn the child to killing?’
‘There was a lot of anger in Joanna trying to get out,’ said Ulrika. ‘But I’m a psychiatrist, not a policewoman. The rest is up to you.’
They both got into the car. At the entrance to the hospital they passed a big white Rolls coming in. Lesley was in the driving-seat, and Tommy Bingham was sitting beside her, carrying a big bunch of blood-red roses. He looked pinched and drawn as if death had given him a passing nod, but he waved at them cheerfully.
‘It’s a tragic business, however you look at it,’ said Charmian. ‘I can never take these family crimes. A family,’ she shook her head. ‘It ought to be a safe place, not a breeding-ground for murder.’
‘There’s more than one sort of family,’ murmured Ulrika thoughtfully. ‘You ought to think about that.’
In her office, later that day, Charmian had a telephone call from Sergeant Wimpey.
‘First, Brian Gaynor came into the station and made a statement. But I gather you know about that?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, I won’t comment. But second, a bit of news. No, not about Joanna, haven’t found her yet. But we will. No, something else and I’m afraid it doesn’t look good for the kid. The laboratories have had second thoughts on the hoof-prints. You remember the prints that were found?’
‘I remember. So what?’
‘At first, they said there was nothing much to learn, just prints. But then they showed them to someone who knows about nags. It’s true enough, that as a rule in England, you can’t tell one pony print from another. Just ordinary trammel ridges and a nail in the centre. But there are things called Polo plates. They have a higher, inner ridge. Came from the States. Some high-goal players are beginning to use them over here. Tommy Bingham is such a player and he has been using them. One of the few that does in Windsor. Apparently the casts made from the shoe prints suggest such a plate. The animal could have come from his stable.’
‘Thanks,’ said Charmian. ‘Yes, that does fit in, doesn’t it? What about the animal that came back this morning? Did he have these special plates on?’
‘No. Apparently not all Bingham’s ponies are shod that way. He’s only just getting into using them. It’s an experiment. But it ties in, doesn’t it?’
Yes, it did. Poor Joanna.
Chapter Fifteen
The garage returned Charmian’s car in time for her to drive home that evening. The repair seemed minor, the bill large. She was more than a little worried about money. With the new house plus all the expenses that came with it, she knew she was spending more than she could afford. Inside her was an accurate little accountant that kept a tally and was now shouting Stop.
She had attended to her routine work, chaired a committee, and given lunch to a colleague who wanted advice. In addition she had received a flow of telephone calls from Wimpey, keeping her up to date on what the press was calling ‘the Windsor murders’. Yes, he could tell her that more delicate tests could confirm that the blood on the shirt in Joanna’s case was that of Margery Fairlie. And yes, the case was Joanna’s. Annabel Gaynor had identified it. Said she knew nothing about the knife or shirt. This might or might not be true. ‘ Oh yes, and we called Brian Gaynor in to Alexandria Road again. He didn’t want to come but we didn’t see why we should make life easy for him. He’s co-operating all right, though. He had something new to tell us.’
‘Not another confession?’
‘No. But his son has told him that Joanna had some keys. She called them her secret keys. So maybe she did have a hideaway somewhere. Wouldn’t put anything past that kid. And she’s only twelve.’ There was something like respect in his voice. ‘ Good job they aren’t all like her.’
‘She’s had things happen to her that made her grow up fa
st.’
‘But violence?’ And such violence. He thought of his own child and felt sick. Could children have such strength inside them?
‘It’s a way out, isn’t it? She’s digging herself out of a hole.’ Ulrika had taught her to see it so.
‘I have to tell you that Bert Merry doesn’t see it our way. He’s still looking for his serial killer. “Wait and see”, he says. And he says we are making mountains out of molehills.’
‘He always had a gift for words.’
But all the time, inside her, she was filled with a kind of practical anger at the situation within the Gaynor family. The first step towards resolving the anger was to find Joanna and then to help her, to break the destructive circle in which she was caught.
She was angry, angry, angry.
‘No wonder I’ve got grey hairs.’ The bright summer sunlight seemed to show them up with greater clarity than usual. Some people had the luck to have a charming streak of silver, she seemed to be speckled. Not greatly speckled yet, but certainly going that way. Her mother had been white before she was forty; it was in the family. But there were things you could do about it. Possibly before the Sunday luncheon party?
On an impulse she telephoned Beryl Andrea Barker, whom she still thought of as Baby, at her hairdressing shop and asked for an appointment. ‘For a kind of tint.’ She knew better than to call it ‘dye’. No one used that word any more. She had decided on an honest but cautious approach. ‘ Nothing drastic. Could you do it?’
‘Of course. Nothing easier. But, of course, red hair can be tricky. Unless you want to go really Titian? That would mean doing the whole head.’
Baby, in her best professional mood, could be daunting. Charmian suspected she was enjoying it. Gave her a lift to be the one in charge of Charmian Daniels’ hair-colouring.
‘I’ll stay with what I’ve got.’ A kind of rich carrot it had been once. ‘Just do a rinse or something.’
‘It’s dulled down a lot lately, hasn’t it?’ said Baby with some satisfaction. ‘It does with age. I remember when I first knew you,’ when you were investigating the case for which I eventually went to prison, Baby meant, ‘it was quite bright.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Drop in tonight and I’ll do you a quick job. Do it myself.’
‘Thanks,’ again. What else was there to say?
‘Guess what?’ Baby sounded quite lively. ‘Maggie Fairlie left me a thousand pounds. I’ve just heard from her solicitor.’
‘Did she have that much to leave?’
Baby coughed. ‘I think she may have had a little bit salted away. I don’t know who gets the rest. I wish she hadn’t got herself killed, though. But I suppose she had it coming to her. She always was unlucky. Any word yet on who killed her?’
‘We’re looking.’
‘I reckon she knew the killer, because although she was unlucky, she was also careful. I reckon it was someone she thought she could trust. Wrong again, poor cow.’
‘You can’t tell by looking,’ agreed Charmian.
‘Hey,’ said Baby alertly. ‘ You know something. You think you know who did it.’
‘Guessing and looking, Baby.’
‘Keep looking. I won’t feel safe till you’ve found him. I don’t fancy meeting Jack the Ripper in Windsor one dark night. And forget the Baby. Andrea, please. I asked.’
Miss Barker put the telephone down feeling she had scored. She saw the relationship with Charmian as a kind of football match in which most of the goals had been achieved by Charmian. However, she acknowledged Charmian’s tenacity and power for carrying things through. If Charmian said she was looking for the killer, then in Miss Barker’s opinion that killer was as good as found.
From her seat by the telephone she could look through the large plate-glass window of her shop at the usual Windsor street-scene of shoppers, tourists, motor cars and cyclists, with beyond all this the River Thames.
The same river was in sight from Charmian’s office where, high on the fifth floor, she could look down on the river and across London.
Somewhere in that city, she guessed, was Joanna.
A dangerous child to be on the loose.
The evening before, Joanna had climbed on the train to Waterloo in the middle of a crowd of Italian schoolchildren who were on a holiday trip. They were returning to their hostel in London after a day of heavy sightseeing. In her jeans and dark blue sweater, she did not stand out from them, and they were so busy shouting away and eating ice-cream that they themselves did not notice the cuckoo in their nest.
On arrival, the Italians swarmed around a bar selling hot chocolate and warmed-up croissants, so Joanna joined them there, too. She had a couple of fivers folded in her pocket, earnings from her work in the stable— Lesley had said that a labourer was worthy of her hire, and Tommy Bingham was not mean, although careful, so she was not without money at the moment. She had her Post Office Savings Bank book with her and that had plenty in it. She could survive financially for some time.
The Italians did not queue in an orderly fashion as a crowd of English schoolchildren would have done. Instead they pushed and jostled for position. Joanna shoved with them, taking care not to become too prominent.
Listening to what they said, she called, ‘Quanto questo?’ in her turn, pointing to what she wanted and then shovelling the money across. The woman behind the counter gave her a quizzical stare.
Joanna did not like that stare. She guessed it meant that, somehow, in some way, she did not look like the Italian crowd. Then she caught sight of her image in a big mirror at the back of the counter. Fair hair and blue eyes. Of course she was different from the brown-haired and sallow-skinned Italians. They were dark to a child. True, one of their teachers had red hair, but even Joanna could tell that it was dyed.
Thoughtfully, she carried her provender to a bench tucked away in a corner, where she sat eating. Another bunch of children sat there, English children, eating hamburgers and chips. But everyone ate hamburgers and chips, it was a safe meal. She might move on to those herself when she had finished her croissant, although to her mind it made the meal the wrong way round. Joanna was a slow, thoughtful and conventional feeder. She did not like surprises in what she ate.
The large W. H. Smith’s bookstall was still open, giving her the chance to buy a book (she chose a paperback horror story of a haunted house) to read with the hamburger and chips which she presently sat down to eat. In a different spot this time, on another discreetly placed bench, she was wary of being noticeable.
All the time she was thinking what to do. In a way, she knew. She had thought it all through weeks and weeks ago as a contingency plan if she had to make a run for it.
She knew where she was going, had been there with her mother and had the keys to open the door. But the timing was important. If someone saw her going in, she would be done for. They were a gossipy lot in that block, her grandmother had said so, and Joanna believed her. ‘I try to slip in and out without anyone noticing me,’ she had said. ‘Otherwise you are caught.’
Joanna did not wish to be caught.
She patted the keys to her grandmother’s maisonette where they rested in her pocket. Joanna fictionalised that her grandmother had given her the keys (‘ Have them, dear child, just in case.’), but in fact she had stolen them from Annabel who had come in for some grumbling for losing them, and had been put to a good deal of trouble to replace them. She sat there considering her plan of action.
If Annabel had seen her sitting there, hunched over her hamburger and book, she would have said, ‘She looks like my mother in one of her witchier moods.’
Joanna finished her hamburger and read on. Without Joanna noticing it, the station had begun to empty. Soon it would quieten down into its night-time sleep. Already the small shops had closed and lights were dimming along the platforms where no trains ran.
As the travellers diminished, so some of the debris of the London streets drifted in to take their place. A woman who look
ed old but was not, carrying two plastic bags, wearing two overcoats and three pairs of stockings, appeared. She had emerged from the ladies’ lavatory of which she had been dispossessed. She was turned out every night, always hopeful, for ever disappointed. She had the quiet persistence of a dripping tap. Her path was crossed by an enemy, a dusty sexless lady who spat on her as she passed. They had never spoken, but some odd trifle picked up by one and lost to the other had set them for ever apart.
A man came to take the seat next to Joanna. She smelt him before she saw him. Acid, sour, and strong. A hand snaked out from a dirty sleeve and touched Joanna’s thigh. The man did not look at her but stared straight ahead as if the hand had nothing to do with him.
Joanna reared upright, clutching her book. Without conscious volition, her foot delivered a powerful kick to his shin. Then she shot towards the Underground, and disappeared down its open mouth.
The escalators and platforms were busy with returning theatre-goers all talking with each other happily. Here and there an exhausted soul leant against the wall with closed eyes.
Joanna, who had done this journey often enough in her imagination, knew which Underground line to take and at which station to change. What she was not prepared for was the relative darkness and emptiness of the street into which she eventually emerged.
The ticket collector had looked at her oddly, but not spoken, so she had put on her most confident and boldest air as she walked past him. She was just a girl who happened to be out on her own. A young actress perhaps, with a part in the latest musical, who knew her way around. Or a ballet-dancer carrying her head proudly and high.
Thus protected, she walked at speed down the street to her grandmother’s, mercifully empty, maisonette. She knew the set-up. There was a block of flats with a long hall, and through the glass door at the end of this you entered the quadrangle which was lined with the small houses. It was an expensive and sheltered domain. Part of the expense went to the wages of the porter who lived in a set of rooms by the street entrance and watched who came in and who went out.
A Cure for Dying Page 18
