by Paul Charles
“What?” said Coles, “so you mean because of losing a father, not being the oldest, not being the youngest, not being the only daughter, and having his first love stolen, this person became a rapist? That but for one simple twist of fate, i.e. his father dying when he was young, he wouldn’t have turned out to be a monster?”
“No, not at all. It’s hard to say all this because we didn’t know the guy and now he’s dead and we’ll never be able to find out all this stuff. But we have to look into his life and see if we can see things which can lead us to his killer, and this means we have to try and see things from his standpoint. I think he was probably, basically, a bad person. And by bad person I mean he was prepared to live his life without showing consideration to others, he thought mostly about himself and whenever he needed or wanted something he refused to allow any social rules or laws to stand in his way. I think that’s the fact, he was a bad person and I think all those other things are mitigating circumstances which possibly he and his social workers, would use as excuses for his actions.”
“I see,” said Coles. “I’m not altogether sure I agree but I do see what you mean. Oh, we’re here.” She had spied an awkward parking spot on the arc of Mornington Crescent, a space violated just thirty seconds before by a Fiat Uno, a pram with an engine. The Uno in turn had taken a space and a half vacated just three minutes since by Mrs Jean Stone’s latest visitor, the youngest of the Stone brothers, Brian. Jean and Stephen Stone had a comfortable apartment on the top two floors of a Victorian house. Jean led them into the well furnished and frequently dusted lounge. Much to Kennedy’s satisfaction she gave them tea and chocolate biscuits.
But Kennedy couldn’t help been disappointed in Jean Stone. He had found himself building up a picture of the woman whose attention two brothers had fought over for years. It was a natural, if possibly male, thing to do. But she was ordinary. This wasn’t meant as an insult, it was just how she looked. She was tall and slim with cropped blonde hair; she wore a red sweatshirt with GAP written across the front in large letters, black slacks and black slippers. She wore no make-up, and Kennedy felt that this might have been the missing ingredient to turn her into the woman who broke the heart of John B. Stone.
“We have an uncomfortable advantage over you here, Mrs Stone. We know what happened between yourself and John B.”
“It’s okay,” she said, “Stephen rang me just before you arrived and told me about your conversation, all of it.” And she paused to sip some tea. Not great tea mind you; made American fashion where boiling water is not used. More likely the water had been allowed to cool down somewhat from boiling point before it was applied to the tea. This method tends to make the tea sticky and dry and lose some of the revitalising qualities a perfectly brewed cup offers.
“So I’m ready for you, as it were,” she went on. “I hope it’s not going to be too painful. I’m sure, as you both can guess, there are things we’d all rather forget about, but nature has its way of not allowing us to do so, perhaps so we learn from our mistakes. Now with this sad loss of John all these memories will be returning to haunt us again.”
“When did you first meet John B.?” WPC Coles inquired.
“It was ages ago, we were both teenagers, late teens of course, and this girl friend of mine wanted to fix me up with somebody, anybody, just so that we could have intimate conversations about our boys and so that we could go out in foursomes. Anyway, I seem to remember she quite liked John B. herself and if she hadn’t been dating the school hunk at the time she probably would have gone out with him.” Jean Stone was surprised at how comfortable she was in this man’s company. He was a policeman, yes, but he had kind eyes and gentle hands.
“So we were paired off and we went to this party. But we didn’t really click and after an initial chat we parted company and I was chatting to this other guy and at one point, I can still remember the incident vividly, I looked across the room and saw John B. laughing and I just had this overwhelming urge to kiss him. So I shipped the chap I was talking to off to get a drink and I went across the room and kissed John B. and, well, we kissed all night. Just kissing, mind you, nothing else, just kissing the first night.
Kennedy and Coles smiled at this part of the confession.
“From then on we were in each other’s face and hair for ages; we just seemed to grow together. And then John B., well he seemed to think that being in love with me could be his life and his career. He had no interest in anything else. That was it: he didn’t want anything else apart from me and us,” Jean recalled in despair. She was telling them more than she needed to, Kennedy sensed. He also sensed her need to talk about John B., now that he was dead, to people who would listen, as opposed to the in-laws who probably spat fire at the mere mention of his name. Jean Stone hugged her teacup in both hands, resting her elbows on her knees as she leaned towards the detective.
“What do you mean, no other interests, just you? Isn’t that meant to be every girl’s dream?” Coles inquired.
“No, not really, it made him very boring as a person. I needed him to get a life. He was acting just like a little puppy dog, he was in danger of becoming a wimp. At first the attention was flattering but you know it’s like in fairy tales: what happens after, ‘and they all lived happily ever after?’ The reality was we weren’t going to; nobody does, or if they do they die of boredom. We needed work and money. Food, a house, clothes, a family. I didn’t just want to get by. I didn’t want to live with him in his bedsitter. I wanted the better life and I wanted someone who shared that dream. Not someone who just gave up when he thought he had found the love of his life. So I was trying to break up with him for ages and we had a few false starts, or stops I suppose really. I confided in Stephen at that point, I’d always liked him. He was older, wiser and sensible. And he was ambitious, at least in those days. He wanted to make something of his life and I found that very attractive.” Jean stopped again, took some tea and, Kennedy assumed, thought once more about the difference in the two brothers.
“Were they really that different?” he inquired.
“Well, as it turned out, no. When John B. set his mind to it he became quite successful, working at the estate agency. He did well from it, although you wouldn’t think it to look at him, you’d hardly think he’d two pennies to rub together. But I’m sure he was making a lot more money that Stephen. Where was I? Oh yes, so when I confided in Stephen we started to get quite friendly and then quite close and eventually the inevitable happened, but it had been in one of our fake endings and so I cooled it for a while with Stephen to try again with John B., but the more it went on the more I realised I wanted to be with Stephen, so we decided, after a lot of heart searching, to come out with it and tell the family and John B. and let them all deal with it.”
“Was there any violence at that point?” Kennedy inquired, finishing off the substandard cup of tea.
“Heavens, no! John B. just went off and listened to Leonard Cohen and Al Stewart for two years solid and that was it. When he came out of his tunnel of darkness and appeared to be over it, Stephen and I got married. We invited John B. but he didn’t show. And that was it,” Jean Stone concluded with a certain air of relief.
“Had he started to date anybody at that point?” Kennedy inquired.
“No. Not at all. I mean I heard he had a couple of one night stands but from what I could gather he preferred not to bother, said he didn’t need the grief. Brian once told me that Helen, then his girlfriend and now his wife, tried to get John B. to date one of her friends, one of the girls she worked with. But nothing came of that. He got drunk on the first date and insulted her, said that girls weren’t worth the trouble and men could have as much fun doing other things without all the grief a woman brought.”
“And that was it until the funeral?” WPC Coles asked as she too finished her tea.
“The funeral, yes the funeral!” Jean replied, as much to her teacup as to the police duo. “Yes, we were all there. We had a few drinks; it
was the first real conversation I had with John B. in ten years and it was okay, you know? He was telling me about how well he was doing and about how happy he was. He was quizzing me about my life with Stephen; he kept cool about it, he never actually crossed the line of rudeness. Never quite saying, but obviously thinking to himself, ‘Look at all of us now, you made a big mistake didn’t you?’ Yes, he was definitely implying that but keeping it fun. Anyway we had a lot of wine and the house was too crowded and too noisy, so he said let’s go out to the garden and when we walked out the air hit me hard, I can remember it as if it was yesterday, and I realised how drunk I was.”
Kennedy felt she was close to tears and was about to ask her if she was okay or if she needed to stop for a while; she seemed to read his mind because she forced a brief smile and continued,
“It’s okay. I’m okay. I need to get this over with. In a way I feel with John B. dead and me here telling you all this, it’s like, it’s exorcising it for the first time. So anyway, the air hit me and I felt a bit wobbly. John B. grabbed me to steady me and as he did so he pulled me around to face him and it was like in the movies. The frame froze with both of us just standing there staring at each other, and in another instant he had taken us down to the bushes at the bottom of the garden and we were just staring at each other again, both lost in our memories of each other. But this time we kissed and the kiss took my breath away. And then we were rolling around in the bushes and kissing, and then I realised he was fumbling around in my underwear, trying to remove them and I realised what was happening and I realised I didn’t want it to happen, I didn’t want this.” Now she was sobbing gently.
“It was my right to say no. Yes, maybe I shouldn’t have kissed him. But you know I didn’t mean anything else to happen. He forced me, he wouldn’t stop. He was too strong. Before I knew it he’d my skirt up and my tights and pants around my ankles and he was in me and he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. He wasn’t hurting me or hitting me or anything like that but it was still rape. I told him I didn’t want him, I told him NO!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
As Kennedy and WPC Coles were returning, in a somewhat disturbed state, to North Bridge House, ann rea and Daniel Elliot were taking a very slow walk along Climping’s sloping pebbled beach.
Kennedy and Coles were discussing how easier it seemed to be getting, in the nineties, for people to reveal their deepest secret thoughts and fears even on first meetings. Anne Coles thought it was “an American kind of thing,” while Kennedy, as ever looking for the angle, thought Jean Stone’s frankness might have something to do with more than a little prodding from her husband Stephen.
ann rea and her former landlord were discussing the trials and tribulations of growing old. Daniel, far from being morbid, was seeing the funny side of this, even at his current walking pace, which he claimed was something like ‘sixty hours a mile.’
“You know,” he said, “if I had known I was going to get here, you know - reaching the end of my life…” he began as he struggled both to move his feet through the pebbles and to remove his walking stick from deep within the pebbles at each and every minuscule step.
“Oh, shush, would you, you’ve got ages to go,” ann rea encouraged.
“Perhaps, but I think it’s going to take and every minute I’ve left just to get off the beach,” he chuckled, “No, really, what I meant was, if I had realised I was going to have completed my life before my body has the decency to give up on me I would have planned things differently.”
“How do you mean?” ann rea asked.
“Well let’s assume - only for the point of this conversation mind you, I don’t want you getting mad at me again - let’s assume that the natural end to my life should have come at the same time as Lila passed away. We had a good life together. A full life. A life of loving each other and being there for each other, the same kind of life you could have with that detective fellow of yours if only you’d stop struggling and give in to it.” Daniel stopped in his tracks and turned to face the sea. The old man was protected from the fresh breeze by his well-worn brown cords, a vest, the top of which just peered out from the top V of his black striped shirt, itself secured in a heavy green woolly cardigan topped by a brown checked cloth cap.
“It’s like swimming, you know. The first time you are out there in the sea and you lose your footing, you panic, you kick, you splash, you splutter and you reach out for an imaginary lifeline while all the time all you should be doing for your own safety is surrendering to the rhythm of the water. Be gentle, be calm, go with it, let your body relax and start to float, and then you can move within the sea as you wish; do anything but fight it, ann.” Daniel stared out across the rolling waves to where they melted into the blue of the sky and the white of the fluffy clouds.
“And, Daniel?” ann rea prompted.
“Sorry,” Daniel smiled again as he remembered where the conversation had been heading. “Yes, so we’d a good life together and it would have been nice if our lives had ended at the same time, and what I was trying to say was if I realised I was going to outlive her by this much I wouldn’t have led such a healthy life.”
“I’m not so sure you could have controlled it to such a degree,” ann rea offered, enjoying his good humour.
“Well, let’s just think about that. Say for instance I had eaten more chips. God, I loved chips. We used to get them in the orphanage every Friday, with our fish, a religious thing. But I loved them and when I joined up, you could get them with everything, chips that is, every single day. But when we moved to London I stopped eating chips altogether for a while, everyone said how bad fat was for your arteries. Same thing with steak; I think a good piece of frying steak is delicious, well done, I love it well done. Lila used to do this meal, my favourite, nothing fancy but I savoured it. Steak, well done, baked beans, a couple of fried eggs and chips. And if no one was around I could have a baked bean and chip buttie. Oh, the best. Then she’d complete the meal with her own sherry trifle. Forgive me, I’m drooling.”
The memory of Lila Elliot’s sherry trifle made ann rea’s mouth water as well. “Oh yes,” she said, “I remember Lila’s trifle. It was exquisite, quite simply the best!”
“Yes, it certainly was, wasn’t it?” said Daniel, his deep blue eyes twinkling for the first time since ann rea had come down from London. “Lila and I, we both had dangerous sweet teeth. So what I’m saying is, wouldn’t it have been great to have indulged a bit more. And the Old Bushmills, that certainly brings a flush to your cheeks on a winter’s night - maybe I should have finished the bottle on a few more late-night sessions,” he speculated remorsefully.
“So what about cigarettes, would you have smoked more of them?” ann rea asked as they hobbled along the beach.
“God, no. Filthy habit. I’m glad I gave it up when I did. I haven’t smoked a fag in over thirty years now. Best thing I ever did. For one thing I was able to taste food for the first time in my life when I quit the ciggys. I never realised what I was missing, just being able to taste, to savour the true taste. But the main thing was losing the smell of that smoke from my clothes and from the house, no more horrible smells. Oh no, a filthy habit. But all those other things I sacrificed for a longer and healthier life, well I’m just saying maybe I shouldn’t have,” he concluded as he concentrated on manoeuvering his walking stick through the pebbles.
“Now teeth, there’s another thing for instance: we have absolutely no need for perfect teeth. For teeth which are going to last forever. Because we are not going to last forever. Or do we need to feel proud of having the best set of molars in the graveyard? Of course not. So why do we go through all that agony in the dentist’s chair? Is that a form of sadomasochism or what?” Daniel was on a roll, and a few steps and quite a time later, he continued with a variation on his theme.
“Another thing I’ve been thinking about recently. The Lord’s Prayer. I worked out the other night that I must have said it over twenty-five thousand times, that’s
once a day since I was seven, which I think worked out at 23,360, and so I rounded it up to cover all the emergencies when I really needed to say it. You know, like when you’re scared, like when Lila was ill, like when our daughter was, well you know, like when you’re in trouble. When you need a bit of spiritual comfort. Well, what I’d like to suggest to God is maybe I should have cut that down by half. I mean God, the God we pray to, he didn’t really protect me when I needed protection, he didn’t see our Lila through her illness, did he? She’d quite a few years of good-person credit which should have been taken into account. And my dad, a good man, a great man, when he was dying of cancer and his screams were filling our entire house and I was praying to God that he wouldn’t die because I’d have to go to the orphanage: did he help? No! So what was the use of all that praying?” Daniel stole a glance to the heavens as if to make sure he wasn’t offending anybody.
“It’s like you say, it’s comfort for you in your hour of need, it’s knowing that there just might be someone there you can talk to when you need to. It might even be yourself that you’re praying to,” ann rea offered.
“You might be correct, I certainly don’t know. But I just know that my days are a void now. I wake up realising that my life hasn’t ended during the night. I accept as I lie there that I have another day to face. I turn on Radio 4. I listen to that until seven-thirty. I get up, read the papers, have a cup of tea. Take a nap. Have a light lunch, maybe go out for a walk, or should I say hobble? Go down the shops, get a few bits and pieces, come home, have tea, watch TV, maybe have a drink. Go to bed at eight-thirty and wake up at five and start all over again.” There was no trace of moaning in Daniel’s voice, he was merely stating facts. He continued after turning to look at the sea.
