About half an hour after this dramatic and sensational display the police arrived to interview Tim. Arno led the way slowly and with the utmost reluctance along the gallery towards the boy’s room. As they approached the door, his steps became more and more sluggish until finally he stopped, turned to Barnaby and laid an urgent, detaining hand on the chief inspector’s sleeve.
‘He won’t be able to help, you know.’
‘Please, Mr Gibbs. We’ve been through all this downstairs.’
‘If you’re determined…would you…?’ Arno had moved some small distance away, beckoning. When the two men joined him he continued, lowering his voice. ‘I feel I should say something about his background. No one else here knows but it might help you to understand and be…you see I met him—well found him might be a better way of putting it—about six months ago.’
He paused, cupping his hands round his eyes like blinkers for a second, then continuing. ‘I’d driven the Master into Uxbridge—he was a hospital visitor, Thursday was his regular day—and we’d arranged to meet back at the car. There’s a public toilet nearby which I needed to use. As I went down the steps, three men came up. Big men. One of them had tattooed arms, red and blue. They were laughing—great rough shouts. Not humorous laughter but ugly.’
‘I used the urinal thinking the place was empty, then I heard whimpering coming from one of the cubicles. He was in there—Tim. His trousers were round his ankles and he was bleeding from the anus. They had…used him.’ Arno’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper. Barnaby leaned forwards, barely able to hear. ‘Some money as well…a five-pound note…there. I mean, wedged…it was vile.’
Arno broke off unable to continue. He produced a handkerchief and rubbed his eyes, turning his back while he did so. Picturing the scene, Barnaby felt the pity of it and even Troy was moved to sympathy—thinking, life’s a bugger and no mistake. After a few moments Arno apologised for the break in continuity and carried on.
‘He was in such pain and he didn’t understand. I’ll never forget how he looked…his eyes…it was like finding a child violated. Or a baited animal. As soon as he saw me, he started to scream. I tried to help him but he just hung on to the lavatory, his arms locked around it. I didn’t know what to do. I ran to the car park where the Master was waiting and told him what had happened. He came back with me. Tim had fastened the cubicle by then. The Master talked to him through the door for over an hour, even though he got some odd looks from the two or three men who came in during that time.
‘You never heard him speak, of course, Inspector—but he had the most remarkable voice. Not just mellifluous but with a great promise of kindness…of happiness even. And so compelling. You felt whatever he told you must be true. Eventually Tim unbolted the door. The Master comforted him, stroked his hair. Then after a little while we helped him dress, took him to the car and drove him here. May put him to bed and we cared for him. And have been doing so ever since.
‘Everything had to be sorted out with the Social Services of course. We all got a thorough going-over which I thought a bit ironical considering how the boy had been neglected before. Turfed out of the hospital, shoved into a bedsitter and visited once a week, if he was lucky, by a care assistant. We got his benefit book and details of his medication and that more or less was it. I think the fact that we’re a sort of religious organization swung it. They said we’d be checked up on from time to time but no one’s ever come. I expect they’re glad to have one less on their list.’
Arno paused then, with a look that plainly hoped this sorry tale would deflect Barnaby’s intention. As it became clear this was not the case he said: ‘Better come along then…’
Tim’s room was nearly dark. Through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, sunlight leaked to form buttery puddles on the sill. Arno pulled the velvet further apart. Only a little, but the humped form beneath the quilt twitched and shivered. The air was so smelly and stifling Barnaby longed to open the windows.
Arno approached the bed, uttering the boy’s name: a syllabic croon. He drew back the quilt, the floss of golden hair glittered on the pillow and Tim looked up, his eyes flying open like those of a mechanical toy. Barnaby heard a quick intake of breath behind him and was not unmoved himself—for the boy’s beauty, even disfigured by tears and grief, was remarkable.
‘Tim? Mr Barnaby would like to talk to you for a moment—it’s all right…’ The boy had already started to cower. Tim shook his head. There was a throbbing vein like a thin turquoise worm in his alabaster forehead.
‘I shall stay here,’ continued Arno.
Barnaby took a chair so that he would not be looking down on the boy and sat near the opposite side of the bed to Arno. At a nod from his chief, Troy withdrew to a far corner of the room, producing a notebook but without much hope.
‘I know you must be very unhappy, Tim, but I’m sure you’ll want to help us if you can.’ A ring dove’s voice, purling. Troy thought the station’d never credit this. Even so, Tim reached out and seized Arno’s hands in what appeared to be an absolute frenzy of alarm.
Arno had said the previous evening that this was his usual condition. But it seemed to the chief inspector, cautious though he had been, the boy’s fear was intensifying by the second. His staring eyes were shadowed by it and the throbbing vein became more pronounced. Barnaby gave it five then continued.
‘You understand what’s happened, Tim? That someone has died here?’
Another long pause then, on the palely illumined pillow, the anguished face turned. Tim’s cheeks were slobbered with tears. Brilliant dark blue eyes touched Barnaby’s, slid away, returned. The procedure was repeated many times. Finally the connection held and he seemed to be getting ready to speak.
‘Ask…ask…’
‘Ask who, Tim?’
‘Ask…her…don…’
The voice was but a tangled filament of sound, but Barnaby did not make the mistake of leaning closer. He just repeated his question, adding, now that he had a gender, ‘Do you mean May, perhaps? Ask May? Or Suhami?’
‘Neh, neh…’ Tim shook his head fiercely and the nimbus glittered and shone. ‘Askadon…askadon…’
Barnaby said, ‘Are you saying “accident”?’
‘No, Chief Inspector. He just—’
Arno broke off as Tim made an urgent strangled copy of the chief inspector’s words.
‘…mean ackerdent…ack…si…dent…’ Having got it right, Tim repeated the words more and more quickly, rising higher and higher on the scale until the three syllables became transformed into a stream of meaningless babble. His body was a single bolt of flesh beneath the quilt and his eyes rolled wildly. Arno gave Barnaby as near to a glare as a man of such equable temperament could muster, then stroked Tim’s forehead with an air of resentful protectiveness that said quite clearly, now look what you’ve done.
Barnaby sat stubbornly on for a further thirty minutes, even though he suspected that Tim would not speak coherently again. Although the boy soon grew quiet, slipping into a self-protective doze, the measure of Arno’s indignation did not abate and Barnaby felt the warmth of it across the narrow space.
He refused to feel guilty. He knew he had been right to question Tim and that he had done it in a tactful and humane way. The fact that the boy was mentally disturbed did not mean he was incapable of noticing what was going on. Of course Barnaby had not realised quite how disturbed he was. Even so…
At this point in his reflections he caught Troy’s eye. As was his wont, the sergeant immediately blanked out any expression that might give away his true feelings. His lids fell but not before his superior officer had caught an impatient and derisive gleam. Barnaby accurately translated: What a waste of frigging time.
But he was not at all sure that he agreed. It was hardly unimportant that Tim, closest of all to Craigie on the dais, saw his death as an accident. And surely there was, in Arno’s attitude, a much deeper anxiety than that caused by mere protectiveness?
No—Barna
by finally got up and moved towards the door, not a waste of time at all.
Hearing the news of Gamelin’s death, Christopher went searching for Suhami. Her room was empty and he finally discovered her on the terrace leading to the herb garden. May had tried to dissuade him from searching, saying, ‘She needs to be by herself. To take things in.’
Suhami did not turn as he approached but continued to stand motionless like a pillar of salt. He studied her profile. She looked very calm, wrapped in her own thoughts as tightly as the sari enwrapped her slender figure.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I don’t know.’ She turned then and he saw that she was not as composed as he had thought, but rather dazed. ‘I feel I’ve lost something but I don’t know what. Certainly not him…not him.’ The repetition was charged with a disconcerting mixture of bewilderment and satisfaction.
Christopher felt ill at ease. Her stillness seemed to him unnatural. He took her hand and said, ‘Let’s walk.’
They moved down the steps, avoiding outcrops of sempervivum and thrift, and into the garden proper. It was already very hot and the air was thick with the thrum of bees foraging among pink lavender and borage.
His future with Suhami was overwhelmingly on Christopher’s mind. Had the fact of her father’s death not arisen, he would have tried to discover how she now felt about leaving the commune. For it seemed to him that it was above all the presence of Ian Craigie that had held her there. Perhaps, even now, she would choose to stay. If that proved to be the case he would stay too for he was determined not to give her up. They sat down on a tiny circular lawn. A Catherine wheel of silver thyme and camomile.
‘How’s your mother taking it?’
‘She doesn’t know. Will told me first. He thought I’d be better able to handle things. I’ll break it to her when we go back. Or this afternoon. It’s not as if there’s any hurry…’
‘Is it true they were unhappy?’
‘They always seemed so. I can’t imagine anyone being anything else living with him.’ She turned, her expression strained. ‘Perhaps we’ll get like that.’
‘Never, ever.’ Christopher smiled, greatly encouraged by the ‘we.’
‘Other people’s lives. This is you and me. This…’ he placed his hand on the back of her neck, brought her close and kissed her. ‘Is you…’ his lips still hovered on her own, ‘and me.’
He was upset by her lack of response. Just the day before she had danced in his arms, almost ecstatic. He reached in the pocket of his jeans and tugged out a flat box wrapped in magenta tissue.
‘I bought these for your birthday. Before I knew who you really were. Then I felt I couldn’t offer them.’
‘But you were wrong.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who I really am.’ The box lay in her lap, ribbon looped around her finger. ‘That’s what the Master said we should find out. That’s what matters isn’t it, Christopher? Everything else is shifting sand.’
‘You can do the philosophical bit when you’re ancient. There’s no answers to the big questions anyway. Open your present.’
Suhami put the earrings on, delicate sprays of filigree, trembling little pearls. She turned her head this way and that.
‘You’re like a lovely temple dancer. Ahh, you’re so pretty Suze.’
She hung her narrow head, surrendering gravely to disbelief. Not protesting as pretty girls usually do.
‘What can I say to you?’ he despaired. She lifted her slender shoulders and laughed with humorous resignation. ‘Yesterday in the byre—’ he tried again.
‘Yesterday you saw how I used to be. Frightened, desperate, grabbing at happiness, at people. Frantic in case I was left alone. I can’t live like that any more Christopher, I just can’t. And I won’t.’
‘But there’s no need to be frightened. I’d never leave you—’
‘You say that now, perhaps it’s true. But people are no different from all other forms of life in that they’re changing all the time.’
‘That’s a bit pessimistic.’
‘No, it’s realistic. Obvious. Change in the only constant and I don’t want to live in fear of it.’
‘What about faith and hope?’
‘I’m not sure they’re relevant.’
‘That sort of stoicism’s for old men on the battlefield. Or neurotics. Afraid to start any sort of relationship in case it goes wrong. Ending up lonely and half-alive like—’
There was a long silence. The bees thrummed louder than ever. One of the fish jumped in the pond and plopped back. A breeze sighed. Suhami said, ‘I shall never end up like my mother.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re angry aren’t you?’
‘Of course I’m angry. I can see our future disappearing down the drain.’
‘You haven’t understood.’
‘I don’t think you know what you do want.’
‘I want…’ She recalled that single moment of illumination in the Solar. The Master’s words when they had talked together only twenty-four hours ago. His powerful conviction that beneath the restless tangled surface of her life lay all she would ever need to comfort and sustain her. ‘I want something that doesn’t come to an end.’
‘Everything comes to an end. Lesson One, Stoic’s Handbook.’
‘No, there’s something. It can be discovered and called on. I know that’s true. The Master called it the pearl of great price.’
How very unoriginal of him, thought Christopher. He reached forward and took hold of her plait, teasing out the soft hair that smelt of frangipani into a silky fan. ‘Why can’t we discover it together then? I’m interested in these matters too, you know. Why do you think I’m here?’ He tugged her closer. ‘We could go on a retreat for our honeymoon if you like.’
‘Honeymoon.’ Behind the word a flash of longing. Encouraged, Christopher pressed on.
‘You don’t have to be in a religious community to live a religious life. There are plenty of lay people who make room for prayer and meditation. Exist quietly and harmlessly. Why can’t we be like them?’ Suhami frowned. She seemed uncertain, a little confused. ‘Don’t you think in any case esoteric knowledge is written on the wind? If you’re facing the right direction on the right day, fine. If not…’
Suhami gave a half smile. She quite liked that way of putting it. It echoed the Master’s proposition: that the pursuit of the dream was not only useless but counter-productive.
Christopher returned the smile double, triple, manifold. His own was quick and bright; full of confidence. He had time on his side. And youth. And passionate determination. Surely in the end she would be his.
Returning to the house they found a confab going on in the kitchen. Everyone sat round the deal table making hay with Uncle Bob’s Treacle Delights whilst absorbing pungent distillations from the Arabica bean. After the proper expressions of surprise and pleasure at the sight of these secular delicacies, Suhami and Christopher helped themselves to coffee and shared the last biscuit. The conversation was about Trixie but directed at Janet who sat well back in her chair, looking more than a touch at bay.
‘Are you sure,’ Arno was asking, ‘that you got nothing intelligible out of her at all?’
‘She must,’ argued Heather, ‘have said something that made sense.’
‘People having hysterics don’t make any sense.’
The scene in question had been chewed on for nearly an hour and Janet was getting sick of it. The others had taken over the distressing and frightening episode in just the bustling and concerned way they seized on every opportunity for service. They didn’t seem to know the difference, Janet thought crossly, between benign interventions, bossiness and bullying. Mind you, it could be said she’d bullied Trixie pretty violently herself, though that had not been her intention.
When the shouting had started, Janet had rushed across the room calling out ‘Don’t, don’t!’ and stupid things like ‘It’s all right.’ Then she had seized Trixie’s shoul
ders, or tried to. But Trixie had wriggled and wrenched herself free, flailing her arms wildly, striking Janet on the side of the neck and making nonstop fear-filled shrieks. Her mouth was opening and closing like a fish and her blank eyes stared. It was the eyes, Janet thought afterwards, that made it possible for her to do what she had done—for there was no trace of Trixie in them at all.
Janet hadn’t meant to hit so hard. The palm of her hand still stung. She must have pulled her arm right back for, when the blow connected with Trixie’s cheek, the girl staggered two steps sideways and fell against the wall. It worked though, just like it always does in the movies. Trixie immediately stopped screaming, understanding came back into her eyes and a huge red patch flared on her cheek. Then the others arrived and Janet was pushed into the background.
Outside on the landing, trembling, gripping the gallery rail, she repeatedly relived the moment of violence. Previously sure she had acted on desperate impulse (anything to stop those awful, soulless cries), now other more complicated motives threaded their way into her consciousness. If she was honest she had to admit that the connecting moment had not been entirely without a certain satisfaction. Even a vengeful satisfaction. How terrible! Janet felt sick with shame at this insight. She had been unaware that her dry and profitless love cloaked hostility. Trixie was right to reject her friendship. She became aware that Arno was regarding her anxiously and forced a smile.
Actually Arno’s anxiety, and there was a lot of it, was pretty widely distributed. The fact that his gaze happened to alight on Janet was almost by the way. The largest object of his concern was, of course, the murder. Like most of the others, he believed Gamelin responsible and couldn’t decide whether the man’s death was a good thing or a bad. Good if the police also agreed that he was guilty, as that would remove the need for a trial and all the attendant publicity. Bad if they were not sure, for that would mean the investigation dragging on, and doing even greater damage to the community than had already been done.
Then there was this extraordinary business with Trixie. Arno had been very disturbed by the wild intensity of her reaction to Guy’s death. He was not at ease with the inexplicable or with sudden explosions of emotion, especially those that seemed to have no logical launching pad. After all, she’d hardly known the man. Even the lightning realisation, on hearing the sound of Janet’s single hand connecting so forcefully with a curved cheek, that he had at long last solved his koan, did not console. It simply threw the loss of his dear teacher into more painful perspective as he recognised with what joy he would have hurried to break the marvellous news. Arno turned back into the conversation—where it seemed Heather was expressing aloud the first of his concerns.
Death in Disguise Page 20
