He chortles. ‘So you’ve solved a case that the combined resources of the Met failed to solve thirty years ago.’
‘Yes, I think I have.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘you tell me, first.’
‘Fair enough,’ he agrees. ‘Actually, there’s not a great deal to tell. I estimated it would have taken at least a couple of gallons of paraffin to set the boat ablaze, and I tracked down the source of that paraffin to a general store on Bankside. The owner had left a callow youth in charge, and the woman …’ He pauses again, and examines my face. ‘I’m guessing you already knew it was a woman. Am I right?’
I nod. ‘My whole theory’s based on it being a woman,’ I admit.
‘So this woman must have known that the owner wasn’t there – and the boy was – before she ever entered the shop.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘She couldn’t have had enough ration coupons for that much paraffin. No single individual did. And she must have known that no shopkeeper would risk breaking the law, even if she was prepared to pay well over the odds, because things were very tightly regulated back then, and he’d have been bound to get caught and probably faced prison. But suppose financial gain is not your main concern, and your driving force is your raging hormones.’
‘The callow youth behind the counter,’ I say.
‘The callow youth behind the counter,’ he agrees. ‘He sees an attractive woman enter the shop, and those hormones go into overdrive.’ Bannister pauses. ‘Look, you’re a young lady …’
‘No, I’m bloody not.’
‘… and I’m an old-fashioned man,’ he continues, ignoring the comment, ‘so I’m not sure how I’m going to phrase this.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘She told him that if he gave her the paraffin she needed, she would pleasure him manually.’
‘She agreed to toss him off?’
He grimaces. ‘No.’
‘But I thought you said …’
‘She didn’t agree to it – it was her idea in the first place. The lad knew it was a mistake right from the beginning. He knew that he’d be caught in the end. But he just couldn’t resist. And that must have been part of her calculation.’
‘Did he tell you anything else?’
‘Yes, she’d brought a pram with her – one of those big solid ones they used to make before the war.’
Of course she had.
A Silver Cross.
The Rolls Royce of perambulators.
‘Did he see what was in the pram?’ I ask.
‘No, he only looked in its direction once, but she screamed at him not to do that.’
‘Would that kind of pram have been big enough to carry a small woman, do you think?’
‘I suppose it’s just possible, but it would have been very uncomfortable for her.’
‘Not if she was dead.’
‘No, not then.’
‘I think that what she had in the pram was an alcoholic called Jane and her baby,’ I say. ‘I think she dug them out of the rubble in Bombay Street, and pushed them out into the river on a burning boat.’
And then she went back to her own flat, where her own baby was crying, and Annie Tobin was waiting outside the front door. No wonder Grace had looked wild, and had spoken roughly to her.
‘Why did she do it?’ Bannister asked.
‘As a mark of respect,’ I say, and tell him about the traditions in which Grace’s Trinka nannies brought her up.
‘That all sounds a bit far-fetched, but then the truth often is,’ Bannister says. ‘Oh, by the way, there’s a postscript to the story.’
‘Yes?’
‘Just after the war, someone sent an envelope to the local nick with twenty pounds and a letter in it. The letter was printed in block capitals, and it said something along the lines of: “Please give this to Harry Driver, and tell him I’m sorry I had to burn his boat.” I thought at first that meant she must have known Harry, but, of course, it didn’t.’
‘No, she could simply have got his name from the newspaper.’
‘Exactly.’
I suppose I should be feeling triumphant, because I have solved a thirty-year-old mystery all on my own. The problem is that, by being proved right in this one part of the puzzle, I have effectively demolished my main theory.
According to that theory, Grace had to leave London in a hurry, and her reason for that was directly connected with the reason for her murder, nearly thirty years later. If I could find the motive for the former, I could deduce the motive for the latter, I’d told myself. But now I think I know the real reason she left, I can find no way to tie that in with the murder at all – because the only other person involved had already been dead for twenty-seven years by the time Grace was killed.
And it isn’t as if I’ve now freed myself to follow one of my other lines of inquiry, because there are no other lines. I have no idea why Grace Stockton was killed, and I have no idea where to even begin looking.
My best plan – my only plan – is to travel to Cambridge later today and tell my client that the situation is hopeless.
It’s not a meeting I’m looking forward to.
In many ways, Cambridge is similar to Oxford. It, too, has a river running through it, on which college rowing teams practice energetically at ungodly hours of the morning, and where young men punt young women up and down, in the belief that a dash of romance is the gateway to their knickers. It, too, has monumental buildings dating back seven hundred years, and bicycle thieves who work on an industrial scale. But there are differences, too. If you plan to be a comedian in later life, then Cambridge is the place for you. It certainly worked for Peter Cook, John Cleese and Eric Idle. If, on the other hand, you plan a life in politics, then you should probably choose Oxford – certainly our last five prime ministers seemed to think so!
All these thoughts flit through my mind as I wait for my client in the bar of the University Arms, one of Cambridge’s finest hotels.
Julia walks in. Her entrance causes heads to turn and conversations to be suspended mid-sentence. It is hardly surprising, because she is wearing an expensive blue suit in which she looks sensational, and strides across the room as if she were the mistress of the galaxy.
What woman wouldn’t want to be her? What man would consider it anything but a great honour to be selected as her devoted slave?
It is only when she sits down opposite me that I can see the uncertainty in her eyes.
A waiter is instantly hovering in attendance, and she immediately orders a double scotch.
She knows what I’m going to say, I think, or at least believes there’s a possibility I might say it – and she’s dreading that.
‘Did you see the Archaeology and Anthropology Museum when you were coming here?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘It’s just down the road, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. I would sometimes catch myself thinking that the main reason my mother came to Cambridge was not to see me at all, but to visit that museum.’ Her scotch has arrived, and Julia lifts it from the tray and takes a deep slug before putting it on the table. ‘And at times like those, I wondered if it was all my fault – if I had tried hard enough to make her love and respect me.’
This is a new Julia I am seeing. Gone is the confident Dr Pemberton, and in her place is a worried little girl – which is going to make what I have to say all that much harder.
‘It was foolish of me, of course,’ Julia continues. ‘She did love me – deeply – but she couldn’t show it.’
I know I shouldn’t ask her why she didn’t show it – I don’t even want to know the answer – but I hear myself saying it, anyway.
‘The Trinka woman has two duties,’ she explains. ‘The first is to give her husband whatever he wants, because, as her protector, that is no more than his due. The second is to educate her children, from an early age, to rely on no one but themselves until they marry, because life is hard and there might come a point at which t
hey have to manage on their own. So while it is permissible to show interest and affection to other people’s children, your duty to your own is to prepare them for the difficulties that could lie ahead.’
‘I can see that,’ I say, ‘but England isn’t Papua New Guinea, and your mother wasn’t a Trinka.’
It was a stupid comment to make, and I regret it the moment it has left my mouth. But Julia does not look offended or hurt in any way. Instead, she merely seems eager to explain.
‘You’re right, my mother wasn’t a Trinka in the true ethnic sense,’ she agrees. ‘But her parents were so busy trying to convert the natives to Christianity that they left most of her upbringing to her Trinka nannies. I think it would be fair to say that my grandparents’ labours only resulted in one real convert – and that conversion, in their terms, was in totally the wrong direction.’
‘We need to talk about what I’ve found out,’ I say.
She nods, reluctantly, and takes another swig of her whisky.
I describe the course of my investigation, and when I reach the part about setting the rowing boat on fire, she nods again.
‘Was this girl Jane my mother’s kimpum?’ Julia asked.
‘Her what?’
‘Her kimpum. It’s a sort of spiritual sister. They both wear bracelets out of their intertwined hair.’
‘And did your mother have one of these bracelets?’
‘No, but if you’re right about what happened, she wouldn’t have, because once your kimpum dies, the bracelet must be destroyed.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you there,’ I say.
‘I think this Jane must have been her kimpum,’ Julia says, reflectively. ‘After all, she rescued her from the gutter, and showed her all the proper respect when she died.’
‘I think you’re right,’ I agree.
‘The proper respect,’ she repeats. She smiles – a little sadly. ‘Throughout my childhood, whenever one of our family pets died, my mother would build a small raft, fasten the animal to it, set it on fire, and push it out into the river. We had to stand on the bank and watch, until it sank. Sometimes, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, we could smell the burning flesh, but my mother refused to let me leave until it had disappeared below the water line. I haven’t had a pet since I left home – I’ve wanted to, but I know that if I had one and it died, I’d have to perform the ritual. It’s not logical, but I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.’
We’re all screwed up by our parents, I think, but Julia Stockton’s mother seems to have done a particularly professional job on her.
‘I’m a scientist,’ Julia says. ‘I don’t believe in the Trinka gods or any other gods, but if I’m entering a building I’ve never been to before, I have to walk around it once in a clockwise direction and once anticlockwise. And that’s only a ritual I recognize! I’m sure there must be half a dozen more I don’t even know that I’m enacting.’
‘How did you get on with your father?’ I ask – knowing it’s none of my business, but once more unable to stop myself.
She smiles, and – for just a moment – her face is at peace. ‘My father gave me – and my mother – his uncritical, unreserved love,’ she says. ‘He is a truly wonderful man.’
We’re still putting off the inevitable. Well, here goes.
‘I’ve gone as far as I can with the investigation,’ I say.
She should have been expecting something like this, but she still rocks in her seat as if she’s been punched in the stomach by an invisible hand.
‘I sometimes find, in my line of work, that if you try looking at the problem from an entirely new angle …’ she begins, with a hint of desperation.
‘There are no other angles,’ I say firmly. ‘I have absolutely no idea at all where to look next.’
‘Perhaps if you went back to the school where she worked … What was it called?’
‘The Lady Margaret School.’
‘Perhaps if you went back to the Lady Margaret School—’
‘I’m sorry,’ I interrupt her. ‘I know you’re desperate to track down your mother’s killer – maybe to prove to yourself that you love her, maybe because it’s a Trinka thing – but there’s nothing more I can do.’
She smiles sadly again. ‘I think it may be both those things driving me – or perhaps they’re just two different sides of the same thing,’ she says, ‘but if you say there’s nothing more to be done, well, you’re the expert, and I just have to take your word for it.’ Another smile from her – and this time, a creditable attempt at a brave one. ‘We all reach a point when we have to accept that the experiment is never going to work.’
She reaches into her handbag, and takes out her cheque book.
‘I haven’t had time to itemize my bill yet,’ I tell her.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says, uncapping her fountain pen and filling out the cheque. ‘I just want it over with.’
She rips out the cheque, and hands it to me.
I quickly scan it.
‘This is at least two hundred and fifty pounds too much,’ I protest.
‘You’ve worked very hard, and if you’ve failed, it’s only because I’ve set you an impossible task.’
‘I still can’t accept it,’ I say firmly.
She stands up. ‘Please take it – if only for me. And if you don’t want it, donate it to your favourite charity.’
She doesn’t shake hands, but turns and walks quickly away. I can tell from the way her shoulders are heaving that she’s sobbing her heart out.
I catch the train home weighed down by my own defeat.
The buffet car is closed – ‘We just couldn’t get the staff today,’ the ticket collector tells me, without an ounce of sympathy – so I don’t even have the consolation of a gin and tonic.
I slouch in my seat, feeling thoroughly miserable. I want to tear up Julia Pemberton’s cheque, but I can’t do that because I’m owed – and need! – some part of it. But what should I do with the rest?
Tell my bank to keep it?
No, the bank’s rich enough already.
Hand the cash over to the first person I meet on the street?
No, I’ve never been big on making dramatic gestures.
And suddenly, I have a great idea – a world class of an idea.
True, it will involve poking my nose into someone else’s business, and attempting to change – uninvited and probably unwelcomed – the course of a fairly miserable life, but what the hell.
I definitely shouldn’t do it – I know that – but nothing’s going to stop me now.
PART FIVE
Friday 31st October, 1975
TWENTY-NINE
I’d swear that when I was a kid, shops didn’t start filling their display windows with Christmas decorations until well into December, yet here we are, on the last day of October, and already some of the shops on Borough High Street have cotton wool snow stuck to their windows, and stuffed reindeers vying for space with unconvincing snowmen.
Dear God!
And yet, I suppose, it is in some ways fitting for the occasion, since my own mission of the day is to act as a kind of Santa Claus, albeit one that (possibly) will not be welcomed at all.
I am standing outside the building which houses the offices of Campion, Campion and Blaine (Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths), and in my hand I’m holding a ticket-sized envelope which looks, on the face of it, perfectly harmless, but in fact contains what could turn out to be a veritable bombshell for its intended recipient – and for those connected to her.
I glance down at my watch. It has just gone twelve o’clock, which – on this routine-driven island of ours – means that for ninety-nine per cent of office workers, it is the start of the lunch break.
The revolving door of the building turns, and disgorges two young men wearing suits which won’t have cost them an arm and leg, but are still smart enough and confirm them as members of the reasonably well-paid clerical class. They turn sharp ri
ght, and I’d bet good money that they’re heading straight for the pub, which is located four doors up.
Their appearance is followed by that of three young women, who are already in deep conversation when they hit the street. The women cross the road, still chattering, and I guess they are heading for the Cosy Tea, which, I noticed when I was passing it, offers a lunchtime special.
Two more women, slightly older than the first three, come out next. They look first across the street and then down it, as if weighing the merits of a pint and a pasty against those of a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. In the end, they plump for the pint and pasty, which I personally consider a wise choice.
And, finally, Annie Tobin leaves the building – a mouse, emerging cautiously from its hole. She is alone – which does not surprise me in the least – and is carrying a large paper bag in her hand. She sits down at a bench no more than ten yards from the office. She opens the bag – clumsily, because she’s wearing home-knitted gloves – and extracts a sandwich which seems, on first inspection, to be rather heavy on thick-sliced bread and very light on interesting filling.
I sit down beside her, and say, ‘It’s a bit of a chilly day to be eating outside, isn’t it, Annie?’
She jumps, startled.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says. ‘Young Mr Campion’s made it quite plain to all the staff that he doesn’t want any of us eating our food in the office, so there’s not much choice, is there?’
‘There’s no choice about leaving the office, but you could go to the pub or the café with your mates,’ I say.
She shrugs, helplessly. ‘I suppose I could, but they’re not really my mates. Besides, my mother made me these sandwiches.’
Oh, well that explains everything. Her mother made it, and the only way she can show her gratitude for this almost unbelievable act of kindness is by chomping her way through the unappetizing parcel of starch she is holding in her hands.
I pass her a leaflet. ‘Look at this.’
She scans it. ‘It’s a brochure for a singles’ cruise of the Mediterranean,’ she says.
‘That’s right.’
She looks at it again.
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