by Penny Kline
‘It’s got that far?’
‘Only an outline, possible pilot study in a cross-section of schools. The problem is it’d have to be a fairly long-term project, following up kids who’d been given some training in parenting, comparing them with… ’ He broke off suddenly. ‘Do you know, Anna, I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else but I wake in the night picturing the scene when the fire engines finally arrived. Wondering how it looked. How Maggie… I suppose Bill had to identify the body, what was left of it?’
‘She wasn’t burned,’ I said. ‘It was the smoke that killed her, fumes from burning upholstery, foam rubber.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Why couldn’t she escape then? Jump from a first-floor window? God, when they get the bastards who did it… ’
‘Could I ask you something, Terry? I feel as though I’m breaking a confidence but in the circumstances… A few days before she died Maggie phoned the Psychology Service and made an appointment to come and see me. I wondered if you had any idea why she would have done that.’
‘To see you in your professional capacity?’ He folded his arms. ‘Haven’t a clue I’m afraid. What sort of problem do people consult you about?’
‘Oh, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, family difficulties, eating disorders, the list’s endless. So Maggie didn’t say anything to you? I wondered who’d given her my name. Our secretary said she asked for me personally but that’s probably because she knew I was a friend of Owen.’
The car parked in front of Terry’s Morgan was filling up with noisy students. A boy, with a thick lock of black hair hanging over one eye, gave Terry a wave, using both hands and pulling a silly face. Terry nodded in acknowledgement, then asked where I had done my first degree.
‘London.’
‘But you decided Bristol would be more congenial.’
‘The job came up. I applied for it.’
‘No regrets?’
‘None. Well, not many.’
We laughed. Not because there was anything particularly funny. It was just a relief to stop talking about Maggie Hazeldean.
‘Oh, there was just one thing,’ said Terry. ‘Maggie had this friend, she never told me his name, but I got the feeling he was making things difficult for her, trying to persuade her to take things further when she just wanted a platonic relationship. You know how tricky that kind of situation can be.’
Chapter Eight
The letter had been posted in Bristol the previous day and addressed to Anna Macoll, Psychologists. It looked as if it had been written with an extra-fine black fibre-tip. Just three words in block capitals on a large sheet of unlined paper: LOOK FOR ROD.
I held it up to the light, searching for anything that might provide a clue as to the identify of the sender. The paper had been torn from a pad but there was no imprint from the previous page. I sniffed it. People often smell faintly of the powder their clothes have been washed in. A month after my mother died I had opened a drawer where she kept some of her clothes and been overwhelmed with misery by the familiar scent… The letter just smelled of paper.
Placing it between the pages of my desk diary I leaned back in my chair, adjusting the cushion to try to ease the backache I had woken up with that morning, and closed my eyes, going through a mental list of possible letter-writers. At least there was nothing overtly threatening about it. My first thought was that Paddy Jinnah must have found out something about a brown Allegro but since she had asked me to call round at the house she was hardly likely to have sent an anonymous note. And who was ROD? Someone connected with one of my clients? Someone connected with the fire? Since the note was in capitals it was difficult even to guess at what kind of person had written it. The letters were evenly spaced but slightly shaky. Someone old, with failing sight or, and this seemed much more likely, a right-handed person using his or her left hand, or the other way round.
None of the clients I was seeing at present seemed the kind who would send an anonymous letter. Then I remembered the Bakers. Could it be from Janice Baker? Or Trev? The bruise on Janice’s cheek had set off a few alarm bells. Maybe she was having an affair with someone called Rod and Trev had discovered what was going on and lashed out at her. But it was all pure speculation, without a shred of real evidence. Better to wait and see if a follow-up message came through the post. It could even be some kind of joke.
After work I was planning to call on Paddy Jinnah. I had a feeling her offer to keep a look out for the brown Allegro was not entirely altruistic. She needed me to help sort out the rows between Sibi and her father, and she wanted it done on her terms, on her territory, not in my office. Cross-cultural problems were always tricky. If someone turned up, say, to have a fixed idea about the role of women that was totally at odds with my personal beliefs, I had to make a supreme effort to overcome my wish to put my case. But in this instance I guessed the argument against arranged marriage had been won already: it was more about how much freedom a girl of Sibi’s age should be allowed.
Heather would know more than I did about current views on this subject, but when I asked her advice she was vague, preoccupied with Kieran, tired of worrying about Serena’s love life.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Anna. The trouble is they lie to you. Kids that age always lie. To tell you the truth I’ve more or less given up. Serena’s old enough to know what’s what. I’ve done what I can to warn her what men are like, now I’ll just have to hope for the best.’
‘Serena’s sixteen, isn’t she? What about a fourteen-year-old?’
She sighed, resting her elbows on her desk and screwing up her face. ‘Depends on the family. You see kids who look about eleven or ten out on the street till all hours.’
‘Yes, all right. The reason I’m asking — that woman who phoned yesterday, she’s married to a Pakistani and they’ve a daughter, roughly the same age as Serena, probably a little younger. Apparently the father’s got fairly fixed ideas about how teenage girls should behave.’
Heather swivelled her chair, revealing a hole in her tights, just above the knee. Her leg bulged through, like a small pink jellyfish.
‘Nice to think someone’s got even worse problems than I have,’ she said, yawning loudly. ‘Lisa thinks it’s all wrong, me going out with a man who owns a powerful motorbike. Not that I’d be seen dead on the back of it.’
‘You look tired.’
‘That’s a polite way of saying I look terrible. Why can’t life be more simple, why do we have to make everything so complicated?’
Shades of Terry Curtis. I waited for the explanation that never came. ‘What’s the problem? I thought you were hitting it off, you and Kieran.’
She gave a kind of snort. ‘Oh, it’s early days yet. By the way, he’s still looking for your man with the dog. Provides him with a perfect excuse to tour Bristol on the bike. You’ve given him a whole new interest in life.’
‘He hasn’t got a job?’
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? He used to drive a van. One of those fast-delivery jobs that guarantee your parcel will arrive within twenty-four hours. The man he worked for expected them to drive hundreds of miles each day. Kieran was worried about having a accident. A woman he knew had a bad one and someone pulled her out of the wreckage, only it was the wrong thing to do.’
‘Someone who drove a van like Kieran?’
‘Mm? No, no I don’t think so. Just a friend of a friend.’ Then she noticed my expression. ‘No, it was nothing to do with Kieran. It happened on the A38. She’d swerved to avoid someone overtaking in the opposite direction. Her neck was injured. She was paralysed. If they’d left her till the ambulance arrived she might have been all right.’
‘Or the car might have caught fire.’ I was just thinking about the lecture, the pink rubber woman. Kieran had told me he was there because he was afraid of coming across an accident and not knowing what to do. I felt much the same way myself but after what Heather had just told me I realized Kieran had an even stronger motivation to learn basic first aid.
&nb
sp; The phone started ringing. Heather made a face and lifted the receiver.
‘Psychology Service, how can I help? Oh, it’s you, Nick. How is she? Oh, Nick. Oh, I am sorry.’ She put her hand over the phone and mouthed the word ‘dead’ ‘Yes, of course I will. Your first’s at ten-fifteen. I’ll cancel the rest of the week. You’re sure? Yes, they’re all on the phone. Yes, of course.’
When she rang off we both spoke at once. ‘Poor Nick.’
‘I know.’ Heather stood up and started occupying herself, pulling out the filing-cabinet drawers, then letting them crash back into place. ‘She was well over seventy, you know. Must have had Nick when she was in her forties.’
‘He’s at the hospital now?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure. Anyway, he’s coming in when he’s sorted everything out. His father died when he was still at school so it’s not as though there’s anyone… ’ Her voice faded and she turned round, afraid that she had said quite the wrong thing.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I know what you mean.’
*
A key turned in the front door and Paddy raised herself from her chair and called over my head. ‘In here, Azim. We’ve got a visitor.’ Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I told him you might be coming but I don’t think he was listening.’
So far Paddy had mentioned something about a man with a shaved head and a car with a different-coloured panel, but any information she had to give me had been extremely vague, probably just a token attempt to cover up the real reason she had asked me round. Whatever she really wanted to say it was taking her a time to lead up to it, or had she been waiting for Azim to return, and was the whole subject of Sibi so fraught that it would have to be led up to with the utmost caution.
When Azim appeared he had taken off his shoes. The first thing I noticed, in spite of the lack of shoes, was that he was at least six inches taller than his wife. His dark trousers and green zip-up jacket gave him a slightly military appearance. He looked tired and his expression made it perfectly clear, that the last thing he wanted was to find a stranger sitting in his house.
I held out my hand but he ignored it, looking me up and down, then pulling out a chair at the opposite end of the table from Paddy. ‘She’s out again?’
‘Only at the sports centre, love. She always goes on Friday.’
‘We have a beautiful daughter,’ said Azim, addressing me in such a way that I realized he had remembered who I must be. ‘My wife thinks I live in the past, but the way I see it anything can happen, even with three girls together in a public place.’
Paddy stood up and opened a cupboard, lifting out a biscuit tin that seemed far too heavy to contain biscuits. ‘This is where I keep the evidence,’ she said, patting the lid.
‘Oh, not now.’ Azim was on his feet, but Paddy had no intention of being stopped in mid-flow.
‘People shouting abuse, making threats,’ she said angrily. ‘The police do nothing but one day when I’ve pieced it all together.’
‘What kind of threats?’ I said. ‘Who are these people?’
She stared at me as though I was slow-witted. ‘The ones that want Azim and the kids sent back to Pakistan, never mind the fact the kids have never even been there and Azim only once, on holiday. Azim thinks it’s not safe for any girl to go out, let alone our Sibi, but she can’t stay at home every evening.’
Azim glared at her. ‘She should see it’s for her own good. She’s too young, in much too much of a hurry.’ He banged his fist on the table and milk splashed out of the jug. ‘This person you’ve invited to the house, we can’t look after our own family without… ’
I pushed back my chair but Paddy put out a hand to prevent me from leaving.
‘Anna’s a psychologist, Azim. She’ll listen to your side, same as mine.’
I had no wish to seem unfriendly, especially since the last time I was in the area Sibi had pulled me from under the wheels of a car. All the same, if they wanted help they should have asked for a proper appointment.
‘Azim would never come to your office,’ said Paddy, sensing my reluctance to become involved. ‘Me, I’d be there like a shot, but Azim would call it washing your dirty linen in public.’
‘I never said that.’ Azim wrenched off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. ‘Once you get talking one thing leads to another. Isn’t that right? Once you start the cat jumps out of the bag.’
Paddy’s jaw tightened, threatening retribution after I had left if he dared to mention whatever it was she wanted kept secret. ‘It’s Sibi I’m thinking about,’ she said quietly. ‘Tell Anna how you think — ’ ‘You tell her!’ Azim had an obstinate look. ‘You can’t keep things in nice neat little packages. If it’s what you want you go and see the lady where she works, only tell her everything, not just all the things I do wrong.’
On the wall above his head a painting in bright acrylics had been given a frame that didn’t do the picture justice. It was like a mandala, composed entirely of birds and animals and crescent moons.
Paddy followed my eyes. ‘You like it?’
‘Yes, it’s beautiful.’
Azim snorted. ‘One I did just after we moved in. Now I have improved, I hope.’
‘Your work?’ I said. ‘How did you learn to paint like that?’
‘Just comes naturally, doesn’t it, love?’ Paddy reached across to pat him on the arm but he had turned away. ‘He paints his dreams. Wish I had dreams like that.’
‘And nightmares,’ said Azim quietly. ‘You can’t have one without the other.’
‘Look,’ I said, standing up and moving towards the door, ‘about Sibi, I’d like to help, but it has to be done properly. I could see you in my office — all of you, one of you, whatever you think’s best — or I could visit you here when Sibi’s at home.’
‘Fair enough.’ Paddy spoke quickly, eager to prevent Azim from butting in. ‘We’ll think about it, won’t we, love? Be in touch I expect, in a week or two maybe. Work every day, do you? How do you stand it? Still, if it’s what you’ve been trained for.’
She was talking fast, avoiding my eyes. As I was leaving I asked if she had heard of the Saturday club. There was just a chance Sibi’s brother, Rupal, might have attended it, although he was probably too old.
‘Saturday club?’ Paddy’s face looked flushed, but it could have been the effect of the red paper shade on the light in the passage. ‘That lady you mentioned, the one that died in the fire? We saw it in the paper. I hadn’t realized she worked at the club. I never met her, poor soul. Caught who did it, have they? No, I thought not. Never will, if you want my opinion, not a chance. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no special reason. I just thought since she worked with the Asian community — ’ I broke off. The term ‘Asian community’ sounded so cold, so detached.
‘Can’t help, I’m afraid.’ Suddenly she spun round, flicking her hair to show me how the braided plait at the base of her skull had disappeared. ‘Snipped it off this morning,’ she said. ‘Sibi’ll have a fit.’
I decided to risk one last question. ‘I was wondering, I don’t suppose you know anyone called Rod, do you, someone who lives round here?’
‘Rod?’ She gave me a long hard look. ‘I thought it was a bloke called Max you were interested in.’
‘Both really. Rod or Max. It’s just that you know this area far better than I do.’
‘How do you know these blokes live in Easton?’
‘I don’t, but I’ve got to start somewhere.’
She smiled but her voice had an edge. ‘So you can ask us as many questions as you like, but if we want to ask you any we have to do it through the right channels. Oh, sorry, love, take no notice. Not an undercover policewoman, are you? Only they don’t look like policewomen these days, more like ordinary human beings.’
Howard Fry was working late. ‘Come to talk about interviewing techniques?’ he asked, ushering me into his office and pulling out a chair, with an uncharacteristic flourish.
‘Really?’ He screwed the top back on his pen, then crossed to the window and drew the curtains, cutting out the yellow glare of the street lights.
‘Someone called Rod,’ I said, fingering the note in my pocket but with no intention of showing it to him. ‘Could be a member of a right-wing group. Possibly lives in Easton or somewhere nearby.’
‘What about him?’
‘You know someone of that name?’
‘Oh, I expect so. No face comes to mind just at the moment but if I ask one of my DCs to search the files… ’
‘No, don’t do that.’
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at a small cut on the back of his hand. ‘I wouldn’t, unless you could give me a good reason.’
‘It’s just a name that’s been mentioned. Some clients I’ve been seeing have complained about cars being driven too fast past their house, in a built-up area.’ ‘Where do they live?’
‘I told you. Easton.’
‘And they’ve mentioned someone called Rod?’
‘No. Yes. Look, it doesn’t matter.’ If I wasn’t careful he would employ his usual techniques and I would end up telling him, not just about the note, but about the brown Allegro, the man with a tattoo, and the toothmarks on my ankle which were fading but still clearly visible. Then he would start accusing me of making my own investigations into the activities of right-wing activists and, by implication, the fire in Bishopston. A lecture would follow, along the lines of ‘You stick to your job and I’ll stick to mine.’
‘Is that it, then?’ He stood up. ‘Oh, since you’re here… we have a regular caller, a woman in her late sixties who complains children have climbed over her fence and vandalized her garden. We used to look into her complaints but as far as Graham Whittle can tell they’re all inventions. What she calls her ‘garden’ is a small strip of bare concrete. Yesterday she came in to tell us someone had written obscene words on her front door. She’d washed them off, of course, so there was no point in anyone going round.’
