by Penny Kline
Then, all at once, his expression became serious. This work you’re doing for the CID,’ he said, ‘you’re not overdoing things, are you? How much of your time is it taking up?’
‘It’s not interfering with my other clients,’ I said defensively.
‘No, I wasn’t suggesting it was, but if Howard Fry keeps putting pressure on you to get more out of the Luckham girl … How much does he really know about how we work? There’s so much rubbish talked these days, as if psychology was on a par with chemistry and physics, although we know it’s more of an art.’
‘Not everyone would agree with that, Nick.’
‘Oh, come on, all the research shows it’s the relationship between psychologist and client that counts, not the appliance of science. Anyway, from what you were telling me about the Luckhams, Fry seems to expect miracles.’
I glanced round, then suggested Nick keep his voice down. It was unlikely that anyone who knew the Luckham family would be sitting in the White Hart, but Sally’s attempted abduction had made the local paper so the name might be familiar.
‘I can handle Howard,’ I said.
Nick raised his eyebrows. Actually I’ve never been too sure about you and Fry. No, don’t say anything, apart from telling me to mind my own business.’
‘I had a letter from Owen,’ I said. ‘It’s winter in Melbourne. I never thought it got that cold in Australia but apparently the fountain in the centre of the city has frozen over. Of course, being Owen, he hadn’t even packed his coat.’
‘How long is he there for?’
‘Until the end of September. He had a few invitations to stay with people but he’s rented a place, prefers it that way.’
‘Missing him?’
‘Of course.’
Nick gave me a funny look. ‘He’s good for you, you know.’
‘So people keep telling me. Now, what’s all this about?’ I pointed at the new clothes and trendy hairstyle.
‘You know me, Anna, like to keep up standards. No, seriously, with the work we do, I think it’s important to look on top of things, make sure the clients don’t start reversing roles.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning nothing. Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m talking about myself, not you. Last week this woman I’ve been seeing, seventy if she’s a day, brought me a present, a sweater she’d knitted and two pairs of socks.’
I laughed. ‘Oh come on, everyone has clients like that. Miss Simpson, was it, the one who has panic attacks in the library? You’re the little boy she never had. Anyway, it sounds as if she’s feeling a whole lot better.’
Nick stood up to buy more drinks, but I indicated it was my turn. ‘What d’you want, another half?’
‘No, one’s my limit or I doze off during the afternoon. Just an orange juice, thanks.’
I reached down to pick up my bag but it had slipped under the chair, or so I thought. It wasn’t on the spare seat either, or across Nick’s side. I started to panic.
‘My bag’s gone.’
‘It can’t have.’ Nick had his head under the table. ‘Sure you brought it with you? You could’ve just put your purse — ’
‘No, I never leave it at the office.’ I stood up and looked round wildly, trying to remember who had been sitting near us, or anyone who had walked past. It was no good. I had been too busy thinking about Nick to take in what was happening round about me.
‘That old bloke, who always wears a hat, was sitting over there,’ said Nick, indicating a wooden bench a few yards away.
‘Harold? He’d never do a thing like that. Who else was here? Anyone you’ve never seen before?’
‘Don’t think so. Couple of middle-aged women, but they didn’t come close enough to steal a bag. Oh, there was one person. A woman.’
‘What did she look like?’ My heart had started to race.
'No idea, I’m afraid. She had her head turned away so I never saw her face. Brown hair, I think, tied back, and it looked exceptionally shiny, like in a shampoo ad, although real hair hardly ever looks that way.’
‘You’re sure it was tied back?’
‘Yes, I think so. Oh, and glasses, dark ones, like a washed-up actress pretending to hide from all her fans. She was wearing high heels, I’m certain about that, and she seemed to be having difficulty keeping her balance. She bent down and I thought her foot must have slipped out of her shoe. Oh God, you don’t think …’
Chapter Seven
Howard Fry was unavailable. Not that he was likely to have much interest in the loss of my bag, but Nick’s description of the thief was another matter. When I started to explain to the desk sergeant, a gloomy-looking man I had never come across before, he suggested I talk to DS Whittle. ‘If you’d like to wait in here, love, I’ll see if he’s free.’
The interview room was stuffy and smelled of disinfectant, and when Graham Whittle arrived the first thing he did was to fling open a window.
‘Right, Anna, how can I help? Howard’s in a meeting but I’m sure you can talk to him later. Of course, if it’s urgent … ’
‘It’s not.’ I told him what had happened and he tactfully resisted the temptation to point out that I had provided even less in the way of a useful description than Sally Luckham had been able to do.
‘I don’t even remember seeing the woman,’ I said, ‘but Nick thought she was wearing dark glasses and had shiny brown hair.’
‘So you put two and two together and made … Sorry, you’re thinking it could be the same person that tried to snatch the Luckham girl. Well, I suppose it’s a possibility.’ I could tell he was just being polite. ‘But surely there must be thousands of women in Bristol with shiny brown hair, whatever that may mean. Anyway, you’ve been in touch with the bank, I hope, about your credit cards? How much cash was there?’
‘Oh, only six or seven pounds.’
‘But it’s a nasty experience,’ he said. ‘Address book? Letters?’
‘Lottery ticket,’ I said. ‘I only buy one once in a blue moon. I’ve tried to forget the numbers — just in case they come up this week — but no matter how hard I try they’re imprinted on my brain.’
‘Worked out a special system, have you, or do you use people’s birthdays? They say you shouldn’t do that, too many people pick the lower numbers. Any other valuables?’
I shook my head. ‘Library card, video rental membership, couple of first class stamps. Is there any more news about the missing girl?’
Graham was making a few notes. He looked up, trying to remember something. ‘What did Sally Luckham say about the driver’s hair?’
‘Brown. Tied back. Glossy.’
He nodded. ‘Geena Robson’s mother received another silent phone call, but Howard thinks it’s unlikely to have much significance. Phone calls, anonymous letters, it’s always the same with a case like this. If people understood how it interfered with the real evidence, not that there is any real evidence, just reports from various parts of the British Isles, people claiming to have spotted a girl answering Geena’s description. Nothing we’ve followed up has come to anything.’
‘Mrs Robson lives alone, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Husband moved in with another woman two years ago, but we’ve checked and double-checked that angle.’
He pushed aside his notebook, as if to indicate he was changing from a policeman into a friend.
‘Howard said anything recently? I know his wife’s moved to Scotland. Must be hard for him to see the boy.’
‘You’ll know more about it than I do then, Graham. Why the interest?’
‘Oh, I just wondered … He’s been a bit ratty just recently.’
‘He’s always ratty.’
Graham grinned. ‘Yes, but the rattiness usually comes and goes. During the last month or so it’s become a permanent fixture.’
‘He accused me of giving Sally Luckham some kind of psychological treatment when what was wanted were a few hard facts.’
‘Yes, but he
rates you, Anna. I heard him talking about you, only last week, on the phone to the Assistant Chief Constable.’
‘You mean he has a passing interest in psychological techniques.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that. With Howard it’s a question of reading between the lines. The hidden agenda — isn’t that what they call it?’
‘You tell me, Graham, you know him far better than I do.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, no, I definitely wouldn’t say that.’ And he was off on a familiar story about the first time he and Howard Fry had met, and how Howard had confused him with someone who had been locked up in the cells the previous week.
When the story finally came to an end he asked about the uniformed constable he had referred to me about a month ago.
‘No details, Anna, just wondered if he got to you all right. He hasn’t said anything about an appointment.’
He was talking about one of his colleagues, a young PC who had witnessed a nasty pile-up on the motorway and was having recurrent nightmares. Graham had suggested he get in touch with the Psychology Service and the man had arrived for his first appointment, convinced I possessed some miraculous technique and that one forty minute session would rid him of his bad dreams for ever. Needless to say, the road traffic accident had turned out to be the least of his problems.
‘I’ve seen him once,’ I said, ‘but I’ve a feeling he was afraid it might be held against him, seeing a psychologist. Go down on his record, make him appear unstable.’
‘We’re not like that.’ Graham looked outraged. ‘I’ll have a word, shall I?’
‘No, don’t do that. I think I managed to convince him there wouldn’t be a problem. As a matter of fact I’m seeing him again later in the day.’
‘Good. Now, to return to your bag. We’ve got a description so it’s possible the bag itself may be handed in, although it’s unlikely the cash and cards will still be there.’
‘I’m not all that bothered about it,’ I lied. ‘Just tell Howard about the woman with brown hair and dark glasses’
‘It’s August. Plenty of people wear sunglasses.’
‘In the pub?’
We were walking down the corridor. A door squeaked open and Graham seemed to know who would be coming out. ‘You can tell him yourself,’ he whispered, ‘and now’s your chance to meet Ritsema. I know Howard’s been looking forward to introducing him.’
DCI Ritsema turned out to be rather different from what I was expecting. Broadly built with a small moustache and very little hair, he looked more like a kindly uncle than a bullying cop. Graham explained about the bag and, while Howard gave the impression he was barely listening, Ritsema seemed surprisingly keen to talk to me.
His office was on the first floor. Compared with Howard’s obsessionally tidy room it was a mess. Folders and files lay in piles on the floor and the desk was covered with more papers and the remains of a cheese and pickle sandwich.
‘My daughters,’ he said, picking up a large photograph that had fallen on its face. ‘Fifteen and thirteen, just the age they think they’ve the right to do whatever they like. Reckon that’s why the Geena Robson case has got to me a bit.’
‘Yes, I can understand that.’
‘You can?’ I wondered if he was being sarcastic, but his expression was serious. ‘Expect Howard told you how I mishandled the interview with Sally Luckham.’
‘She’s not the easiest of people,’ I said, hoping it would help the two of us to get off to a good start. ‘I mean, it’s not that easy persuading her to talk.’
‘You can say that again.’ He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand and I wondered if he had a headache. ‘Perhaps she’s told us everything she saw. This description of the car — think it rings true, or has she started inventing things, just to get us off her back?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it’s worth talking to her again, if only to establish how consistent her story is.’
He stood up and walked towards the window. When he turned round he had his arms folded and I could see how Sally might have been intimidated by him. Most of the muscles in his face remained very still when he talked, but at the end of each sentence he had a way of moving his mouth, almost as if he was sucking a boiled sweet.
‘Yes, keep trying,’ he said. ‘Joan Robson seems to have virtually given up hope. I suppose because she’s so certain her daughter wasn’t the type to just run off without leaving a message or getting in touch later on, but if it was one of mine … You think you know your own kids, but once they’re teenagers they start to clam up, never tell you a bloody thing.’
‘They need some privacy, want to assert their independence.’
‘Oh, I know the psychology of it,’ he said gloomily. ‘Doesn’t make us parents feel any better though, does it? S’pose you think it should.’
*
As it turned out my policeman client was late. Perhaps he had lost his nerve and decided one visit was enough. The waiting room was empty, apart from Heather tidying up the old copies of Woman and Woman’s Own that were passed on to her by a neighbour.
‘Your client’s in the loo,’ she said.
‘Oh, that’s where he is.’
‘He? Oh, heavens, Anna, your policeman changed to Wednesday so I booked in someone new. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘It doesn’t matter, but who is it? Who made the referral?’
‘Oh, that’s easy, she referred herself. She said you’d know who she was so I assumed you must have talked to her before. Her name’s Ros Bryce.’
I could hear footsteps in the passage and when I put my head round the door a woman was standing in the entrance hall, staring at her feet.
‘Mrs Bryce?’
‘I’ve come to see Dr McColl.’ She made it sound like a dreaded appointment with her dentist.
‘I’m Anna McColl,’ I said, holding out my hand, ‘if you’d like to come upstairs?’ With my foot on the first step, I turned to smile at her but she was busy adjusting her shoulder bag, pulling the strap closer to her neck, then smoothing the lapel of her jacket.
Once inside my room she started talking even before she sat down. ‘I’ve no idea why I’m here or what I’m supposed to say. Stephen’s always been interested in psychology, psychotherapy, all that kind of thing, but I think Freud just succeeded in making life more complicated. Civilisation and its Discontents: have you read it? Yes, of course you have.’
So she read Freud. Suddenly, instead of being a sceptical, rather aggressive woman, who had come to prove I was no use to her, she turned into someone of more than average interest.
‘What was it that decided you to make an appointment?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I did it to get Stephen off my back. For some obscure reason he seems to think I’m incapable of sorting out my own life. Coming here was part of the bargain. Now he’s agreed to leave me in peace.’
She knew what she was saying was illogical. There was no need for her to come and see me. She could simply have told Stephen she no longer wished to have anything to do with him.
I pulled out a chair, but she continued to stand. ‘In due course, I suppose there’ll be a legal separation,’ she said, ‘and, if Stephen wants it, a divorce.’ Snapping open her bag she reached inside and retrieved two rather grimy-looking tablets.
‘Would you like some water?’
‘No, thank you, I don’t need water. I’ve been getting bad headaches, you’ll say it’s psychosomatic, nervous tension, but it could just as well be my reading glasses. I should’ve had my eyes re-tested months ago.’
She was older than her husband, or perhaps it was her rather old-fashioned clothes that made her seem older. Her wiry brown hair came to just below her ears and I guessed, although I could have been quite wrong, that she had worn it in the same style most of her adult life. She sat down at last, smoothed her skirt over her knees, then adjusted her belt and checked that all the buttons were done up on her light blue school-style blouse. Everything about her was extrem
ely neat — even, I suspected, the inside of her handbag. The tissue she took out had been folded twice. She placed it on her knees, then changed her mind and pushed it up her sleeve.
‘How much has Stephen told you?’ she asked. ‘No point in boring you, going over the same ground all over again. We’ve been married eleven years. I’m two years older, but people tend to think the age difference is greater. We met at Glastonbury, on a weekend retreat. We’ve no children, so when we moved out of the vicarage there was no great organizational problem, apart from what to do with the furniture.’
‘Even so, it must have been difficult for you when your husband decided to give up his job.’
She said nothing, just nodded vaguely and focused her gaze on one of the pictures on the wall. Her eyes were slightly red-rimmed, but it could have been due to an allergy rather than the result of crying. On the other hand, perhaps it was easier to break down while she was driving along in the car, rather than in someone else’s home.
‘Stephen’s an intellectual,’ she said at last, ‘interested in ideas and complicated theological debates. I suppose I’m more unquestioning. A simple faith, isn’t that what they call it?’
First impressions made this statement difficult to believe. It was as if she was inviting me to treat her the way she felt she had been treated by everyone for years: the model vicar’s wife who could be relied on to support her husband and carry out whatever duties were required, while Stephen wrote his books and sermons and played the role of a spiritual leader. I wanted to ask her about the events leading up to Stephen’s resignation. I had looked up accounts of the story in the national press and discovered the usual veiled hints that some personal indiscretion could have been involved and it was not just a question of the bishop’s disapproval of his book, but not a single investigative journalist had managed to come up with any specific accusation.
