by Penny Kline
She had turned away from me and was looking through the window, breathing fast. ‘Oh, by the way.’ Her voice shook a little and just for a moment I thought I could sense fear. ‘Have you seen Stephen recently? How’s he getting on? No, I’m sorry, it’s nothing to do with me, just as long as he’s all right. He must miss the parish. He was so involved with his parishioners, with the old people of course, but I always thought he was particularly good with the families. He told you, I expect, the reason we never had children. They say there’s a new technique they can use these days, even when the sperm are practically non-existent, but I don’t imagine the success rate is very high.’
*
When I returned home my neighbour from the ground floor was watering her pinks. She asked after Owen, then started talking about the woman who had moved into one of the flats opposite.
‘She works at the university, Anna. I wondered if Owen knew her.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Canning? Canford? She was telling us how she’s written a book on genius, people who’ve written music or made scientific discoveries.’
‘Really?’ I wanted to go up to my flat, but it was some time since Pam and I had had a proper chat. ‘What’s her thesis? I mean, how does she think genius comes about?’
‘That’s just it, Anna, I didn’t expect her to tell us very much. I mean, it’s not as though I know anything about that kind of thing, but Janos was there and he seemed interested, and once she’d got going …’ She tipped the last drops from her watering can. ‘She thinks it’s all a question of parents encouraging their children, giving them plenty of stimulation.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s right in the sense that someone would be unlikely to become a concert pianist if his or her parents had never been able to afford piano lessons.’
Pam thought about this. ‘Yes, but would the same thing apply if you gave a boy a microscope or a chemistry set?’
‘Who knows?’ The woman opposite sounded woolly-minded, but perhaps it was unreasonable to write her off on the basis of Pam’s understanding of her work.
My phone had started ringing. I leapt up the steps, two at a time, wrenched open the door, and got there just as the answering machine had started its stilted, slightly embarrassing message. It was Stephen Bryce.
‘It’s about Clare,’ he said. ‘She’s received some kind of anonymous letter and she seems to be working herself up into a bit of a state. I‘m going round there, I wondered if you would come too.’
‘What does it say, this letter?’
‘She wouldn’t tell me. She was crying, so was the baby. It all sounded a bit fraught. I know it’s a bit much to ask, but I thought if we both went round. The letter — it could be something to do with Tom.’
It was starting to get dark. I stood on the pavement, watching the dipped headlights of each approaching car, trying to guess if it was Stephen’s. While I waited I tried to work out the real reason Ros had been to see me again. To talk about her and Stephen, that was what she had said, but, apart from a brief reference to their childlessness, everything she said had been about Tom Luckham. When she asked if I had seen Stephen, the question had been followed at once by an insistence that I respect his privacy. Even so, she had probably noticed enough in my expression to convince her that Stephen and I had been in touch with each other. Had I imagined her anxiety? Was she worried in case Stephen had told me something that she would prefer me not to know? Perhaps she felt she had given too much away the time she had angrily described Tom as ‘a failed artist’.
In the end Stephen’s car came from the opposite direction I had been expecting.
‘Took a wrong turning,’ he said, pulling up sharply and winding down the window. ‘Thought I’d found a short cut, then got confused by all the one-way streets.’ He opened the passenger door and waited impatiently while I fastened the seat belt. ‘Sorry to force you out like this, only if the police are going to be involved I feel Clare may need some guidance.’
‘You told her to call the police?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I told her to do nothing, not until we’d had a chance to discuss what had happened. The letter was waiting for her when she returned from work. It came through the post, a Bristol postmark, and the actual message seems to have been made up from letters cut from glossy magazines.’
‘Where does Clare work?’ I asked.
‘In a factory that makes crackers and party novelties. Not really a factory, most of the work seems to be done by hand.’
‘I thought you said she worked in a shop.’
‘She used to.’ He slammed on the brakes, just in time to miss a black and white dog meandering across the road. ‘Up to last Christmas. Then she fell out with her employer. I forget exactly what happened. She was unemployed for a time, but she’s a pretty determined girl. Around the end of January she found this new job, seems to enjoy it, mainly for the company, I expect — and the money of course.’
It took less than ten minutes to reach the hostel. Clare was up in her room. So were Wesley and Marion Young. Stephen started to introduce me to Marion, then stopped, probably wondering if we had met already, and if so, whether Wesley knew about it.
‘Anna McColl,’ I said, holding out my hand.
Marion took it in a firm grasp. ‘I believe you’ve met my husband.’
Clare was sitting on a floor cushion, with her knees pulled up under her chin, and Wesley, who had let us into the room, was holding the offending letter. He handed it to Stephen and I read it upside down.
It was brief and to the point. ‘ANY MORE LIES AND I’LL SHUT YOUR MOUTH FOREVER’. The letters looked as if they had been cut out by a child who had only just learned how to use a pair of scissors. The paste had spread out and dried in greyish blobs.
‘Some nut case,’ said Clare, calmly picking bits of dust off her skin-tight shorts.
Stephen had told me she was in a terrible state, but if anything, she looked slightly bored. ‘Anyway, I feel sorry for the poor cow,’ she muttered. ‘S’pose she thought I wouldn’t dare tell anyone, just sit here shivering in me shoes.’
The rest of us exchanged glances.
‘You must tell us who you think it was,’ said Marion, lifting the baby out of his cot. She glanced at Stephen, wanting him to back her up, and he nodded slowly, then folded his arms.
Clare gave a kind of snort. ‘When I opened it I got a right shock, I can tell you. Even thought whoever sent it might be on their way round. Then, when I’d calmed down, I realized that was crazy. I mean, if she don’t want me to know who she is she’s not likely to come here, is she?’
Wesley had been standing with his back to the rest of us, looking through the window. When he turned round I noticed how tired he looked. The bright-eyed expression I had noticed, when I called round at the shop, had disappeared. I wondered if he found his wife’s interest in Clare a little difficult to take. Did he see it as a way of putting off coming to terms with Tricia’s death? Perhaps it made him angry. How could someone like Clare ever make up for the loss of their only child?
‘It would be a mistake to jump to conclusions,’ he said, raising a hand to smooth back his soft white hair. ‘You think you know who sent it, Clare, but you could be mistaken.’
Clare laughed. ‘Anyone want a cup of tea then, or I could make instant, but I’ve only enough milk for Cain’s breakfast so you’d have to have it black.’
No one took up the offer.
‘It came in the second post, did it?’ asked Marion, gently opening the baby’s clenched fist to release a handful of her hair.
‘Search me.’ Clare scratched her thigh. ‘First one doesn’t get here till nearly nine.’
‘And it was in an envelope with a stamp? Where is the envelope?’
‘Tore it up, didn’t I.’
‘So, it’ll be in the bin.’ Marion refused to be put off. ‘Was the address handwritten?’
‘No, it was like in the letter, bits cut out and stuck.’ Clare t
hrew back her head. ‘No, hang on, big black capitals with one of those waterproof pens. Anyway, I took the rubbish down to the big bins in the yard, not going through all that muck, and I told you about the postmark. Bristol it was and the envelope was white, nothing fancy, not scented or nothing.’
‘That wasn’t very sensible, throwing it away,’ said Marion. ‘It’s part of the evidence.’
Suddenly Clare looked defeated. ‘I told you, I’m not giving it to the police. When I phoned you Cain had been yelling his head off … that’s why I’d got myself going. Now I can see the whole thing ain’t worth bothering about.’
‘I expect it was just a silly joke,’ said Marion soothingly. ‘Of course, if you get any more you’ll have to report it, isn’t that right, Dr McColl?’
Clare glared at me. ‘Stephen shouldn’t have told you. If you go to the cops I’ll bloody kill you.’
‘Don’t be so stupid,’ said Stephen. ‘If they hear you’ve been receiving threatening letters they’ll —’
‘No!’ Clare’s shout was so loud that the baby let out a whimper, then started to cry. ‘I thought you were my friends. I wish I’d never told you. As for her.'’She jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘All her type do is stir up trouble, just so they can make more work for themselves.’
She frowned, then gave me a little smile, as if she regretted her attack.
‘Listen, Clare,’ I said, ‘it’s possible someone else knows you told us about the passenger in Tom’s car.’
‘What?’ Her mouth trembled. She took Cain from Marion’s arms and held him against her.
‘What is it that makes you think the letter came from a woman?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t.’
‘I thought you said your first reaction had been to worry in case she called round.’
Clare hesitated, her eyes darting round the room, glancing at each of us in turn. ‘Anyway, it’s stupid,’ she muttered, ‘and whoever it was, they needn’t have had anything to do with what happened to Tom.’
*
On the way back to the flat I asked Stephen if he thought Clare had ‘written’ the letter herself.
‘The thought did cross my mind,’ he said, ‘but what would be the point?’
‘To try to incriminate Erica? She seemed adamant a woman had sent it and all along she’s been telling me if I want to know what happened to Tom I should start with Erica.’
We were passing the Suspension Bridge. It was not the most direct way back to the flat, but letting Stephen choose the route was easier than giving him a string of directions.
‘You shouldn’t judge her too harshly, just because of her rather eccentric appearance,’ he said.
For a moment I thought he was talking about Erica, then I realized he meant Clare. ‘Nothing particularly eccentric about it,’ I said irritably, ‘practically a uniform among her age group.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ Stephen kept his eyes glued on the car in front. ‘Anyway, you’re in good company. Ros couldn’t stand her, said she was the type that made fools of men, wound them round her little finger. Still, if you’ve talked to Ros you’ll be aware of her opinion of men.’
When I said nothing he accelerated sharply, then suddenly pulled up next to the kerb and sat with his head resting on the steering wheel. ‘I don’t know if you’re still seeing her,’ he said, ‘but if you are she’ll have told you what she thinks of me. No practical common sense, head filled with useless ideas.’ He sat up straight but kept his head turned away. ‘I’ve been reading this book. Thinking, feeling, and sensation, the three aspects of us, all of which need to be developed and used in their proper contexts. Ros used to try and explain but I couldn’t, or wouldn’t understand.’
‘What did Ros try and explain?’ I was tired, wanted to get back to the flat.
Stephen turned towards me and there were tears in his eyes. ‘Oh God. Oh God,’ he kept repeating. ‘Have you ever done something you regretted, then it was too late, there was no going back?’
‘What kind of thing?’ But he was too distraught to answer, just drove off without looking in the mirror, ignoring the angry hoot of the motorist coming up behind him.
Chapter Fifteen
If Clare had pasted on the letters herself did that mean she had made up the story about the passenger in Tom Luckham’s car? But what was it all for? To make sure she was the centre of attention? When she first had the baby everyone had rallied round, doing everything they could to help, but now Cain was nearly a year old, things were changing. Marion Young still looked after him occasionally, but she had made it clear she thought it time Clare stood on her own two feet. Stephen called round at the hostel every so often, but since Ros’s last visit I had given up any idea that he might be Cain’s father. Of course, men with very low sperm counts had been known to father children, and imagine what Ros would have felt if she and Stephen had tried for a baby for years and years, then he had made another woman pregnant.
I was in my office, waiting for Lloyd to arrive. When his head came round the door he looked more subdued than usual and his words came out in a kind of low growl. ‘You forgotten I was coming?’
‘No.’
‘I’m late.’
‘Yes, but only five minutes. It must be a record.’
There was no smile and when he sat down he kept his knees pressed together, instead of sprawling his long legs across the floor.
‘You married?’ he said suddenly, ‘Or ain’t I allowed to ask?’
‘No, I’m not married.’ It was the first time he had asked me anything personal.
‘Divorced?’
‘No.’
He gave a heavy sigh, then looked up at the ceiling and sighed again.
‘How’s your chest?’ I asked, sensing that he was going to force me to drag out whatever was bothering him, question by question.
‘That all you’re interested in?’
‘No.’
‘If you knew someone was cheating on someone, only the person it was happening to never knew, would you tell them or would that make it worse?’
‘I’m not sure. It would depend.’
He yawned, but it wasn’t a real yawn, just a way of relieving the tension. ‘Thought it might be a one-off,’ he said at last, ‘only it ain’t, she’s been seeing him two or three times a week.’
‘Who is it you’re talking about, Lloyd?’
He looked at me as if he thought I was slow-witted. ‘Me Mum, of course, and the bloke three doors down. What should I do then, tell me Dad or keep me mouth shut and let ‘em get on with it?’
His arms were folded and he was staring at me defiantly. He wanted a straight answer, something black and white.
‘How long have you known about it? Does anyone else know? Your brother?’
‘Him? He’s only a kid.’
‘It might be best to talk to your mother first, tell her what you suspect.’
‘Oh, it’s true all right. Don’t want me to go into details, do you, only I’ve seem ‘em at it — well, good as.’
‘Yes, I see.’ This was a tricky one, but at least we could be getting to the real reason for his nervous habit. ‘Is there a relative, or close friend of the family, you could talk to?’
‘What good would that do? There’s me Mum’s sister, in Kingswood. You mean she could speak to her.’
‘It might make things easier for you.’
‘Could give it a try, I s’pose. Reckon she’d give her hell.’ His face broke into a nervous grin and he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his baggy trousers. ‘Sorry about the tape but I thought it’d give you a clue, reckoned you were bound to guess who’d sent it.’
‘Tape? It was you — ’
‘Listen to it, did you? Third track’s the best.’ He had stopped grinning and was eyeing me anxiously. ‘Probably never even played it, just chucked it away.’
‘No, I played it,’ I said. ‘Look, I wish you’d told me about your mother before. Still, it can’t have been
easy, I can understand why it took you time to come out with it.’
‘Nah, stupid, should’ve told you the first time I come. That’s it then, is it? I never knew what the hell to do so I started scratching off me skin while I was thinking about it, and all that stuff I told you about my brother and school and that … Must think I’ve been wasting your time.’
‘How long have you known about your mother?’
He moved his lips, silently calculating the length of time. ‘Since Easter, maybe before. Course, if me chest gets bad again.’
‘Come back next week,’ I said, ‘and let me know what’s happened.’
‘Think I should?’ He stood up and took a small packet out of his jacket. ‘This one’s better, more professional. Play it when you get home. Who knows, you might even enjoy it.’
*
I had seen Erica drunk before, but not like this. She was lying on a sofa with one of her feet on the floor and the other on the armrest. Her skirt had ridden up, revealing a large amount of fat, wobbly thigh, and her mouth was open so wide I could have counted her fillings. Sally sat close by, moving her head in time with her mother’s snores and not bothering to wipe away her tears.
‘I made her some coffee,’ she said, ‘but she spilt it on the carpet.’ She pointed to a wet patch near the sofa. ‘Is she going to die? A girl in my class said if you drank too much you could choke on your own sick. That’s what nearly happened to her brother.’
It was two o’clock. Sally had let me into the house, then hurried back to the drawing room where I found her attempting to rouse Erica, although it was clearly a lost cause. The cocktail cabinet had been left open and an empty bottle of brandy lay on its side on the coffee table. A large tumbler was wedged between Erica’s foot and a pile of glossy magazines, some with their pages torn out and screwed up into balls.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘she’ll be all right, she just needs to sleep it off. Come on, we’ll go and sit somewhere else.’
