*
She didn’t know how to tell Joe, but he had to be told, at once, and he had to be at home when Graham arrived. It was so hard to say: ‘That policeman is coming again – they’ve arrested someone they think was the other attacker and they want you to go to an identity parade.’ Easy words, impossible sentence. She could imagine his reaction. He’d be overwhelmed, everything would rush back, she’d see it in his face and her own flesh would tingle at the memory. It was dreadful to put him through all this, and suppose it was for nothing? Suppose it was the wrong man? The effect of everything being dragged up again would be devastating, just as he was getting over it. But there – she knew she contradicted herself. If, as she was always saying to Sam, he had not got over it, if those words were ignorant and offensive, how could she argue that the ID parade would drag it all up again? It wasn’t buried, it never had been, it was still on the surface for all to see.
She was weary by the time Joe came home. To make it worse, he was cheerful, he was actually smiling a little, he came in as he used to do, throwing his bag of books on to the floor and going straight to the fridge for something to eat. She had a sudden vision of him rushing in from his first day at the comprehensive, thrilled with it, all excited and full of news, rushing because he had so much to tell her, the words tumbling out, his whole face alight and animated – there was no one like the young Joe, so eager to share his pleasure or pain. She used to listen to him for hours, prattling on, amused, adoring the way he acted out all the people in his little history of the day. Never any need to ask Joe what had happened – he wanted to tell it all, in strict order. There was such passion about him then. Passion was all she could call it, passion of the right sort, meaning energy, spirit, warmth . . . He was talking to her, his back to her, as he looked for one of the yoghurts he liked. ‘Old Ralph says I can start next Saturday,’ he was saying. ‘You were right, he did say I was the best casual he’d ever had. And he’s put up the rate to £3 an hour. Good, eh?’ She could have cried. Inside, she did cry, conjured up an image, to distract herself, of the tears flowing backwards, down through the flesh of her cheeks, leaking out at the corners of her mouth . . .
‘Joe,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Detective Sergeant Graham is coming in about half an hour. That policeman, you know. They’ve arrested someone else. They need you to go to an identity parade as soon as they can organise it.’
He went on eating the yoghurt. That was something. But his face went dark and closed. Carefully, he scraped the inside of the container, carefully put it in the waste bin, carefully washed the spoon he’d been using. Then he just walked out of the kitchen and up to his room.
She’d handled it all wrong. Harriet put her head in her hands, and pressed her eyes with the palms of her hands, till her eyeballs ached. Her funereal tone – all wrong, she should’ve been throw-away or at the very least matter-of-fact, and there she’d been, quavery, doom-ladened. And she should have said something first about Ralph and the boat yard, she should have shown her delight and shared in his. But no. Heavy-footed. Like Detective Sergeant Graham. She looked at the clock. He’d be here any minute and she’d have to shout for Joe. She’d so wanted them, the two of them, to be together, to be sitting quietly, united to face this. Now Graham would know they were not. He’d see her face. He’d register why Joe had to be shouted for . . .
He was prompt as ever. ‘Afternoon, Mrs Kennedy.’
‘Hello. Come in.’ She bent her head, avoided his eyes. She took him into the kitchen, which she had never done, simply because she needed its protection, needed things to do while all this was going on. She hadn’t had time to adopt a glacial front. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I was just preparing something to go in the oven.’
‘Carry on.’
She carried on, knowing he was watching every move, longing to be cosy and chatty. She chopped onions, carrots, the usual, and piled them on top of the meat in the casserole and then put it into the oven. She washed her hands swiftly, dried them on kitchen paper.
He said, ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. How’s Joe been?’
She swallowed, blushed. She couldn’t possibly sum up for this man how Joe had been. She shook her head, tried to make an expression of hopelessness on her face, to convey how hopeless it would be to answer. It gave him the advantage, somehow.
‘Is Joe in?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He’s doing homework up in his room.’
‘Good lad.’
There was a pause. He raised his eyebrows, inclined his head. It was up to her. For once, he was not disposed to pretend they were friends. There was a new air of briskness about him which disconcerted her. She went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted for Joe. He came down at once, for which she was pathetically grateful.
‘Joe,’ Graham said, ‘how are you?’
‘Fine.’ But he didn’t look fine. Harriet wondered if he’d been sick, but surely she would have heard him dash for the bathroom. She was amazed to see he’d changed his clothes. Did that also indicate he’d vomited, had needed another shirt?
‘Good. Now, your mother will have told you we’ve arrested a man we think was the principal attacker’ – he paused, but when Joe said nothing, added – ‘so we’d like you to come to the station and go through an identity parade. I know it’s an ordeal but we’ll make it as painless as possible. What happens is . . .’
‘I know,’ Joe said, ‘I know what happens. I’ve done one, remember?’
‘Of course you have,’ said Graham, shaking his head. ‘Well, we don’t want to disrupt your schoolwork more than we need to, so if one day next week is better than another . . .?’
‘Tuesday,’ Joe said, expressionless. ‘Tuesday morning.’
‘Right. We’ll try for that. We’ve got enough on him anyway to put him away for a long time.’
‘Is that all?’ Joe said.
Graham looked startled, said rather tightly, ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’
Joe just went. He should have been more polite, Harriet thought. There was no need to be so rude. But then she knew she’d given him the lead, she was what could be called rude.
Graham was on his feet. ‘I’ll be off,’ he said, ‘I’ll ring you on Monday to confirm Tuesday is on and fix a time. I’ll come and collect Joe.’
‘No, I’ll bring him.’
‘There’s no need for you to be involved this time, Mrs Kennedy . . .’
‘Of course there is! I’m not letting him go through that on his own, good God, the idea.’ She’d raised her voice and sounded aggressive. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just you don’t seem to realise . . . you don’t seem . . .’
‘Oh I do, Mrs Kennedy, I do. I was just suggesting Joe himself might find it easier to handle it if . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Joe’s voice from the landing. They both went to the stairs and looked up. ‘I’d rather go on my own, Mum,’ he said, and then went into his room and closed the door. She put a hand over her mouth. She felt she’d been slapped. Graham was considerate, he walked quietly to the front door and only as he opened it said, ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Kennedy, it’s normal. I shouldn’t worry, just let him have it his own way,’ and he left.
*
In the car on the way to the Armstrongs’ house, Graham felt pleased. He didn’t want Mrs Kennedy there. She was a disaster, all emotion, though she thought of herself as controlled. The boy would do better without her. He’d seen so many victims walk fearfully down the corridor and look through that glass at the suspects and almost faint at the sight of their attacker. Some did faint. Some screamed or cried. Some had to be persuaded to open their eyes at all. Even the odd one who strutted through it and triumphantly pointed out their torturer suffered a backlash as soon as it was over. Mothers, if they were there – and if the boys involved were young enough, they had to be – made it all worse.
He badly wanted to be at this ID parade himself. He wanted to handle the whole thing and go through with J
oe, but it was not his job, the Duty Uniform Inspector would object. It struck him that apart from that ten minutes in the hospital he’d never seen Joe without his mother around. Even when she’d been in another room you could feel her presence around the boy, hovering, anxious, defensive. Joe had been younger, of course, not quite sixteen. Now he was nearly seventeen, more able to detach himself from his mother, if he wished. He’d grown but he’d lost weight, and lost some of his looks. There was a hunched look to him, but then lots of adolescents hunched their shoulders to hide their height or just so they didn’t stand out. It didn’t necessarily mean anything and nor did the very dark shadows under the boy’s eyes. There were dark shadows under his mother’s too. Whatever went on in that family they certainly were suffering, they hadn’t got over it, and if that mother carried on as she was doing they never would.
Ringing the bell at the Armstrong house, he knew he wouldn’t get a welcome here either, but he had never expected one. There’d been no need to make any but the most basic contact with the Armstrongs. They weren’t his concern, this elderly couple. He’d felt sorry for them but he hadn’t got involved. Their plight was common enough and it didn’t really interest him. So many parents he’d known who absolutely denied their son could have done whatever he’d done even with a signed confession before them. ‘You must have beaten it out of him,’ some of the more disbelieving and enraged said. Another effect of the tabloids and television. He’d registered, though, that Mrs Armstrong was a formidable character. She’d stared at her grandson for a long time after he was charged. She didn’t ask why, that was what made her different, she didn’t ask what had got into him, or wonder aloud what she’d done to deserve this. She just sat and stared and finally she got up and said that one sentence: ‘You’ve broken my heart, you have . . .’ and left the room. No tears. Not a single tear. He’d been very impressed.
‘Mrs Armstrong? Detective Sergeant Graham,’ and he showed his card, though he could see she remembered him perfectly well. ‘Can I come in a minute?’
She led him into the living-room, without speaking. He was direct. ‘I’ve come because we think we’ve got the other man, who attacked Joe Kennedy. Now you’ll wonder why I’ve come to tell you that and the reason is I need your assistance. We need this man positively identified, which we hope young Joseph Kennedy will do for us, but we need your grandson to name him too. It would simplify matters a great deal.’
‘Leo won’t talk.’
‘Yes, I know that, but he might now, now this chap’s caught and he’s going to go down for drug-dealing anyway.’
‘I meant he won’t speak to me, not a word. Haven’t they told you? Every visit now, for ages, he just sits silent.’
Graham hesitated. He hadn’t been told this, though there was no reason why he should have been. How lucky this mother didn’t get upset. She had her arms folded across her chest and was regarding him with absolute detachment, as though he were a pedlar trying to sell her dusters she was never going to buy.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘well then, no, I wasn’t aware of that, but all the same, could you try this name on Leo? Could you visit him early next week, Monday or Tuesday, and just put the name Gary Robinson to him? Watch his reaction? It would help a lot. And it might be in Leo’s interest. This Gary is a real villain, he was the one, not your grandson, who . . .’
‘I know,’ she said, steadily. ‘I don’t need you to tell me that. I’ve always known Leo could never have done half he was supposed to have done, but it doesn’t make any difference, does it? He was there, he aided and abetted, and he’s paying the penalty. It doesn’t excuse him even if it is proved this Gary person did the worst, and it doesn’t help Joe Kennedy.’
She wanted him out of her house now. Having him standing there, radiating self-importance, enraged her, but she wouldn’t let him see her anger. He wanted to use her, that was all. He wanted his case tidied up. She was supposed to be eager to ‘help’, what he called ‘help’, but it was only to help himself. He wasn’t in the least concerned as to how this visit was affecting her, nor would he give a thought, after he left, to any distress he might leave behind. She’d told him Leo would not speak to her and he’d just passed over this, he hadn’t paused to understand the heartbreak. What, she found herself suddenly wondering, was he like with Harriet Kennedy? Did Harriet receive different treatment? Well, if she did, her need was greater.
‘You will at least mention the name, Gary Robinson, to him? If he says nothing, fine, nothing is lost. I’ll tell the officer present to be watching him. . .’
‘They watch him anyway. We’re always watched. I’m never on my own with him.’
‘Do you think you could get the name out of him if you were?’
There it was again, the sheer eagerness to get a result, the total passing over of the pain behind her statement. Who had brought this man up? Who was his mother? ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said.
‘Because it could be arranged, if you felt willing to take the risk and wouldn’t mind being searched, before and after, by a woman officer, of course, and then . . .’
‘I would mind.’
‘What?’
‘I would mind being searched. I wouldn’t agree to it, before or after.’
‘It’s just a regulation, a precaution . . .’
‘No, it isn’t. It isn’t just anything. I’m an elderly woman and I refuse to be searched.’
‘That would present difficulties, but maybe . . .’
‘Maybe you could get round them if you thought it was worth it?’
‘Maybe.’
He hadn’t even detected the sneer in her voice – it was remarkable. She was about to refuse any deal vigorously, when she heard the back door open and her father call out her name. ‘In here, Dad,’ she shouted, and he came grumbling through the kitchen, complaining his supper wasn’t on the table as it should be on a Friday evening, what was she playing at. She said nothing, let him come in and see Detective Sergeant Graham.
‘Oh,’ Eric James grunted, ‘company. I’ll go.’
‘I was just leaving,’ Graham said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong, I’ll be in touch, and if you change your mind . . .’
‘She won’t,’ Eric James flashed back, ‘she’s my daughter and yer won’t catch her changing her mind. Who are yer, any road?’
‘Detective Sergeant Graham.’
‘Oh aye, I remember yer, you put our lad away, right?’
‘I arrested and charged him, yes.’
‘Wasn’t that enough for yer then, eh? Come back for more? Because there isn’t any, there’s the door . . . out!’
Sheila could have laughed at Graham’s face, but her father’s fury was too pathetic. He was trying to be the old Eric James, he actually clearly thought he was his former self, and the effort was pitiful to watch. The voice that should have been a bellow, loud enough to make the ornaments shake in the china cabinet, was a mere hoarse whisper and the arm flung out so dramatically shook. It was so sad to see him playing the role he had loved to play and finding he hadn’t the strength. He might collapse in a heap, he might have a heart attack and die on the spot in front of this policeman. And Graham was not to know this performance was in any case a sham. He sounded like Leo’s champion instead of his condemner. She watched Graham leave without attempting to apologise to him and heard the front door going with relief.
‘Damned cheek,’ her father said. His face was scarlet and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘What’s up? Why was he here?’
‘Come and get your supper,’ she said, and led him, quite tenderly, back into the kitchen.
*
Once home, Graham tried to slip into his usual weekend routine, but he could not shake off the depression that had come over him, confronted by that silly old man. Everyone’s enemy, the police, no question. No good being in the force, he always told his cadets, if you want to be liked, because you won’t be. Liking is not important. What is important is impartiality. If you can’t be imparti
al you’ll never be a good policeman. And he himself was a good policeman. He knew he was. Good at detection, good at human relationships. It was simply that those two mothers, those two women, Mrs Kennedy and Mrs Armstrong, hadn’t sorted themselves out yet, that was all that was depressing him.
The moment he had identified the cause of his depression he felt better.
Chapter Eight
ON SATURDAY, LOUIS came home, his term finished. She met him at the station, excited as ever at the thought of seeing him, of having him at home even for a short time. He’d warned her his stay would be short – he was off the following Thursday to America where he’d got a vacation job in some camp. He was home to dump his stuff, wash his clothes, that was all. And she assured herself, with a vehemence which made Sam smile cynically, that she didn’t resent it. Other mothers might complain their houses were treated as hotels, but she didn’t mind, she was proud of how tolerant she was, how free-and-easy. It was the way, she was convinced, to stay friends with her sons, by not being clinging, not making them feel guilty that they wanted to be somewhere else other than home.
Every time she met him after a long absence, she loved that moment before she recognised Louis – only a moment, a flash of a stranger, before familiarity broke through. He looked so attractive and interesting, she felt herself wondering who he was, this young man with the deep-set eyes and Spanish good looks, and then when she saw it was Louis she felt so proud. She walked up to him and kissed him and he let her, good-humouredly, no longer embarrassed as once he had been. He had his bike with him and a huge rucksack and two enormous holdalls, so it took ages to get everything to the car and load it. He wanted to drive but she was firm – Louis’ driving scared her, he went far too fast. The bike on the roof-rack worried her, even though he swore it was firmly fixed. They chatted as she drove, desultory chat, giving each other information and not much else, using the time to slip back into mother/son mode. She’d long ago realised that Louis had made it, he was gone, had cut the umbilical cord so completely it might never have existed. Good. She always told herself, good. As it should be. He was fond of his family, she was sure, he cared, he’d never just disappear, but he was no longer bound to them. Others now came first. Charlotte whoever she was. Sam referred to her as ‘the oracle’, because Louis was always quoting her when he did come home. They hadn’t met her yet. Louis had been about to bring her home when there was all the Joe horror and since then no time had seemed right.
Mothers' Boys Page 14
