Authors: Laura Wilson
‘He’s been in trouble before,’ put in Ballard. ‘One of those blokes who’s always committing offences and getting nabbed. They always speak up for him in court, so he gets out on probation and then they catch him all over again. Regard him as personal property, don’t you, Parsons?’ Ignoring the policeman’s resentful look, he said, ‘We’re bound to catch up with him sooner or later – in fact, we could go round there now, if you like.’
‘Why not?’ said Stratton. ‘As far as I can see, we’ve got bugger all else to do. Can we take the station car? I’ve almost run out of petrol.’
‘Adlard’s got it, I’m afraid, sir. There’s been a break-in at Nelson’s Farm. We can let you have a can, though – always keep some here. It’s in the cupboard out back, with the mops and things.’
*
It took Stratton several minutes to locate the can and several more to transfer the contents to the Ford Popular and wipe the resulting splashes off his shoes and hands. When he returned to the station, Parsons was hunched anxiously over the counter telephone with Ballard beside him, muttering, ‘Come on, come
on
.’ When he turned, he had the look of a man witnessing something unstoppable and fatal – an unpreventable car smash or a parachute failing to open.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Did you sort out the car?’
‘Yes. What’s going on?’
‘We need to get back to the Foundation,
now
.’
‘What’s happened?’ asked Stratton, as they shot out onto the road.
‘A woman telephoned. She wasn’t making a lot of sense, but she said that someone’s been injured. A bunch of them were on the drive, and someone drove up, knocked a woman down, then turned round and went haring off again. Parsons is getting an ambulance, then he’s going to call Tom Nelson’s place – that’s closer – and tell Adlard to get straight round there, see if anyone got a look at the car.’
As Ballard had predicted, Adlard had beaten them to it. The police car was pulled up halfway down the drive, and the sergeant was standing in the middle of a group of people in outdoor clothes. The woman who’d been hit was lying by the hedge, covered in a blanket, her head propped on a folded coat. Another woman, who Stratton remembered from the interviews – Miss Mills, he thought – was kneeling beside her, clasping her hand and a uniformed policeman, who he took to be PC Briggs, was hovering over them.
Getting out of the car, he suddenly thought of a spot-the-ball competition in a newspaper. What was missing from the picture? At every scene like this he’d attended, the onlookers were either
milling aimlessly, or goggling, or showing signs of distress, but the people here, if they were doing these things, were doing them so discreetly as not to be noticeable. The students were standing quite still – some even had their eyes closed – but all of them were looking quite composed.
Seeing the car, Adlard broke away from the group. ‘Where the bloody hell was Briggs when this happened?’ shouted Ballard.
‘Said he’d hung back for a smoke,’ said Adlard, disgustedly. ‘Said he was going to catch up with them, only he didn’t get there in time. I’ve only just got here myself, sir, but I’ve got a description of the car. Black – everyone agrees on that, two of the men think it’s a Vauxhall model, and one of them got the number plate: BFY 183.’
‘Tynan’s car,’ said Stratton, as they got out. ‘Did they see who was driving?’
‘This lot didn’t,’ said Adlard, gesturing at the students. ‘Too far off, they said.’
‘One of them was near enough to read the number plate,’ said Stratton, ‘so they must have been able to see if the driver was male or female, at least.’
‘Said he was concentrating on the car, sir. Most of them were over there,’ he pointed to a wheelbarrow and a pile of leaves some seven hundred yards away across the grass, ‘and by the time they’d got here, whoever it was had turned the car round and was driving off. They said it was heading that way,’ he pointed left, ‘towards the London Road.’
‘Why don’t you see to things here,’ Ballard said to Stratton, ‘and I’ll get after it.’
With the immediate – if rather ignoble – thought that if there were any heroics going, Ballard was more than welcome to them, Stratton said, ‘Good idea. The keys are in the car.’
As Ballard jumped into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition, Stratton poked his head in the window and added, ‘Be careful, all right? I don’t fancy telling Pauline she’s a widow.’
‘Will do.’
Stratton leapt clear as Ballard executed a neat three-point turn – which, judging from the way the edge of the grass was churned up, was more than the other driver had done – and disappeared at high speed. It looked as if the Vauxhall Velox had been travelling pretty fast, too – deep parallel tyre marks swerved across the gravel, a wave of which had been flung up and beached on the lawn. ‘Left some rubber behind, by the looks of it,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Adlard. ‘The chaps I spoke to said the car was going at a fair old lick.’
As the sergeant turned to go back to the group, Stratton caught his arm. ‘Have you talked to the woman who was hit?’ he asked.
‘Not had time, sir. Thought it was more important to get the details of the car.’
‘Quite right. See if you can get anything else – one of them must have got a glimpse of the driver. Come down heavy if you have to.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll deal with you later.’ Stratton waved aside PC Briggs’s stammered attempt at explanation and bent over the prone woman. It was Miss Banting, muddied and dishevelled, her mouth a quivering oblong and her eyes blank with shock. ‘A broken leg,’ murmured the woman kneeling beside her, who had the air of having taken charge of the situation. ‘Two places, I think – and probably the ankle as well. I can tell,’ she added briskly, ‘because I trained as a nurse.’
‘Miss Mills, isn’t it? You’d best stay with her.’ He squatted down beside Miss Banting. ‘Can you answer a few questions?’
Miss Banting nodded. Her face was the colour and texture of marzipan, and, despite the cold day, sweat glistened on her forehead. Talking was clearly going to be an effort. ‘Stay as still as
you can,’ he said. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way. You’re obviously in pain, so I’ll make this as brief as possible. Were you on your own when the car hit you?’
‘No. With Mait— Michael and Miss Kirkland.’
‘Miss Banting threw herself in front of Michael,’ said Miss Mills. ‘She saved his life.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘A bump and a scrape, that’s all. Apart from the shock, of course.’
‘You saw it?’
‘Yes. I was just over there.’ She pointed to a tree about two hundred yards away, were a rake lay abandoned beside another pile of leaves.
‘Did you see who was driving?’
For the first time, Miss Mills looked uncertain, the crisp professionalism of her former self eroded by present uncertainty. ‘I’m not quite sure,’ she said.
‘But you were close enough to see. Was it a man or a woman?’
Miss Mills hesitated. ‘I thought I did. I mean, I thought I recognised … but …’ She shook her head. ‘She must have lost control of the car, because she seemed to be driving straight at Michael.’
‘
She?
So it was a woman driving?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘It was Ananda.’ Miss Banting’s voice was barely audible. ‘Mrs Milburn. Not an accident. She tried to kill Michael.’
‘Is that right?’ Stratton asked Miss Mills. ‘Ananda was driving?’
‘It looked like her.’ Miss Mills’s voice was full of disbelief. ‘But it must have been an accident, because—’
‘It wasn’t.’ Miss Banting’s voice was faint but firm. ‘She didn’t want them to have him.’
‘When you say “them”,’ said Stratton, ‘do you mean Mr Roth and Miss Kirkland?’
‘Yes.’ Miss Banting’s eyes blazed with vehemence. ‘
You
know.’
‘I think,’ said Miss Mills, ‘that Miss Banting must be mistaken. Probably due to concussion.’
‘I’m not mistaken,’ said Miss Banting between gritted teeth. ‘
He
knows what I’m talking about.’
‘
Do
you?’ Miss Mills gave Stratton an inquisitorial stare.
‘Yes, I think so. You may choose not to believe the evidence of your eyes, but Miss Banting does.’
‘But it can’t be right. Michael is Ananda’s
son
– why would she try to kill him?’
‘That,’ said Stratton, ‘is something we can only guess at – for the moment.’
‘Spite,’ said Miss Banting.
‘No mother,’ pronounced Miss Mills, ‘would try to kill her own child.’
‘Really?’ Stratton stood up, taking hold of Miss Mills’s arm as he did so, so that she had no choice but to stand up with him. ‘I seem to remember,’ he said quietly, determined to keep his voice level, ‘that Goebbels’ wife killed all six of hers.’
‘That was entirely different,’ said Miss Mills, with some authority. ‘She must have been mad. Mr Roth says anyone in the grip of a strong idea is—’
‘Never mind what Mr Roth says,’ snapped Stratton. ‘You think Mrs Milburn is sane, do you? After what you just witnessed?’
‘I didn’t see—’
‘Oh yes you did,’ said Stratton, firmly. ‘When you said it couldn’t be right, you meant it couldn’t be right
because you can’t believe it is
, and that means that you, Miss Mills, are “in the grip of a strong idea”. Now, I suggest you start remembering what it was that you actually
saw
, because Sergeant Adlard will be taking your statement later and lying to the police is – as I’m sure I don’t need to remind you – a very bad idea.’ As he said this, he saw that although Miss Mills’s face now registered bewilderment, her eyes had a calculating look, and knew that his message had
got through. ‘In the meantime, you can look after Miss Banting until the ambulance comes, and no trying to convince her that she’s concussed or confused or any other nonsense.’
Turning away and dipping his shoulder in order to exclude her, Stratton bent and put his hand gently on Miss Banting’s shoulder. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he said.
‘I saw her eyes,’ whispered Miss Banting. ‘She looked mad – almost demonic.’
Stratton, remembering Ballard had said that Dr Slater used the same word, could well believe it.
‘You will make sure Michael is safe, won’t you?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Stratton. ‘I can promise you that.’
Straightening up, he caught sight of Briggs, who appeared to be trying to merge with the hedge. ‘Wait here till the ambulance comes,’ he barked, ‘and don’t even think of buggering off again or I’ll have you for dereliction of duty.’
As he strode off towards the house, he realised that, although ‘his best’ might protect Michael from future harm at the hands of Mary/Ananda, nothing he could do, short of turning back time itself, could protect him from the harm that she, and Roth, and all the rest of them, had already done.
The woman who’d telephoned the station turned out to be the one who’d spilt tea over him. Stratton imagined her clutching the Bakelite receiver in both hands, incoherent and tearful. Now, eyes still wet, she was staring around her in the manner of a demented person who is looking for something very important but can’t remember what it is, and she didn’t have anything to add to what Stratton had already been told. Miss Kirkland, who was sitting with her, kept an affronted silence, as though the uncontrolled display was distasteful to her. The woman, whose name was Mrs Palmer, had been raking leaves with Miss Mills and, at Miss Kirkland’s bidding, had gone to make the telephone call. Miss Kirkland nodded in confirmation of this, and at Stratton’s request stood up, self-contained as a cat, to follow him outside. Another woman student, sitting statue-like on a chair outside the door, rose on seeing them and glided silently past to attend Mrs Palmer.
Miss Kirkland had a smear of mud on her skirt, but otherwise looked remarkably composed. ‘Ananda,’ she murmured, looking round to make sure they were out of anyone’s earshot, ‘
meant
to kill Michael. She drove right at him.’
‘You’re sure it was her?’
‘Positive. She came roaring down the drive and straight towards him.’
‘Does Michael realise that she was aiming for him?’
‘I didn’t speak to him afterwards – he obviously didn’t want to talk about it, and we thought he ought to lie down and get over the shock – but he must have seen who was at the wheel. If Miss Banting hadn’t rushed in front of him, I don’t know what would have happened. How is she?’
‘A broken leg, according to Miss Mills, and possibly more.’
‘So brave,’ murmured Miss Kirkland. ‘Utterly devoted.’
And look where it’s got her, thought Stratton. Aloud, he said, ‘Did you recognise the car?’
‘Yes. It belongs to Mr Tynan.’
‘Have you,’ asked Stratton, ‘seen that car, or Ananda, at any point in the last twenty-four hours?’
‘Yes, last night – or rather, early this morning.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier on?’
Miss Kirkland looked around again, and said, ‘I think perhaps we’d better go somewhere more private.’ She led him down the corridor to a small room, furnished as plainly as the other had been, but with the addition of two chintz-covered armchairs. Depositing himself in the nearest one, Stratton said, ‘Well?’
Perching herself on the extreme edge of the other, as if fearful that contact with the soft surface would tempt her into some unpardonable laxity, Miss Kirkland said, ‘I was concerned for the well-being of the Foundation. A connection with such a person might be harmful to our reputation.’ She clasped her hands earnestly in her lap. ‘We thought it unsuitable, and unhelpful to—’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Stratton. ‘Who’s “we”?’
‘Mr Roth. When we discussed it, he—’
‘So Roth saw her, too, did he?’
‘Yes. It was Mr Roth she came to speak to.’
‘I see. When was this, exactly?’
‘About half past three this morning. Mr Roth is available to any student who wishes to speak to him,’ she said, with some pride. ‘At any time of the day or night.’
‘So she woke you up, did she?’
‘I was already awake. I’ve been having some difficulty sleeping, and I was standing at the window – my room faces the front of the house – when I heard someone coming up the drive.’