Authors: Laura Wilson
After dinner – two small and very dry lamb cutlets, followed by one of the new-fangled instant desserts, which he didn’t much like – Stratton borrowed Denton’s copy of the
Mirror
and sat reading in the snug.
SOVIET ARMS BUILD-UP
;
FRENCH KILL 26 REBELS IN ALGERIA
;
Sir Anthony Eden’s Government beat off a Socialist censure motion on Suez in the Commons last night
… After a couple of desultory conversations with other patrons, he said goodnight to Denton, getting a leer in return, and went up to his room. It was still early – not yet ten – but he felt exhausted. He sat down on the edge of the bed, heeled off his shoes, loosened his tie and, resting his elbows on his knees, stared without really seeing at a small but heavily framed painting of a winsome child clutching a kitten, and attempted to get his thoughts into some sort of order.
After a while, he took out his notebook and pencil, but that didn’t help. When he looked at his wristwatch and realised that half an hour had passed, during which he’d smoked three cigarettes and done a not-very-accurate doodle of his car, he decided to give the thing up as a bad job and go to bed.
Lying back on the pillow, he closed his eyes – then opened them
again in seconds. This wasn’t going to work, either. The moment he’d emptied his mind of the case, Monica had filled it, and now the words
MY DAUGHTER IS A LESBIAN
seemed to have written themselves like newspaper headlines on the insides of his eyelids.
What
would
Jenny have made of it, he wondered. He thought again about what Diana had said, and realised how ridiculous it was to imagine that, if her mother had not been killed, Monica would now be happily married with children. Jenny would have been shocked by the news, of course, but he suspected that once she’d calmed down she’d probably have agreed with Diana. Women were often surprisingly sensible about these sorts of things, and practical; at least in situations where circumstances allowed them to be honest.
Somewhat comforted by this train of thought, Stratton eventually drifted off to sleep, waking at half past three, crumpled and uncomfortable, his mouth like sandpaper and his bladder full to bursting. A glance under the bed told him there was nothing for it but to descend the narrow, uneven stairs. There were two other rooms beside the bathroom on the next landing but, unsure whether they were inhabited, he decided against putting on the light – he’d just have to hope he didn’t wake anyone up by falling down and breaking his neck. He groped for the banister and clung to it, wincing as the floorboards creaked like pistol shots, but nobody stirred – or if they did, they didn’t show themselves.
There was just enough moonlight shining in above the net curtain halfway down the bathroom window for him to see what he was doing. He relieved himself, did up his trousers, and washed his hands as best he could in a meagre dribble of water to avoid making a noise. Feeling euphoric with relief, as if he’d achieved something marvellous, he grinned at what he could see of himself in the flyblown square of shaving mirror propped on the narrow shelf above the sink.
He thought about the last time he’d seen Monica, a fortnight before. She’d paid him a visit on a Sunday afternoon and they’d walked up to the allotment together. She’d brought him a cake she’d made specially, and some cheese straws, and she’d been jolly and relaxed, excited about the film she was working on and groaning at his puns and jokes like she’d always done. Picturing her face, the smiling eyes and the fall of glossy dark hair, he felt a fierce rush of protective love towards her. What was it Tynan had said about getting caught up in something and not always seeing what is in front of us? At the time he’d thought it was just more poppycock, but in one way, the man had been right. He had been so appalled by what Diana had told him that he’d forgotten that Monica was actually very happy. That was the important thing. ‘I want Monica to be happy,’ he told his reflection, ‘that’s all that matters.’
Still grinning – now at the fact that altering your point of view could be just as simple and effective as emptying your bladder – he negotiated his way back to bed, changed into his pyjamas and, within minutes, was asleep. He dreamt of Jenny for the first time in months. In the dream, he was walking along Tottenham High Road on his way to catch a bus when he saw her crossing the road ahead of him. He felt a surge of relief – Jenny was alive, everything was all right again – and love for her. She looked young, the age she’d been when they were courting, and she was wearing a blue dress he’d particularly liked that had been a favourite of hers at the time. When he caught her eye, she smiled at him and waved briskly before turning away and walking on. Then a line of buses came past right in front of him and he lost sight of her.
Waking, he lay wet-eyed in the darkness, and knew that Jenny had given both him and Monica her blessing.
They spent almost three hours on the village green, poking through the soggy, scattered remains of the bonfire in a persistent drizzle, before Ballard came upon a blackened metal clasp.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Stratton, when they were crouched in front of the station’s inadequate gas fire trying to get dry.
‘We’ll need to get a comparison with Mrs Curtin’s bag,’ said Ballard. ‘I need to tell her about poor Billy. I’d best go after lunch, and I can pick up the bag while I’m there. Then we can send it and our clasp to Trickett and his minions. Parsons,’ he added, as the policeman appeared with two mugs of tea, ‘you’re a godsend.’
‘Thank you, sir. Got some information just come in about the baby buried at Hasketon.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Well, for one thing Billy was cremated.’
‘So bang goes our chance of an exhumation if we need one,’ said Stratton. ‘What was the name?’
‘William Thomas Milburn, sir. Ten months, as you said. The vicar remembered it particularly because he knew Mrs Milburn’s husband.’
‘I wish he’d mentioned that before,’ said Stratton, ‘but I suppose he thought we knew about it.’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Parsons, ‘but the ashes were scattered beside Reverend Milburn’s grave and there’s a wooden cross to mark the place.’
‘That’s cosy,’ said Ballard. ‘Keep your victims together.’
‘If they are victims,’ said Stratton. ‘We don’t know that.’
‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know about those two. I’d best go over and tell Mrs Curtin after lunch – I can pick up the bag while I’m there. Parsons, can you try and get hold of the kid’s medical records?’
‘If he’s got any,’ said Stratton, darkly. ‘Think about it – she told Roth she didn’t have any money, hence the wooden cross, and there wasn’t any National Health in those days.’
‘Well,’ Ballard told Parsons, ‘give it a go, anyway. She might have been able to sweet-talk someone – or blackmail them as she did with Slater. Not that any doctor’s going to come forward to say so …’
‘Unless, of course, she’s able to give us the information herself.’ Stratton glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I’ll ring the hospital this afternoon.’
After a hasty and not particularly pleasant sandwich lunch, Ballard departed for Mrs Curtin’s home at Wickham Market and Stratton telephoned Dr Wardle about Mary/Ananda.
‘There’s no change,’ said the psychiatrist, ‘you’d be wasting your time.’
‘She hasn’t spoken?’
‘Not a word, and I have to say I’m not optimistic. At least, not in the short term.’
Wardle promised to inform him if there was any change to Mrs Milburn’s condition, and rang off. A second later, Grove called. ‘This is your lucky day, old son.’
‘Oh?’
‘Two sightings of your Miss Patricia Kirkland on the night of the thirtieth. One walking along Wardour Street and the other in Ingestre Place, getting out of a car that the informant identified as a Hillman Minx.’
‘Excellent! Remind me to buy you a drink when I get back. What time was this?’
Grove sucked his teeth. ‘Neither was what you’d call exact – in fact, between you and me, the chap who saw her in Wardour Street said he was three sheets to the wind. Only remembered her because he’d nipped down Duck Lane for a piss and collided with her when he came out again. A real sourpuss, he said – as if she was sucking a lemon. It was only when he got home he realised his flies were still undone.’
‘Duck Lane’s off Broadwick Street, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, right before Wardour Street, so she’d have been almost opposite Flaxman Court. The chap said it was sometime around eleven, because the pubs were shutting, but he couldn’t be more specific than that.’
‘What about the one in Ingestre Place?’
‘He works in a small club in a basement down there. Said he saw her about an hour before closing – that’s at midnight – when he came up for some air.’
‘Right.’ Stratton flipped through his notebook. ‘Mrs Linder said she was in by quarter past eleven, and she said Wintle came in at quarter to twelve.’
‘Sounds like she must have been in and out by eleven fifteen, then.’
‘He must have let her in,’ said Stratton. ‘If you’re right about the time, the only other person in the house was Mrs Hendry, and she said she didn’t hear anything, never mind answer the door. Mind you, I think she might be a bit deaf.’
‘Wouldn’t have heard any sounds of a struggle, then,’ said Grove. ‘I must say,’ he added, ‘that if I was going to do someone
in I wouldn’t go armed with a pair of scissors – unless she picked them up on the spot, of course.’
During the last part of this, Parsons barged into the office and, ignoring the fact he was on the phone, began talking very fast. ‘Sorry, Grove, it looks as if I need to go. I’ll call you later … What is it, Parsons?’
‘The Old Rectory, sir. Call from Wickstead. Says there’s been an incident involving the boy, and can you get up there at once?’
The light was just beginning to fade as Stratton, driven by Adlard, turned up the avenue of trees that led to the Foundation. Bare branches twisting against the darkening sky, they had a tormented look to them. And was it his imagination, or did the building itself look spikier and more oppressive than usual?
Adlard shivered as they got out of the car. ‘Creepy, isn’t it? I never really noticed before.’
‘It’s certainly very quiet.’
There were no lights on in the hall, the dusk had cast a grey veil over everything in the place, and Stratton felt the air pressing in on him, giving a prickling sensation at the nape of his neck as though the building were invisibly alive, with eyes and ears of its own, waiting for something. He felt suddenly afraid, with a sort of split-second sensation that something monstrous was about to happen, and the house knew it. ‘I can see why Mrs Milburn managed to convince people that the place was haunted,’ he murmured to Adlard. ‘Where the bloody hell is every—’
His words were cut off by a scream of ‘No!’ from somewhere above their heads, a piercing, desperate sound that might have come from a woman or a child.
‘Christ!’ Adlard made for the stairs at a run with Stratton just behind him. As they raced upwards, there was another scream, followed by the sounds of running feet as various of the students dashed across the landing towards the source of the noise. Adlard
pushed his way through the knot of people clustered outside Roth’s room, Stratton in his wake, and stopped in the doorway as if held back by an invisible cordon. Policewoman Wickstead, white-faced, scrambled sideways through the crush to his elbow, her voice an urgent whisper. ‘I’m sorry – I couldn’t stop him – there wasn’t time—’
Stratton silenced her with a chopping motion of his hand. ‘Stay there and keep quiet.’
Inside the room were four figures, frozen in position. Roth by the window, his hand with its cigarette suspended halfway to his mouth, Tynan beside him in a chair, looking stricken and Miss Kirkland behind him, mouth agape, were all staring at Michael, who stood in the centre of the room, his back to the onlookers at the door.
‘Keep them all back,’ Stratton said to Adlard, and stepped past him into the room. As he did so, he saw that the boy held a gun and was pointing it directly at Roth.
There was a moment of heavy, thrumming silence, followed by a howl of pain and rage that made the crowd around the door flinch and draw back. It took a moment before Stratton realised that the sound was coming from Michael. Tynan’s eyes were tightly closed and his heavy face screwed up grotesquely as though folded in on itself, and Miss Kirkland had clapped her hands to her ears, jerking backwards and forwards in a frantic attempt to block out the noise. Only Roth appeared unmoved.
‘You lied to me,’ shouted Michael. ‘You lied to everyone, and they believed you!’ He began sobbing, his words breaking up, body heaving, the gun jumping in his hand. ‘You – did – this! You! All of it! You made her do it … you
told
her things, you used her to … to … And you used me … And you couldn’t— You don’t care about anything! You think it doesn’t matter!’
They must have been arguing for some time, Stratton thought, because any rationality Michael might have been able to summon at the start had clearly gone out of the window. ‘What do you think of this?’ he yelled at Roth. ‘I don’t care about you! You’re not important – you’re just a big, fat
liar
!’
Roth, whose eyes were fixed on Michael, made growling noises in his throat as though preparing to speak, but no words came.
A wail, thin and pitiful, burst from Miss Kirkland. ‘What about this?’ screamed Michael, brandishing the gun. ‘Does this matter?’
Shit, thought Stratton. I’m responsible for this. That conversation. Could he have put the idea of defying Roth into the boy’s mind? This was a hell of a lot more than just defiance, but all the same … How had he managed to get hold of a gun? And where the hell was Briggs?
Michael had fallen silent. He lowered the gun and swung it back and forth by his side, staring down at it as though mesmerised.
‘Michael.’ Stratton took another step into the room. The boy remained quite still, as if he had not heard. ‘Michael.’
The boy turned slowly, still holding the gun by his side, and stared into Stratton’s eyes. Holding his gaze, Stratton felt as though invisible ropes were binding them together as a single entity. He took another pace forward, holding out his hand. Another step, and he’d be able to touch Michael. He was aware of the tension in his muscles, of the effort of keeping his face neutral, of the concentration of Adlard and the knot of people behind him, of Roth, Tynan and Miss Kirkland, all focused on the gun in the boy’s hand. Don’t look at it, he told himself. Just keep looking at
him
.