Apportionment of Blame (9 page)

“It's possible, but if so, I have no idea who.”

I sipped my coffee and thought.

“She was happy at work?”

“Yes.”

“No problems there?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“I've been to Colbox this morning. Mr Jordan was very helpful, but I didn't learn anything.”

There was no point in adding to her grief by telling her of a concern which was still unknown and might be totally irrelevant. It was interesting, though, that Helen's mother thought she was happy at work. I wondered what else Helen had not told her.

Did she have a regular boyfriend?”

“No. She had lots of friends. She was always going out with someone. But there was no one special.”

Interesting again. Helen apparently hadn't mentioned Stuart to her mother, but surely that was hardly relevant to anything. Again I decided it would be inconsiderate to mention something she didn't need to know, and may never need to know. I kept quiet about Stuart.

“Joyce told me that she and Helen were half-sisters.”

“Yes. I was married before. He died.”

Her expression suggested little remorse at that fact, and I let it go.

“How much younger than Helen is Joyce?”

“About two years.”

“So you must have met her father soon after Helen's father died.”

“Yes,” she said, looking hard at me.

I sipped my coffee and considered the impertinence of my last question.

“Actually, you might as well know. We knew each other before Helen's father died.”

This was interesting, but again hardly relevant, and I had no reason to pry into her private life.

“You were old friends, then?”

“Not old friends exactly, but I did meet him before my husband was killed.”

“Joyce said something about an accident.”

“Yes. He had a motorbike.”

She said no more, obviously thinking the rest was obvious. It was.

“I'm sorry,” I offered.

She shrugged.

“It was a long time ago.”

“And Helen never knew him.”

“No. Oliver has always been,” she paused to correct herself with some effort, “was always her father.”

I finished my coffee. I couldn't see how anything was helping me.

“Look, would you mind if I take a look in Helen's room? You never know. There might be something that springs out at me.”

“No, go ahead. I'll show you where it is.”

She led me upstairs. Her movements were of someone pushing her legs through treacle. Everything a visible effort, her body weighed down by thoughts and despair. I wondered, as many others have, how any parent ever copes with losing a child. And to lose a child in such a tragic way, and not to know why.

This led me to realise again the importance of finding the truth and the responsibility on my shoulders. I hoped I could live up to it.

We came to a spacious bedroom with its bed made up as if its regular user was due back at any moment. There was a dressing table and wardrobe in matching coloured pine, and in the corner a work area with the laptop, now returned, box files and shelves of ring binders.

I just stood in the room and looked about me, wondering where to start.

“I'll leave you to it, shall I? If you need me, I'll be downstairs.”

“Thanks,” I said rather inadequately.

Crossing to the wardrobe I discovered Helen's clothes, still there waiting for something or someone. The drawers in the dressing table were full and well ordered - underwear mainly, some tights, lots of feminine odds and ends, sweaters - nothing out of the ordinary.

I glanced at the desk area in the corner. If there was going to be anything interesting and relevant, I would find it there.

The box files were all labelled neatly - Work, Holidays, Family, Finance. Which one first? Joyce had thought everything was straight forward at work and her mother thought the same. But I needed to know who or what was G, so I opened the work file first.

It was virtually empty. There were copies of application forms, brochures from companies, perhaps dating back to before Helen went to Colbox, but there was nothing useful that I could see. No letters, or notes, or names. I closed the file and returned it to its place.

I couldn't think of any reason why a holiday or its plans could kill Helen. So I turned to Finance.

There were bank statements going back a year or two and an assortment of letters. I shuffled carefully through them and found they were grouped together with paper clips - one lot from Helen's tax office, more from the bank, some from a loan company. I looked more carefully at them and they referred to a loan taken out six months earlier for quite a sizeable sum.

Reference to the bank statements showed me a regular salary going in, and monthly loan repayments after the date the loan was agreed, and I determined to ask her mother about that later. The bank statements also showed a regular balance each month end, with no overdraft. That was relatively unusual and quite refreshing. It spoke well of Helen. The balance was not enormous, but at least it showed she was living within her means, so that gave no clue towards a suicide theory.

The family file contained a lot of photographs and I took them over to the bed and spread them out. It was easy to recognise Helen and Joyce at various ages. Their parents were pictured in the garden, near the sea, at places which looked rather exotic - I couldn't tell where. There were a few pictures of Helen's mother with a man I didn't know, probably Helen's biological father, I wondered. The clothes suggested the pictures were taken in the sixties. He wore a sports jacket and tie, and she had hair built up into a beehive and was wearing a very short skirt in a floral-print fabric.

None of the pictures gave much of a clue. They were virtually all posed, with smiles giving an appearance of relaxation and happiness, but how much of that was artificial I had no way of knowing.

Collecting the photos together again I took them back to the box file and found an envelope I hadn't noticed before. I paused. It was one thing to look through a person's photos, quite another to read their mail. But Joyce didn't mind me reading Helen's emails, and leaving the letter in the envelope would serve absolutely no purpose.

I took out a single piece of paper. It was headed with the name of a law firm, Grace, Swindle and Little, and dated a few weeks before. It related to the will of Helen's grandmother and the person who had been the sole beneficiary. There was no name mentioned. The letter simply confirmed that the solicitor was unable to give Helen any more details than those given at the reading of the will.

What was all that about? And who was the grandmother? Her mother's or her father's mother? Something else to ask about downstairs.

I made a note of the solicitor's details and put the letter back in its envelope. Then I closed the box file, putting them all back in their original order.

The ring binders were labelled as carefully as the box files and most contained notes from various courses Helen had attended. There was nothing that looked helpful, so I left them side by side and turned again to look around the room.

Once more I found myself trying to get into another detective's shoes. What would Rockford or Colombo look for? Or Sam Spade or Poirot, or any other? Was there something about the room that I was missing? Some obvious clue? If there was, I couldn't see it, so I left the room as I had found it and went back downstairs.

Joyce's mother was ironing in the kitchen, an expression of bored resolve showed in her reflection from a small mirror. The radio was playing light music and she didn't hear me come in.

As she turned to pick up something she saw me in the doorway, and jumped.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“It's my fault,” she said. “I seem to be always on edge just lately.”

I moved into the room and leaned against the kitchen table, wondering how to ask about personal details. It was more difficult, having known the family to a certain extent for a long time, than it would have been for a perfect stranger. I hoped this wouldn't cause a problem.

“Can I ask you about two things?” I began, “And tell me if you think I'm prying into corners which you think should be left private.”

She stood the iron up on its back and turned to face me.

“There's been so much happening recently. We've taken so many knocks. Losing Helen was like the last straw.”

I waited for her to continue. She turned her attention to the sink, picking up a cloth and idly wiping the surround -working out how much to say, I suspected.

“When my mother-in-law died,” she said, “we lost a true friend. Oliver had recently been made redundant, and the two things coming close together were difficult to cope with.”

“I didn't know your husband lost his job.”

“Yes. His bank was taken over, and they were rationalised -that was the word they used. Meaning slimmed down. They had too many investment managers”

“That must have come as a shock.”

“It did. It came totally out of the blue. One month we were comfortably off, and the next he was unemployed.”

“But not for long, I should think. If he was an investment manager, he must have a lot of talent and experience. I should think he would be picked up quite quickly.”

“That's what we hoped would happen. Oliver used to talk about head-hunters in the City, but he's stopped referring to that now. He says he's too old. You worked in the City, didn't you? What do you think?”

There was hopefulness in her voice, and I knew I couldn't help, but didn't want to say anything either trite or disheartening.

“I don't know,” I said uselessly. “I hope he finds something soon.”

Then something else occurred to me.

“And, of course, Joyce lost her job not so long ago.”

I regretted saying it as soon it came out.

“Yes. She came home, so there were now four mouths to feed, and only Helen working.”

None of this had any connection with Helen, and I could see I was only making Joyce's mother feel worse. Keep to the subject, I told myself. You're trying to help her, not make her miserable. Say something positive, for God's sake.

“I found some of Helen's bank details upstairs. It looks as if she was very careful with her money.”

“Yes. She was. Oliver taught her to be like that. She was a very sensible girl. We'll miss her a lot.”

Her head began to drop as she spoke, and I noticed her shoulders beginning to shake. I moved up behind her and held her upper arms and she turned, her head falling on my shoulder as her body wracked with sobs.

After a few moments she sniffed very hard and lifted her head again.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“There's no need to be. I'm sorry that my questions are making you feel worse.”

She pulled away from me and fished in her pocket for a handkerchief, then blew her nose.

“Do you want me to leave everything else for now?” I suggested.

“No. I'll be all right if I sit down for a bit. Let's go back in the living room.”

“Don't forget the iron,” I said.

“Oh, yes. Thanks. I'll be forgetting my own head soon.”

She sat on a chair, her knees pulled tightly together, her handkerchief in her hand, trying very hard to hold herself together.

I took the long, leather sofa.

“What was it you wanted to ask me?”

“You've answered one of my questions already. I found a letter referring to the will of Helen's grandmother, and you told me it was your mother-in-law.”

“Ex mother-in-law.”

“Oh. I see. You kept in touch, then?”

“Yes. Oh, that's a whole other story,” she said, her head flopping back to the cushion. We became very close during my first marriage. She was always so supportive. She came down to live near here. After her sons and husband had died, she had no one else, so she sold up and came to live near us.”

“The letter referred to the sole beneficiary of her will. Was there some mystery about the person who inherited?”

“There was more than mystery. There was complete surprise. It came as rather a shock.”

“Do you know the person who inherited?”

“We know her name. It was read out with the will. But we don't know who she is and why Annie left everything to her. We'd expected Helen to inherit.”

“As her direct descendant?”

“Of course.”

This was intriguing and again I wondered if it was relevant.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

Joyce's mother continued to lean back and I could see her thoughts drifting away to an entirely different time and place. When she spoke she was looking, not at me, but up to the ceiling, as if seeing a rerun of past experiences on an invisible screen.