Lasting Damage (46 page)

‘Should be okay. What’s the problem?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘I’ll get there quicker with a hint to speed me on my way,’ said Charlie. Her fingers traced the sealed flap of the envelope. Nothing good would come of opening it; Simon was unaware of its existence, and Charlie didn’t want its contents in her own head any more than she wanted them in his. She ripped the envelope into small pieces, then smaller ones still, letting them fall at her feet.

‘Jackie Napier,’ said Sam. ‘The problem is Jackie Napier.’

‘You have to treat it as you would a bereavement,’ Barbara Bowskill told Simon. ‘You used to have a son, but you don’t any more. You’re in the same position as a mother whose son went to fight in Iraq and was killed by a bomb, or someone whose child died of cancer, or was murdered by a paedophile. You tell yourself there’s nothing you can do – they’re gone – and you stop hoping.’ She looked like Simon’s idea of what a bereavement counsellor ought to look like, though in reality they rarely did: frizzy dyed auburn hair, grey at the roots; an embroidered tunic over flared jeans, chunky wooden jewellery, sandals with fabric tops and heels made of rope and cork. And no real bereavement counsellor would advise pretending that one’s child had been murdered by a paedophile when that child was alive and well and living in Silsford.

Not for the first time since he’d arrived, Simon had doubts about Kit Bowskill’s mother. It wasn’t only the paedophile remark. He found her smile unsettling, and was glad he’d only seen it twice – once when she’d opened the door to let him in, and then again when she’d handed him a mug of tea and he’d thanked her. It was intrusive, a violation of a smile – one that suggested extreme empathy, shared pain, yearning and a strong desire to devour the soul of its recipient. There was too much crinkling of the skin around the eyes, too much pursing of the lips, almost as if she was about to blow a kiss and start crying simultaneously.

Nigel Bowskill looked as if he belonged to a different world from his wife, in his grey suit trousers, green T-shirt and white trainers. ‘It’s too painful otherwise,’ he explained. ‘We can’t spend the rest of our lives waiting for Kit to change his mind. He hasn’t for seven years. Probably never will.’

‘Why should he have that power over us?’ Barbara sounded defensive, though no one had criticised her. There was something odd about the way this couple spoke, thought Simon – as if each disagreed violently with what the other had just said, though if you listened to the words rather than the tone, they appeared to be unanimous all the way down the line.

So far, Simon hadn’t enjoyed being in their house: a detached beige-brick modern villa which, together with its built-on double garage, made an L-shape. He reminded himself that it didn’t matter; this was unpaid work, not fun. Day eight of his honeymoon. He wished he’d brought Charlie with him, but knew that if by some miracle time were to rewind to yesterday, he would choose again to make the trip alone. ‘It must be hard,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I ask what caused the rift?’

‘Kit didn’t tell you?’ Barbara rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. ‘No, of course he didn’t, because he couldn’t, not without revealing something about himself that he didn’t want you to know – that once he tried to do something and didn’t succeed, shock horror. What you’ve got to understand about my son is that he’s the most intensely private person you’ll ever meet, as well as the proudest. Since he refuses to come to terms with his own fallibility, his pride is easily wounded – that’s where the secrecy comes in, all in the good cause of saving face. There’s no doubt in Kit’s mind that the whole world is watching him, eagerly awaiting his downfall. He might seem relaxed and chatty on the surface, but don’t be fooled – it’s all image management.’

‘He spent his whole childhood hiding from us,’ said Nigel.

Automatically, Simon looked round the living room for possible hiding places, and saw none; there was nothing here to hide behind, only two leather sofas at right angles to one another, each one pushed up against a wall. The hall Simon had been ushered through had been the same, as had the kitchen he’d stood in, briefly, while Barbara made him a cup of tea. He’d never seen a less cluttered house. There were no shelves, no ornaments, no coats on pegs by the front door, no plants, no fruit bowls or clocks, no occasional tables. The house was like a film set, not yet fully installed. Where did Kit’s parents keep all their things? Simon had asked them if they’d only just moved in, and been told that they’d lived in the house for twenty-six years.

‘I don’t mean he hid physically,’ Barbara was saying. ‘We always knew where he was. He never stayed out and left us worrying, like some of his friends did to their parents.’

‘We thought we knew
who
he was, too,’ said Nigel, whose face was his son’s plus two and a half decades. ‘A contented, polite, obedient boy – sailed through school, loads of mates.’

‘He showed us what he knew we wanted to see,’ Barbara blurted out, as if afraid her husband might get to the punch-line first if she wasn’t quick about it. ‘All through his childhood, our son was his own spin doctor.’

‘What was he trying to hide?’ Simon asked. So far, the questioning had been all one way. If either of Kit Bowskill’s parents wondered why a detective had invited himself to their house in order to ask about their son, they were keeping quiet about it. If only everyone Simon interviewed could share their lack of curiosity; he hated having to explain himself, even when the explanation was a good one.

‘No guilty secrets,’ said Nigel. ‘Only himself.’

‘His low opinion of himself,’ Barbara amended. ‘What he perceived as his weakness. Of course, we’ve only worked all this out in retrospect – we’ve been rather like detectives, you might say. We’ve spoken to his school friends, found out things we had no idea about at the time because Kit made sure to conceal them from us – the torture he inflicted on boys who won the prizes he thought he should have won, the bribes he offered those same boys once he’d come to his senses, so that they wouldn’t say anything to their parents or teachers about who’d injured them.’

‘He terrified the life out of all those who came within his orbit,’ said Nigel.

Barbara smiled. ‘In his absence, we’ve put together a psychological profile of him, the way you lot do with criminals. At the time, he had us completely fooled. Deliberately or not, he played on our egos. Nigel and I were happy, prosperous – we had a successful business. Of course we believed that our son was this blessed golden boy who never suffered a set-back, never got upset or angry, never admitted to having a problem.’

‘His act was watertight.’ The regret in Nigel’s voice was laced with admiration, Simon thought. ‘He couldn’t bear for anybody to see that he was an ordinary human being who sometimes made a fool of himself – with highs and lows, just like the rest of us. Kit had to appear to be above all that – always in control, happy all the time . . .’

‘Which meant that no one was allowed to know what mattered to him, or that he sometimes got upset, that he sometimes failed or wasn’t the best at something.’ Barbara’s frenzied delivery made it hard to listen to her. Her eagerness to speak made her sound unbalanced. She seemed to find it unbearable when it was her husband’s turn and she had to wait. ‘All his life, Kit’s worked on an image of perfection.
That’s
the real reason he can’t forgive us – for a few hours in 2003, the mask slipped and we saw him agitated and unhappy, having cocked up something that really mattered to him. It’s himself he won’t forgive, for allowing things to reach the point where he needed to come to us for help – nothing to do with us not giving him the fifty grand.’

‘Fifty thousand pounds?’ Simon asked. Was that what Kit had meant when he’d said his parents had failed to ‘rally round’?

Nigel nodded. ‘He needed it to buy a house.’

‘I’ve still got the brochure somewhere, I think,’ said Barbara. ‘Kit brought it round to show us. When we wouldn’t cooperate, he told us he didn’t want the brochure, not if he couldn’t have the house. “Why don’t you tear it up, or burn it?” he said. “I expect you’d enjoy that.” I think he thought that as soon as we looked at the pictures and saw how stunning it was, we’d hand over the money. And it
was
stunning, but . . . it wasn’t worth the amount the vendor was asking Kit to pay on top, and we didn’t think it would be fair on the people who thought they were buying it if Kit and Connie were to pull the rug out from under them all of a sudden. What kind of charlatan behaviour is that?’

‘It was no way to treat them, and no way to treat us.’ Nigel threw this out as a challenge, daring someone to disagree. He was gearing up to have the fight all over again, as if Kit were sitting here opposite him instead of Simon. ‘Connie and Kit could easily have afforded a house in Cambridge that was more than adequate for their needs – there’ll have been any number of places they could have bought. Why did they have to have this particular house, which was effectively already sold?

Because Kit was too proud to compromise, determined to hold out for the ideal?

‘Kit saw no need to tell us why,’ said Barbara. ‘He behaved as though it was his God-given right to have that house, at whatever cost.’

‘He had a damn nerve, telling us he wanted to waste fifty thousand pounds doing something immoral and expecting us to foot the bill. He didn’t even ask for a loan, that was what got to me. Said nothing about paying the money back, just expected us to give it to him. When we said no, he turned vicious.’

Simon wanted to ask Nigel what he’d meant about the house already being sold, but he didn’t want to interrupt. He could get the details later. ‘Vicious how?’ he asked instead.

‘Oh, it all came out. Barbara and I had no standards – we didn’t know the difference between a good thing and a bad thing, didn’t know a beautiful house when we saw one, didn’t understand the importance of beauty, didn’t notice it when it was staring us in the face. Oh, and we didn’t notice ugliness either, and didn’t take the appropriate steps to avoid it – we’d only ever bought ugly houses.’ Nigel tried to sound light-hearted as he reeled off the list of his son’s insults, but Simon could hear the hurt in his voice.

‘And of course we’d made Kit suffer, because he’d had to live in those ugly houses with us,’ Barbara contributed. ‘He said we were like animals, we didn’t understand about aiming high and only accepting the best. What did we know about anything? We’d chosen to live in three awful, barbaric places one after another: first Birmingham, then Manchester, then Bracknell – all places that should be wiped off the face of the earth. How could we have made Kit live in them? How could we have lived in them ourselves?’

‘From the moment Kit set foot in Cambridge, nowhere else was good enough,’ said Nigel. ‘We weren’t good enough any more.’

‘Though Kit was so skilled at concealment, we had no idea we’d gone down in his estimation – not until we wouldn’t give him the money he thought it was his right to take, and he was angry enough to tell us that everything we’d ever done was wrong.’

‘The list of our crimes was endless.’ Nigel started to count them off on his fingers. ‘We should have moved to Cambridge when Kit started at university – moved our home and our business – so that he wouldn’t have to leave the city in the holidays and come back to Bracknell . . .’

‘. . . which he described as “the death of hope”. Imagine saying that about your home!’

‘We should have helped him when he finished his degree and the only job he could get was in Rawndesley – should have offered to support him financially, so that he didn’t have to move, didn’t have to leave Cambridge.’

‘At the time he’d told us he was thrilled with his new job in Rawndesley and really looking forward to a change of scene!’

‘His usual tactic,’ said Nigel. ‘Pretending that what had happened was what he’d wanted all along, so that he could come out looking like the winner.’

‘He was very convincing. Kit’s always convincing.’ Barbara stood up. ‘Would you like to see his room?’ she asked Simon. ‘I’ve kept it exactly how he left it – like a dead child’s room, everything just the same, and me the grieving mother, curator of the museum.’ She let out a bark of laughter.

‘Why would he want to see Kit’s bedroom?’ Nigel snapped. ‘We don’t even know why he’s here. It’s not as if Kit’s missing and he’s after leads.’

Simon, on his feet now, waited to be asked about the reason for his visit.

‘He might be missing,’ Barbara told her husband. ‘We don’t know, do we? Might even be dead. If he isn’t, then he’s of interest to the police for some other reason. Anyone who wants to understand Kit needs to see his bedroom.’

‘We’d have been told if he was dead,’ said Nigel. ‘They’d have to tell us. Wouldn’t you?’

Simon nodded. ‘I’d like to see the room, if you don’t mind showing me,’ he said.