She pulled out her notebook, scribbled out a phone number, tore off the sheet and handed it to me. I glanced at it. It was for a mobile. She wanted me to speak to her, if I remembered some detail, and not to one of her colleagues. Detectives work as part of a team but it seemed Pereira was keen to make her mark. If I told her anything, she’d have to pass it on, but she wanted to be the one to come up with the new evidence. I understood this. It was a human enough failing. But it put me in the position of being her private information source. Where I come from, that sort of thing is viewed with extreme disfavour by the populace at large.
‘Thanks,’ I said briefly and stuck the noted number in my pocket. I doubted I’d be calling it. When I left her she was standing by her car watching me as I marched away.
In the centre I caught a bus to Summertown and went to the Stallards’ house. Jennifer answered the door. She looked harassed and said she was sorry, but Lisa had gone out early.
She sounded fretful as if she could have done with Lisa being there. Suddenly she blurted out, ‘Do come in for coffee!’
‘Really,’ I said, ‘that’s all right. I just wanted to speak to Lisa. Do you know where she’s gone?’ I held my breath, hoping the answer wouldn’t be that she’d left Oxford.
Jennifer shook her head. ‘To see a friend, perhaps? I got that impression . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘Won’t you come in for coffee? Are you sure? Just come and say hello to my husband.’
I recognised an appeal for help and it was difficult to refuse. I sidled unhappily indoors after her.
Paul was in the back room, reading the morning paper. I was again struck by the dark cluttered ambience of the place and its stuffy air of defeat. There was another atmosphere, too, which had nothing to do with stale air. Paul looked frail this morning but beneath the frailty he simmered with frustration and hopeless rage. I could sense it coming off him in waves. Before he saw me, he asked petulantly, ‘Who was that?’
Invalids aren’t saints. Who would be, stuck in a chair like this, surrounded by the same four walls day in and day out? Frustrations boil over. They can make life hell for devoted carers. Probably, now his daughter was at home, Paul had perked up a bit. But she’d gone out and this morning things weren’t going well. No wonder Jennifer had welcomed the sight of me as a possible diversion.
Certainly Paul brightened as soon as he saw me. Jennifer bustled away to make the coffee and I settled down to make small talk, mostly about the theatre and my ambitions. It was a difficult and strained occasion and the longer it went on the clearer it became to me that his life was so completely empty that he latched vicariously on to any evidence of a ‘real life’ outside the four walls of this house. While, owing to my own lack of starring roles, my experience of working in the theatre has been limited, I do at least have a good idea of how it goes. Paul didn’t. His ideas were drawn entirely from reading about famous actors. He leaned heavily for information on the autobiographies of elderly stars of stage and screen, some of whom had turned up their toes years ago. It was clear to me that his idea of theatrical life was impossibly glamorous, all showbiz parties and wealthy upper-class stage-door johnnies panting to drink champagne from satin slippers. I got the impression he saw a future for Lisa in which some wealthy admirer showered her with flowers and diamonds before carrying her off to marriage and possibly even a title.
I tried hard to get the conversation away from his fantasies, from myself and from his accounts of his daughter’s (entirely fictional, did he but know it) success on the London musical stage. I asked about his collection of books. We discussed old films we’d both seen on television. I even, in desperation, asked how Arthur was that day.
‘I called in on him earlier this morning,’ said Paul. ‘But he wasn’t at home. He’s probably out shopping for slugs and worms.’
I realised this last reference was a joke, but it didn’t stop it being dismally and embarrassingly revealing of the emptiness of his existence. For him Arthur was as good as a human neighbour. I wondered they didn’t get themselves a livelier pet, like a cat. But perhaps cats and grass snakes didn’t mix.
Eventually I managed to get away, feeling that I was abandoning them but knowing there was nothing I could do except help keep Lisa’s secret. No wonder she depended on Ned as a shoulder to cry on. She could never bring any problem home. Home was a nest of inbuilt problems already.
‘I’m sorry you’ve missed Lisa,’ said Jennifer at the front door. ‘I’ll tell her you were here.’ She reached out and took my hand. ‘Thank you so much for giving us a little of your time,’ she said quietly.
For the first time I took a good look at her. She had a faded prettiness and a strong resemblance to her daughter. But there were dark shadows beneath her eyes and lines of strain around her mouth. Her hair was short and neat and she’d had time, even so early in the morning, to apply powder and lipstick. She was keeping herself together with the desperation of one who has no alternative. I felt sorry for them both and sorry for Lisa who had to carry on her shoulders the burden of being the one ray of light in their dull world.
I was too transparent. She read my thoughts. ‘Parents often talk of children being a problem,’ she said. ‘But parents can be a problem too, can’t they?’
‘Lisa loves you,’ I insisted. ‘You’re not a problem to her, neither of you. You mustn’t think that. It isn’t true.’
She made a little dismissive gesture. ‘Are you close to your parents, Fran? What do they think of your choice of acting as a career?’
I flushed and explained awkwardly that my parents were dead. ‘My dad died when I was just fifteen. My mother—’ I didn’t want to explain about my mother. ‘My mother died not so long ago,’ I said.
‘Oh, Fran, dear, I am so sorry!’ She was overcome with embarrassment and sympathy. She took my hand and patted it.
‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘I’m used to being on my own. As for whether they approved of my acting ambitions, I think Dad did. My mother was quite interested.’
How to explain that my mother’s interest in what I was doing had been of a superficial and painfully brief nature. We’d spent so little time together at the end and it had been dominated by other things than what I wanted of life. But in so far as she had been able to give her attention to me, lying there on her bed in the hospice, I think she was mildly interested and wished me well.
I broke free of Jennifer with a few more awkward words and bussed my way back to Beryl’s guest house. Here I took out the keys I still had and let myself in. But Beryl was aware of my arrival. She must have been listening out for it. As I shut the front door, the kitchen door at the back opened and her helmet of bronze hair popped out.
‘Hello, dear,’ she greeted me. ‘You’ve got a visitor. She and I are just having a coffee in here.’
Oh, no, I thought. Pereira has come back! It could only mean bad news if she had. I entered the kitchen trying for the nonchalant look and probably really looking as shifty as they come. But it wasn’t Pereira. It was Lisa who sat at Beryl’s table, drinking coffee and nibbling on a chocolate digestive.
‘I’ve got some things to do down in my flat,’ said Beryl cheerfully. ‘You two stay here and make yourselves at home. Make yourself a coffee, Fran.’ She hobbled away.
I pulled out a chair and sat down opposite Lisa. ‘I’ve just come from your house,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you ring and let me know you were coming over here? I’d have waited in for you.’
She put down the half-eaten biscuit. She’d tied back her blond hair with a pink scarf and her face looked white and drawn except for the end of her nose which was also pink. There was something pet-mouselike about her, but an angry pet mouse.
‘What do you mean, you went to my house? I told you, I didn’t want you around my parents! It’s risky! What happened? Did you see them?’
‘Yes, I saw them. I had coffee with them.’
I thought she might throw her coffee at me. ‘You had no right! They’re going to start suspecting—’
‘Not if you and I both act natural. We’re friends in London, right? I had coffee with them the other day. Why shouldn’t I stop and have another with them when I call for you and find you out?’
Sulkily she asked, ‘What did you talk about?’
‘About the theatre. I think your mum was pleased to see me.’
‘I know Dad’s having a bad day. It isn’t anything unusual. Mum copes. I lend a hand when I can. I can’t be there all the time. They don’t expect that. It’s just a bad situation. There isn’t a way out.’
She sniffed and rubbed at the end of her nose with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. She was wearing another of those woolly chain-mail sweaters which looked as if they’d been knitted on a pair of snooker cues. This one was soft green in colour.
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘The reason I went to your house is because I’ve still got to talk to you about Mickey Allerton. That’s another bad situation and you’re already out of it. But I’m not. If I can spend time sitting with your dad, you can help me out with Mickey. It’s only fair.’
‘I came to Christ Church Meadow yesterday morning to talk to you about him, like I promised!’ she snapped. ‘But when I got there, half Oxford was milling about. People were saying someone had drowned and the local radio station last night reported someone drowning there. Was that what it was all about?’
‘It was.’ I hesitated. ‘I found the body.’
She stopped rubbing the end of her nose with her hanky and stared at me, eyes popping. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘That was bad luck.’
‘Yes, and it was a bit worse than you might think,’ I said. ‘I recognised him.’
She frowned and looked suspicious. ‘I thought you didn’t know anyone in Oxford.’
‘This wasn’t an Oxford acquaintance. It was a London one and you know him, too. It was Ivo, the doorman at the Silver Circle.’
She’d had little colour in her cheeks but now even that drained away. ‘So you lied!’ she gasped. ‘You said you hadn’t brought anyone with you from the club!’
‘I didn’t. I didn’t know he was in Oxford and I don’t know what the hell he was doing down there in the river!’ I snapped. My nerves were frayed. I’d had enough.
Lisa looked terrified, as well she might. Her fingers gripped the mangled handkerchief so tightly her knuckles showed up as white bony protuberances beneath the stretched skin. Her lips moved soundlessly. When she could speak she whispered, ‘Mickey sent him. He sent him to check on you and me.’
I shook my head. ‘I spoke to Mickey on the phone yesterday and he didn’t seem any the wiser about what Ivo was doing here than I am. He didn’t send him to check on me. He sent a guy called Filigrew to do that, a weaselly-looking type in a business suit.’
She bit her lip and stared at me while she thought it out. ‘Then he came here on the same job as you’re doing, to try and get me back to London!’
‘Mickey sent me to do that. Why would Ivo take it upon himself? He’d be more likely to mess things up.’
She was shaking her head furiously. ‘Ivo wouldn’t think like that. He’s not very bright. Neither is Jasna but put the two of them together and it’s the sort of dumb plan they’d come up with.’
‘Jasna?’ I recalled my late-night mental meanderings. ‘Right, that’s the girl who works at the club, the one who squirrelled your home address away in her memory and gave it to Mickey. Or that’s what you said you thought must have happened. Is she Ivo’s girlfriend?’
‘I still think that’s what must have happened!’ she said impatiently. ‘Look, Ivo and Jasna are just mates as far as I know. They’re compatriots, both Croats. I shouldn’t think either of them is working legally. Jasna’s been scared Mickey is going to sack her. She’s a lousy dancer. I don’t think she ever had any training. She’s vulgar. Mickey doesn’t like that.’
I thought of Lisa in her cowgirl outfit and something of my doubt must have shown in my face.
‘There’s erotic and there’s plain vulgar,’ Lisa said. ‘You should know that. Mickey likes his acts to have class. I bet she knew Mickey had sent you here to bring me back to London and she told Ivo, if he could do it, then Mickey would be grateful and Ivo could ask for Jasna to keep her job.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy that for now. But it doesn’t explain Ivo being in Christ Church Meadow the morning I’d arranged to meet you!’
‘Well, I don’t know how he got there, do I?’ she shouted. She pulled out her hanky again and rubbed furiously at her nose.
‘Got a cold?’ I asked sympathetically.
‘Hay fever,’ she snapped.
I made a lunge across the table, seized her wrists and yanked her hands towards me. I pushed up one of her sleeves and then the other. There were no needle marks.