Still Waters (27 page)

“So you see what I mean?” Lynn said, lifting a piece of lamb with her fork. “It's not the same at all.”

Grinning, Sharon tore off a piece of naan bread and scooped it through what was left of her coriander and green chili sauce. “You know what I think?”

“No. Go on.”

“I think you should marry him and have done with it.”

“Very funny!”

“Maybe.”

Watching Lynn reach for the water jug to refill her glass, Sharon laughed. “Hot is it, that lamb passanda of yours?”

She had only been to Peterborough a few times, and only once by car. The outskirts of the town seemed dominated by low-level industrial estates, which the development council optimistically called parks, and units of neat brick housing only now beginning to show serious need of repair. The signs for the town center were frequent and clear and the green neon outside the multi-story told her there were spaces available. She could walk from there directly into the newish shopping center, which was where she'd arranged to meet Patricia Falk.

As those places went, Lynn thought, it was pleasanter than most. At least there seemed to be plenty of natural light—or was that an illusion?—and the walkways were wide enough for people to stroll without feeling they were running a gauntlet between Our Price and Etam, Saxone and WH Smith.

Patricia Falk was precisely where she had said she would be, on a stool at the right-hand side of the Costa Coffee Boutique, wearing, as she had promised, a brightly colored cardigan with a parrot that looked as though it came from Guatemala. She was nibbling at a hazelnut wafer and reading the G2 section of the
Guardian
.

Lynn introduced herself before ordering a cappuccino and dragging over an empty stool.

Patricia Falk was in, she guessed, her early forties but could have passed for less. Her eyes were alert and bright behind simple round spectacles with gold rims; her dark hair had been cut short, but stylishly, and azure blue birds hung down from her ears. When Lynn had asked her on the telephone what she did, she had said, somewhat dismissively, “Oh, I work with voluntary groups,” as if that were explanation enough.

A few minutes' chat about the journey and the day and then she plunged in. “This is about Jane,” Patricia said. “Jane's murder.”

“Yes.”

“I couldn't believe it when I read it. It was just … You never think, when you hear about these things, it's going to be anybody you know. I mean, burglaries, yes, someone losing a bike, their car stereo, but this …” She drank some coffee and shifted her position on the stool. “You know, I only worked with her for a year. Less. I left halfway through the summer term.”

“Had something happened?”

Patricia smiled. “I'd seen the way things were going. National curriculum. Testing. The days when you could expect to be creative as a teacher were at an end. And if the teachers aren't allowed to be creative, what chance is there for the kids?”

Lynn nodded, uncertain; the only kids she regularly came in touch with didn't seem to have a problem with creativity: they could be relied upon to find new ways to cheat and steal and the stories they told to cover up for what they did would have made Hans Christian Andersen seem like a candidate for Special Needs.

“Would you say, though, you knew her well?”

“Pretty well, yes. Considering the amount of time we spent together.”

“You went out with her a few times, I think. Her and her husband. A foursome.”

Patricia, whose head had begun to tilt inquiringly to one side, let out a knowing laugh. “Oh, you've been talking to Prentiss. I thought someone had been doing a diligent trawl through old staff records at the school. But, no, now I see. Well, that's a name from the past I hadn't expected to hear again.”

“You haven't kept in touch, then?”

“In touch and Alan aren't terms that go together. Which is strange, considering his chosen profession. I told him, he should have been a priest instead of an osteopath. No need for physical contact other than a religious laying on of hands.”

“He wasn't what you'd call,” Lynn asked, “a particularly passionate man?”

“In his head, maybe.” Seeing Lynn's raised eyebrow, she gave a rueful smile. “Sorry, I sound bitter, don't I?”

“Yes. Yes, you do.”

“Are you married?”

Lynn shook her head.

“A man?”

“No.”

“A woman, then?”

“No.”

“Maybe you're lucky.”

And maybe I'm not, Lynn thought.

“God help me,” Patricia said, “what I did with Prentiss was, made this image of him. It was as if I'd taken bits of him, all the different bits, and put them together in some totally different way. And that was what I saw, that was what I wanted, but, of course, he wasn't there, he wasn't like that, only inside my head. And it took me—what?—five months of miserable, disappointed evenings before I finally realized. Five months of going out with this … this phantom.” Patricia laughed. “Can you believe that?”

Even Lynn was smiling. How long had she shared her life with the cyclist, shared her flat with him? Cog wheels on the carpet and time charts taped to the kitchen wall. Whatever had she thought he was going to turn out to be? “Yes,” she said, “I'm afraid I can.”

“Whereas Jane, poor Jane. She knew what she wanted and she got it in spades.”

“Which was what?”

“Someone strong, intelligent, absolutely committed to her. Someone who, no matter what else, needed her.”

“He was in love with her, then? Alex?”

“If that's a definition of love, yes.”

“You don't think it is?”

“Oh, I think it might be missing a few things, don't you? Tolerance. Space. Freedom. Room to develop, change. Just room to breathe.”

“And she didn't have those?”

“Did you ever meet Jane? Did you ever see her and Alex together?”

Lynn shook her head; she didn't want to say the only time she'd seen Jane Peterson was when she was dead.

“When she was on her own, working, for instance, with the kids, she … well, she had a mind, she was lively, fun to be with, she became involved—a little too much so at times, she could be over-intense about things. In Alex's company she was this …” Patricia finished the last of her coffee. “She was like his little dog, you know, a pet dog. Alex would be all for showing her off, bragging about how attractive she was and all of that, and then it was as if he'd encourage her to say stuff, you know, get excited, do tricks, and when she was really into it, he'd slap her down.”

“Slap?”

“Not literally. Slap.” Patricia's hand steadied in the middle of putting down her empty cup. Never taking her eyes off Lynn, she asked, “He didn't hit her, did he? Alex? He didn't …”

Lynn was looking back at her, not answering, but Patricia could read it in her face.

“The bastard. That cruel bastard.”

“You didn't know?” Lynn asked quietly.

Lips tight together, Patricia shook her head.

“And Jane, she never said anything?”

“Not one word.”

“But you're not surprised?”

“When I look back on it, it makes perfect sense. I mean, I knew that in a way she was frightened of him. That when he said jump, if you like, she jumped.” Patricia looked around toward the counter. “Look, I don't know about you, but I could do with another coffee.”

“Maybe in a minute,” Lynn said. “I just wanted to ask, if all this was going on, why you think she put up with it?”

Patricia folded the paper that had held her wafer in half, then half, then half again. “I think in a way it's what she wanted, that kind of almost domination. And I think, in any case, she would have been frightened to have done anything about it.”

“Anything. Such as?”

“Oh, the whole range, from suggesting family therapy to leaving him. Having an affair.”

“And you don't think she did that?”

“An affair? Jane? She'd have had to be a combination of Houdini and Mata Hari if she had.”

Lynn nodded, stood away from the stool to get more coffee.

“Although she might have thought about it,” Patricia said quietly.

For a moment, Lynn held her breath. “What makes you say that?”

Patricia half-smiled, remembering. “We were nattering one day in the loo. Girls' stuff. One of the games staff was having this big thing with someone from another school. Everyone knew about it and they didn't seem to care; everyone except for their respective partners, I imagine. I remember Jane saying it's amazing what you can get away with if you've got the guts. I think she said balls. Anyway, I told her it was okay for her to talk, she wasn't the type to have an affair even in her wildest dreams. And I remember she gave me this little smile and said, ‘If only you knew.'”

“That was all?”

“That was all.”

“But you thought …?”

“I suppose I thought, well, she's been thinking about it, at least.”

“Cappuccino or espresso?” Lynn asked.

“Straight, please. Straight black.”

“All right,” Resnick said, “correct me if I'm wrong.” They were in their room on the Ropewalk, Resnick, Khan, and Lynn, the window open several inches top and bottom, the air heavy and promising rain. To the northwest, the sky was darkening like an overripe plum. “What we're supposing is this. One, despite any previous evidence to the contrary, Jane Peterson was carrying on an affair. How far this had got or how long it had been going on, we've no way as yet of knowing, but some kind of affair.

“Two, both of the calls she made from Broadway, were made to the other person involved, which places him in the Cambridgeshire–Newmarket area, if not permanently, then at those times.

“And three, after the second of those calls, somewhere, somehow, Jane ran out on her husband and joined her lover. We don't know what happened then, where they went, anything. All we do know is that a week later she was dead.” He looked from Lynn to Khan and back again. “Now why, as a story, do I not find that convincing?”

“There are too many gaps,” Khan said. “Too much conjecture. We don't
know
she was having an affair at all.”

“We know she phoned someone before she disappeared.”

“Okay, but if she's on the point of meeting him, why talk for almost half an hour?”

“Maybe there were a lot of arrangements to be made.”

“Or,” Resnick said, “maybe one or other of them was getting cold feet.”

“Probably Jane,” Lynn said.

“We don't know that,” said Khan.

“She was the one who'd stayed in an abusive relationship for years,” Lynn said. “If she was all that keen to run off, surely she'd have done it sooner. No, it makes perfect sense to me she'd have doubts.”

“Right at the last minute?”

“Especially then.”

“Okay,” Resnick said, “here's what we do. Lynn, we should check back through all of Jane's known friends and relations; if she let that one remark slip to Patricia Falk, she just may have said something to somebody else. Something that until we jog their memory they might have honestly forgotten. And push the Cambridgeshire connection, see if you can get them to come up with anyone Jane knew there.”

Lynn nodded.

“Anil, I want you back out at that pub, asking around. If this bloke we're looking for calls in regular, daytimes, it might mean it's on his route from here to there. But equally well, it might be his local. How close is the nearest village? Couple of miles? Happen he's got good reasons for not wanting to take calls at home. Some calls. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right.” As Resnick pushed up to his feet, the first rumblings of thunder were heard, rolling across the middle distance. By the time he was down at the main entrance, spots of rain the size of ten pence pieces were darkening the street.

Thirty-nine

Standing in the kitchen, Resnick seated at the table in front of her, Hannah vigorously toweled his hair dry. “Why is it,” she asked, “I feel like I'm in a short story by D. H. Lawrence? Seeing to my man after a hard day at the pit face. All it needs is the coal in the bath to be perfect.”

“Or me in the bath,” Resnick suggested.

Hannah dipped her head to kiss the back of his neck. “We'll get to that later.”

After dinner, they sat in the front room with the lights out and watched a video of Woody Allen's
September
. Brittle, rich people with money enough to indulge their own small hurts. And in its midst a writer whom half the women seem unfathomably to be in love with. He was, Resnick thought, as manipulative and self-obsessed as he supposed writers might be.

“Switch it off, Charlie, for heaven's sake!” Hannah exclaimed as, yet again, Resnick let out a groan at the behavior of one or other character on the screen. “Or else stop complaining.”

But there was one thing that kept him watching—or listening: the album Art Tatum once made with Ben Webster was forever on the record player. People danced to it, listened in the dark to it, kissed and quarreled to it, exclaimed how wonderful it was.

Which was true. Almost the only truth Resnick could divine from the whole charade.

“You know what it reminded me of?” Hannah said, once the end titles had come up, switching the remote to rewind. “You remember the first time we went to Broadway, that film we saw based on the Chekhov play?”

Resnick could recall the occasion very well; about the film he was less certain. He reached up to switch on the light. It was still not eleven o'clock. “The thing that got me,” he said, pausing on his way to the kitchen, “wanting us to believe that twerp of a writer with the morals of an alley cat would have the nous to choose Tatum and Webster as his favorite record.”