A Killing Kindness (31 page)

'That night I went out to the Garden Centre.

'Mary was alone. She was surprised to see me, but not too surprised. We sat and talked. I told her  about myself, put her at her ease, told her I bore no grudges. It got late. Alison wasn't home. Mary said  perhaps I should come back the next day, but I was  getting a bit concerned. She was barely seventeen,  a child still. I didn't like the idea that she was being kept out till all hours. Then we heard a car. I looked out of the window. I could see her in the passenger  seat. She and the driver were in a pretty tight clinch  you know, hands everywhere. I wanted to go out,  but Mary wouldn't let me. A bit later Alison came in. God, what a change! I mean, all right, it was  six years since I'd seen her, but she was still my  girl, still just a child. But the clothes she had on, the hair-do, the make-up! And on her hand, on her left hand, a ring. She didn't notice me at first, she was so excited, waving this ring at her mother,  saying she was engaged.

'I had to say something. I didn't want to spoil our reunion, but I had to say something. She was quiet at first, much more surprised than Mary.  Pleased to see me, I thought, but also accusing.  As if it had all been my fault. And wilful. Like her mother. She said she wanted to get married soon.  Married? What did she know of life? A child. She said this boy was down here doing some kind of  agricultural course. They'd met at the show where  Dinwoodie had been killed. Irony. Even dying, he  did me a bad turn. Soon he'd be finished, going back up to the Borders somewhere, and he wanted  Alison to go with him. I said it was absurd. Legally  she was still my daughter. I had my rights still. They let them choose for themselves when they're eighteen now. Stupid, isn't it? But there was still a  year to go. And there was no way she was going to get my permission!'

But she didn't need it, thought Pascoe. One  parent's agreement was enough now. Christ, why didn't people check what the latest state of the  law was?

'Well, there was a row, of course,' resumed  Greenall. 'Alison flew out of the room. Mary, however, seemed to be much more sensible about the  situation. We talked and in the end I went away,  satisfied that an understanding had been reached. It was far too early to talk about a reconciliation,  but at least I felt we understood each other. How  wrong can you be?'

Pascoe's pen was flying over the sheets of his notebook, yet he was making a great effort to keep it legible. This was an iron to strike while hot.  This was not going to be a statement which would  easily bear the delays of careful typing. Greenall's  signature at the bottom of each handwritten page was going to be the first consideration.

‘I couldn't get back for nearly a fortnight, and then just an overnight stay. Alison wasn't there. Staying with friends, said Mary. A long-standing  commitment. I accepted it. Why not? We all had  our own lives, we weren't a family again. Not yet.  But I had hopes. I'd seen an advert in one of the journals. They wanted a secretary/instructor at  the local Aero Club. It wasn't -
isn't
- a patch  on the place I was at in Surrey and the job was much more of a general dogsbody from the sound  of it, but I thought it might be worth a look. I said  nothing to Mary, but I sent off for details.

'Then next time I came, there was no one at the  house. There'd been heavy snow, you recall. It was a foot deep or more. The Garden Centre was closed,  of course. And the house was empty. I went back  to Surrey, not knowing what to do. I was worried  sick. I'd not told a soul anything about this, so I  couldn't even talk things over with anyone. I was  in a dream for a couple of days. Then the phone rang. I'd given Mary my number and it was her. I  knew it was her before I picked it up, and I knew  it was bad news. Well, she was almost matter of  fact about it. Against my will, against my rights,  she'd encouraged Alison to run off with this boy.

They'd been married in Scotland. And now they  were dead.

'I don't know what I said. I don't know how long  she listened. She was to blame, I knew that. Yet I  could understand how utterly her life must have been destroyed. And Alison's death was the worst  thing that had ever happened to me. Yet in a way  it might be a sort of blessing, it seemed, for when I thought of all the agony and disillusion being  married so young must have piled up for her, or  being married at all for that matter, in a way this  quick, sudden death . . .'

He took a deep breath.

'I thought of
Hamlet
again, suddenly, the first  time in six years. What women could be, what they let themselves be, what they make of us . . .  I tried to get in touch with Mary again. I wanted  to explain, reprove, convince, I wanted to show her what she was, make her recognize - well, I  wanted all kinds of things. But she wasn't there.  And when I came up again, the Centre was still  piled high with snow and she still wasn't there.

'So I applied for the job here. Don't ask me why. Just to be close, I suppose. To be ready. I got it,  of course. In March I started. I kept away from Shafton. I guessed that Mary might be frightened  of seeing me. If she came back and found there'd  been someone around asking after her, she might  take off again. But once or twice a week I'd ring  the house in the evening, just to see if there was an  answer. There never was. Meanwhile I got down to the job of putting this place on its feet. It was  hard work, but I enjoy hard work. And I get on  with people. I like people, Mr Pascoe. I like them  a lot. That's why it's been so . . . hard.'

He passed his hand over his face.

Pascoe said gently, 'And did your wife answer the phone, Mr Greenall? Did you see her again  before...’

'Before the Cheshire Cheese, you mean? No, I  didn't. She had been back a couple of weeks, I  gather. But either she wasn't in, or didn't answer when I rang. So it was quite unexpected. I like to  keep fit, Mr Pascoe. A stroll last thing at night and  a run first thing in the morning, that's my regime.  I don't need more than five hours' sleep. I'd have  been good in the Battle of Britain. God, what days  those must have been!

'It was quiet here that night, I recall. So I went  for my walk a bit earlier than usual and it wasn't quite closing time as I passed the Cheese. I suddenly had a fancy for a half of beer so I went in.  I looked through the lounge-bar door to see how  crowded it was, and there she was, Mary. A bit  pale, a bit thinner, but with a glass in her hand,  laughing, with a gang of people.

'I didn't go in. I went out to the edge of the  car park and waited. People started to come out.  Cars revved up and took off. Soon there was only a handful left. Then Mary came out with some  people. They all shouted goodnight. The others  all got into one car and drove off. Mary came over to a mini parked quite close to where I was  standing. For a moment the car park was empty of  people. I called her name as she reached the car. She said
Who's that?
puzzled, not frightened.
It's me, Austin,
I said. She came towards me, into the  shadows under the trees just off the edge of the  car park. She asked me what I wanted.
To talk,
I  said. Someone else came out of the pub. I took her  hand and drew her a little further away beneath  the trees. She didn't resist. I said,
I want to talk  about us. And about Alison.
And she said, so quiet  I could hardly hear her,
I've been so frightened and  so unhappy,
and she leaned against me. Somehow  all the things I intended to say seemed irrelevant.  Somehow there was nothing to be said at all.'

He paused again. The flow had been constant,  thought Pascoe, with none of the anticipated disjointed incoherence as the crisis moment was  reached.

He said, 'So you killed her.'

'Yes,' he said in a voice faintly surprised, as  though at a quite unnecessary question. 'There  was nothing else for her, you see. It's quick. I  studied the manuals during my combat training. Then I carried her out of the way a bit and laid her down and made her look as peaceful as I  could. I didn't want anyone to think that she'd  been savagely attacked and molested, you know  what I mean.'

‘And then?'

‘And then I walked home. It was a fine night, very clear, very still. Perfect for night flying, I remember thinking. I saw some navigation lights moving very high. Something big and fast. I envied  the pilot a little. But I felt very much at peace. I  thought it was all over, of course.'

'But it wasn't?'

'Oh no. You don't get experiences like I'd been  through out of your system overnight. Ever since  Alison's death, I'd been noticing girls. Kids, I mean.  Standing at bus stops on wet mornings, going to  work in some steamy office with loud-mouthed  men. So young, so forlorn. You know what I mean. It really broke my heart to see them. We don't let them be kids long enough. We force them to grow up, and there's nothing there when they get there, and they have to change and turn  into . . . well, that's how I felt. I'd started the disco  nights at the Club. We had them in Surrey and I  remembered how the kids used to enjoy them, just being kids if you follow me. There was no harm in it, despite what the fuddy-duddies like Middlefield  said. And they brought in a bit of cash. We needed  all the cash we could get if we were to make  something decent out of this place. Oh I've got  plans, Inspector, such plans ... I had plans . . .

'Anyway, there was this youngster at the discos.  I'd seen her a couple of times, I didn't know her  name but she was so full of life and fun. Then  suddenly she was there one Friday night, flashing  an engagement ring. Her boy-friend was a soldier, serving in Belfast. They were to be married on his next leave. I thought of married life in the services. I thought of me and Mary. I thought of Alison. And  I felt sick.'

'This was June McCarthy?' interposed Pascoe.

'Yes. I found out later. She wasn't there the next night. She had to go to work.'

'You knew this?' said Pascoe. 'You planned what happened?'

'Oh no,' said Greenall, shocked. 'No plan. It  was fate. I hadn't been able to get her out of  my mind, but I knew nothing about her. On  the Sunday morning I went out for my usual  run. Just after five. It's the best time of the day in summer. I felt so strong, I went further than  usual. I usually stick to the airport and to the  river, but on a Sunday the streets are so quiet, it's pleasant just to run along the pavement for  a change. I ended up in Pump Street. To tell the  truth I was a bit lost. And as I jogged past the  allotments, I saw a girl there, kneeling down. She  looked familiar. I went up to her. She gave quite  a start when I spoke. What she was doing, I found  out, was "borrowing" some sprigs of mint for the roast lamb she'd be cooking for her dad later in the  day. She got quite chatty when she realized who I was, told me how busy they were at the canning  plant in the fruit season, shifts every night, but she didn't mind as she was saving hard to get married. I'd recognized her by then, of course.  The soldier's fiancee. She looked about thirteen,  kneeling there with the mint. I couldn't bear the thought of it. Being spoilt so young. So I put her  to rest.'

'You killed her? You strangled her?'

Greenall didn't reply. It was not an uneasy or guilty silence, rather a contemplative one, as  though he were carefully examining the proposition.

'Yes,' he said just as Pascoe opened his mouth to  prod again. 'Killed her. Strangled her. Saved her.'

'From
what?'

'Disappointment. Disillusionment. Dismay. I felt  nothing but love and pity. The girl in the bank was the same. I saw her that afternoon. She'd  often served me since I took this job on. Only  this time, I saw the ring. She saw me looking at it and smiled. You know, proudly. A child. I felt  sick but I said "Congratulations". She said, "Thank you, Mr Greenall," and I left. But I knew I'd see  her again.'

'You planned it, you mean?' asked Pascoe once  more.

'Oh no. Nothing like that, though I had the  feeling there was a plan. But it wasn't mine. No, about half-six the evening rush was over. It's  always the same in summer when it's fine. Out of  work, down to the Club, can't wait to get into the  air. Well, who's to blame them? I went for a stroll,  out through the boundary fence, across the waste  ground till I reached the path along the river. It was  a lovely evening but I didn't see a soul. It's a bit out of the way and eventually it brings you back to the main road just on the edge of the Industrial Estate.  And if you follow that you get into Millhill.'

'Yes, I know,' said Pascoe impatiently.

'There she was,' said Greenall. 'It had to be  planned. She was standing where the buses that  come through the estate turn. There was no one  else there. I said hello. She was annoyed, I could  see. She told me she'd been having her hair done after work quite near the bank, had come out, just  missed her bus, knew there wouldn't be another  for twenty-five minutes, so thought that she'd be  better off taking the ten-minute walk here and  catching the estate bus. But it had just pulled  off as she arrived. There wouldn't be another of  those for at least half an hour. There was all kinds  of shopping she had to do in the town centre. I  gathered that on Thursdays a lot of the big shops  stay open till eight o'clock, but it was now quarter  to seven. So I offered her a lift. I explained it meant walking back to the Aero Club, but we could still  get there and be in the town centre before the next  bus arrived. She said OK and off we set.

'She chattered away. She was having a proper wedding, she said. That was one of the places she wanted to go this evening. She'd made up her  mind about her wedding gown and she was going  to put the money down. There were other things  to get, too. She didn't want a long engagement,  she said. There would be too much aggro at home  from her father. He didn't understand.

'I understood,' said Greenall. 'Suddenly she stopped and looked up and said. "Are those your gliders? Aren't they beautiful? Like huge birds. It  must be lovely to fly, but I don't think my Tommy  would fancy it. It's all cars with him." That was  when I took her throat. She fell backwards, hardly resisting, just staring at me in surprise. I thought  she must have died very quickly, but when I let  her go, suddenly she jerked and twisted, more a  convulsion than anything. We were right at the  edge of the river bank, and next thing she was over and in. At the very same moment I heard  voices. Children. I knew we were close to the  encampment and guessed it would be the gypsy  kids. I hated to leave her, but there was nothing  else to do. She was deep under the water. I turned  and went on my way.'