A Species of Revenge (6 page)

‘We've had the PM report through,' she said. ‘It's fairly conclusive.'

Asphyxial death due to drowning in water, was how Timpson-Ludgate had phrased it. The occipital fracture of the skull had resulted in loss of consciousness, whereby the victim, lying face downwards in the puddle, had subsequently drowned. Diatoms, or microscopic water algae, in the blood, proved conclusively that he was alive before the water entered his air passages. There were no
contre-coup
injuries to the brain to indicate that the fracture was due to his fall. Translated, this meant that he had been hit with, rather than fallen on to, some irregularly shaped, heavy object, possibly a stone. Had he fallen, the brain damage would have showed up on the opposite side to where the skull injury had been sustained, a seeming anomaly which occurred for some complex and not yet fully understood reason. A nice distinction, but important, since it proved conclusive evidence that his death was no accident.

‘But the weapon hasn't turned up. We've combed the area, and found nothing. Plenty of stones, but none that obviously fit the bill. And nothing else that looks likely.'

‘So we're talking murder. At the least manslaughter, a fight that got out of hand?'

‘We've had no reports of any undue disturbances nearby, either in the Leasowes or Colley Street, apart from the usual Saturday-night rumpus at the Punch Bowl – bikers and some drunken louts celebrating United's win. Ending up with one youth in hospital, several others enjoying free lodging here for the night. We've ascertained it had nothing to do with our man.'

And in any case, she added, the Punch Bowl, or any other pub, was probably a nonstarter, since the medical evidence had revealed no traces of alcohol in the victim's system. ‘The car keys are for a last year's BMW, but so far we haven't had any reports of one being abandoned. Kite's been on to the manufacturers ... they've given him the model, and the retail outlets they were sent to – but it'll be a long job tracing it that way – could've changed hands several times since then. And of course, our man could have disturbed thieves or joyriders in the act and tackled them as they were taking it away.'

‘Might be some connection with your motor thefts, is that what you're thinking? They've all been prestigious type cars so far.'

‘I'm currently working on the theory, but I'm not optimistic, if it's part of the same scam. Respray, new numberplates and its chassis number ground off, you name it, and it'll be over the channel before you can blink.'

‘On the other hand, the dead man's car may be tucked up tidily in his own garage. What about Missing Persons?'

‘Not a hope. No one even remotely conforming to his description. And his prints aren't on the Index, either. He was wearing a wedding ring, which indicates the presence of a wife somewhere or other, but maybe she thinks she knows where he is.'

She hesitated. ‘Among the loose change in his pocket were a couple of Belgian francs. Might have been left over from a recent holiday, of course, or it could just be that he actually is Belgian. We've put out the usual inquiries, on the offchance, but no luck there either, yet. We might get some response from the fly-posters we're organizing. Heigh-ho.' She grinned suddenly. ‘Well, we've had worse than this; it's early days, yet.'

‘We've tried taxi drivers? Or bus conductors, if it comes to that, or if he came here by train from somewhere else? Just because he had his car keys in his pocket it doesn't necessarily mean he used his car on that occasion.'

‘It's a reasonable assumption,' Abigail said.

‘We seem to be running out of reasonable assumptions as far as he's concerned. Let's try the other kind, now.'

She'd learned to respect what some jaundiced people called Mayo's good luck, what some dared to call his intuition and he himself insisted was gut feeling. Whatever it was, he had an uncanny knack of being right.

She hoped he was wrong this time. What he was implying was the worst-case scenario. Unknown victim, unknown killer, with every chance of this remaining a case marked ‘Closed'.

‘
Why
can't I have my ears pierced?' nagged Lucy.

She'd been at her new school for only two days but, typically, had already acquired a best friend named Jodie, who not only had her ears pierced but also, if what she'd told Lucy was to be believed, had her hair highlighted and possessed a pair of black patent-leather ankle boots which were the immediate and passionate object of Lucy's envy.

‘When you're older, perhaps,' Sarah temporized.

‘Why not
now?
'

‘Because you'd have to wear sleepers if you did and your daddy doesn't think that suitable at your age – do you, Dermot?'

‘Not really,' Dermot answered unconvincingly, and added weakly, ‘We'll see,' thus storing up further trouble for himself.

Sarah poured herself a strong cup of coffee. ‘Get on with your cornflakes, Lucy, or you'll be late for school.'

‘Angel doesn't have her ears pierced,' said Allie.

There was a pause. ‘Oh God,' Dermot said.

So Angel was back.

Angel, who'd lived and slept and played with Allie for months, her imaginary friend who'd then simply disappeared one day about six months ago, without explanation from Allie, greatly to everyone else's relief. Nobody was sorry that this smugly self-righteous child, aptly named from Allie's favourite story-book character, no longer formed part of the family, or was the unseen guest at the table, that Allie was at last able to do things without a prolonged discussion with her, something which irritated everyone else unbearably, especially her father. Sarah shot a warning glance at Dermot, who was showing every sign of his previous impatience with Allie over this. After a moment, with a shrug and a grunt, he subsided behind yesterday's newspaper.

Despite assurances that many children went through this stage, not to make too much of it, it would pass, Lisa had worried that the phantom child's presence was a sign of Allie's insecurity. Did her return signal some desperate need in Allie for comfort and reassurance? Sarah worried in her turn now. Was it a belated reaction to the loss of her mother? There'd been nightmares at first, sleepwalking, after Lisa had died, but she was sleeping peacefully through the nights now, just as Lucy had ceased to wail, ‘I want my mummy, it's not
fair!
' every bedtime.

Sarah felt out of her depth, catapulted into family responsibilities she didn't feel fitted to cope with – and Dermot wasn't going to be much help over this, she could see. He was on edge and unapproachable, had been all week, ever since they'd moved in. His original enthusiasm for the whole project seemed to have evaporated. Reminding him that he'd brought it on himself – much as she'd have enjoyed doing so – would cut no ice with him; he'd pointed out only last night that the most stressful things which could happen to anyone were supposed to be divorce, bereavement and moving house – and he'd just suffered the last two.

But she knew it was mainly because this new venture was so far not coming up to his expectations, that this wasn't exactly the new life he'd envisaged when the idea of taking over Edwina Lodge had transferred itself from Mrs Burgoyne's mind to his own. The actuality, she suspected, had been enough to make him wonder if he hadn't been too easily seduced by her weasel words, by the brilliant idea of having his mortgage paid by the tenants' rents, plus a little over. Dermot-like, he hadn't actually thought it through, considered the responsibilities ensuing from living in a house that included three other units. Already, the tenant of the downstairs flat, Tina Baverstock, was becoming a major pain, buttonholing him like the Ancient Mariner on some pretext or other every time she saw him. The venture had, like so many of Dermot's notions, seemed like a good idea at the time, a sort of bohemian, extended-family situation where he'd imagined there would be plenty of social interaction, plus someone on hand when he needed to park his children.

But still, Sarah wouldn't have expected disillusionment to have set in so quickly. The honeymoon was over before it had begun.

Allie seemed oblivious to the tension her announcement had created. She was going on with her cereal, carefully scraping the dish clean, spooning up every drop of milk. Lucy, munching toast, showed no sign of being bothered that Angel was amongst them again, either. For all her elder-sister superiority, she'd never either laughed at, or questioned the existence of, Angel.

At the moment, in fact, Angel seemed to have had the last word on the subject of pierced ears. Lucy finished her breakfast without further nagging, though this didn't by any means signify that they'd heard the end of it. Lucy was nothing if not relentless.

As Dermot folded the newspaper, he glanced out of the window and gave a sudden choked exclamation. ‘That bloody Baverstock woman! She was complaining to me yesterday about the paper girl leaving her bike here – I suppose that must be the girl – what's she going on at her again for? I
told
the woman it was all right!'

Before Sarah could answer, he'd rushed out. He was gone several minutes and when he came back, he had the morning's paper with him and was looking rather white around the mouth.

The telephone rang.

‘I'll get it!' Lucy cried, jumping down from her chair.

‘No!' Sarah said firmly, preparing to answer it herself. ‘You get your things ready for school, if you've finished your breakfast.'

Lucy looked smug. ‘I put them in my school bag
before
breakfast.'

‘Well,
check
– and then help Allie.' Allie was capable of dawdling indefinitely over collecting two exercise books and some coloured pencils, and then forgetting something essential, and panicking.

Sarah's heart skipped when she heard the voice. Simon, showing all the signs of being prepared for a lengthy conversation, full of how he was missing her, when was she coming back to London ... ?

They spoke for several minutes and she looked anxiously at her watch as Simon began on what was evidently going to be a complicated saga, involving the Divine Devora. Well, of course, he would simply have no idea of what the morning scramble was like – the girls, in their new maroon blazers and little round grey hats, were now hopping on one foot, waiting for her to drive them to school.

‘We'll be
late
,' Allie hissed, in a tizzy. To be late, the third day at their new school –! Not to be borne.

‘Simon, I'm sorry, I'll have to ring you back. I have to drive the girls to school.'

A slight pause. ‘I've a full day ahead of me, Sarah, that's why I rang now.'

‘Oh, Lord, I'm sorry! It's just that –'

‘I'll try again tonight – if you're sure you won't be too busy reading nursery rhymes and making cocoa,' he said stiffly.

‘Not if you ring after seven thirty, I won't,' Sarah replied, equally cool, a little nettled by the sarcasm, wondering how she was going to tell him that she hadn't yet found anyone to run the house and look after the children, that Dermot wasn't making any effort himself in that direction, that she'd have to stay on here at least another week.

Later that afternoon, James Fitzallan paced the floor of his comfortless attic flat, hands shoved deep in his pockets. It wasn't the place he called home, so the comfort or otherwise of it scarcely mattered. It served its purpose. Occasionally he stayed the night if circumstances warranted it, but its principal use to him was as a studio, and a place which had for several years accommodated his need to get away and be alone, when things had become intolerable. His impatient strides brought him to the big, protuberant window where he came to a halt, looking out, trying to fill his mind and his eyes with the sight of the changing clouds, the pearlescent sky, willing himself into the right mood. Easel and paintbrushes stood ready. It was no use. He couldn't seem to get started.

Skyscapes were what he painted. Nothing but treetops and sky, the same trees, differently hued in their due seasons, and skies that changed with the dawn and the sunset, with storm and wind and rain, with moonlight and sun, through spring and summer, to autumn and into winter. The immensity of the sky, and the clouds with their infinite mutations, the possibilities were endless.

He was no expert, no Constable. Nor fooled into thinking himself any more than a talented amateur, but painting had always released something in him that might otherwise have soured and curdled irreparably. Until recently. It was doing nothing for him now.

Down below in the garden, on the bumpy, weed-infested patch of grass that was the back lawn, the children, Lucy and Allie, played mock tennis with a motheaten ball and a couple of old racquets they'd discovered in the garden shed. They had, it seemed, cajoled the woman he now knew was their aunt, Sarah, to show them how to serve, which she was doing with more enthusiasm than skill, impatient with the bumps in the lawn that bounced the ball in the wrong direction, though she was evidently enjoying herself, from the way she laughed. He'd seen them often since they'd arrived here, spoken to them several times: the two small girls, Lucy and Allie, and this warm and vibrant woman, with her quick laugh and shining brown hair, like pulled toffee. Amends would have to be made for that first meeting, which had started them off wrong-footed. He'd found himself thinking of her, a lot, in odd moments, since then. So far, she'd treated him with polite reserve whenever they happened to meet, though she didn't, despite her coolness towards him, look the sort to hold on to a grudge. She'd caught him at a bad moment, the worst possible one, after a difficult out-of-hours meeting called for Saturday morning and an unexpected quarrel with his normally mild-tempered and long-suffering father. It had been his own fault, Fitzallan admitted it. His father didn't lose his temper without a great deal of provocation. It had ended with his own apologies, no bones broken, but not liking himself very much, realizing how damned difficult to live with he'd become over the last years.