Perfectly Pure and Good (16 page)

Mother, giggling in her evening dress, plucking at the hem, finally picking it up so the fabric hung around her knees while she chewed at a thread, suddenly springing into life as a car drew level with the front door and she rushed to the window. They all followed.

Òh,' said Mother in tones of wonder. 'Oh my dears!'

Joanna and Julian moved to the window where Edward stood, languid but transfixed.

`Whoever it is she needs a drink and so do I,' Mother said. She stood very still, none of her normal twitching and constant adjusting, a wistful note in her voice, a hidden chuckle. You wicked old crone, Julian thought with more than a hint of fondness.

Sarah Fortune stepped from her car, presenting a perfect half moon of buttock with a well-defined swimsuit mark as she reached inside for her handbag, then stood up with the strap parting her bobbing bosom as she slung it across herself and stepped back, naked as the day, to slam the door with a careless foot. Her hair was a frenzied cloud, her shoulders tanned and she was perfectly controlled. Joanna felt she should not look, stared and held her breath instead.

Sarah walked away across the lawn towards the cottages, resting one hand on the handbag as if she were wearing a suit and strolling to a business appointment, no hurry or anxiety in the stride, careless or oblivious of the scrutiny. Julian bit his lip in a rare moment of sympathy, Oh Lord, how terrible for her, not to know they were all there, judging her finest details with the scrutiny of a jury; she would be mortified. But then as he watched, Sarah stopped, looked at the ridiculous appendage of her handbag, flicked it off her shoulder into the long grass and raised her arms in the air.

The grass was warm and moist; she seemed to enjoy the sensation of it round her feet. Expensive tan leather bounced on the lawn: still they watched. The sky was pink in an early sunset; she seemed to glow as with an unbearably slow and graceful precision the perfect figure turned a series of perfect cartwheels, hand over hand, twirling in front of their eyes with only the damp red hair marking where she was. Then she picked up her handbag, placed it on her head, walked towards the cottage where they had put her, strolling with her arms outstretched to keep her balance, her naked feet swishing through the grass.

Hettie the sheep followed, keeping pace, bahhing piteously. There was a shred of bright orange nasturtium hanging from her jaw as she trotted after. The sun sank like a big, red stone into water.

They were spellbound, until Edward let forth a bellow of delighted laughter. Joanna expelled the breath she had held for a full minute, joined him in a frothing of mirth which made her eyes water.

`Well,' said Julian, shaking himself. 'Proves my point. About her not being suitable.' Edward caught on his brother's face a terrible, naked look of despair.

Mother turned on him, dropping the hem she had chewed. Her voice was cooing and fluting, talking as she would talk to a baby.

`Will my little boy sack a lady from her job for taking her clothes off? Would he? Would he be so silly? Should know better. No man got sacked for taking his off, not even a doctor.' Her voice sank by a whole octave, emerged as a grim rattle, whining but perfectly articulate.

Ìf Julian gets rid of this lady, his mummy will break everything in sight. Is that understood?'

He turned sharply, met for a moment a pair of eyes hard with purpose, moved towards her.

She sprang back and began again her chewing of the hem, saying nothing, looking away. Then he looked towards Edward for moral support, found Edward also looking away, gaze fixed on the footsteps through the long grass of the lawn. Joanna evaded his glance, arms crossed resentfully, her ever-ready tears still in her eyes, but her body obdurate. He felt the meeting had passed without a definitive vote, but if asked, he would not favour the initial resolution. Oddly, he did not mind.

`Look,' said Joanna desperate to break the ice, 'I'd better go and ask if she's all right. I'll take her something to eat. I mean,' she added, flustered, 'she must have had an accident.'

Ì doubt it,' said Edward drily.

`Fuck off,' Joanna replied with far more calm than she felt. Edward was always on the outside, never feeling anything, always analysing: he didn't care if a person felt cold, and stared at her in the way she had found disconcerting for as long as she could recall. He moved nonchalantly to put an arm round her shoulder.

`What would you give for a body like that, eh, Jo?'

She turned on him, furious and pink, picking the arm from round her neck and throwing it back as if it were inanimate. From the kitchen came the sound of breaking glass. The Mouse was making her point.

`left you, has she?'

'You could say so.'

`Thought she would.' Squinting across the table top towards Malcolm Cook, Detective Sergeant Ryan, his erstwhile colleague in many a case, neither looked nor sounded sympathetic, not through lack of affection for his friend, but simply a well-tried patience with the whole breed of men who called themselves lawyers, a breed deficient in common sense, particularly regarding women. Ryan knew his own record was far from perfect, his attitude to the fair sex ranging from possessive passion, through the straightforward lust which could not remember names, right down to daily fondness and the acceptance that there was nothing you could do to keep them, since life and women were in one great conspiracy.

His own contribution to Malcolm Cook's loss was going to be the provision of as much alcohol as he could get the man to take.

Ì have to say, Malc, you were more fun before you two got together. Was a time when you were a great big lad, liked a pint and never moved your bum off a chair. Then you took up running, fell in love with a redhead, lost all the fat and got serious.

You never sit, you bloody well sprint. She's worn you out, old son.' `Get me a drink.'

`Surely. Doubles. Few packets of crisps?'

`No.'

Ryan didn't like the way Malcolm stared into the middle distance like that, ordering a refill every five minutes and showing not a sign of Saturday-night fever, not a tremor as he raised his hand.

All the makings of an expensive night even in the sort of downmarket pub they both preferred.

Malc was a mate, as far as any lawyer could be, but that wasn't the same as wanting him crying on your shoulder. It got your jacket all wet.

The drink went down quickly, not quite as quick as the last. Malcolm smiled. When he did that, he was a different man.

`Look, I'm not here to weep, I'm here to drink, understand? And I want to raise an old, dead subject, OK? Charles Tysall, your friend and mine. My father's been nagging at me again. No, I don't mean directly, just getting under my skin as usual. The man's not well, supposed to keep calm, but as soon as I mention Charles, he has an apoplexy. He's re-creating that man as a plaster saint, all because he's dead and was a client. All clients are heroes, the hypocrisy makes me sick.

I want to tell him what Charles did to Sarah — I told you we kept all the details from him at the time — and spell out to my honourable old dad what his client did to other red-haired women. I want him to know. People should know the truth, even sick old men.'

`You really aren't happy with him, are you?' asked Ryan, mockingly.

`He sent Sarah away. To Merton, of all places. He . . . precipitated things.'

Òh, I see. Revenge, is it? One good turn deserves another. You lose the girl and give the poor old git a heart attack. Come off it, Malc, it wouldn't help anything, would it?'

`No.'

Ànyway, what that Charles did to your bird never came to court, did it? She refused to give evidence of the attack. With your support.

I wanted you shot.'

Malcolm raised a hand in protest, let it drop.

`She had her reasons. I didn't want anyone looking into her motives, still don't. Besides, Tysall saved everyone the trouble.

When his wife's body was found, off he goes and follows her into the water. What I want to know is how did he come to do that? I never really understood. He never struck me as the suicidal type. All those times we tried to nail him for fraud, and you for the women he plundered

. . . He always wanted to live.'

Ryan looked smug.

`Nothing to do with me. I just happened to meet the sly bastard in a coffee shop. Made the suggestion he'd like to go and see where his lady wife was buried. It might not have been the tide covered her up, see? It could have been, course, probably was, but I made him think she'd been buried. Last rites delivered on her lily-white body by another man's big, chunky hands. I knew it would drive him mad. He might have beaten his own wife to a pulp, cut her face to ribbons, but he couldn't stand the thought of anyone else touching her. Listen, I couldn't have prayed he'd walk into the sea like he did: I just wanted him suffering.'

Ryan took a sip and it was gone. Time to go on to pints. Whisky was fine in spots; he'd go back to it later. Something nagged him, something he didn't like and knew Malcolm wouldn't either.

`So Sarah's gone off to the seaside, has she? Not her kind of place, I wouldn't have thought. Not very classy. Fish and chips, big amusement place, caravans down the beach. I can't see your Sarah in a place full of yobs.'

Malcolm smiled again. Ryan decided the smile was sadder than the scowl.

`You don't know Sarah. She has . . . simple tastes.' He seemed to hesitate, draw back from saying more, plunged on. 'What I want to know is anything which may affect and upset her. The sort of things people might still gossip about, take her unawares when she ought to forget. You got to know the local cop in Merton when you were investigating. You know what people said, I never did; lawyers never do. How long did it take them to find Charles Tysall and what did he look like?'

Ryan was wearing that shifty look, the one Malcolm knew all too well as sending shivers of alarm up his spine. The expression worn by a police officer choosing economy with fact, sitting where he was, assessing the odds on the consequences of truth, a hesitation complete in the second it took to weigh up the fact there was nothing to lose.

`They phoned me up when they found a body,' Ryan said carefully. 'I gave them a description, and it tallied. Tysall was seen walking out of town with the tide coming in anyway, so it's pretty clear already. Then this doctor turns up on site, used to know Tysall a bit, and, oh, yes, by the way, according to local rumour, knew the wife quite a lot better.' He let that sink in. Any deceased, in Ryan's eyes, had few virtues and high nuisance value, especially women.

Ànyway, the doc is told in advance the body is probably Tysall, and he agrees, so Tysall it is.

Mind,' he added, shifting with ever greater discomfort, 'they also say they get three or four bodies per summer off that coast. Unidentified. Tramp steamers, suicidal fishermen. Christ, I'd hate to live in a place like that. Three pubs, one church, nothing else to do.

The wife loved it.

He knew he should not have spoken. His own reservations about that flimsy identification should have remained exactly what they were, his own. If he talked long enough round the subject, maybe Malc would forget where he was. No chance, Ryan thought, looking at the calm face only slightly flushed with alcohol while his own was glowing; should have known better. Malcolm was staring at him. Once you've let some cat out of a bag, Ryan thought, you can't shove it back in.

Ì wouldn't regard identification by a slight acquaintance of a drowned man sufficient beyond reasonable doubt,' said Malcolm, refusing to register anything but polite curiosity. A policeman under attack, even a friend, could become as wooden as the table. 'Do you know that close relatives misidentify their dead with monotonous regularity? If you believe a person is dead and you see a dead person, it seems to close the circle. I think we need another drink.' He walked to the bar with the bouncy step of a runner, one hand feeling for his wallet. I should never fool with lawyers, Ryan thought, especially when they can drink. He patted the silky red head of Malcolm's dog which grinned in response. Now there was a good female, constantly obedient, loving, asking no questions, telling no lies.

`Just one thing more,' Malcolm was saying as he sat. 'You gave the locals a description of Charles which tallied with the corpse. What description?'

Ryan wrinkled his face, genuinely struggling for memory. He knew Charles Tysall, oh yes, knew him from the files and the cheats and the women. Knew he was a murderer perforce, a man with a passion to destroy, looking all the time for perfection in ideas and the opposite sex, knocking it into pieces when he did find it, but for all Ryan knew, he'd only been face to face with the bastard twice. The dead wife, whom he'd taken to hospital in his car, he'd seen more than twice, each time less recognizable than the last, sometimes talking, sometimes not. His brow cleared.

Ì gave them the description Elisabeth Tysall gave me. I sat with her, waiting in casualty. She told me what he was like.'

`How?'

`She said he was hung like a donkey.'

The man in the beach hut made tea. He had a small gas stove stolen from an empty caravan, water which he collected from the lake near the small caravan site, a camping gaz cylinder stolen from another beach hut. These wooden edifices he liked above all; they reminded him of doll's houses. They stood along Merton's public beach, stringing away down the coast with all the grace of wet washing on a line in a downpour, irregular, highly-coloured, lumpish and graceless, decorated to individual taste as if they could ever be permanent.

They were a series of garden sheds with stable doors on stilts, hired for the season, subject to wind and flood, raised far above the sand to cope with the high tides they were so unlikely to withstand. Some did, more by luck than judgement, remaining upright with peeling paint and all their romance gone long after some family moved on to where the children had alternatives other than an amusement arcade in the rain, and the parents were not sick of a caravan, the cold, the moaning and the spartan splendour of the beach. Merton's claim to holiday-making fame was for those with old-fashioned stamina, a taste for chips, sticky sweets, pints of ale and mugs of tea.