The Bones in the Attic (11 page)

“Rory.” Matt reached for the telephone directory, but shook his head. “No Pemberton, R., here.”

“Probably ex-directory. Most people wi' money are. They're allus being hounded by telephone salesmen.”

“You don't recall the house number?”

“No, but it were one of those posh jobs they built just
before the war, wi' flat roofs and curved bays out front. I only have to drive by to find the number.”

“Would you do that?” Matt paused, wondering whether to offer petrol money.

“Don't think of it,” said Harry, and Matt registered his sharpness. “I'm only too glad to 'elp.”

“Did you and Rory say anything about the old times?”

“He wasn't interested. Like as not he thought I were using the fact that I used to play five-a-side wi' 'im as a way of screwing a bit more out o' him, but it would ha' needed more than that, I can tell you. Only time he reacted wa' when I mentioned Lily Marsden.”

“Oh?”

“I see her now an' then, shoppin' in Armley, or at the Owlcotes Centre. She's the only one I ever do see, an' she doesn't recognize me. Any road, it seemed natural to mention that I knew she was still in the area. But it didn't seem to be welcome to 'im.”

“Not welcome?”

“He got broody like. Then he said: ‘Damned woman. It all started wi' 'er.' I said, ‘What did?' but he just turned and went out of the house and banged the door.”

“I thought we might take Beckham to Golden Acre Park for his evening walk,” he said to the children.

“Why should we go there?” asked Lewis.

“What's there?” said Stephen.

“Birds. And moles. But mostly lots of unusual birds.”
There was a flicker of interest. “Anyway, I've got something to do out there. You can all take Beckham around the lake. But don't let him tangle with a goose.”

“Could he kill one?” asked Isabella.

“No, he'd come off worse. Everyone comes off worse who tangles with a goose. So keep him on a long lead.”

The children had been disappointed in their hopes of a nightly sighting of the urban fox. He or she had been seen just the once since they moved in, and since that was by Stephen alone the other two were skeptical of his claim. Matt thought it a good idea to take them to a place where there was a more reliable source of wildlife observation, though the birds of Golden Acre were almost unnatural—so stuffed with bread by visitors that they were a terrible warning against welfare dependency.

The birds were an immediate hit. The children didn't worry about, or even notice, their weight problems but were so stunned and enchanted by the number and variety to observe that for a time they were speechless. Beckham, after an initial flurry of excitement, decided he was horribly outnumbered and outsmarted. He had already developed a cynicism about the squirrels around the Houghton Avenue houses, due to their numbers and their thoroughly unfair advantage of being able to climb trees. He put on a blasé air and trotted behind the children, sniffing the ground and ignoring the beasts of the air.

“Stick to the main path,” shouted Matt. “Otherwise we'll never find each other.” And he went back to the car and retraced his route to the part of Otley Road closest to Ring Road. He parked round the corner from number 48 and walked back to it. It had a gate and a small, neat front garden. It was indeed a thirties house—spacious,
clean-lined, and attractive. He rang the doorbell and waited.

“Yes?” The door had opened without a sound from inside. The hall was thickly carpeted and the blonde who opened the door was so heavily made-up as to be a health hazard to asthmatics. She was in her late thirties, smartly dressed, and looking as if she regarded staying in as just as much a challenge to her desirability as going out.

“I'm looking for Mr. Pemberton—”

“Rory?” The woman was genuinely surprised. “Good heavens, he hasn't lived here for ages.”

“I'm sorry—I'm obviously very out-of-date,” said Matt, casually friendly. “Did he leave a forwarding address when he moved?”

“Oh, I know where he lives. I didn't buy this from him or anything, it was part of the share-out. I'm his wife—ex, anyway.”

“I see. I need to talk to him—I knew him as a child. Does he still live in Leeds?”

“Near Bingley.
Very
nice place for him and his current, if they're still together. One thing I'll say about Rory, he always does well for himself. He really understands money.” There had been a footstep behind her, and a saturnine young man's head appeared behind her shoulder. “Wouldn't you agree, darling?”

“A prat who money clings to,” said the young man. “Why are we talking about Rory?”

“It's this man who wants to talk to him.”

“Best of luck. You'll find five minutes will exhaust your interest. Why don't you give him the address, Nita? Rory's never asked us to make a secret of it.”

“I suppose not,” said Nita Pemberton, if that was what she called herself now. “Well, it's twenty-seven Chalcott Rise, just off the Saltaire to Bingley Road—the A650. A
very
nice neighborhood.”

“Well, if Rory's got nice neighbors, they've struck unlucky,” said the young man, disappearing into the bowels of the house.

Nita raised her eyebrows in a look of complicity at Matt that said she had not chosen her current companion for his charm and tact.

“I didn't say he had nice neighbors,” she said with a sigh, “only that it's a nice neighborhood. Quite a different matter.” Matt nodded, thinking of the Cazalets. “Knowing Rory, he'll hardly know they're there, and they'll hardly know he's there. All they'll know of him will be the clink of bottles being put in the bin, and the sound of whatever gas-guzzling car he's currently driving.”

“Well, thank you for the address,” said Matt. “I'll pay him a call when I can.”

“Make it when he's sober,” said the woman. “Otherwise he'll meander on about babies and God knows what. You won't get any sense out of him.”

But when Matt had piled the children into the car, and was listening to their excited chatter—their determination to bring their mother there, their speculation as to whether she would let them keep a bird, species undecided—he wondered whether the best thing to do was to visit Rory Pemberton when he was likely to be half-seas over.

The next morning an aerogram from Aileen made it clear she would not be getting back in the immediate future.

“Pity,” said Matt to the children at breakfast. “I was hoping to hold a little drinks party here so she could meet the locals.”

“You haven't met several of them yourself,” Isabella pointed out. “We've met more of them than you have. Why don't you hold a party anyway, and I'll do the catering.”

“Do you mean you'll buy in some nibbles?” asked Matt.

“No, I don't. I mean I shall provide some delicious and unusual canapés and scrumptious biscuity snacks, all free except for the cost of the ingredients.”

Isabella had emerged from her wanting to be a vet phase and gone into a great cook (or possibly smart caterer) phase. These were phases not of the moon but of the television schedules, and she could next be expected to go through an interior decorator phase, or possibly a costume designer for glossy televisualizations of the classic novels phase. Catch her while she can be useful, Matt thought.

“You're on,” he said. “What about Thursday evening, six till eight?”

“If you're going to have people in, I'm going along to Jack Quinton's,” announced Stephen.

“Who's Jack Quinton?” Matt asked.

“He's my friend round here,” Stephen said, pleased to have one, while the others had failed to find anyone of their own age. Matt was not worried about this. Isabella and Lewis would find friends, or else just keep up with the ones they had at school in Pudsey. They were naturally gregarious children—unlike, he suspected, Rory Pemberton, and perhaps Eddie Armitage. But perhaps he shouldn't compare children of today with children of that earlier age. Perhaps childhood had changed in those thirty years.

Before driving to work Matt popped along to Delphine Maylie in Ashdene, who looked rather put out to be caught in her early-morning deshabille (and she did indeed look rather like a peeling wall). However, she
cooperated enthusiastically in putting together a list of everyone who lived in the eight houses of the two terraces. Delphine predicted who would jump at the invitation and who would fail to turn up, and in the event she proved one hundred percent accurate. Matt printed out some fairly informal invitations at work, and Lewis went along delivering them after school.

The price Matt had to pay to Isabella was a visit to Leeds Market, where he cringed in the background as she demanded to taste all sorts of meats and cheeses at the specialty stalls, and a trip to Sainsbury's at Greengates that included a quick dart into Homebase to buy the most exotic houseplant they had, which was clearly of the dead-within-a-fortnight variety but pretty and brilliant while it lasted. Matt had to admit on Thursday, when at last Isabella allowed him to sample them, that the nibbles were indeed tasty and adventurous, and beautifully set out. He had thought of economizing on the drinks, but eventually bought rather good wines, and plenty of gin, sherry, and vodka. I am trying to butter them up, after all, he said to himself. Certainly when people started arriving they were appreciative, and they mingled well since they nearly all knew one another. He had added to the guest list Charlie and Felicity, and Carl Farson, who had sold him the house, on the pretext of letting him have a look at what had been done to it. Farson was friendly on the phone, but said he would only be able to pop in briefly. Matt was interested to note that when the Peaces arrived everyone seemed to know who Charlie was.

He was on less certain ground in relation to many of his guests. Several of them realized this, and made haste to identify themselves.

“Jason Morley-Coombs,” said a young man with gleaming slicked-over hair and a smooth, unguent-massaged face, making Matt think he must be a sucker for all those television advertisements that confused masculinity with delicious smells. “Hello!” the man said, holding out a soft hand as he breezed in from the hallway. “We haven't met. I live in Dell View. And this is the lady-friend.”

“Hello,” said the lady-friend, giving the impression that anything beyond that would be regarded as an intellectual challenge.

“I'm Matthew Harper,” Matt said, shaking her hand and waiting for her to give herself a name. She shook the hand and smiled. Giving herself a name was presumably unduly assertive.

“You used to be in football, they say,” said Jason, accepting a glass of wine from Isabella. “Wise career move. Lots of money there, eh, old chap?”

Matt screwed up his face.

“At the very top,” he said. “A big difference between the top and the not-quite-top. And a big difference between then and now. Ten, twelve years ago, when I was—well, not in my prime, but—”

“Point taken, old chap,” interrupted Jason. “But you must have hung up your boots pretty young. I've been hearing your voice on the old car radio for a fair while now. Why cut off the flow of golden guineas?”

“I was out of the game through injury too often,” said Matt. “The story of present-day British sport. More like a bumper episode of ‘Casualty' than
Chariots of Fire.
”

“Still—”

“It's the only body I've got,” insisted Matt. “I got out
while it was still in reasonable functioning order. What do you do?”

“Solicitor, I'm afraid. Frightfully dull, and none of the prestige it used to have. I've just joined the family firm in Armley. Dad put me onto these houses—thought they were a good buy. He knows Armley and Bramley like the back of his hand. He's acted for people in every square yard of them.”

“Really?” said Matt, a twinge of interest pricking him for the first time in the conversation. “Anything notable around here?”

“Oh, Lord, I wasn't really listening when he told me, old chap. Dad tends to go on and on about the old days. A car accident case—a pileup on the M1. Case doesn't seem to have got very far, but knowing Dad, he screwed some money out of someone. And an industrial accident one—Dad was a pioneer in that sort of case, so he's much in demand these days. Seems to have got the family the means to buy one of these houses.”

“Really?”

“But that was a while after the time you're interested in,” said Jason. He shot Matt a look. “I do listen to the radio, like I said, in intervals of bending the odd ear to my clients' woes. If I had anything of interest on your dead baby case I'd have told you—and if I get anything of interest in future I'll bring it straight to you. Rely on me, old chap.”

Matt thanked him and moved away, thinking he'd been “old chapped” enough. The father might just be worth getting reminiscences out of, though. He saw Charlie and Felicity talking to Delphine and Garrett Maylie, with Delphine
looking enthusiastically multiracial, and he decided to leave them to it. Anything of interest would be passed on. He looked around the big dining room and, reluctantly, decided to bite the bullet. Pausing only to refill his glass, he wandered over to where the Cazalets were talking to a couple who earlier had introduced themselves as the Quintons. He, Matt had gathered, was in property. The conversation seemed to be about environmental matters, but that was deceptive: it was really about property values.

“The
moment
you take out the original windows,” Mr. Cazalet was hissing, “it's not just your house that loses value, it's everyone's around you too.”

“It's a loophole in the law,” said Mr. Quinton darkly. “The council has no power to stop it.”

“Not that they're any use when they do have powers,” said Cazalet. “Look at some of the garages that have been put up overnight with not a word said. This is a conservation area! It's supposed to be only stone or artificial stone. Diabolical!”

They parted to let Matt join them. Mrs. Cazalet was a watery-eyed scrap of endemic disapproval, looking down at her glass of orange juice as if meditating darkly on what artificial additives it contained. The Quintons were slightly more interesting—assertive, inquisitive, and energetic.

“I think our Stephen knows your son Jack,” said Matt.

“That's right—he's been round several times. I gather he's—he's your partner's son—is that right?”

“Quite right,” said Matt.

“It's awfully nice of you to invite us all,” said Mrs. Quinton. “Such a good idea. I'm sorry your partner couldn't be here.”

“I don't know when she'll be back. It seemed a pity to wait.”

“Is she doing something in connection with her work?” her husband asked, clearly drilled in inquisitorial techniques. Matt looked round to see where Isabella was.

“No, it's family. Private.”

He wasn't inclined to share the pros and cons of Aileen's decision to go and nurse her husband, Tom, with a social stranger. Nor, for that matter, the problems of “being in a relationship” with a Catholic.

“Of course, of course. You seem to get on well with the children. Are all the children your partner's?”

“That's right. My marriage produced no children. In fact,” he said, in a burst of confidence-giving that he could not account for, “my marriage was so long ago I often forget I've been married.”

“Really?” said Mrs. Quinton. “How sad!” Which meant: tell us more.

“Is it sad? I don't know. I was twenty-two at the time, and she was a rather unlikely upper-crust type I met when I was playing with Aston Villa, mostly with the Reserve team. She did a piece on the club for one of the color supplements.”

“How long did it last?”

“About six months. She walked out saying it wasn't what she wanted. The way she said it made it sound as if she were returning something to Harrods.”

“Still, footballers have very exciting private lives, don't they?”

“Do you mean sex lives? I'm not sure I'd want to comment on that. For some footballers sex is confined to the cricket season.”

Mrs. Cazalet was looking at the carpet now, as if it might
be strewn with used condoms. She was probably wondering what an exciting sex life did for property values.

“But now you're in radio and television,” said Quinton heartily. “Quite a change. Do you enjoy it?”