The House of Women (24 page)

‘
What?’ McKenna realized he was gaping at her.

‘
Why must I repeat myself so often?’ Edith demanded. She scrabbled in the pocket of her dress, extracted a pack of cigarettes and a gaily coloured disposable lighter, and lit a cigarette with a sigh of relief.

Phoebe sighed.
‘Mama’s a classic example of the addictive personality, hopping from one crutch to another.’

‘
Don’t side with the killjoys until you know all the facts,’ Edith said. ‘Nicotine’s supposed to stop senile dementia, so it’s a great pity Gertrude never took up the habit, isn’t it?’ Tapping ash from her cigarette, she added: ‘And I must admit my mind feels clearer than it has for years, so apart from helping me get over the tablets, maybe your Uncle Iolo’s right when he says smoking sharpens the wits.’

‘
Only if you’ve got wits to begin with!’ Phoebe snapped. ‘It hasn’t done much for him or Solange, has it? And he is NOT my “Uncle Iolo”!’ Her voice was hoarse with exasperation. ‘And he’s got an almighty cheek giving anyone advice! He’s on a permanent drugfest! He smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, and pops enough pills to sink a ship.’

‘
He does not take drugs!’

‘
He does, Mama.’ Phoebe was adamant. ‘Uncle Ned told me.’

‘
How could he know what your Uncle Iolo does?’

‘
I’ve no idea.’ Scalding the pot, Phoebe tipped the water down the sink, counted out six tea-bags, and poured in more boiling water. ‘But Minnie’s seen the bottles in the bathroom cabinet when she goes to the house for her fashion shows with Solange, though how she can bear to have that woman’s clothes next to her skin is beyond me. They reek of stale sweat and perfume.’

Left arm resting along the back of her chair, Edith inhaled a mouthful of smoke, then let it dribble slowly from her nostrils, her pose unconsciously elegant.
‘Did Mina tell you what was in the bottles?’

‘
She couldn’t remember the names,’ Phoebe said. ‘She has trouble with long words.’

‘
Don’t be so bitchy,’ Annie chided.

‘
She’s just being truthful.’ Edith sighed. ‘Poor Mina!’

‘
She’s been “poor Mina” to you ever since she was a baby,’ Annie said. ‘Why?’

Edith shrugged, hiding behind her veil of yellowy grey smoke.
‘Take Bethan upstairs for a nap. The little mite can barely keep her eyes open, and you’re going out again later.’

‘
Let me take her.’ Phoebe picked up the child, tickling her tummy. ‘I’ll read a story if she wants.’ As she passed, she said to McKenna: ‘You can take my book home if you like, but you’ll read it, won’t you?’

When she was out of earshot, Edith asked:
‘Is that her essay about Llys Ifor?’ She turned pages until she came upon the long screed in Phoebe’s rounded, immature hand. ‘Look what that teacher wrote,’ she said, showing him a vicious scrawl of red ballpoint in the margin. “This work is over-imaginative,” he read. “You have over reached yourself, writing about ideas beyond your grasp. Stick to what you understand in future.”

‘
I went to see her,’ Edith told him, fidgeting with the lighter, ‘and I said she should be ashamed to harbour such miserable, mediocre attitudes! Nobody should mock a child’s imagination.’ She rounded on her eldest daughter. ‘And I hope you know better than to stifle that kind of joy in the world. I’ve often thought something like that must’ve happened to Solange.’

‘
Whenever I’ve called her a hard-faced, superficial harpy, you say she’s done well for herself,’ Annie said.

‘
She’s done the best she can, in the circumstances, but she’s not happy.’

‘
Greedy people never are,’ Annie countered.

McKenna intervened.
‘Does Phoebe know you spoke to her teacher?’

‘
If she doesn’t know, she’ll have guessed,’ Annie commented. ‘Not much gets past her.’ She put a fresh mug of tea in front of him, her fresh scent mingling with the acrid smoke of Edith’s cigarette.

‘
I wanted to ask her about a couple of things Ned may have discussed with her,’ he said, lighting his own cigarette. ‘Maybe you could help?’

Annie sat beside her mother, both waiting expectantly.

‘Gladys mentioned a friend of Ned’s from their university days,’ he went on. ‘And it seems Ned had a key to George’s flat, but we haven’t found it.’

‘
Oh, dear!’ Edith’s eyes, red-rimmed with lack of sleep, widened. Her mouth worked, thoughts trying to find voice. ‘Oh, no! He wouldn’t do that, unless they’d had a dreadful falling out nobody knew about.’

‘
What, Mama?’ Annie asked.

‘
Ned could have killed himself after all, and arranged things to make George look guilty.’ She stubbed out the cigarette and reached for another. ‘He could have put his bracelet in the flat, thrown away the key, or hidden it, then killed himself, and nobody could say when he last had his bracelet, because it was always tucked up out of sight under his cuff.’

‘
Why would he do that to George?’ Annie asked. ‘They were like father and son.’ She smiled gently. ‘Your imagination’s running away with you.’

‘
But it’s possible, isn’t it?’ Edith demanded of McKenna.

‘
Unlikely, I think,’ he said, then grasped the opportunity. ‘Would you let us search the house? The whereabouts of the key is very important to George.’

Edith spread her hands wide.
‘Whenever you want.’

Her fingers shuddered gently, convulsively, as he wondered if her suffering, as her body voided itself of the drug residues, was more or less than his, as his heart and mind neu
tralized the remains of his marriage. ‘Does anything come to mind about this friend?’ he asked. ‘He was another Edward, known as “Eddie”, and, from the snapshot Gladys has, he was taller than Ned, quite overweight, and had a lot of hair.’

Edith and Annie looked at each other, then shook their heads.
‘I vaguely remember hearing about him,’ Edith mused, ‘but he doesn’t sound like anyone we know now, and Ned had so few friends.’ She inhaled another lungful of smoke. ‘But couldn’t you have a computer prediction made from the photo to show how he might have changed? I’m sure Professor Williams would know someone at the university who could help. How old would this Eddie be now?’

‘
Around Ned’s age.’

‘
Apart from George, the only person Ned called a friend to my knowledge was that old tramp.’ Edith grimaced delicately.

‘
I met him yesterday,’ McKenna said. ‘He’d been to the farm to pay his respects.’

‘
He was walking down the lane as we drove up,’ Annie added. ‘He frightened Bethan half to death, which was very odd, as he’s no more of a gargoyle than Meirion.’

‘
She knows Meirion,’ Edith pointed out. ‘He’s almost part of the family, and besides, she has to keep on his right side if she wants her riding lessons.’ She turned to McKenna. ‘And in case you think I’m being cynical, take it from me that girls know from a very early age which side their bread’s buttered, even though some fool themselves into thinking they can have butter
and
jam on both sides.’

‘
That’s probably a veiled reference to my lapse from the straight and narrow,’ Annie told him. ‘Mama’s wilfully obscure at times, in the hope of acquiring an air of exotic mystery, which I suppose accounts for our outlandish names.’ She turned to Edith. ‘Didn’t Father raise any objections?’

‘
He wanted to call you Joan, after your grandmother, but I wasn’t having you stuck with another Edith sort of name.’

‘
And what’s an “Edith sort of name”, Mama?’

‘
One that’s dull, miserable and designed to keep you out of mischief, and expects you to live down to its demands.’ Inhaling deeply yet again, she added: ‘Mind you, Anastasia is a bit over the top. I’m glad you don’t use it.’

‘
Minerva’s not exactly run of the mill.’

‘That was another mistake, and the poor child won’t ever live up to it.’ She sighed. ‘I’m not surprised Phoebe calls her Minnie, you know. She recognizes her limitations.’

‘
Now who’s being bitchy?’ Annie said, close to laughter.

McKenna smiled too, and as something flickered to life in Edith
’s haunted eyes, and sounds of gaiety came faintly from the upper floor, where Phoebe must be playing with her niece, he thought he could spend a very long time in the warm company of these unusual women, and be happy. Then the spectre of the absent Mina drifted into his mind’s eye, and he felt a chill crawl up his spine.

4

George padded around the cell like a caged jungle cat, Rowlands thought, half-expecting to be pounced upon and clawed to pieces. ‘What’s the lady
bwana
got planned for me?’ George asked, his eyes muddy with fatigue. ‘Your detention order’s up soon.’

‘
Mr McKenna’s refused to charge you.’

‘
Yeah, but he’s not calling the shots, is he?’ Leaning against the wall, George stared at his stockinged feet. ‘Are you looking for the key I gave Ned?’

‘
We’re looking.’

‘
But you don’t expect to find it.’

‘
It’s probably gone the same way as the letters and photos and address book.’

‘
And you don’t expect to find those, either.’

‘
We don’t know where to look.’

George bared his teeth in a smile.
‘The lady
bwana
wouldn’t be happy to hear you talking on equal terms to the likes of me.’

‘
You’ve a right to be kept informed.’

‘
Are you sure about that? I thought my rights were forfeit to my colour. If I were a plain white honky, I wouldn’t be here.’

‘
So who’s showing prejudice now?’ Rowlands demanded.

George resumed his stealthy padding.
‘We’ve learned from bitter experience to be defensive about your prejudice, because whatever you say about equality, given the chance, you’ll indulge in nigger-baiting until the blood runs.’

‘
Then there’s nothing I can say, is there?’

‘
Not really. I’ve been here before, as one might say, and I expect I’ll be here again. In fact, my whole life will probably be punctuated by intervals in some cell or another.’ He stopped in his tracks and gazed at Rowlands. ‘And each time you white honkies pander to your prejudice and lock me up because I’m a nigger, it’ll be another black mark against me, not you.’

‘
Will you stop calling me a white honky?’ Rowlands snapped. ‘One run-in with flatheads from the Met doesn’t give you the right to tar the rest of us with the same brush!’

‘
Why not?’ George asked. He padded over to the bunk, and sat down languidly. ‘You’re a white honky until you prove otherwise.’

‘
Why should I prove anything? You’re complaining because you’re being asked to do exactly that.’

‘
So now you know how I feel.’

‘
It’s a mistake to argue with people like you,’ Rowlands decided. ‘But because of your education, not your colour.’

‘
The lady
bwana
resents me on both counts.’

‘
Like us, she wants a result. Unsolved crimes are bad for public confidence.’ As George opened his mouth to speak, Rowlands held up his hand. ‘Don’t say it! Wrongful arrests are even worse.’

‘
Actually, I was going to ask for a cup of tea, and if I’ve got to stay here another night, I’d like another change of clothes and something else to read.’

*

Rowlands found Diana Bradshaw in her office, her desk stacked high with the large bound books which held the photographs and personal statistics of known criminals. As he walked in, she looked up from a spread of faces, and frowned. ‘Yes?’

‘
Polgreen’s detention order lapses at five o’clock, ma’am.’

‘
So?’

‘
His solicitor must be told if you intend to apply for another extension.’

‘
I have the matter in hand.’ She marked one of the photographs with her finger, her nail cutting a tiny crescent in the clear plastic which shielded the face of a young woman with dark roots in her dyed blonde hair. ‘What have you and Prys done about the cars? And where’s Janet Evans? I haven’t seen her for hours.’

‘
Prys is updating paperwork,’ Rowlands said. ‘He has to be available for the demo at Welsh Water.’

‘
And Janet Evans?’

‘
She came with me to see Professor Williams.’

‘
What?’ Her face paled with anger and the nail dug deeper into the plastic. ‘You were specifically instructed not to bother him!’

‘
We needed advice about Ned Jones’s papers, and no-one but Professor Williams has the necessary expertise.’

‘
You should have asked for my permission!’

‘
With respect, ma’am, we can’t function efficiently without at least some autonomy.’

‘
But you don’t function efficiently, do you? Polgreen has been in custody since the early hours of yesterday morning and you still haven’t found enough evidence to charge him. Are you sure you’re looking?’

He flushed.
‘It’s unlikely the evidence is there.’

‘
You people amaze me!’ She smiled coldly. ‘You’re bending over backwards to make sure you can’t be accused of discrimination, without the least understanding of the way people use racial prejudice for their own ends. If you’d ever worked in an inner-city force, as I have, you might appreciate how ethnic minorities can get away with murder just because of who they are.’

‘
I don’t think that’s true, ma’am.’

‘
You can
think
what you like!’

‘
In that case, ma’am, I’ll suggest you’re keeping Polgreen in custody to prove something to yourself, knowing full well he had nothing to do with Ned Jones’s death.’ Quivering with rage, he added: ‘And please don’t bother to threaten me with disciplinary action. I know you won’t tolerate criticism, even if you’re well out of order. After all, you wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you?’

*

Janet heard the thud as Diana Bradshaw’s office door closed, then the footsteps she knew were Rowlands’s pounding along the corridor and through the fire door at the head of the stairs. Gently rubbing the left side of her belly, where the nagging pain which had plagued her for days threatened to turn fiery, she realized she would miss Rowlands when he moved on, which might be sooner than planned if the blistering row which preceded the thudding door indicated the prevailing wind.

Unsettling and disconcerting, the winds of change were blustering all about her, defining new features wherever she cast her eyes, and whichever mirror she consulted showed a face changed almost beyond
recognition, its features sharpened with worry and twisted with confusion. Pain curled inside her like the flame of passion from which it sprang, and she dug her fist into her distended belly, trying to staunch a flood of agony.

Returning from the canteen with a tray of tea and sandwiches, Dewi found her doubled-up over the mess of papers on her desk, fighting for breath as if she had run a hundred miles.
‘Jesus! What’s wrong?’

Gasping, she shook her head wildly, digging both fists into her sides. Her chest heaved, and sweat poured down her face and neck, making dark blotches on her shirt, then the pain went, like flame beneath a deluge of water, with barely a flicker left to tell of its passing, and her blood ran cold, draining from scalp to toes. Slowly and fearfully, she sat upright, laughing weakly at the expression on his face.

‘You’ve got to see a doctor. Now!’ he said urgently.

‘
I can’t get an appointment at short notice.’

‘
Pain like that doesn’t need an appointment. There’s something really bad going on.’

‘
How d’you know?’ She moved gingerly, expecting an onslaught, and was almost blithe when nothing happened. She wondered fancifully if the dragon in her belly had run out of fire. ‘Ned was in pain all his life, for no real reason.’

‘
But you’re not usually.’ He leaned over her, appalled by the waxen face and bruised eyes. ‘You look terrible! Far worse than any corpse I’ve ever seen.’

‘
Don’t be ridiculous!’ She shivered. ‘I’ve probably been poisoned by the paint fumes. They absolutely stink!’ She held a mug of tea to her lips, and he heard the porcelain rattle against her teeth.

‘
You could have appendicitis,’ Dewi suggested. He bit into a sandwich, and released the stench of cheese and pickle.

She clenched her teeth.
‘It was taken out when I was five.’

‘
Then you could have some obscure foreign illness.’

‘
I’d be ill all the time.’

He sighed.
‘Then you must be pregnant, and whatever anybody’s told you, this isn’t normal.’

She felt no anger, no humiliation, no resentment that he should know, and marvelled at the changes which made her care only about the absence of her pain.

‘Silence generally means yes,’ he added.

Finishing one sandwich, he reached for another, putting a new layer on what she imagined as a stack of smells piling up towards the office ceiling, and she thought about their colours, were they visible. Paint like slurry, she decided, undulating heavily about the floor and washing against the walls, spumed like an oily sea with wisps of dirty smoke from the cigarettes McKenna and Rowlands consumed with such relish. The sandwiches and steaming tea swilled like vomit, running down street gutters in slicks of rainwater. She put her hand over her mouth, waiting, but nothing happened. Perhaps, she thought, the dragon had consumed her innards and everything there.

‘We’ll tell Bradshaw you’re ill,’ Dewi said, ‘but first, we’ll get the doctor.’

‘
I don’t want a doctor.’ Her words were indistinct.

‘
What you want isn’t relevant. It’s what you need that matters.’ He picked up the telephone, and saw her body suddenly riven with tremors as a deep red tide surged between her clenched thighs.

*

Summoned urgently from Glamorgan Place, McKenna found an atmosphere of taut anxiety at the police station. Diana Bradshaw had gone in the ambulance with Janet, and Rowlands was waiting for him, chain-smoking. ‘I blame myself!’ he said, as soon as McKenna arrived. ‘I should never have said my wife had stomach pains. I misled her.’

‘
Any blame belongs with the wretched hagiarchy which makes the Welsh fear and despise what should be natural and joyous. Janet didn’t go to the doctor because she can’t forgive herself for sinning, and when she gets better, she’ll accept this torment as her due.’

‘
Suppose she doesn’t get better?’ Rowlands asked, his eyes bleak. ‘She was bleeding like a stuck pig. The paramedics couldn’t get her to hospital fast enough, and those bloody decorators just stood there, gawping and whispering. The news’ll be all over bloody Bangor by tea-time.’

‘
Has anyone told her parents?’

‘
Dewi rang. They’ve gone to the hospital.’

‘
And where’s he?’

‘
At the Welsh Water demo. The mob’s getting bigger by the minute, and the mood’s getting uglier.’

‘
Perhaps I should go to the hospital, as well.’

‘
Bradshaw’s there.’ Pulling hard on his cigarette, Rowlands said: ‘She’ll want to see you. We had a row over George, then it got out of hand, and I let rip about her trying to cover her blunders.’

‘
Oh, bloody brilliant!’ McKenna snarled. ‘I warned you to keep your mouth shut!’

‘
You’re not exactly famous for your tact and reticence!’ Rowlands snapped. ‘Oh, hell! I’m sorry,’ he muttered, then said: ‘No, I’m not sorry! She bloody asked for it! Anyway, what I said wouldn’t warrant dismissal, so the worst I can expect is a transfer to Holyhead.’ The glimmer of a smile touched his lips. ‘I hear it’s worse than Chicago in Al Capone’s heyday.’

‘
It’s the same as it always was,’ McKenna said testily.

‘
Look, I
am
sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.’

‘
People rarely
intend
to create chaos, but they manage, all the same.’ His face grim, McKenna added: ‘What’s happening with George?’

Rowlands shrugged.
‘Bradshaw said she was dealing with it, but she hasn’t completed the application for an extension.’

‘
Then we’ll leave it until she comes back.’

‘
We saw Williams, by the way, but he wasn’t much help. He’d no idea why Ned collected all that stuff, and insisted the other poems and whatnot were just copies of what’s been around for ages.’

‘
I haven’t come across them before.’

‘
But you’re not a Welsh scholar, are you?’

‘
Then ask George if they’re familiar, because he’s far more of a scholar than Williams will ever be.’

*

Shortly after Rowlands went downstairs with a sheaf of documents under his arm, Gabriel Ansoni called from the hospital. ‘I was here with a patient when Janet arrived,’ he told McKenna, his voice grave. ‘She’s still being transfused, because the haemorrhaging won’t stop.’