A Death of Distinction (21 page)

‘We need to trace Marie-Laure Daventry as a priority,' he told her heavily. ‘You know where to start.'

Hearing the tone of his voice, she threw a quick glance at his grim face and had no trouble in following where his thoughts were leading. She'd recalled the reports of the Daventry case as well, and she didn't like the idea that they might have a repeat performance killer here any more than he did, but it couldn't be ignored. Charles Daventry had been killed by his wife, named Marie-Laure. A Marie-Laure had been a friend of the dead woman, there was a similar M O in both cases.

Within a couple of hours, they had the information they needed on Avril Kitchin. She had once been a nurse in an old people's home – before she was sent to prison for using violence against the patients in her charge.

‘And she wasn't exactly a model prisoner, either,' said Gillian Short, her probation officer, who'd offered, when Abigail telephoned, to make a few inquiries and then pop into the station for a chat. ‘They had to keep a watchful eye on her because of her anti-social tendencies – against the other prisoners and sometimes the screws, I gather.' She was a fair-haired woman with a fresh complexion and perfect teeth, who looked like a tennis-playing head prefect, but Abigail had come across her before and knew her to be a woman of understanding and sympathy, who knew precisely how to deal with her probationers. ‘But she was in for a long time and I suppose eventually it occurred to her that she was forgoing most of the privileges accorded for good behaviour, and losing remission. At any rate, she calmed down. Eventually she was transferred to the low-security prison at Gormleigh.'

‘And that's where she met Marie-Laure Daventry?'

‘Who was serving the last years of her sentence there, yes. Strangely, they seemed to get on well – though they weren't particularly close. Over-close friendships aren't encouraged, for all sorts of reasons, as you know. The psychologist in charge of her case was certain there were no lesbian tendencies on Marie-Laure Daventry's part, though as far as Avril Kitchin went, I gather nobody would have been surprised at anything.'

When Avril was released, Mrs Short had found her the Coltmore Road flat and an interview for a job at the house agency. Search and Sell, whose owner was enlightened enough to take a chance on her. ‘She didn't disappoint him, I'm happy to say. She was always conscientious, though she kept herself to herself and didn't associate with any of the other employees out of working hours.'

‘What about her husband?'

‘She wasn't married, presumably she thought the “Mrs” added respectability. People like her have a very low self-esteem, you know.'

‘And Marie-Laure Daventry?'

Marie-Laure, it seemed, had been released under licence five years before Avril, also having served a reduced sentence, with remissions for good conduct. After her probationary period, when a close eye was kept on her, she was more or less free to do as she wished.

‘Do you know where she's living now?'

‘She's out under life licence and therefore required to keep her probation officer informed of any change of address, and she's well out of order if she doesn't, so yes, I can find out where she is for you.'

But she rang later to say there was no recorded address after that of Avril Kitchin's flat in Coltmore Road. ‘So where was she before that?' asked Abigail.

‘A
nunnery
?'

‘A convent.'

Semantics. What difference did a name make? If Abigail had said Marie-Laure Daventry had been living in outer space, Mayo couldn't have been more taken aback. He knew no more than the next person about nuns, those anonymous black-clad figures, subjects of ribald bar-room jokes about their unnatural life, a life against nature. And like most people, he couldn't begin to comprehend religious convictions so strong that human beings were led to shut themselves away from the world. Call it ignorance, but the very idea was to him slightly suspect.

And an ex-con, a murderess, living in a nunnery?

‘But it's not an enclosed order, it's actually a convent boarding school,' Abigail corrected. ‘And she wasn't exactly a nun. I suppose she worked there in a lay capacity,' she added vaguely. She didn't know a lot more than he did about the religious life.

A lay capacity? And what was that supposed to mean, Mayo wanted to know. If she hadn't taken vows – wasn't that what they called it? – then why had she chosen to be there at all? As a form of penance? To hide? Had she become so institutionalized that she'd seen this as the only viable alternative to life outside? It was something quite outside his ken, but anyway, it was for the moment irrelevant. The question which was paramount was, where was she now?

‘Well, whether she should have reported her new address or not, the fact remains she hasn't done so.' Mayo swung his spectacles irritably by their arm. ‘Which is a fat lot of help to us.'

‘I've not yet seen Marc Daventry,' Abigail said, mentally docking another week or two off the life of the specs. ‘He should know where his mother is, surely? We can but try.'

Mayo put his specs down and rasped his hand across his chin. He'd had his usual shave and shower first thing that morning, but he felt an urgent need to repeat the performance, as though it were a necessary ritual cleansing to purge himself free of the contamination of murder. And then to consume a large hot meal and a dram of the malt. All of which were unlikely to be fulfilled for some time.

‘You say he works at the hospital? Let me know how you get on with him – no, have him brought in. I'm interested to see this young man.'

He sent out for a sandwich, and it was Carmody and Jenny Platt who were detailed to seek out Marc Daventry at the County Hospital.

They were directed – after a careful scrutiny of their warrant cards, a routine established after one or two scares about unauthorized people getting on to the wards – to the Pargeter wing, a newly built extension dedicated to a local industrialist, the better part of whose fortune had enabled it to be built. They followed signs through the crowded waiting room, with its tea and sandwich bar, along corridors to satellite waiting areas designed to accommodate smaller numbers of people, and were finally filtered to a three-seat area, not in use that day, outside a consultant obstetrician's door.

Waiting for Marc to arrive, there was nothing to do but sit staring at the decor, which was dispiriting, considering how new it was. Porridge-coloured walls. Grey carpet tiles. Old magazines. An exhausted Swiss cheese plant drooping in the corner, as though waiting for urgent resuscitation techniques. Cardboard boxes of brightly coloured plastic toys for children.

‘Jeez, how long do they expect patients to wait?' Carmody said, casting his eyes up at a bookcase full of paperback novels.

Mercifully, their own wait wasn't long enough for him to get through more than the first three pages of
The Reluctant Heart
before Marc arrived.

He'd been in the theatre setting up preparations for the next operation when he was summoned. He hadn't been told it was the police who wanted to see him, but he guessed that was who they were, even before they introduced themselves with a polite request that he should accompany them to the station so that Superintendent Mayo might clear up one or two matters.

‘What sort of matters?'

‘Couldn't say, sir.' The spokesman, a detective sergeant, was a pessimistic-looking character with a Scouse accent you could cut with a knife, a big bloke you'd be stupid to argue with. His sidekick was a smiling young WDC with a mop of curly hair and a china-doll complexion, but Marc wasn't fooled by her, either; she could probably have your arm locked behind your back and break it in two seconds flat.

‘I can't come at the moment/ he objected, indicating his theatre garb, his green top and trousers, white shoes, his paper cap and the mask dangling below his chin. ‘Mr McNulty's list isn't finished.'

‘They tell me somebody can take over your duties, sir.' The Liverpudlian was unmoving, stolidly communicating to Marc that there was no point in prevaricating, or letting himself be angry.

‘Give me a few minutes to change, then.'

They made no objection to that, and within ten minutes he was sitting in the police car, the sergeant driving, the girl sitting next to Marc on the back seat. There was a bald patch on the back of the sergeant's head, the steering wheel looked like a toy in his big hands. The girl was wearing a short navy jacket and a pleated plaid skirt, and her ankles underneath it looked neat in low-heeled pumps and navy tights. She wore a light perfume smelling of spring flowers. No one spoke as the car covered the short distance to Milford Road.

He was taken into a small room where the sergeant stayed with him until presently the superintendent joined them. Marc was confronted by a big, unsmiling man with a quiet, no-nonsense air about him, a penetrating gaze and a direct form of speech in which Northern vowels were apparent, as he told Marc his name and asked the sergeant to remain, sitting himself down opposite Marc.

Mayo, in his turn, saw a slim young man of middle height, well-dressed, presentable, a handsome lad, but taut and guarded, obviously ill at ease, though that conveyed nothing. Most people were uncomfortable, however innocent they were, when being questioned by the police. Mayo poured a little of the tea he'd requested – stipulating a pot, if you please, with cups and saucers – inspected it and, evidently finding it satisfactorily strong, filled two of the three cups and pushed one across the desk before shunting the tray across to Carmody to help himself. ‘Sugar, Marc?'

‘Two, please,' Marc said, and shovelled four in. Nervous. Had to swallow twice before he could get out the question as to why he'd been brought here.

‘Yes, of course you want to know, Marc. We've asked you here because it's possible you might be able to help us on a case we're working on at the moment. There's been a fatality, a sudden death –'

‘Whose?' The cup clattered slightly as it was put back on to the saucer. Marc Daventry was pale, but he'd been pale when he came in, possibly it was a natural pallor.

‘You're acquainted with a Miss Avril Kitchin, of Coltmore Road?'

‘Yes. What's happened?'

‘I have to tell you she's been murdered.'

Shock registered on his face – astonishment, shock, horror. None of which cut a lot of ice with Mayo, since it might or might not be genuine. They were all accustomed, at Milford Road, to dealing with suspects, guilty as hell, acting out the role of innocent or injured party. Some of them were good enough to apply for an Equity card.

‘When?' Marc asked. ‘When did it happen?'

‘This morning. We think about eight o'clock.'

‘I was at the hospital – I'm on standby and working a split shift this week.'

Mayo raised his eyebrows. ‘Well now, Marc, I don't think we're as far down the road as all that. You're not under suspicion, as yet. We can leave the question of your movements until later, if indeed, we need to ask it.' He finished his tea, sat back and made himself comfortable. He was in no hurry. ‘Do you always work shifts?'

‘I enjoy it. Gives me free time during the day.'

Mayo nodded. ‘Tell me how you came to know Miss Kitchin.'

After a moment's consideration, Marc said, ‘She's – she was – a friend of my mother's.'

‘What did you think of her?'

Again, he took his time, but his reply, when it came, was frank. ‘I didn't like her much, but I didn't have to. I just kept out of her way as much as possible.'

‘When was the last time you saw her?'

‘Can't honestly remember – weeks ago, must be. My mother shared her flat for a while, but she's moved now. I haven't seen Avril since.'

‘I see.' Mayo paused to replenish his cup and offer the pot to the others, which they declined, and to regard the young man thoughtfully. Deep, this one. Thought before he spoke. Weighed up the consequences. You'd never know when you had him, as they used to say, up where he was a lad. ‘Well, you've been frank with me and I'll be frank with you – we know how and where your mother and Miss Kitchin met. We also know where your mother's spent the last years. What we don't know is what brought her back to Lavenstock – and that's where you come in.'

Marc stiffened and was immediately on the defensive. ‘That really is sick! She has a record, therefore you assume she must be the one who killed Avril Kitchin! She couldn't kill anyone.'

That was an astonishing thing to say, with the thought of Charles Daventry hanging in the air between them. Perhaps he should have said, ‘She couldn't kill anyone
now.
'

‘Take it easy, lad. We're not in the business of assuming anything, but we're not just playing marbles, either. This happens to be a murder hunt, don't forget. We shall have to question everyone Miss Kitchin knew – and that, I'm afraid, includes your mother. Where does she live, Marc? How can we get hold of her?'

He seemed to be debating whether there was any point in refusing. Finally, reluctantly, he gave her address.

‘Does she have a job?'

‘At Catesby's. She's a waitress in the restaurant,' he added after another pause, as if the words stuck in his gullet. He saw Carmody writing this down. ‘But it won't be any use you going to see her there.'

‘Don't worry,' Carmody said, ‘we'll be discreet.'

‘It's not that, she won't be there. She's taken the day off – to attend to some private business.'

Mayo studied him for a moment. ‘Are you telling us the truth?'

‘Why should I lie?'

‘Where's she gone?'

Marc shrugged. Mayo stared hard at him and eventually he muttered, ‘If you must know, she's gone down to that convent where she used to live. She's worried about something – I don't know what – and she seemed to think they could help her.'