A Species of Revenge (17 page)

Now why had she added that last remark? What did she mean by it? Her head was bent and the wing of butterscotch hair partly obscured her face. She looked up with an unreadable expression and gave a little embarrassed half-laugh.

‘When are you expecting to return home?' he asked.

‘I don't know, but I can't stay here much longer. I've a job – and a flat I must get back to – but there's millions of things to do here, yet –' She looked at her watch. ‘Today, I've to find a
chimney-sweep,
would you believe, before Dermot can have gas fires fitted ... buy new curtains ... pick the children up.' She laughed. ‘I'll be glad to get back to work! No reason why I shouldn't, now. I've actually found a housekeeper. Mrs Bailey's agreed to come in when I've gone, to see to the cleaning and cooking and look after the children when Dermot's not there. She's very good with them and they adore her. She's delighted with the idea, it means she can give up her job at the supermarket. But now this has happened she may not want to start for a while ... Patti meant an awful lot to her.'

‘Mrs Bailey doesn't seem to be the type to let it knock her off her peg for long.'

‘I expect you're right. Imogen Loxley did offer to see to the children pro tem, she and her brother and sister seem to have taken a shine to them, Francis is trying to teach them to play Mah Jong but – I don't know ...'

Francis, he thought, jolted. Francis Kendrick? That dry, intellectual stick. Well, well. Then he remembered the Victorian music box and the tall man holding the hand of the little girl as they crossed the lawn.

‘Tell me about the other people at Edwina Lodge. I've already met Mrs Baverstock.'

She met his glance and grimaced. ‘Her husband, Vic, he's OK. He's nice to the children, makes them laugh. I've scarcely spoken to Mr Pitt. He seems a sweet old soul but I suspect he's shy of women. He ducks his head and scoots whenever we meet.'

‘What about the mysterious man who has the attic floor – Mr Fitzallan?'

‘Fitz? Oh, there's nothing mysterious about him,' she said casually. ‘He's a spare-time artist and he rents the attics as a studio, that's all. He runs a successful design consultancy in real life.'

‘Fitzallan Associates?'

‘Yes, I think that's the name – d'you know it?'

‘I've heard of it.'

A faint smile played round her lips. ‘He's painting a portrait of Allie. Oh Lord, that reminds me!' She looked again at her watch. ‘If there's nothing more – I have to go and find a pet shop before the children come home. Disaster struck this morning. Goodness knows how it happened, but after they'd gone to school I found their hamster lying dead in its cage. I'll have to get another, otherwise they'll be heartbroken. Will they know the difference, d'you think?'

‘Wouldn't bank on it,' Mayo answered, remembering a similar experience in Julie's childhood. However, he told her where the nearest pet shop was, gave her a few minutes and then followed her out into the bright sunlight, pausing to make a note of the organ recital. The organist was not to be the woman he'd just heard playing, but Francis Kendrick. A man of many parts, Kendrick. And high time he made contact with him.

As he walked back between the yews he thought of the other name that had been mentioned – James Fitzallan. He remembered the case, and nearly all the details. The wife who'd died in suspicious circumstances. And that other woman, and her child.

Abigail Moon came into his office as soon as he got back to the station, with a report on the Stanley Loates incident. ‘He's a creep,' she said forthrightly. ‘Anyone who could do that to a dumb animal could do anything.'

‘And that, of course, makes it certain he killed Patti, as well as the cat.'

‘Oh Lord, of course not! But – I don't know – he could have, I suppose – not intending to kill, but a mindless reaction because she saw what he'd done –? All right, I know – I'm letting my prejudices show.' She ran a hand through her hair. ‘More to the point, there's someone come in with some information. He's in with Martin Kite at the moment – his name's Pitt, Henry Pitt.'

‘I feel I ought to tell you,' Henry Pitt had begun, nervously looking around the interview room as though expecting to see jack-booted inquisitors behind him and thumbscrews on the wall, rather than a tattered copy of PACE and Martin Kite sitting opposite. He coughed, blinked like a nervous rabbit, smoothed back his hair. His hands, Kite noticed, were smooth and white, the backs covered with freckles and pale gold hairs.

‘Yes, Mr Pitt? What is it you have to tell us? I take it it's about Patti Ryman?'

‘Patti, oh dear, yes. Someone at the library heard about it on the local radio.' For a moment Henry looked as though he were about to burst into tears. His soft lower lip trembled, tears did actually come to his eyes, but he took out a large handkerchief, blew loudly into it and then said, ‘I'm sorry, it was such a shock …'

He'd taken time off from his work at the library, come in of his own accord and asked to see the detective superintendent in charge of the case, at what cost to himself Kite could only guess. In Mayo's absence, he'd been offered Sergeant Kite as a substitute, plus a sympathetic presence in the shape of WPC Platt, and a cup of tea, which he hadn't touched. None of it seemed to have had any effect. ‘It's all so difficult –'

‘Well, let's begin with the last time you saw Patti,' Kite said, patiently.

‘Yes. Yes, of course. It was this morning, when she was delivering my paper. We often used to have a little chat. I was very fond of her.' His lips began to tremble again but as he met Kite's gaze, kindly but sharp, his hesitant manner suddenly left him. He may have given the initial impression of being a doddery old fool, but he was an intelligent man, must be well aware of how this conversation might be interpreted, and Kite had no doubt it had taken some courage to square up to what he had to say.

‘Take your time, Mr Pitt.'

Thank you.' He breathed deeply, and then began to speak slowly, anxious to get things in the right order. ‘I first met her when I was taking a collecting box round the Close for the RSPCA. She was at her aunt's house – Mrs Bailey, you know – and she started chatting. I could see she was as passionate about cruelty to animals as I am, and she wanted to know if she could become a collector as well, but of course she wasn't old enough. I gave her a collecting box for her own use, and she used to put a small amount in every week, and something out of her birthday and Christmas money, that sort of thing. Well, that's how it began – I came to look forward to seeing her smiling face every morning. Occasionally we had a few minutes' conversation, but usually it was just to pass the time of day and so on, nothing more, you understand.'

‘Yes, I understand.' Kite had heard similar protestations hundreds of times. This time, there was more than a ring of truth in what the old buffer had been saying so far. Kite, who wasn't easily fooled by anyone, thought him almost painfully honest and well-intentioned. ‘And this morning?'

Pitt licked his lips. ‘This morning was different ... she said she had a problem. That was how she put it, a problem, and could she talk it over with me. I asked her why me – was it something to do with her schoolwork? You see, sometimes I'd help her to find books she needed for her school projects and so on, but she said no, it wasn't that, it was only that she couldn't think of anyone else who'd understand. That made me think it was something the RSPCA should know about, and I told her she should report it, but apparently what was bothering her was something quite different. “I think it's what you'd call a moral dilemma, Mr Pitt,” she said. “Like when you think you know something bad about a person, but you're not quite sure.” ‘

‘Was it anything that had a bearing on what's happened to her?'

‘I don't know. She said she'd no time to talk about it then. I suggested she came to the library after school and I'd take my tea-break in the library cafeteria with her, and we'd discuss it then. But of course ... when I heard the news ... dear God, what are we coming to?'

‘All this happened before she went to deliver her papers in the Close?' Kite asked, shuffling papers to give Henry time to get over his distress.

‘Oh yes, she always came to Edwina Lodge first – and then Simla – before she went on there.'

‘If it wasn't anything to do with the RSPCA that was bothering her, why do you think she came to you, in particular?'

‘I really can't think,' Henry said humbly.

Police cars were still parked at the entrance to the Close when Sarah arrived back at Edwina Lodge after picking the girls up from school, but luckily the children either didn't notice them or saw nothing untoward in them being there. It wasn't going to be possible to keep them in ignorance of the terrible events which had happened in the wood for long, however. News of that sort couldn't be kept secret. They'd met and talked to Patti, been promised a go on her grown-up bicycle. But how did you tell young children something like that without frightening them half to death? Especially now, just when they were beginning to come to terms with the loss of their mother.

Later that evening, when they were in bed, Sarah sat back, nursing a whisky, richly deserved, she felt, after a day of enforced domesticity – how did mothers stand it, day in, day out? – coupled with the terrible news about Patti Ryman, and ending with a protracted scene with Lucy over the hamster.

‘This isn't Goldie!' Lucy had declared, immediately she opened the cage to give the animal its food. ‘It's somebody else! What's happened to her?'

‘What makes you think it's not her?' Sarah had prevaricated, furiously cutting Marmite sandwiches, pouring juice, knowing she was being cowardly.

‘I just do! It's not Goldie! What have you done with her?'

Sarah knelt down by the cage and tried to tell both children as gently as she could what had happened, wondering if she could use the hamster's demise to introduce the subject of Patti, but to her horror both children had burst into noisy sobs and whatever she said couldn't pacify them, especially Lucy, who could create a scene better than anyone when the occasion demanded it.

It was at this point, when she was kneeling on the floor with her arms around both children (at least around Lucy – Allie was pulling away, as usual, stiffening whenever she was touched) that blessed intervention came in the person of Imogen, there to deliver a parcel for the children, from Hope. The tears gradually subsided. When opened, the parcel was found to contain a pair of dolls, one for each child. Hope, it appeared, had been embarrassed about giving the presents herself, as well might she be, considering the one intended for Allie, Sarah thought, considerably taken aback by it.

‘I know, I know!' Imogen said, holding up a hand, forestalling comment. ‘I did try to dissuade her, but you know what Hope's like. They've no sentimental value for her – she was never one for dolls.'

It was obvious to Sarah that she
didn't
know what Hope was like. She was stunned by her generosity, but at the same time, appalled. Mainly at the total unsuitability of Allie's present, which was not a plaything but an expensive antique in near-mint condition, a genuine, simpering Victorian doll with a rosebud mouth, wearing plum-coloured, lace-trimmed silk, and kid boots. But the sight of Allie's enraptured face, besotted with love at first sight, like a mother with her first-born baby, effectively scotched any possibility that somehow, tactfully, the doll could be returned.

The one designated for Lucy wasn't nearly such a thoroughbred, but that didn't matter. Lucy hardly ever played with dolls. She thanked Imogen politely for the jointed wooden Dutch doll, dressed in national costume, and was playing with it for the moment, introducing the now apparently accepted hamster to it, with the hamster receiving most of the attention. It wouldn't be long before she put the doll on one side in favour of her new computer game.

Allie was sitting on the floor with her doll cradled tightly in her arms, covering it with wet, messy kisses, boding ill for the pristine, the pink and white face. ‘Now come along, Angel,' she announced, prim as a Victorian nursemaid, ‘I'll read you a story I've written and draw you a picture, but then you'll have to go straight to bed.'

Sarah exchanged looks with Imogen.
Angel
? Maybe Hope, even if unwittingly, had done more than she realized.

Now, Angel having been tucked up in bed beside Allie, and Lucy's doll, as yet nameless, lying on the floor in the corner of the bedroom with its limbs at all angles, Sarah abandoned the whisky, which she didn't really care for and, disappointingly, always looked better than it tasted, and escaped from Dermot, if you could be said to escape from someone who barely seemed to know you were there. He was ostensibly immersed in a fat file concerned with the legal intricacies of being a landlord, but he didn't look as though his heart was in it. Something of greater moment was absorbing his thoughts.

Out in the garden, the new swing hung loose on its ropes from the old pear-tree branch. Sarah perched on it, absently propelling it back and forth, one toe barely touching the ground. In the dusk, the Welsh poppies which had seeded themselves between the cracks of the old blue bricks of the path glowed like small harvest moons, orange and gold. The deep honey scent of dame's violet hung on the air. On the other side of the great beech hedge was the wood, silent now, where the sound of men's voices had rung for most of the day.

Although Sarah hadn't known Patti, had barely spoken to her, the poor girl's murder seemed to add another dimension to the shock of her own discovery of the previous day.

She'd been putting off thinking about
that
for too long – ever since yesterday, in fact, when she'd knelt on the floor of her bedroom with the old tin trunk beside her, but no amount of procrastination was going to make it go away.