AM02 - The End of the Wasp Season (21 page)

Bannerman made short work of interviewing Frankie and then Joe but it wasn’t difficult: they had no evidence, no witnesses against them, nothing concrete to ask about at all. It was a fishing expedition. Since it was so late he took twenty minutes for each of them, asking them where they had been on the night of Sarah’s murder, who could confirm it, what they were wearing that night, had they ever been to their mum’s work, where they thought the ashtray, the eggcup and the watch had come from.

Both boys had been in for the early part of the evening and out for the second part, and since they couldn’t definitively say what Sarah Erroll’s time of death was, it left them as possibilities. Neither had heard of any money in the house.

McKechnie had pissed off home but Morrow and McCarthy stayed in the viewing room and watched Kay sitting next to Joe first and then Frankie. They saw her pretending to be calm for her boys, as if it was routine for them to be questioned in the middle of the night about a brutal murder. A couple of times when they looked afraid, she repeated the same phrase:

“They just need to know it wasn’t you, son, so they can find out who it was.”

But even on the grainy camera set high up on the wall, she didn’t look as if she believed it.

Joe came over very well. He met Bannerman’s eye and tried hard with Gobby, addressing his answers to him a couple of times, failing to draw him out of himself.

Frankie was younger by a year but a lot less mature. He was frightened and met the questions with a sulky glower, needing to be prompted by his mum several times. He should have been more forthcoming because he was the one with the alibi: he’d been at work, delivering pizzas, sitting in a car with a fat guy called Tam all evening. They needed two guys because Tam was the shop owner’s brother-in-law, needed the job, but was too fat to walk up stairs, so he gave Frankie a portion of his wages to do the leg work. Frankie made ten quid a night and got a pizza at the end.

By the end of the interviews, as Bannerman was telling Frankie and Kay that he’d need to see them all again but they were being sent home tonight, Morrow knew in her gut that they were innocent. Morrow knew what a cover-up among family members looked like: no eye contact between them, well-rehearsed answers to the important questions, often phrases echoed from person to person. When people were colluding no one had to check their phone or ask their mum where they had been on the night in question.

It was midnight when Bannerman shut off the tape and ejected it, bagging it for evidence. McCarthy went down the corridor to show Kay and her boys out, leaving Morrow watching the remote screen herself.

Bannerman and Gobby stood up and stretched their legs, pulled their jackets off the back of their chairs and gathered their papers. McCarthy was waiting by the door but Kay put her arm around Frankie’s shoulders and made him stand up. “What happens now?” she said.

Bannerman was magnanimous. “You can go home.”

“How can I go home? I left my purse on the kitchen table.”

Frankie looked at her. “I’ve got my Zone Card, Mum.”

“But that won’t get me home, will it? Or Joe.” She looked expectantly at Bannerman. “How am I to get home?”

She wanted a lift home. They’d never give her one.

Bannerman had his jacket on and was halfway out of the door. “Can’t you get a minicab and pay when you get to the other end?”

McCarthy touched her elbow, nodding her out.

“I’m eight floors up, they’ll not let me out the cab.”

“Send one of the boys up and you can stay in the car.”

Bannerman and Gobby jostled past her, bully-buffeting her and Frankie as they made their way out into the darkness of the corridor.

Morrow turned the car radio off. She was flying to London in the morning, catching the six-thirty flight, and should just go home, but she couldn’t just drive past them. It was a wild area. Blank walls were punctured with dark alleys and feral bushes grew over bits of wasteland. It wasn’t a place to walk at night. She saw them, one boy on either side of Kay, walking down the dark road, Kay’s head hanging forward, shoulders slumped low and Joe nudging his huddled mum and making a joke. They were taking the straightest path to walk the four miles to Castlemilk. Kay didn’t have taxi fare.

Morrow drew up ahead of them, pulled on the handbrake. She shut her eyes for a moment’s respite. This wasn’t going to be nice.

When she opened her eyes again she saw Joe looking in the window at her, frowning. She nodded to the back seat. He stood up and consulted with his mother in a whisper. Kay bent down then, glared in, angry and wet eyed, and stood up again. She told the boys something.

Frankie opened the passenger door and leaned in. “What do you want?”

“I’ll run you home.”

He slammed the door but they didn’t walk away, they were whispering. Morrow watched Kay’s hands adjust her handbag strap across her shoulder.

The back door opened and Joe got in first, climbing along to the far window, then Kay, then Frankie. He shut the door and they all pulled their seat belts on, managed to find the clips for them, though they were squashed up hard against each other.

No one spoke before Rutherglen. Morrow was afraid to look in the mirror. She wanted to put the radio on but was afraid a cheerful song would be playing and it would make her seem even more callous.

Finally Joe snapped, “This is good of you.”

Kay whispered, “Shut up.”

“But it is, Mum, it’s decent of her.”

“Nasty fucking arsehole.” Kay didn’t specify exactly which person in the car was the nasty fucking arsehole, but she didn’t need to.

It felt like a very long drive. Kay was crying at one point, sniffing, careful not to make too much noise. Morrow checked the mirror out of long habit and saw the shadow of Frankie’s arm moving over his mum’s shoulder. She looked away. She could be home now. She could be in her warm bed with Brian, sorting it out in her head, coming up with justifications, convincing herself that she was just doing the job, that she needed to make these hard choices for Sarah.

When they finally arrived at the steps from the main road to the high flats Kay said, “Here’s fine,” as if she was in a minicab.

Morrow was too tired to fight so she said nothing, drew up the hill and stopped.

Frankie opened the door and climbed out before she even had the handbrake on. Kay followed him. It wasn’t in Joe’s nature to leave without saying something.

“I do think that was decent of you. Thanks.”

Morrow didn’t wait to watch them open the door to the lobby. She pulled out and drove away, a little too fast.

Thomas turned into Tregunter Road and stopped. His hands were balled in his pockets, angry sweat prickling his palms. Big cars, big houses with big windows.

He had been hoping that it was a mess, one of those sudden shifts in tone that happened in London, when you turned a corner from a perfectly decent area and found yourself in a shit hole. This was the opposite of that.

He’d just left a crescent of absurd opulence, of massive country houses jostling on a city street, and it must have been a beacon to robbers because the houses were metal-shuttered, cowering behind walls pitted with alarms and video cameras. He’d turned from that into a habitable street built on a human scale.

The houses on Tregunter Road were big but some of them were semi-detached and none of them even had garages; most of the front gardens had been changed into parking spaces. One that he could see had a double buzzer on the door, which meant it was converted into flats. The doors had letter boxes on them, doorbells next to them. Members of the public could walk straight up to them. People lived nice, modest lives here. She lived here.

Thomas already knew this area. Lars liked to take him for lunch in Fulham. Twice at least, Lars got his driver to come down this road. It seemed an odd route. It wasn’t on the way. Thomas remembered it because Lars explained his order, which he never did. He said they’d miss the traffic on the Fulham Road, and all the fucking pedestrians on the Kings Road. Thomas remembered looking at the yellow houses and wondering why Lars was explaining himself and had a funny smirk on his face as he did.

It made sense now. She lived here. The other Thomas—Phils—he lived here.

There was no one in the street. Thomas walked heavily, keeping his face hidden under the skip cap he’d bought from a market stall outside Charing Cross Station, his eyes flicking this way and that, scanning for movement and approaching people, noting that there were concealed video cameras on the properties.

He found number eight.

A low stone wall separated it from the street. In the front garden he could see a discarded skateboard sticking out of a bush. It made him double check the street number: they were never allowed to leave their belongings in view, he and Ella.

But it was number eight. The house was semi-detached, tall, yellow brick with white plaster trim, like all the other houses in the street. It was nice that they were all the same, like a uniform. The curtains in the front window were open, the lining draped perfectly uniformly. She hadn’t done that herself. She still had house staff.

Thomas saw a car coming a block away and hurried to open the gate and walk up to the stairs, jogging to the privacy of the top step before the car came past.

A black door with serious brass fittings: a post box and a spy hole and a heavy lion’s head knocker. He couldn’t hear anything from inside. He lifted the brass knocker and banged twice on the door.

Steps shuffled, and the light changed on the spy hole. He had assumed she had staff but it wasn’t a maid who opened the door.

She was younger than he expected. Slim with suspiciously round breasts. She wore white jeans and a pale gray sweater. Her brown hair was pulled up in a high ponytail and she had no make-up on. He couldn’t imagine Lars with this woman: she didn’t look formal enough, or old enough. She looked like Sarah Erroll, except very tall and pretty.

“Hello?” She didn’t recognize him, put her hand on her hip and sighed, annoyed, when he didn’t answer. “Look, can I help you?”

Thomas saw behind her, into the hall. It was tall, grand, with a high bookcase running the length of it, but it was messy: kids’ and grown-up jackets were thrown on chairs and over banisters, a telephone lay off the cradle, lying on the stairs as if she’d just been speaking to someone and had dropped it and walked away. A used mug with a dried dribble of brown tea down the side had been left next to it on the stairs.

Thomas couldn’t believe it was the right house. All of these tiny infractions were crimes to Lars, dreadful crimes, behaviors that had caused blazing rows. He was a stickler for form and formality. Thomas and Ella were never allowed to play in the public rooms. Even in their own areas of the house, the moment they had finished playing with anything they had to get the maid to tidy up. Thomas had once been screamed out of a room by Lars because he cut a slice of Brie de Meaux across the nose and they didn’t even have company. If Lars was a different man here, he wanted to know that man.

He looked up the wide stairs and suddenly, from nowhere, he saw blood splattered on white jeans and her scalp hanging off, Sarah Erroll afterwards, but only in details, split skin, hair stuck in open cuts. He felt sick and frightened.

The woman was looking at him and rapidly losing interest. He looked back at the hall, certain he had the wrong house.

“OK.” She began to shut the door but Thomas suddenly saw that the mug was a Chelsea mug and the bookcases were poplar burr, like Lars’s study at home. He stuck his foot out, catching the door, jamming it open.

The woman looked at his shoe and then at him. He could see that she was angry but she didn’t shout.

“Sorry,” she said lightly, looking him in the eye while she reached behind the door with her right arm. “What’s your name?”

“You called me last night,” he said.

She seemed to frown at him. Her skin was amazingly smooth, like paper. He couldn’t work out how old she was—she looked young but was dressed older, moved like an older person.

“No, darling,” she drawled slowly, “I think you’re at the wrong door.”

“But I’m Thomas Anderson.”

“Oh. My. God. Thomas!” She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the hall. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you. You’re taller than your father. And handsome.”

He saw then what she had reached behind the door for: she had a baseball bat in her hand.

She propped it up behind the door again. “How did you get here? Does your mother know you’re here?”

Thomas was standing quite still. The hallway was dark now that the door was shut. He stood still and listened and heard no one else in the house, no shifts of air or radios anywhere. They were completely alone.

She touched her chest, pressing her hand into the cushion of her strangely spherical tits. “I’m Theresa.”

He looked past her, nodding, taking his time before muttering, “Fucking Catholic.”

She leaned in. “Sorry?”

He didn’t want to say it again so he said nothing at all.

“Did you ask whether I was RC?” She smiled tentatively, a little twitchy smile, as if she was hoping it was a quip or a joke or something.

He didn’t answer.

“Well, I am—Catholic, if that’s what you’re asking.” She made a silly sad face and crossed her eyes. “Failed.”

Thomas didn’t want to look at her. He kept his eyes down but she reached out and took his chin in her hand as if she was holding a dog’s paw and looked at him, at his eyes and mouth and nose, at his build. “You don’t look a bit like your father.”

He liked her for that, because he did look like Lars, he knew he did. He had a lot of the bad bits of Lars, his thin mouth and bushy eyebrows.

“I do a bit.”

She screwed up her eyes. “Maybe a titchy bit…”

“Kids not in?”

“No.” She lurched across the hall and picked up a photo: a boy and girl, both with Aryan white hair and sun-kissed skin. The boy was about Thomas’s age but taller and better-looking. He didn’t smile but he looked confident, he had every reason to be. He probably knew girls his own age and kept up with music and saw bands and things like that.

The girl was older than Ella, not as pretty but less awkward and not nuts. They were standing on a white beach with a crystal blue sea behind them, shoulders pressed tight together, friends.

“Is this South Africa?”

“Plett, yes.” She stepped away, wary. “Yes. The house…”

“Oh,” Thomas looked at the picture again, “I never went there…was in school.”

“It’s pretty but I prefer France.”

“I like France.” He sounded almost normal.

She smiled at him. “Look, I’m sorry about the telephone call. I must have sounded very…unfriendly.”

He thought back to it and shrugged. “It’s OK.” He looked into the house.

“I didn’t think you’d come…I thought you were at school.”

He cringed. “Got yanked out and sent home…”

“Because…?”

“Yeah.”

She sighed. “Why did he do it, Thomas?”

Thomas didn’t answer. He really thought Lars did it to upset everyone, particularly the businessmen who’d conspired to have him removed from office. That was his style. He’d even use his own death to win a point. But he didn’t think Theresa wanted to hear that.

He hesitated for so long that Theresa filled in for him, “He just couldn’t take the pressure anymore.”

It was a very kind interpretation. He thought that she might not see much of Lars, really. He chewed his cheeks, glaring down into the house.

“Poor, poor man.” She nodded and followed his eye down into the house herself. “Thomas, I know you’ve been away at school for a long time and it makes you grow up terribly fast but tell me this…,” she said seriously. “Are you much too mature to be a fan of pancakes?”

It was a pretend Dutch pancake house, wooden tables strewn with clogs and tulips. Everything was orange. She ordered three black coffees for herself and waffles with syrup for him. She didn’t want to eat, she said, but she’d have a corner of his if she got hungry. The way she watched the plates of food moving around the room made him think that she was already hungry but dieting.

His waffles came on a plate with a picture of a windmill on it, but they were delicious and it was a long time since breakfast. He kept his cap low as he ate and she drank the mugs of coffee in quick succession.

She did the talking. She’d met Lars at a party a long time ago. She didn’t like him at first. He kept correcting people and talking loud and she thought he was ill-mannered and boorish. She was leaving, looking for a taxi when his car stopped and he offered her a lift. She never thought she’d see him again so she told him to sod off, that she’d rather walk home than get into his car. He sent her flowers the next day and every day for ages. It got dull, actually, she said and Thomas sneered at that, no, it did! She didn’t have anywhere to put them! She was living with her sister and the whole house was full of dying roses. They were melting onto the carpets and staining them. She phoned to tell him to stop and one thing led to another. She looked ashamed then. She didn’t even know he was married for a long time, not until she was pregnant. He might understand a little better when he was older but sometimes you did things that looked really wrong from outside but she’d never meant to hurt anyone.

He nodded at that, felt tearful and she held his chin again and made him look at her. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull his chin away either.

“Sometimes,” she said gently, “it’s nice to talk to someone outside your immediate circle.” Then she flattened her hand to his cheek, stroked it and let go. Her hand was warm and soft and he wanted to grab it as it retreated across the table, tell her about Sarah Erroll, ask her what the fuck he should do about it.

But he didn’t. Instead he asked her how she felt after, when she realized Lars was married and already had kids. Theresa said well, he didn’t have kids, Moira was pregnant just like her. She said she had to accept that it happened and move on. But, Thomas asked, weren’t you angry with him for putting you in that position? She shrugged; some people make you complicit, she said, it’s a mistake to think they do it deliberately. It’s not even about you, it’s just who they are.

Thomas finished eating and she’d had enough coffee. He paid the bill with money from Lars’s wallet, saw her looking at the wad of crisp notes, her eyes as fixed on them as they had been on the plates of pancakes.

They went for a walk. She took him for a wander around a furniture shop she liked and then they went into an antiques shop and decided what they liked and hated.

She took him across the road to a garden center, talked about gardening and smelled the plants. Her parents were keen gardeners. They had an ornamental garden that was open to the public for many years. Theresa said that she was so bad at gardening she could kill mint. He didn’t really know what that meant but he laughed along anyway because she was laughing. It was nice, like they were friends. If she had been his mother things might have been different. He might have been calm and cool and done skateboarding. He might have had hobbies and been confident with girls.

He began to think he was wearing thin on her. They had been together for almost an hour and a half when he saw her checking her watch behind the bonsai trees.

Anxious not to outstay his welcome, he went over and said he’d have to go soon, could he walk her home, and she said yes, she’d like that, and it was charming of him to ask her.

She slipped her arm through his as they walked back.