Darling Sweetheart (34 page)

‘May I ask… may I ask why you need to know?’

‘Because of something someone once said.’

Sylvia in the rented rehearsal room, telling her that her father would have chased anything in a skirt and how that woman from Kensington was a familiar face from those days. To think that, for years, Monica and Lucy had known things about her father that she herself had not. But look at them now, Darling
Sweetheart; look at these objects of your affection. You put your hands on both these women, mother and daughter, and now here they are, another pair of broken afterthoughts to add to your sprawling pile.

‘L-Lucy… she’s not by any chance…?’

‘No.’ Monica shook her head. ‘Definitely Geoffrey’s.’

‘Did Geoffrey know?’

‘I’ll never forget that awful night,’ Monica’s voice lowered, ‘the police came, and I had to fetch you from the school. I just wanted to curl up and die, but Geoffrey made me do it – that was my punishment. He said that anything connected with David was my responsibility.’

‘Oh Angalishe,’ Lucy slavered, ‘thish ish prisheleshh! I haven’sh had thish mush fun in agesh! I know you’re rish and famoush, bush you really should come by more often!’

‘You have a bad mouth, Lucy Goddard!’ her mother admonished.

‘One of the few bitsh thash shtill worksh, unforshunately for you!’

‘Annalise, I’m sorry,’ Monica whispered, ‘but we were part of the same set, your father and I. We ran around together. The seventies were like that, you know…’ and she glanced at her daughter. ‘Every vice they discover, young people think they’re the first to try it. They never imagine that it’s all been done before, often by their boring fart parents.’

‘What was my father really like?’

‘A compleshe an’ utter bashtardsh!’ Lucy roared. ‘I’ve told her many timesh how he even tried to shcrew me, but she doeshn’t believe me! On the yachtsh!’ She gargled at the perveted hilarity of it all. ‘Thatsh why she ran away!’ Lucy pointed at Annalise with her bony hand. ‘She knew! Go on, Angalishe, tell her! She thinksh I’m lying to her out of badnessh! But you shaw him grope me up, didn’t shyou? You shaw him touch me!’

‘You say such awful things just to upset me!’ Monica
protested. ‘The David Palatine that I knew was kind, and… and full of fun; a lovely person to be with.’

‘Bush in the end,’ Lucy sneered, ‘he preferredsh me.’

‘She treats me like a punchbag.’ Monica put a shaking hand on Annalise’s arm. ‘But you have to believe me, that’s why I took you in, because I loved him. So many times I would look at you, and pretend…’ and now Annalise felt her eyes fill, but she didn’t want to cry in front of Lucy Goddard. ‘I’m sorry,’ Monica too was on the verge of tears, ‘but… does that answer your question?’

‘Everyone knew my father better than I did.’

‘If that’s what this is about,’ Monica sniffled, ‘then you should talk to the woman who knew him the best.’

‘My mother died six years ago.’

Monica nodded. ‘I heard, but I wasn’t thinking of Gabriela. I meant his first wife, from before he was famous.’

‘He… he was… married
before…?’

‘You didn’t know?’ Monica’s eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry, I just assumed–’

‘I never knew,’ Annalise practically shouted, ‘because no one ever told me!’

‘When he was still quite young, to a lovely girl called Evelyn Davie. She was an artist…’

‘Did he shcrew you behindsh her back, too?’

‘Don’t be foul!’ Monica snapped, but Lucy just gargled.

‘I didn’t know!’

‘Maybe your parents had their reasons for not telling you… and the press never picked up on it, you know, because it was before he started making those funny films.’

‘Were there any… I mean, did they have–’

‘No, there were no children. They were only together for a few years and when he left Evelyn for your mother, she didn’t make a fuss – she just quietly slipped away. Remarried, eventually, way up north, some fishing village in Scotland. Pit… Pit something?’

‘Thash usheful! Pitsh shomethingsh!’

‘Oh, do be quiet! Annalise, I’m sorry, she’s taking terrible advantage of your being here and I think I know why – it must be hard for her, seeing you so beautiful and doing so well…’

‘No it ishn’t!’ Lucy snarled. ‘I don’t give a shitsh! And her fashion shenshe shtill fucking shucksh! What’sh wish the cloak, Angalishe? You preggersh?’

‘No. I kept it from a film where I played a painter’s mistress.’

‘Ash opposhed to a movie-shtar’sh whore?’

‘Lucy!’ Monica shrieked. ‘That’s enough! She doesn’t mean these awful things!’

‘Yesh I do!’

‘I’m going to have to give her her medication. She’s not supposed to get excited…’

‘Fucksh you! Fucksh everybody!’

Annalise stood, walked over to Lucy’s wheelchair, knelt before it and took her good hand. Lucy stared at her with feral suspicion.

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t been much of a friend. You both took care of me at a time of my life when no one else wanted me.’

‘Hey!’ Froggy protested from beneath her cloak. ‘You had me!’ Annalise jumped up and slapped herself in the stomach.

‘You be quiet!’ Monica and Lucy watched her in puzzlement. She knew she had to leave immediately. ‘Look, it’s been lovely seeing you both – don’t get up, Monica – but there’s something I need to do. I promise I won’t forget you.’

‘Who do you shink you are – Florenshe fucking Nightingale?’

‘Goodbye, Lucy – Monica, thanks.’

‘Well, I’m sure I haven’t…’

But Annalise fled into the hallway and let herself through the yellow door. She stopped on the outside steps to dab her eyes with her sleeve. She looked over at the van; Proctor was talking to a traffic warden, an older man with a toothbrush moustache. As she approached, he snapped his notebook shut and sauntered off.

‘What did he want?’

‘Uhh… some crap about one-hour parking zones. So did you get what you came for?’

Without answering, she climbed into the van, slammed the door, opened her cloak and pulled Froggy from her belt.

‘You’re a bad frog!’ She held him by one ear and wagged her finger in his face. ‘A very bad frog!’

‘And you’re a very bad human!’ he snarled. ‘You left me for them, remember? The first time you went away! And even now, you’re still ashamed of me! All this bullshit about being abandoned by your father – you’re as bad as he was!’

‘Don’t you say that!’ she roared.

‘It’s true!’ Froggy roared back. ‘You’re just like him! Your head is so far up your arse that you don’t give a shit about anyone else!’

Proctor shoved his door open and jumped out onto the pavement. ‘Hey,’ he held his hands up in a placatory gesture, ‘it’s very scary when you fight with yourself like that!’

‘Another word out of you,’ she poked Froggy’s nose, ‘and you’re going in the glove compartment!’ She stuffed him back into her belt, closed her cloak and flopped back in her seat with a heavy sigh.

‘Is it safe to come in now?’ She ignored Proctor as he climbed slowly back behind the wheel. When she still didn’t speak, he took a tobacco pouch from his pocket, extracted a rolled cigarette and lit it. She glanced over when she smelled the pungent smoke.

‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘How could I possibly know
what you’re
thinking?’

‘Can I have some, please?’ He passed her the joint. She took a deep drag, then another. ‘Thanks,’ she spluttered. ‘Behind that yellow door,’ and she pointed across the street, ‘is a girl I used to worship, until my father tried to shag her when I was sixteen. She was beautiful, and I used to look up to her so much, and
now she’s only twenty-five, but she’s lying half-dead in a wheelchair. And her mother has just told me that she was my father’s mistress. And then she told me that my mother was really his second wife – I never knew he had a first one.’ She took a final drag and handed back the joint.

‘My,’ Proctor took a puff, ‘that
is
complicated.’

‘I need to see her.’

‘Who?’

‘My father’s first wife – if she’s still alive.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the only way a woman ever finds out the truth is by asking another woman.’

‘Yeah… men are nothin’ but a shower of lying bastards.’ He started the engine. ‘So where is this mystery woman?’

‘Scotland.’

‘You Takin’ the piss?’

‘Someplace in Scotland beginning with “Pit”.’

‘You are Takin’ the piss!’

‘That’s all Monica knows, except that she was called Evelyn, she was an artist and she probably remarried.’

‘I’ll just punch that information into my sat-nav and we’ll be on our merry way.’

She opened her door. ‘I’ll find her myself.’

‘Wait! Wait! Don’t start that again – I’ll help you, okay? Get back in the van! Was it Pitlochry, do you think that’s where she meant?’

‘Is Pitlochry a fishing village?’

‘Not unless they’ve moved it fifty miles closer to the sea since the last time I was there.’

‘She said it’s a fishing village beginning with “Pit”.’

‘Are you sure? There is a place near… naw. It couldnae be.’

Annalise closed her eyes. Proctor felt sorry for her – she looked too young to be carrying whatever strange burden was pressing down on her. He put the joint between his lips and
popped the van into gear.

‘On the other hand,’ he muttered, ‘I’m not doing much for the next six months…’

‘I’m sorry, Doctor, but he refuses to go away.’

‘Ellen, I’ve seen my last patient for the day and we have a lengthy waiting list. If he has a referral, give him an appointment for the autumn.’ Grumpily, Dr Charles Seabon Passmore, BSc., MPhil., FRCPysch., dropped the receiver of his desk phone into its cradle. As soon as he did, it rang again. He snatched it.

‘For god’s sake woman, what?’

‘Doctor, he says he’s here on police business.’

Passmore felt as if he’d been hit in the face with a wet towel. ‘Umm… all right then, get Karla to show him up.’

Passmore’s mind raced but formed no coherent thoughts before Karla Lutze admitted a man and a woman into his surgery. The man was very small, in his late fifties and wore spectacles and an exhausted navy suit. The woman was a complete mismatch; about twenty, she was a goddess, with shoulder-length, blonde hair and a naughty black cocktail dress. Lutze watched to see whether Passmore would run his hand through his silver hair. He did. Smiling, she left, closing the door.

The little man solicitously guided the young woman to the corner with the sofas, where she sat and folded a pair of endless legs. A retired civil servant seeking treatment for his wayward daughter, perhaps? The man approached Passmore’s desk.

‘Timmins,’ he said in a soft northern accent. He did not offer to shake hands. Reluctantly, Passmore looked away from the girl. ‘You’re Dr Charles Passmore?’ Passmore nodded. ‘Do you drive a silver-grey Lexus LS, registration number Y302 VDK?’

‘Why, yes I do.’ Passmore half-stood and peered out the window. ‘Bloody thing hasn’t been stolen, has it?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. A car of that make and registration
has been noted in the vicinity of King’s Cross station several times over the past few weeks.’

‘Errr… my London flat is in Highgate. I drive home past King’s Cross every night.’

‘And I’m sure your wife Harriet, who lives in your six-bedroom luxury converted barn in Moulton St Mary, Norfolk, is fully aware of your habit?’

‘H-habit?’

‘Some evenings, you don’t just drive past King’s Cross. Some evenings, you stop and you invite women into your car; the kind of women who work the streets around King’s Cross. Sometimes, they stay in your car for five minutes and then get out again, having transacted their business. Sometimes, they leave with you, presumably for a less hurried engagement.’

Passmore jumped up, shaking with indignation. ‘Now see here! You can’t just barge into my surgery and make outrageous accusations! This is unbelievable! I’m the most highly paid psychiatrist in Britain and I can assure you that I have never in my–’

Timmins produced a photograph from his jacket and held it under Passmore’s nose. It was black and white, but it was his car all right, and they’d even caught a tart climbing into it. Passmore deflated back into his chair.

‘W-what is this?’ he whispered. ‘Am I being arrested?’

‘I’m not a policeman, Doctor, although I was for many years and I still have contacts. The vice squad watches King’s Cross more closely than most punters imagine. But usually they wait until they’ve snapped you several times before they swoop.’

Passmore reached for his wallet. ‘Err… well, I certainly consider that to be an extremely valuable piece of advice…’

‘I’m not here for money; I want information.’

‘Oh? What about?’

‘About one of your patients.’

‘But that’s impossible! The relationship between a psychiatrist and his–’

‘I know, I know,’ Timmins held up a doll-size hand, ‘I don’t want her entire medical history, just the precise details of her last conversation with you. Most of all, I need to know who she might turn to at a time of distress – friends and family, that sort of thing.’

Passsmore guessed. ‘You’re from the press, aren’t you? Look, I can’t tell you anything about Annalise Palatine! I’d be–’ he reached for his phone, but with sudden, unexpected strength, Timmins snapped a little hand out and seized his wrist.

‘I’m not from the press, Doctor, quite the opposite – the nature of my inquiry is extremely private. But I
am
asking about Annalise Palatine.’ Still holding Passmore’s wrist, he reached into his suit pocket, produced a mobile phone and held up the display. ‘This is your home telephone number, isn’t it? Your home in Norfolk, not your Highgate flat. Your wife Harriet – is she likely to be there right now?’

‘I… I… I have no idea!’

‘We could always find out.’

‘W-why are you doing this to me?’

Timmins released his arm and lowered the mobile. ‘Or, we could find out what Nicola here has in her bag. Nicola!’ he called across the room, ‘can you join us for a moment, please? I doubt,’ he murmured, ‘if Nicola is her real name.’ Hips swinging, the young woman obeyed. ‘Nicola, please show Dr Passmore what you’ve got in your bag.’ Nicola’s heavily glossed lips split into a cheeky smile as she opened her diamante clutch bag and, leaning forward much more than was necessary, placed a rolled-up bundle of banknotes, a box of Durex and a foil of Viagra onto Passmore’s desk. The doctor’s eyes were a battleground between fear and astonishment.