Devices and Desires (41 page)

And she had married him despite the opposition from her mother, who at first had seemed to collude in the enterprise, perhaps reminding herself that Susie was twenty-eight and time not on her side, but who, once the engagement had been secured, had made it plain that her only child could have done better, and had embarked on a policy of ostentatiously making the best of it while undertaking a vigorous campaign of his social re-education. But even she hadn’t been able to find fault with the house. It had cost him all his savings, and the mortgage was the largest his income could support, but it stood as a solid symbol of the two things that mattered most to him, his marriage and his job.

Susie had been trained as a secretary but had seemed glad to give it up. If she had wanted to carry on working, he would have supported her, as he would in any interest she cared to take up. But he preferred her to be happily satisfied with the house and the garden, to find her waiting for him when he
returned at the end of the day. It was not the kind of marriage that was currently fashionable, nor the kind that most couples could afford; but it was his kind of marriage and he was grateful that it was hers.

He hadn’t been in love with her at the time of the marriage, he knew that now. He would, indeed, have said that he hardly knew the meaning of the word, since it had certainly nothing to do with the half-shameful affairs, the humiliations of his earlier experiences with women. And yet not only poets and writers, the whole world used the word, seeming to know by instinct if not by direct experience exactly what it meant. Sometimes he felt uniquely disadvantaged, excluded from a universal birthright, as a man might be who had been born without a sense of taste or smell. And when, three months after the honeymoon, he had fallen in love with Susie, it had seemed like the revelation of something known but never experienced, as blinded eyes might suddenly open to the reality of light and colour and form. It was one night when, for the first time, she had found joy in his lovemaking and, half-crying, half-laughing, had clung to him, whispering incoherent endearments. Tightening his arms about her, he had known in what seemed a moment of amazed recognition that this was love. That moment of affirmation had been both a fulfilment and a promise, not the end of searching but the beginning of discovery. It left no room for doubts; his love, once acknowledged, seemed to him indestructible. Their marriage might have its moments of shared unhappiness and anxiety, but it could never be less than it was at this moment. Was it really possible, he thought now, that it could be seriously threatened if not destroyed by its first serious test, her decision to give in to her mother’s calculated mixture of bullying and entreaty and leave him when their first child was about to be born? When the baby was first placed in her arms he
wanted to be there. Now he might not even be told when she went into labour. The picture which persistently haunted his imagination before he fell asleep and at waking, of his mother-in-law standing triumphantly in the labour ward with his child in her arms, deepened his dislike of her almost to paranoia.

To the right of the dressing table was one of their wedding photographs in a silver-plated frame, taken after a marriage ceremony which could have been specifically designed to emphasize the social differences between the two families. Susie was leaning a little towards him, her peaked, vulnerable face looking younger than her twenty-eight years, the fair head with its chaplet of flowers barely reaching his shoulder. The flowers had been artificial, rosebuds and lilies of the valley, but in memory, as on the day, there rose from them a transitory sweetness. Her face, gravely smiling, revealed nothing, not even what the whole white mystique surely symbolized: This is what I worked for, what I want, what I’ve achieved. He was looking straight at the camera, stolidly enduring what had after all been the last of the seemingly endless photographs taken outside the church. The family group had at last been released. Here were Susie and himself, legally yoked, an accepted pair. The photographic session had, it seemed in retrospect, been the most important part of the ceremony, the service merely a preliminary to this complicated arranging and rearranging of incongruously garbed strangers according to some hierarchy not wholly understood by him but of which the hectoring photographer was obviously master. He heard again his mother-in-law’s voice: “Yes, a bit of a rough diamond, I’m afraid, but he’s really very able. Chief Constable material, I’m told.”

Well, he wasn’t Chief Constable material and she had known it, but at least she hadn’t been able to criticize the house which he had provided for her only child.

It was an early hour to telephone, and he knew that his mother-in-law, who was a late riser, would make the most of the first grievance of the day. But if he didn’t speak to Susie now, it might well be late at night before he had another opportunity. For a moment he stood looking down at the bedside telephone, unwilling to stretch out his hand. If things had been different, if it hadn’t been for this new murder, he could have got in the Rover, driven north to York and brought her home. Face-to-face with him, she might have found the strength to resist her mother. Now she would have to travel alone, or with Mrs. Cartwright if her mother insisted on accompanying her. Well, he would put up with her if she insisted on coming, and it might be better for Susie than facing the long train journey alone. But he wanted her home; he wanted her here in this house.

The ringing tone seemed to last for an inordinate time and it was his mother-in-law who answered, enunciating the number with weary resignation, as if this had been the twentieth call of the morning.

He said: “This is Terry, Mrs. Cartwright. Is Susie awake?”

He had never called her Mother. That was a nonsense which he had never been able to get his tongue round and, to do her justice, she had never suggested it.

“Well, she will be now, won’t she? Not very considerate, Terry, to ring before nine. Susie isn’t sleeping very well just now, and she needs her lie-in. And she was trying to get you all last evening. Hold on.”

And then, at least a minute later, came the small, tentative: “Terry?”

“Are you all right, darling?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. Mummy took me to Dr. Maine yesterday. He used to look after me when I was a child. He’s keeping
an eye on me, and he says that everything’s going on very well. He’s booked me a bed in the local hospital just in case.”

So she’s even got that fixed up, he thought bitterly, and for a moment the treacherous thought lodged in his mind that the two of them might have planned it together, that this was what Susie wanted. He said: “I’m sorry I couldn’t spend longer on the phone yesterday. Things got pretty hectic. But I wanted you to know that the Whistler was dead.”

“It’s been in all the papers, Terry. It’s wonderful news. Are you all right? Are you feeding yourself properly?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Tired, but I’m OK. Look, darling, this new murder, it’s different. We haven’t got another serial murderer on the loose. The danger’s over now. I’m afraid there’s no chance I can get away to fetch you, but I could meet you at Norwich. Do you think you could make it today? There’s a fast train at two minutes past three. If your mother would like to come, stay until after the baby is born, well, that’s all right, of course.”

It wasn’t all right, but it was a small price to pay.

“Hold on, Terry. Mummy wants to talk to you.”

Then, after another long delay, he heard her mother’s voice.

“Susie is staying here, Terry.”

“The Whistler is dead, Mrs. Cartwright. The danger’s over.”

“I know that the Whistler’s dead. But you’ve had another murder down there, haven’t you? There’s still a killer at large, and you’re the man who’s hunting him. This baby is due in less than two weeks, and what Susie needs now is to get away from murder and death. Her health has to be my first consideration. What she needs is a little cosseting and kindness.”

“She’s had that here, Mrs. Cartwright.”

“I dare say you did your best, but you’re never there, are you? Susie rang you four times last night. She really needed to talk to you, Terry, and you weren’t there. It isn’t good enough,
not now, it isn’t. Out half the night catching murderers, or not catching them. I know that’s your job, but it’s hardly fair on Susie. I want my grandchild born safely. A girl’s place is with her mother at a time like this.”

“I thought that a wife’s place was with her husband.”

Oh God, he thought, that I should ever hear myself speaking those words. A wave of utter misery swept over him compounded of self-disgust, anger and despair. He thought, If she doesn’t come today she’ll never come. The baby will be born in York and her mother will hold him in her arms before I do. She’ll get her clutches into both of them, now and forever. He knew how strong was that bond between widow and only child. There wasn’t a day when Susie didn’t telephone her mother, sometimes more than once. He knew with what difficulty and patience he had begun to wean her away from that obsessive maternal embrace. Now he had given Mrs. Cartwright another weapon. He heard the triumph in her voice.

“Don’t you talk about a wife’s place to me, please, Terry. You’ll be talking about Susie’s duty next. And what about your duty to her? You’ve told her that you can’t get away to fetch her, and I’m certainly not having my grandchild born on a British Rail train. Susie is staying here until this latest murder is solved and you can find time to fetch her.”

And then he was cut off. Slowly he replaced the receiver and stood waiting. Perhaps Susie would ring back. He could, of course, ring again, but he knew with a sick hopelessness that there would be no use. She wasn’t going to come. And then the telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver and said eagerly: “Hello? Hello?”

But it was only Sergeant Oliphant ringing from the incident room at Hoveton, an early call letting him know that Oliphant
either had been up all night or had snatched even less sleep than him. His own four hours now seemed an indulgence.

“The Chief Constable’s trying to get you, sir. I told his PA there’d be no point in ringing home. You’d be on your way here by now.”

“I shall be on my way in five minutes. Not to Hoveton, but to the Old Rectory at Larksoken. Mr. Dalgliesh has given us a strong lead on the Bumble trainers. Meet me outside the rectory in three-quarters of an hour. And you’d better ring Mrs. Dennison now. Tell her to keep the back door locked and not to admit anyone to the house until we come. Don’t alarm her; just say that there are one or two questions we have to put to her and we’d rather she spoke to us this morning before she talked to anyone else.”

If Oliphant was excited at the news he managed to conceal it. He said: “You haven’t forgotten that PR have fixed a press conference for ten, sir? Bill Starling from the local radio has been on to me, but I told him he’ll have to wait until then. And I think the CC wants to know if we’re going to release the approximate time of death.”

And the Chief Constable wasn’t the only one. It had been useful to fudge the approximate time of the murder, to avoid stating categorically that this couldn’t have been the work of the Whistler. But sooner or later they would have to come clean, and once the post-mortem report was to hand it would be difficult to parry the media’s insistent questions. He said: “We shan’t release any forensic information until we get the written report of the autopsy.”

“We’ve got that now, sir. Doc Maitland-Brown dropped it in about twenty minutes ago on his way to the hospital. He was sorry he couldn’t wait to see you.”

I’ll bet he was, thought Rickards. Nothing, of course, would
have been said; Dr. Maitland-Brown didn’t gossip with junior police officers. But there must have been a cosy atmosphere of mutual self-congratulation in the incident room on their joint early start to the day. He said: “There’s no reason why he should have waited. All the stuff we need from him will be in the report. Better open it now, give me the gist.”

He heard the receiver being placed down on the desk. There was a silence of less than a minute; then Oliphant spoke: “No sign of recent sexual activity. She wasn’t raped. Seems she was an exceptionally healthy woman until someone slung a ligature round her neck and strangled her. He can be a bit more precise about the time of death now he’s seen the stomach contents, but he hasn’t changed his first estimate. Between eight-thirty and nine-forty-five, but if we want to make it nine-twenty he won’t object. And she wasn’t pregnant, sir.”

“All right, Sergeant. I’ll be with you outside the Old Rectory in about forty-five minutes.”

But he was damned if he was going to face a heavy day without breakfast. Quickly he peeled a couple of rashers from the packet in the refrigerator and placed them under the grill, turning it to full power, then switched on the kettle and reached for a mug. Time for one mug of strong coffee; then he’d put the rashers between two hunks of bread and eat them in the car.

Forty minutes later, driving through Lydsett, he thought about the previous evening. He hadn’t suggested to Adam Dalgliesh that he should come with the police to the Old Rectory. It wasn’t necessary; his information had been precise and specific, and it hardly needed a Commander of the Metropolitan Police to point out a tea chest of discarded shoes. But there was another reason. He had been happy enough to drink Dalgliesh’s whisky, eat his stew, or whatever it was he had called it, to discuss the salient points of the investigation.
What else, after all, had they in common except their jobs? But that certainly didn’t mean that he wanted Dalgliesh present while he was actually doing it. He had been glad the previous evening to call at the mill, grateful that he hadn’t had to return to an empty house, had sat companionably by the wood fire and had felt, by the end of the evening, at least comfortably at ease. But once he was away from Dalgliesh’s physical presence, the old uncertainties returned, as they had with such disconcerting force at the deathbed of the Whistler. He knew he would never be totally at one with the man and he knew why. He had only to think of the incident now and the old resentment would come flooding back. And yet it had happened nearly twelve years ago, and he doubted whether Dalgliesh even remembered it. That, of course, was the greater part of the injury, that words which had remained in his memory for years, which at the time had humiliated him and almost destroyed his confidence as a detective, could be so easily spoken and apparently so quickly forgotten.