End in Tears (25 page)

CHAPTER 26

T
he car turning out of Mill Lane was a dark-blue Mercedes and the driver was Ross Samphire. The man must have been at Clifton, making some interior decorating arrangement with the Marshalsons, Wexford thought, when parking opposite Jewel Terrace he saw Lydia Burton standing inside her gate as if she had just been waving someone good-bye. Tallish, he recalled, remembering Damon Coleman's limited description, certainly not overweight, not very young but not exactly middle-aged either…Was this the woman Ross met at Colin Fry's flat? It looked like it. For her part, she would have had no need to use the place. She had a home of her own and she was single. Going to Fry's must be his choice. But why? Was it the distance of Brimhurst from Pauceley? Or did he know someone in the neighborhood who might recognize him? Well, the Marshalsons…

The weather had turned very cold and Lydia, having waved to Wexford and Hannah in a not at all guilty way—but why should she be guilty? she wasn't married—went briskly into the house. Gwenda Brooks came to the door so promptly that he thought she must have been standing inside it. As an experienced nurse and midwife, Mary would easily have been able to tell if a woman was or wasn't pregnant, even if she was in a quite early stage of pregnancy. But what did he know? What did Hannah? Yet both of them could see that there was no possibility of Gwenda giving birth to a baby in two weeks' time or, come to that, six months' time. Since John Brooks's departure, she had lost a considerable amount of weight. The brown check skirt she wore hung on her hips and flat stomach as garments hang fashionably loose on fifteen-year-old models. There was a gauntness about her face. Her throat and neck had those deep hollows in them that used to be called salt cellars.

The living room Hannah had been in before was no less grim than it had been then. Wexford was reminded of rooms in third-grade hotels where everything is the color of porridge and wholemeal bread, and there are neither ornaments nor pictures. Gwenda sat on the edge of her chair with her knees pressed together. For the second time she said, “I don't know what it's got to do with the police. It's my private business.”

Much as it went against the grain with her to call anyone “Mrs.,” Hannah did so as a concession to Wexford's sensibilities. “Mrs. Brooks, you're going on a package tour to Kenya, is that right?”

“You know it is. I've said so.”

“And the purpose of this trip is for you and the other women in the party to give birth while there?”

“One of the purposes, yes. We're going to do a week's sightseeing. I really don't see why I should have to tell you all this. But if you insist, yes, we have a week's sightseeing and two nights at a safari park, and then we're taken to this nursing home in Nairobi where we give birth. A painless natural birth, I may add.”

“Have you seen a doctor, Mrs. Brooks?” Hannah asked. “Your GP here, I mean.”

The woman was looking more and more affronted. “I've no need to see a doctor. There's nothing wrong with me.”

Hannah sighed inwardly. Wexford could have told her that her probing was useless. All they needed now were some concrete facts. She seemed at last to understand this and asked only for the name of the acquaintance in Myringham and the travel agent who had sold Mrs. Brooks the “birth package.”

“I'm not supposed to divulge that,” she said indignantly. “I've signed a confidentiality agreement.”

I bet you have, Wexford thought. “Telling the police
is
confidential,” he said, not strictly truthfully.

“Well, then. She's called Sharon Lucas and the travel agent is in London. It's Miracle Tours of Carlos Place, West One.” She enunciated this address with a pride that was almost pathetic. She was no naive country mouse but a sophisticate who patronized Mayfair travel agents.

“You mean you just went to them,” Hannah said, “out of the blue?”

“Of course not.” Gwenda Brooks was growing angry. “Sharon told me and it was the adviser at SOCC who put me on to them. You do know what SOCC is?”

“Oh, yes, we know. Who was this adviser?”

She named him. Ken Quickwood as Mary had said. Wexford, who had hoped to hear it was Ross Samphire, felt a shaft of disappointment stab him. The minute they left Hannah burst out with, “Can you believe people can be so crazy, guv?”

“Quite easily,” said Wexford. “Sergeant, I think I'm going to send you ‘up West,' as they used to say. You can have a day out doing some shopping and dropping in on Miracle Tours.”

 

Sullen and rather late, Colin Fry turned up at the police station wearing a padded jacket with a hood. This made Wexford vow to himself that he would henceforth reject hoods as having any bearing on the case. When asked once more who Ross Samphire's companion was, Fry again said he didn't know.

“Have you ever seen her, Mr. Fry?”

Fry was silent, considering, though this was something no honest person would need to think about for long. “I might have,” he finally said cautiously.

“What does she look like?”

“Late thirties, early forties. Nice figure. Sort of good-looking—I don't know. I'm no good at saying what people look like.”

“Is her name Lydia Burton?”

“It might be.” Fry sounded cautious. “I reckon.” His eyes met Wexford's, shifted away. “I don't want Ross knowing I said that,” he said. “I don't. You got to remember Ross is my…well, my livelihood. I depend on him. You people don't care if you put a bloke out of a job. It's all in the day's work to you.”

From the window, Wexford watched him leave, cross the forecourt to where his van was parked, pulling his padded coat around him and hunching his shoulders. It was turning cold. “Unseasonable” was Burden's word for it, which Wexford said was a misnomer for any weather at any time of year in this country, because he'd known snow in June and sitting-out-of-doors days in December. Their next call was on Mrs. Brooks's Sharon Lucas. The car had been standing out on the police station forecourt for no more than an hour but Donaldson had to deice the rear window and windscreen before they set off.

“To think,” said Burden, “that when this case began it was incredibly hot and the day Amber was killed was the hottest since records began.”

“That's the way it goes.” Wexford was in a cross mood. “As for its being incredible, I have no difficulty in believing it. I wouldn't have,” he said, soaring away in flights of fantasy, “if it snowed tomorrow or the temperature went up forty degrees, or by the time we got to Myringham a thunderstorm had started.”

Burden said no more, recognizing the early signs of rage. Calmer after a moment or two, Wexford said, “I wish I could say all Damon's work hasn't been in vain. I wish we could have shown Fry to be keeping a brothel because that means he's discredited and his status as the provider of alibis comes to nothing. But as he said himself, there's nothing to stop anyone lending their home to friends for an evening. And if he takes payment for it, so what? You can employ housesitters, if you want to, or babysitters or dog- and catsitters, and you pay for that.”

“It's shown us Ross Samphire as an adulterer.”

“I believe adultery's a crime in some of the Emirates and in parts of Africa, but it isn't here, and I for one hope it never will be.”

“No, but his conduct discredits him. He's no longer whiter than white.”

“Was he ever, Mike? He
looks
pure, but we know he isn't. We knew he wasn't before Damon started his surveillance. We know Rick killed those girls and Ross is covering up for him.”

“There's one little problem there, though, isn't there? Colin Fry. Fry's no saint, but he wouldn't lie about Rick's whereabouts if he really thought Rick had killed Megan. He says Rick was in the old bank building with him on the first of September. I don't think he'd say that, Reg, if he believed Rick had killed Megan.”

“Then what does he think he's supplying these alibis for?”

“What people have always believed or convinced themselves of. That we've got it in for someone because he's got form. If he can help a friend out of trouble, why not? That's a far cry from trying to save a friend from a murder charge.”

The flat she lived in was very small, not much more than a studio. It consisted of a single room perhaps fifteen feet by twelve and the two open doors in one of the long walls showed a tiny kitchen and tinier shower room. Wexford's first thought was that no Social Services home assessment would have approved this as a fit space for a child to grow up in. It was too small and too much in the nature of a pied-à-terre. Sharon Lucas's bed was the kind that lifts up and folds away inside the wall but today no one had folded it away, although it was nearly midday. The baby lay in a drawer. Burden cast an inscrutable glance at this subsitute for a cot, but Wexford had heard of it before. His grandmother had told him that this was what “the poor” did rather than acquire what she called a bassinet.

He was a black baby, or rather, a pale coffee color with the beautiful face and noble head Wexford associated (possibly erroneously) with Somali people. His hair was black and as tightly curled as an astrakhan cap on his shapely skull. Wide awake and quite calm, he had lifted plump brown arms out from under the covers and was waving them in the air, watching the moving shadows they made on the white wall. If this child was born two, or even four, weeks ago, Wexford thought, I'm Sherlock Holmes. I only wish I were.

The rage that had been simmering on the journey here now swelled and threatened to explode. He was glad this character Quickwood wasn't here. Violence done to the man would mean the end of Wexford's career. And he wouldn't have been able to resist striking him…He drew a deep breath, looked properly, almost for the first time, at the woman they had come to see. She was a poor thing, he thought, his anger dying into a kind of despair, a skinny little wizened woman of forty with over-bright eyes and milk-white skin, anemic, almost albino-white.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Lucas,” he began, introducing Burden and sitting down on the bed.

“Actually, it's Ms.,” she said but in a tone so apologetic as to be almost ingratiating.

Not liking to take the only armchair, Burden perched himself on a kitchen stool. He too looked at the baby and his expression became pensive. Wexford's next question surprised him.

“What's the baby's name?”

“Elkanah,” said Sharon Lucas.

“Really? Did you get it from the Bible?”

She shook her head. “You know Elkanah Jones who's Dr. Steadman in
Casualty
? On the TV?”

It was easier to accept and inquire no further.

“He's black, you see, and ever so good-looking.”

“I dare say,” said Wexford. “Your Elkanah is black too, isn't he? You're not. Is his father?”

“Oh, no. Anyway, I've not seen him for months and months.” She didn't seem to understand that they found this explanation inadequate.

Wexford couldn't remember when he had been so at a loss. For a moment he could think of nothing to say to her. He had no language; they didn't speak the same one. She seemed not to speak any of the languages he could assume for the various strange people he was obliged to interview. She was looking at him with large, blank, simple eyes. There was an artless innocence about her that struck him dumb. While he tried for words, Burden said, “You went on a tour to Africa, did you, Ms. Lucas?”

“A Miracle Tour,” she said.

“And where was this arranged?”

“Pardon?”

Burden tried again. “Tell us about your trip to Africa, Ms. Lucas. You went to Nairobi, is that right? Was this a holiday?”

She surprised him. “It was fertility treatment.”

“In Africa?”

With an almost indignant shake of the head, she said, “The treatment was here. We had to eat special things, take vitamins, and not have alcohol or coffee. We did that for six months. Then we went to Nairobi for the miracle.”

“What was that?” Wexford asked, grateful to Burden for preparing the ground.

“I don't know about the others. I never saw them again. They didn't come from around here. I went to this nursing home. It was a house, very nice and clean, with a doctor in a white coat and two nurses. They were black people. The doctor gave me an injection and I went to sleep.”

“This was an anesthetic?”

“Yes, it was. When I woke up they put my baby in my arms.”

“Just like that?”

“The nurse said it was a very easy birth and I could leave with Elkanah in a couple of hours. We were ten on the flight but they all came from different places. When I went home with Elkanah the man with us—they called him a courier—he brought me Elkanah's passport. It was really sweet him having a passport at his age.”

By this time Elkanah had grown weary of watching the shadows his hands made on the wall and begun a soft grizzling. Sharon picked him up in sticklike white arms that looked too fragile to bear his weight. But as she held him up to her shoulder, his fat brown cheek against her bony jaw, a look of such tender adoration came into her face as to transform her almost into beauty. Wexford was reminded of another woman with a child, a woman whose attitude to that child was the reverse of this, and for a moment he seemed to see Diana Marshalson's patient indifference.

“Ms. Lucas, would you mind telling us what you paid for your Miracle Tour?”

“It cost a lot. They explained about that.” She carried Elkanah into the kitchen and took a feeding bottle from the minuscule refrigerator. Juggling then began as she struggled to hold the bottle under the running hot tap while keeping the now screaming baby's clutching hand as far from it as she could. Wexford wondered how old he in fact was. The passport would say—or this false passport would say something. Satisfied that the bottle's contents were now warm enough, Sharon thrust the teat into Elkanah's mouth and sat down with him, smiling happily. “I had to take out a mortgage on my flat. Ten thousand pounds it was. But that was for everything, the diet treatment, the flight, the birth, and Elkanah's passport.”