Mary's Prayer (4 page)

She hesitated, then went on. ‘He needn’t know. Anyway, he’s away at the moment. Business.’ The last
bit was spat out with distaste; Larkin decided not to push it.

‘Has she got an address, this Mary? And a surname?’

‘Yes. I’ve written it down for you.’ So she must have been very certain he’d accept. She rummaged in her handbag, producing
a neat little business card. That was something else Larkin remembered about Charlotte; she had the neatest handbag of any
woman he’d ever known. ‘That’s my card. The address is on the back. It’s in Low Fell.’

Larkin took it, read the front. ‘Nicholson Griffin Harwood And Howe?’

Charlotte smiled wryly. ‘Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’

Larkin pocketed the card. ‘How do I get in?’

‘Here’s a key.’ She handed it over.

‘You carry this around with you?’

She reddened. ‘No. I … said I’d clear up anything to do with her work. She used to take work home, so …’

‘How about family?’

‘Couple of brothers, I think. She hardly ever saw them. One lives over in Cumbria somewhere – the older one – and the other’s
in Darlington. Married, I think. They’re supposed to be clearing the house out.’

‘What about the policeman in charge of the investigation?’

‘Moir. Detective Inspector Henry Moir.’

‘I’ll have to talk to him as well.’

A cloud passed over Charlotte’s face. ‘You can try, but I think you’ll be wasting your time. He’s not the most sympathetic
of people.’

‘OK. When do you want your first report?’

Her voice changed, grew warmer. ‘When you’ve got something to tell me. Will you have something to tell me by, say, eight o’clock
tonight? At Francesca’s?’

Larkin grinned. ‘Maybe.’

‘Good.’ Was she flirting with him – or was he imagining it?

‘Oh, by the way. What was this information you said you had for me? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.’

She stiffened slightly; when she spoke it was with reluctance. ‘The Wayne Edgell case?’

‘Yeah?’ said Larkin.

‘We’re representing Gary Fenwick.’

‘Who’s Gary Fenwick?’

‘He’s the man who’s supposed to have murdered Wayne Edgell. I can see you haven’t studied your background file yet.’

Larkin was stunned.

Charlotte grinned. ‘Surprised?’

‘A bit.’ He recovered quickly, putting the information to work for him. ‘Trade of information, then – you help me with my
assignment, I’ll put your mind at rest. Deal?’

‘Deal! Got to rush now – see you at eight.’

They stared at each other. Larkin felt the thin ice begin to crack. He wondered what she was wearing beneath her business
suit; that thought was enough to shift the North Pole.

‘Look … the last time I saw you, we …’

She gently placed her lips on his, then removed them, in case he got ideas. ‘Later,’ she said, and disappeared through the
door.

Larkin sat there in disbelief. Against all his better judgement he’d signed himself up as private investigator, for his now
married ex-girlfriend, who seemed to be coming on to him – in addition to working on the murder of a childhood acquaintance,
in his home town.
Welcome back, Larkin. You sad, confused bastard
.

It was a stone bungalow; quiet, unassuming, homely, set back from Durham Road, situated in Low Fell which had once been a
turn-of-the-century satellite community of Newcastle but was now no more than a section of main road with down-at-heel shops
and pubs, a garage, and a Methodist church. It had been Mary Greene’s idea of a decent place to live.

Larkin squeezed into the one remaining parking space near Mary’s house – Mary’s next-door neighbours seemed to be rebuilding
their house from scratch, judging by the selection of skips and battered panel vans littering the road outside – locked his
Saab rental car and approached the house of Mary Greene, née Torrington. He noticed next-door’s net curtains twitching – perhaps
it was a watchtower they were building, rather than an extension. He felt in his pocket for the keys, looked straight ahead,
and walked up the garden path as if he had every right to be there.

As the tumblers of the lock clicked, a bilious dread overcame him. The last thing he wanted to be confronted with was the
remains of a shotgun blast. His mind began to re-run the reel he had canned up for years; he tried to screen it out, to change
channels, but it was no good. The sequence had started and he was transfixed. His heart beat faster; the blood pumped furiously
round his body. Even with his eyes screwed tightly shut he couldn’t block out the images.

Larkin forced his eyes open. Sophie and Joe wouldn’t be there. This was a different house, a different city. He had nothing
to fear.

The heavy door opened straight into the living room. Dark wooden beams running the length of the ceiling; a floral print three-piece
suite; horse brasses, slightly tarnished; china figurines dusty with neglect. A print on the wall: Victorian children playing
on swings. The relatives had done their looting; dust-free templates showed where they had recently helped themselves to ornaments
of possible value, thinking Mary would no longer need them. As vultures think dead bodies no longer need flesh.

The room was further tainted by the careless remains of police incident investigation; sills stained with silver fingerprint
dust, discarded cordoning-off tape left in clumps, the carpet worn down by many pairs of heavy boots. Thankfully most of the
blood had been cleared away. Behind the door, a tea chest full of newspaper-wrapped objects stood waiting to be removed. Bit
by bit, traces of Mary’s life were seeping away, draining from her home. Yet a residue of cosiness, of vitality, still managed
to cling, reluctant to let go.

Larkin put his mind into gear and focused on the job at hand. He stood in the centre of the living room, to work out her position
when the shot had hit. From the angle at which the blood had dried into the carpet she must have been facing the mantelpiece.
Staring at a photo of Terry, perhaps? He checked the mantelpiece for dust, searched for spaces where a photograph might have
been. It was hard to tell if there was anything missing. He scanned the rest of the room. A shelf unit stood on the other
side of the fireplace; it held a small selection of books and an elderly stack hi-fi system. He lifted the lid and saw there
was still a record on the turntable: Elton John – an early one. Larkin had never liked him much but, not wanting to pass over
a possible clue for the sake of musical snobbery, he plugged in the stereo and switched it on.

The needle crackled through the well-worn intro and then Elton began his ode to Marilyn Monroe, a woman more loved after death
than in life. Larkin wondered whether Mary Greene had identified with the song, if she had harboured some romantic notion
that she could buy into that legend. In reality he knew only too well that all that was left behind after a shotgun death
was a bloody mess. He continued with his search.

The bedroom was neat and tidy, as if Mary had just straightened it up before going out to work. The furniture was pine: wardrobe,
chest of drawers, dressing-table, bedside cabinet. More floral prints on the duvet and curtains, this time in autumnal shades.
He scanned the room: no photographs. He moved on to the wardrobe, checking through coat and jacket pockets, unfolding the
jumpers, trying to put them all back as he had found them. He took out her shoes, shook them upside-down, returned them. All
he could tell was that, judging from the dress sizes, she had kept herself in trim, and that there had been a distinct variation
in her style of dressing. Three-quarters of the garments were dull, conventional. Then there were the newer items, flashier
outfits that a younger woman – or a woman trying to appear young? – might wear. Brighter colours, shinier fabrics.

Finally he turned his attention to the chest of drawers. The first drawer contained underwear; this followed the same pattern
as the clothes in the wardrobe. Marks and Sparks three-packs, then new stuff. Only these looked as if they had come out of
the Ann Summers catalogue: stockings, suspenders, basques, peep-hole bras, crotchless panties – the whole works. It was an
odd mixture of obviously expensive silk and satin lingerie, and cheap and tacky mail-order. The next drawer revealed nothing
but staid jumpers and blouses – more vestiges of the old Mary. But the contents of the bottom drawer brought Larkin up sharply.
It held a porn wardrobe for all occasions. There were various uniforms; a baby-doll nightie; a schoolgirl’s gymslip; and a
sophisticated range
of bondage gear. Leather-wear, spike-heeled boots, spike-heeled shoes – and spikes.

Was it all for Terry, Larkin wondered? Had he encouraged her, first with some mildly daring underwear, then gradually introduced
her to what he really wanted?

Although he found it distasteful to be trawling through a dead woman’s sex life, handling her clothes and accessories was
curiously erotic. He felt he was discovering her intimate secrets, getting to know her, piecing together her life through
her sexuality. He found himself getting an erection. With an effort he pushed his mind back into investigative mode and completed
his methodical exploration of the room in which Mary revealed her innermost self.

The continual repetition of ‘Candle In The Wind’ was begining to irritate, so Larkin returned to the living room to switch
off the stereo. And as he bent to unplug it he made another discovery: what looked like a diary, for this year, hidden away
among the books on the shelf next to the hi-fi. Larkin thought it strange that a grown woman should have kept such a document;
stranger still that the police should have ignored it. He had just sat down in a chair to take a closer look when he heard
a key in the lock.

He froze. There was nowhere to run to. He shoved the book down the side of the chair and sat, his heart pounding, ready to
brazen it out. The door opened. And in came a man in his well-preserved mid-forties, looking every bit as surprised as Larkin.
Tall, fair, wearing a V-necked sweater with a striped shirt poking out from the collar, slacks and trainers, all co-ordinated
in various shades of pastel that screamed ‘weekend leisure’. The man spoke first.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Larkin. Stephen Larkin.’ He casually crossed his legs as if he trespassed on a regular basis. ‘And you are …?’ The confident
approach worked.

‘Phillip Torrington. I’ve been here all morning – I’ve only been gone an hour. Did the estate agents send you?’

‘No, they didn’t. You’re Mary’s brother, right?’

Phillip Torrington was so amazed at the deduction that he blurted out an answer. ‘Yes, I am!’ Realising that Larkin posed
no obvious threat, he seemed to find his courage. ‘Are you going to tell me who you are, or do I have to call the police?’

‘I’ve told you who I am. My name’s Stephen Larkin and I’m here on behalf of the company your sister worked for. I’m investigating
her death.’

‘Why? Is there any reason to think it was suspicious?’

What’s the matter, son?
thought Larkin.
Afraid you won’t get her money if it was?
‘No. It’s just routine in cases like these.’ The old lies were coming thick and fast.

‘Which one sent you?’

‘Charlotte Birch. Know her?’

Torrington sneered. ‘Yes, I know her.’

‘And I take it from your reaction you don’t like her?’

‘I’ve only met her once, but I admit I took an instant dislike to her. Arrogant. Snooty. She came up to me after the funeral,
claimed to be Mary’s friend.’ He paused. ‘I’d never heard of her.’

‘Were you and Mary close?’

‘I’m her brother.’ As if that answered it.

‘I know. But I asked, were you and Mary
close
?’

‘I suppose—’ He thought about it. ‘No, not really. Not as close as we should have been. It’s quite a distance away, Darlington.
But still, we should have read the signs. Didn’t notice anything wrong until it was too late.’ He shook his head. ‘After Robert
– her husband – left her, we rallied round. But when she got back on her feet again we didn’t think she needed us.’

Meaning you couldn’t be bothered
, thought Larkin. ‘Did she ever mention a man she was seeing? A younger man, Terry?’

Torrington was suddenly wary. ‘I … I don’t know. As I said, I didn’t see her that much.’

‘You’re married, that right?’

Torrington’s jaw dropped, as if Larkin had unearthed something classified. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Any kids?’

‘I’ve got a son,’ he answered reluctantly.

Larkin thought briefly of his own son. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Why? What d’you want to know about him for?’

‘Just routine, as I said. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask.’

This reassurance of proper channels to be followed seemed to calm him somewhat. ‘Danny. Daniel.’

‘Thank you. Now, about Mary. When you last—’

Torrington interrupted. ‘Look, Mr … what did you say your name was?’

‘Larkin.’

‘Larkin. We weren’t that close, as I’ve said, so I don’t think I can be much help to you.’ He moved towards the door.

‘OK. I’ll not keep you, Mr Torrington. Just one more thing – do you have a photo of Mary? Her employer couldn’t supply me
with one.’

Torrington glanced outside; Larkin picked up the hint. ‘You’ve got one in your car? Could I have a look at it, please?’

‘It’ll take a couple of minutes. I had to park quite a way away, there weren’t any spaces—’

‘I think I could wait that long.’

Torrington realised he was in a no-win situation. Picking up the tea chest from behind the door, he went down the road to
the car, reluctantly leaving Larkin in the house unsupervised. Larkin prayed he wouldn’t do a runner.

Alone, Larkin shoved the diary inside his jacket and waited in the living room. Although he couldn’t see it, he could imagine
Torrington’s car: the kind that a man who worked damned hard for the right to wear a suit during the week and leisure wear
at the weekend would have. And woe betide anyone who tried to stand in his way.

A car horn sounded. Larkin looked out of the window; Torrington had pulled up just outside the bungalow in a Nissan Micra
and was revving his engine, clearly ready for a quick getaway. The Micra surprised Larkin; perhaps Torrington had fallen on
hard times. Or perhaps it was his wife’s. Larkin hurried outside to meet him.

‘Here you are,’ Torrington said, reluctantly handing Larkin a brown, photographer’s display wallet through the driver’s window.

‘D’you mind if I keep this?’ asked Larkin.

‘What for?’ Torrington looked aghast.

‘For investigative purposes. You’ll get it back when I’ve finished with it.’

Torrington didn’t object; he was clearly eager to end the interview. Larkin turned to go, then crouched down to the driver’s
window once more. ‘By the way … Why did you have this?’

Torrington paused. ‘A … a keepsake.’

‘Don’t you have any photos of Mary at home?’

If Torrington had been able to teleport, he would have done. ‘Of course. I just … liked this one.’

‘So you came all this way for one photo?’

Torrington was back on solid ground. ‘Oh no. The tea chest too. And I had to do some shopping, down at the Metro Centre. Carol
and I often pop over there.’

‘Long way to travel just to shop. Must be, what, thirty-odd miles?’

‘It’s so convenient with everything under one roof. We make a day of it. A long way, but worth it.’

‘But too far from Darlington to Low Fell to come and see Mary.’

Torrington didn’t answer; Larkin took that as his cue to leave. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Mr Torrington. If we need
any more information we’ll be in touch.’ And he stepped back, enabling a worried-looking Torrington to engage first gear and
pull away.

As he walked past the house next door, Larkin saw the nosy neighbour’s nets twitch again. He blew the looker a kiss then waggled
his tongue lasciviously; the
curtains whisked back into place.
Simple pleasures are often the best
, he thought.

Back in the car, Larkin opened the folder. It was a photo, taken at a table in a restaurant – perhaps at a birthday celebration;
streamers and balloons were much in evidence. A young man: short hair, smart suit, gold jewellery, shark face. Terry! It had
to be. And there was Mary. Radiant, happy. She looked much younger than Larkin had thought she would.

He put the photo back in the envelope and drove off.

The green-painted brickwork, the cast-iron radiators and the lino-covered floor made Larkin feel like he was on his way to
the headmaster’s office for a caning. Only the dog-eared posters about home security, stray dogs and duty rosters – and the
fact that his escort was a ginger-haired constable who looked about twelve – reminded him he was in a police station.

He had managed to get past the desk sergeant by claiming to be an insurance investigator working on behalf of Nicholson Griffin
Harwood and Howe; he had to speak to Detective Inspector Henry Moir about an urgent matter. After much to-ing and fro-ing
he had eventually been allowed in.

They reached a door, half-paned with frosted glass; the constable stopped and knocked. Finding no one in, he went to search
for Moir, leaving Larkin alone.