The Body of a Woman (20 page)

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Authors: Clare Curzon

BOOK: The Body of a Woman
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‘I'm not staying, thanks. Angus must have got hung up at the nick. I'll send him along right away. Good to see you, Paula. You're looking great.'
‘You too.' She seemed amused at his confusion as he backed out.
Her car hadn't been out front, so she'd have come by
train. Did it mean she was staying over, or on a day-return ticket?
No concern of mine, he warned himself, driving off. But Mott's future did concern him. Thames Valley could lose a good officer as the outcome of a barney tonight. And he'd lose a colleague he valued as a friend.
He walked into Mott's office to meet the conundrum of the dress. He heard it through; then, ‘Leave it to Z,' he told the DI shortly and explained he'd mistaken the message to drop by. ‘Paula's waiting at the flat for you,' he warned. ‘So knock off now.'
Mott muttered something as he started to clear his desktop. Yeadings thought it sounded like ‘Oh shit!' but he hoped not.
 
At Knollhurst Janey had set the table for a late dinner, laying only two places. ‘You men,' she told Charles Hadfield, ‘can have a formal meal, so try to behave civilly to each other. Chloë and I will snatch something in the kitchen. We can't expect her to face her father yet across the table.'
‘Good, good. I shall be formality itself. I will even make stilted conversation if you require it. Whether Knightley is capable of appreciating it - or your excellent cooking - is another matter.'
He hrrrmped and fixed her with the gaze of a chided but hopeful spaniel. ‘Tell her we - er, all love her a lot, you know.'
Janey squeezed his hand and went to call the professor. He came in stiff-faced, glanced at the table settings, hesitated and then seated himself facing Hadfield.
Having already served the hors d'oeuvre, Janey went to call Chloë. ‘The men are at table,' she said. ‘We'll be eating in the kitchen.'
‘I don't want anything.'
‘Well, keep me company then.'
As the girl stood and stretched, the phone rang. Janey took it in the hall. ‘It's for you,' she said as Chloe passed.
Chloë took the receiver, shook her head and tried to pass it back, but Janey had gone. She drew in breath.
‘Hello.'
There was a small shuffle of movement at the far end of the line. Then a wispy laugh. ‘Chloë?' - whispered.
A pause. ‘You don't remember, do you?' It was barely voiced. She couldn't tell if it was male or female. Would Beryl sound like this if she kept her chin tucked under? It was mocking enough to be her.
‘Who is this?'
‘No; you don't remember. He said you wouldn't.'
And then she knew. The voice went with a face seen in a nightmare: slack-mouthed; sharp cheekbones slanting over blue-grey hollows; centre-parted hair falling lankly over dead eyes, the pupils pinpoint. Male? Indefinitely, but she thought so. Scary.
And he had a name. She'd heard Beryl use it. ‘Neil,' she said tremulously, but already the phone was purring. He'd hung up. Leaving her shuddering. Angry and afraid.
He let the phone drop to dangle on its cord, swinging against his knee as he crouched at the foot of the stairs. He felt better to have heard her. Warmer, excited. He'd waited until the stuff started to kick in before he dared to ring.
But it was all right. She didn't remember anything bad. Her stuff had worked like the weasel promised. It should do at that price. She had been his doll, and would be again.
At the memory a delicious shiver passed down his spine. Such exquisite risk. Her fine, soft flesh, faintly scented, salty on his tongue. He could taste it still.
It wasn't enough just the once. There had to be more. He'd waited, and the waiting made it more vital. More wonderfully dangerous than ever, now that the drongos had messed up with that other woman.
He wasn't sure what happened that time. Afterwards they'd caught him in the garden and hustled him off without explaining.
They'd said they'd see her home, pay her off. He'd made a bad trip that night and she'd confused him, made it too hard for him.
The first time was different, perfect. He remembered it, all the thrill through; the girl yielding, like a velvet doll under his fingers. Only he hadn't come. He didn't any more. But there were the photos. He got there looking at them.
He'd sent her some prints and she'd come back for more. That's what she said: she'd buy the negatives. She couldn't think he'd be such a fool as to give them up.
Only, that time it didn't seem the same girl. She'd tried to trick him. So he'd had to get rough. He'd tied her up to keep her quiet, and cut off her hair as punishment. Stupid bitch gatecrashing the downstairs party, done up like his real doll, but with that weird mask so she looked like some cruel bird.
She should never have tried to frighten him. She was supposed to give in like the time before.
But it was the right one he'd talked with just now: his Chloe. She'd answered to her name, and after her voice he'd put a finger on the button and cut her off, like the other one's hair. He had shut her up there inside the phone, ready for another time.
He heard his own name called. His hand jumped, knocking the cord and cracking the receiver against the newel post. He sat curled up and silent, but someone was coming down for him.
‘Neil, can you come now? Your mother's ready for bed. She wants to say goodnight.'
Ready for bed? She lived in the bloody thing, was dying in it. And anyway she couldn't say goodnight: would just slaver and make those farmyard gruntings, clawing at him with her one good hand. And he'd have to bend over and kiss her.
If she had any humanity left she would know it was too much for him.
Not that it was she who demanded it. For that he must thank his father, because he believed her poor brothy brain still grasped that he was her golden boy, her darling son, petted and possessed into becoming a life-serving prisoner.
Which he was. There was no way out since he'd given up at college, and he needed the man's money to pay for his habit.
The real, white habit; not that pathetic substitute they doled out like it was platinum dust, too little, too seldom. It was lucky he had other resources. And that was ironic, supplied right under the old bugger's nose, using the man he employed to bring his silly games.
This evening it was the dark-haired nurse on duty, but she was as cautious as the other one. She treated him as if he might leap out on her and have his wicked way. She didn't know he wasn't that kind of wicked. He'd never raped, not
even the sickly rabbit that had been his first patient. Or the collie bitch drowned in the lake.
No, the nurses were safe enough. Different if either had been a redhead. Then they could have played together, like with Chloe. But he didn't do rape. It would have shocked Mother to death.
The stuff was kicking in at last. It seemed to take longer each time; or was that imagination? Imagined, like the way he was gradually growing taller, stronger, more beautiful.
He stood up and dropped the receiver back on the phone. Its buzzing had become annoyingly louder. Nothing must upset him now, spoiling his good time.
‘Coming,' he shouted up. He didn't attend because they required it. He would choose to put in an appearance, go through the disgusting actions, perhaps tonight even lay his head beside hers on the pillow, stroke the hair of the imposter who'd replaced the pretty woman of his childhood. God, what a bitchy world it was.
 
‘Look, Janey,' Knightley said as she cleared the table, ‘this is all so petty Just a dress, for God's sake. You'd better explain to Chloë. It would come better from you.'
‘Explain exactly what?' Her face was as frozen as her voice.
‘That Leila was wearing it. When she was killed. Didn't you know that? I didn't myself until the police showed me the photograph.'
‘What has that to do with Chloe? Am I being stupid or something?'
‘It was Chloë's dress, though I don't know where it came from. You'd better ask her. I only saw it the once, the night she came home drunk.'
Janey put the dessert dishes down and reached for a chairback. ‘Chloë drunk? When was this? What has been going on here? I think it's you that has to do some explaining.'
‘It was about three weeks ago, on a Friday. After school
she went off with a friend who had a car. I was hung up at the university or I would have brought her home. They rang me to say where they were …'
‘Where were they?'
He bit at his lip. ‘At some other friend's house. They seemed to be having a party. I was to come and pick her up there.'
‘Did you know these two friends? Were they girls from school?'
‘The first one was. I hadn't met the other.' He seemed to be picking his way with some care.
‘They brought her to the front door, and she was in a terrible state, could hardly stand up. I thought - I was afraid …'
‘She'd taken drugs?'
‘They swore she hadn't. Just gone at the drink too hard. She said as much herself next day. She had a frightful hangover.'
‘You took her home? Not to hospital?'
‘It wasn't necessary. There was a nurse there. She'd given her something to make her sick. Anyway this isn't about her getting drunk; it's about the dress. She was wearing the one Leila was found dead in a few days ago. Leila must have taken it from Chloë's room while she was abroad at her Granny's. I suppose my mentioning the dress reminded Chloë how she'd misbehaved. That accounts for the fuss and fainting fit. Guilt, you see.'
Janey let him run on, thankful that Charles had left the dining-room and hadn't to hear all this. She couldn't quite grasp it. There were so many details missing. ‘Where was Leila while all this was happening to Chloe?'
‘She'd gone up north for the shop. To the annual trade fair. They always put next Christmas's stuff on show in June, to get advance orders. She must have told you about it. She drove up to Harrogate Friday morning and brought some samples back Sunday.'
‘What did she do when you told her about Chloë?'
‘I didn't.'
‘But for God's sake why not?'
‘To save any fuss,' he snapped.
‘I don't understand you. The child must have been in an awful state. What did you do for her?'
‘I think that's my business, Janey. She is my daughter, and I did know the girl she was with. When they went off together I had no idea of the state she'd get into.'
‘Some fine friend! I hope Chloë's had the good sense to drop her.'
‘Never mind that. What I want you to do is explain to the girl why I was checking whether hers was the same dress as in the police photograph.'
‘I? Explain why you were trashing her bedroom? I suggest you do so yourself. I think you've been treating her appallingly, Aidan. It's time you tried straightening things out.' She picked up the dishes in hands trembling with anger and retreated to the kitchen.
Chloë was out on the terrace whittling savagely with a kitchen knife at a soft piece of wood. Aidan made no attempt to find her. When Janey opened the kitchen door to the hall she heard him phoning for a taxi. Running away again when things got too hot for him.
Chloe abandoned the carving, dropped the knife in the dishwasher as she passed and announced she was going for a walk. From the drawing-room window Janey watched her turn right and disappear in the town's direction. Then she retrieved the card with Miss Zyczynski's phone number and decided that she at least deserved some explanation of the madhouse goings-on.
 
Z was away from her desk. The constable guarding Hetty Chadwick at the hospital had rung in to report that she was off the ventilator and there was a chance she might come round. In Mott's absence the Boss decided Z should try to have a word with her. So, although he was overdue at home
himself, he stayed on and was the one Janey's call was put through to.
She kept it brief. ‘It's possible that Leila was wearing a dress of Chloë's when she was killed. You were asking about it earlier.'
‘That's right, because it's quite eye-catching. I understand too that there was an upset at the house this evening, concerning the dress. I have DS Zyczynski's report here. She seemed uncertain who had borrowed it from whom. Chloë denied it was hers.'
‘Her father says it was. I couldn't sort that out without asking Chloë again.'
‘And she is the only one now who would know.'
‘I got a long rigmarole from her father about seeing Chloë wearing it once.'
Janey took a deep breath and explained what Aidan had said about Chloë's condition when he picked her up to bring her home. She sighed. ‘It must have shocked him when he was shown the police photo of Leila. Not, I suppose, that it matters whose the dress really was. I just wanted to put it right with Miss Zyczynski, since she witnessed the embarrassing scene here.'
Yeadings thanked her and she rang off. The dress could be irrelevant, but it gave him an excuse to ring Z on her mobile for further news. Then he recalled the ban on cellular phones near hospital equipment and decided on a detour there on his way home.
Z was leaving the hospital car park as he drew in. She had been allowed two minutes with Hetty who was awake but had no memory of the hit-and-run. She did, however, know ‘the Frenchy' young Patrick had mentioned. He was her nextdoor neighbour, actually half-Swiss. He lived alone and yes, he'd struck up a friendship with Mrs Knightley. She'd invited him to the house one Thursday, which was Hetty's cleaning day, and had been out a few times with him in his car. She couldn't say
where he'd be if he wasn't at the cottage, but they could try the studio.
Was he an artist? Z had asked.
‘No. He owns a firm that makes television films. They've just finished one that's going to make them a fortune.'
‘One hopes,' Yeadings commented.
‘There's something else,' Z remembered. ‘When I checked the outside of his cottage I found a note from Chloe Knightley tucked under the back door. She wanted to see him urgently about something.'
‘Then we'd best find him fast. I have news on her for your ears too, but we can't stand out here talking. Are you free to follow me back? I'm sure Nan would be happy to fix us some supper.'
 
The smoked salmon salad Paula Musto had set out at Mott's flat was to be wasted.
He knew if he didn't speak out at once he wouldn't get through what had to be said. Sitting opposite her, making conversation, wasn't on; so he'd broached it abruptly without finesse, trying to ignore the overnight bag she'd dropped by the bedroom door. And Paula had listened silently, arms folded, farther distanced from him at every moment.
‘You must have expected it,' he said at the end.
‘Not a bald ultimatum.'
‘It isn't that. We've three options. One: I stay on with Thames Valley, you join Crown Prosecution here and we get married. Two: I give up here, transfer to the Met and we marry. Or three: I join the international policing team in Bosnia and you carry on as you are.'
‘No. We don't have those three options. You have. In your mind you've already decided. Where does my choice come in?'
‘To be my wife; or not.'
‘You see? An ultimatum.'
‘One of us has to make a career change or we continue
exactly as we are - which is going nowhere. I'm trying to be reasonable, Paula. A relationship has to grow or it's dead.'
‘And ours is stagnating? Thank you. I thought I meant more to you than that.'
‘You know you mean almost everything to me.'

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