The Private Patient (20 page)

Dalgliesh said, “The maths means nothing to me, but we must hope he's right. I suppose we can find someone to confirm it.”

“I don't think we need bother, sir. He's just got a first in mathematics at Oxford. He said he can never get stuck behind another vehicle without mentally playing about with the registration number.”

“And the car owner?”

“A bit surprising, on the face of it. It's a clergyman. The Reverend Michael Curtis. Lives in Droughton Cross. St. John's Church Vicarage,
2
Balaclava Gardens. It's a suburb of Droughton.”

The Midlands industrial city could be reached in little over two hours on the motorway. Dalgliesh said, “Thank you, Sergeant. We'll go on to Droughton Cross as soon as we've finished here. The driver may have nothing to do with the murder, but we need to know why that car was parked by the stones and what, if anything, he saw. Is there anything else, Sergeant?”

“One find by the SOCOs, sir, before they left. It's more odd than significant, I'd say. It's a bundle of eight old postcards, all of foreign views and all dated
1993
. They've been cut in two, with the address on the right-hand side missing, so there's no way of knowing who the recipient was, but they read as if written to a child. They were wrapped tightly in silver paper inside a plastic bag and buried by one of the Cheverell Stones. The SOCO concerned was pretty sharp-eyed, and he saw some evidence that the grass had been disturbed, although not recently. It's difficult to say what connection they could have with Miss Gradwyn's death. We know someone was at the stones with a light that night, but if they were looking for the cards they didn't find them.”

“Have you asked anyone about the ownership?”

“Yes, sir. It seemed most likely that they belonged to Sharon Bate-man, so I asked her to come to the Old Police Cottage. She admitted they were hers and said they'd been sent to her by her father after he'd left home. She's an odd girl, sir. When I first laid the cards out she went so white that DC Warren and I thought she was going to faint. I made her sit down, but I think it was anger, sir. I could see she wanted to snatch them from the table but was managing to control herself. After that she was perfectly calm. She said they were the most precious things she had, and that she had buried them near the stone when she first came to the Manor because that was a very special place and they would be safe there. I was worried about her for a moment, sir, so I said I'd need to show them to you but that we'd take great care of them and I could see no reason why she couldn't have them back. I'm not sure I did right, sir. It might have been better to wait until you were back and let Inspector Miskin speak to her.”

Dalgliesh said, “Possibly, but I shouldn't worry about it, if you're satisfied that she's happier now. Keep a careful eye on her. We'll discuss it tonight. Has Dr. Glenister's report on the PM arrived?”

“Not yet, sir. She rang to say we should get it by the evening unless she needs a toxicology report.”

“It's unlikely to surprise us. Is that all, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. I don't think there's anything else to report. I'm seeing Robin Boyton in half an hour.”

“Right. Find out, if you can, whether he has any expectations from Miss Gradwyn's will. You're having an eventful day. Well done. There's an interesting development here, but we'll discuss that later. I'll ring you from Droughton Cross.”

The call was over. Kate said, “Poor girl. If she's speaking the truth I can see why the cards are important to her. But why cut off the address, and why bother to hide them? They can't be of value to anyone else, and if she did go to the stones on Friday night to check on them or retrieve them, why did she need to, and why late at night? But Benton said that the package was undisturbed. It looks, sir, as if the cards are nothing to do with the murder.”

Events were moving fast. Before Dalgliesh could reply, the doorbell rang. Kate said, “That'll be Mr. Macklefield,” and went down to let him in.

There was a clatter of feet on the wooden stairs but no voices. Newton Macklefield came in first, evinced no curiosity about the room and, unsmiling, held out his hand. He said, “I hope I'm not inconveniently early. The traffic on a Sunday morning is light.”

He was younger than Dalgliesh had expected from his voice on the telephone, probably no more than early forties, and was conventionally good-looking—tall, fair-haired and clear-skinned. He brought with him the confidence of assured metropolitan success which was so in contrast to his corduroy trousers, checked open-necked shirt and well-worn tweed jacket, that the clothes, appropriate for a weekend in the country, had a contrived air of fancy dress. His features were regular, the mouth well shaped and firm, the eyes wary, a face, Dalgliesh thought, disciplined to reveal only appropriate emotions. The appropriate one now was of regret and shock, gravely but not emotionally expressed and, to Dalgliesh's ears, not without a note of displeasure. An eminent City firm of solicitors did not expect to lose a client in so notorious a manner.

He refused the chair which Kate had pulled out from the desk without looking at it, but used it to hold his briefcase. Opening it, he said, “I've brought a copy of the will. I doubt if there is anything in its provisions to help your enquiry, but it is, of course, right that you should have it.”

Dalgliesh said, “I expect my colleague has introduced herself. Detective Inspector Kate Miskin.”

“Yes. We met at the door.”

Kate received a handshake so brief that their fingers barely touched. No one sat down.

Macklefield said, “Miss Gradwyn's death will distress and horrify all the partners in the firm. As I explained when we spoke, I knew her as a client, not as a friend, but she was much respected and will be greatly missed. Her bank and my firm are joint executors of the will, so we shall take responsibility eventually for the funeral arrangements.”

Dalgliesh said, “I think that her mother, now Mrs. Brown, will find that a relief. I've already spoken to her. She seemed anxious to dissociate herself as far as possible from the aftermath of her daughter's death, including the inquest. It seems not to have been a close relationship, and there may be family matters which she doesn't want to disclose or even think about.”

Macklefield said, “Well, her daughter was pretty good at disclosing other people's secrets. Still, the family's non-involvement probably suits you better than being landed with a tearful publicity-avid mother milking the tragedy for all it's worth and demanding a progress report on the investigation. I'll probably have more problems with her than you. Anyway, whatever her relationship with her daughter, she'll get the money. The amount will probably surprise her. Of course you'll have seen the bank statements and the portfolio.”

Dalgliesh said, “And it all goes to the mother?”

“All but twenty thousand pounds of it. That goes to a Robin Boyton, whose relationship with the deceased is unknown as far as I'm concerned. I remember when Miss Gradwyn came to discuss the will with me. She showed a singular lack of interest in disposing of her capital. People usually mention a charity or two, their old university or school. None of that. It was as if with her death she wanted her private life to remain anonymous. I'll phone Mrs. Brown on Monday and arrange a meeting. Obviously we'll help in any way we can. No doubt you'll keep us in touch, but I don't think there's anything more I can tell you. Have you been able to make progress with your investigation?”

Dalgliesh said, “As much as has been possible in the one day since her death. I shall know the date of the inquest on Tuesday. At this stage it's likely to be adjourned.”

“We may send someone. A formality, but it's as well to be there if there's going to be publicity, as, inevitably, there will be once the news breaks.”

Taking the will, Dalgliesh thanked him. It was obvious that Macklefield was ready to go. Closing the briefcase, he said, “Forgive me if I leave now, unless there's anything else you need. I promised my wife I would be back in time for lunch. My son has brought some school friends for the weekend. A houseful of Etonians and four dogs can be a riotous mixture to keep in hand.”

He shook hands with Dalgliesh, and Kate preceded him down the stairs. Returning, she said, “He'd hardly be likely to mention his son from Bogside Comprehensive,” and then regretted the comment. Dalgliesh had responded to Macklefield's remark with a wry, briefly contemptuous smile, but this momentary revelation of an unattractive quirk of character hadn't irritated him. It would have amused but not irritated Benton.

Taking out the bunch of keys, Dalgliesh said, “And now for the drawers. But first I feel the need for coffee. Perhaps we should have offered some to Macklefield but I wasn't anxious to prolong the visit. Mrs. Brown said that we could take what we wanted from the house, so she won't grudge milk and coffee. That's if there is milk in the fridge.”

There wasn't. Kate said, “It's not surprising, sir. The fridge is empty. A carton of milk, even unopened, could have been out of date by the time she returned.”

She took the percolator down one flight to add water. Returning with a toothbrush holder which she rinsed to use as a second mug, she felt a moment of disquiet as if this small act, which hardly ranked as a violation of Miss Gradwyn's privacy, was an impertinence. Rhoda Gradwyn had been particular about her coffee, and on the tray with the coffee grinder was a tin of beans. Kate, still burdened with an irrational guilt that they should be taking from the dead, switched on the grinder. The noise was incredibly loud and seemed interminable. Later, when the percolator had stopped dripping, she filled the two mugs and carried them over to the desk.

Waiting for the coffee to cool, he said, “If there's anything else interesting, this is where we'll probably find it,” and unlocked the drawer.

Inside there was nothing but a beige manila folder stuffed with papers. The coffee for the moment forgotten, they pushed the mugs to one side, and Kate pulled in a chair beside Dalgliesh. The papers were almost entirely copies of press cuttings, at the top an article from a Sunday broadsheet dated February
1995
. The heading was stark:
Killed
Because She Was Too Pretty.
Underneath, taking half the page, was a photograph of a young girl. It looked like a school photograph. The fair hair had been carefully brushed and tied with a bow to one side, and the white cotton blouse, looking pristine clean, was open at the neck and worn with a dark-blue tunic. The child had indeed been pretty. Even simply posed and with no particular skill in lighting, the stark photograph conveyed something of the frank confidence, the openness to life and the vulnerability of childhood. As Kate stared at it, the image seemed to disintegrate into dust and became a meaningless blur, then refocused again.

Beneath the image the reporter, eschewing the worst of hyperbole or outrage, had been content to let the story speak for itself.
Today in
the Crown Court, Shirley Beale, aged twelve years and eight months, pleaded
guilty to the murder of her nine-year-old sister, Lucy. She strangled Lucy
with her school tie, then bashed in the face she hated until it was unrecognisable.
All she has said, either at the time of the arrest or since, is that she did it
because Lucy was too pretty. Beale will be sent to a secure children's unit until
she can be transferred at seventeen to a young offenders' institution. Silford
Green, a quiet East London suburb, has become a place of horror. Full report
on It was now eight-thirty
.
Sophie Langton writes on Without speaking
—“What Makes Children
Kill?”

Dalgliesh turned over the cutting. Beneath it, clipped to a plain sheet of paper, was a photograph. The same uniform, the same white blouse, only this time with a school tie, the face turned to the camera with a look Kate remembered from her own school photographs, resentful, a little nervous, participating in a small annual rite of passage, unwilling but resigned. It was an oddly adult face, and it was one they knew.

Dalgliesh took up his magnifying glass again, studied the picture, then handed the glass to Kate. The distinctive features were there—the high forehead, the slightly protuberant eyes, the small, precise mouth with the full upper lip—an unremarkable face which it was now impossible to see as innocent or childish. The eyes stared into the camera, as inexpressive as the dots which formed the image, the lower lip seeming fuller now in adulthood but with the same suggestion of a petulant obstinacy. As Kate stared, her mind superimposed a very different picture: a child's face smashed into blood and broken bone, fair hair caked in blood. It hadn't been a case for the Met, and with a guilty plea there had been no trial, but the murder stirred old memories for her and, she thought, for Dalgliesh.

Dalgliesh said, “Sharon Bateman. I wonder how Gradwyn managed to get hold of this. It's odd they were able to publish it. Restrictions must have been lifted.”

It wasn't the only thing Rhoda had managed to get hold of. Her research had obviously started since her first visit to the Manor, and it had been thorough. The first cutting was followed by others. Former neighbours had been voluble, both in expressing horror and in spilling out information about the family. There were pictures of the small terraced house in which the children had lived with their mother and grandmother. At the time of the murder the parents were divorced, their father having walked out two years previously. Neighbours still living in the street reported that the marriage had been turbulent but there had been no trouble with the children, no police or social workers round or anything like that. Lucy was the pretty one, no doubt about it, but the girls had seemed to get on all right. Shirley was the quiet one, a bit surly, not exactly a friendly child. Their memories, obviously influenced by the horror of what had happened, suggested the child had always been the odd one out. They reported sounds of quarrels, shouting and occasional blows before the parents parted, but the children had always seemed properly cared for. The grandmother saw to that. There had been a succession of lodgers after the father left—some clearly boyfriends of the mother, although this was reported with tact—and one or two students looking for cheap accommodation, none of whom stayed long.