End in Tears Page 4

  “Every digit of your blood pressure is showing in your face,” said Dora. “You want to calm down. You’re even worse than I am.”

  Hannah Goldsmith was writing her report. Or her new computer measuring twenty centimeters by twelve was writing it while she did the thinking, remembering, and transcribing of her notes. Jewel Terrace, Brimhurst was her subject. She and Baljinder Bhattacharya had spent a large part of the day there and been back in the late afternoon. It was a piece of luck that of all the four occupants of the terrace, while two of them were in full-time employment, only one was out at work. Only John Brooks had left his house that morning, at the early hour of six-thirty, to drive to the Stowerton Industrial Estate where he was security officer at a large manufacturing complex.

  The occupant of number one was a horror. Hannah knew she shouldn’t be ageist, but really there were limits. She realized she had an irrational dislike of old men. Not old people, only men. This prejudice shouldn’t be allowed to go on and perhaps she should think about having counseling for her problem. Briefly, she lifted her fingers from the computer, thinking about whether to go back to her old counselor or find one specializing in relations with the elderly. Still, for now she must get on with this report.

  The horror’s name was Henry Nash. His living room was hot and stuffy with a nasty chemical stench overlaying cooking smells, which Wexford would have known but which Hannah was too young to recognize as camphor. Henry himself wore a pair of striped trousers, evidently part of a suit, fraying blue braces, and a collarless striped shirt done up tightly at the neck. Hannah, who found stubble on a man’s chin attractive, particularly on Bal Bhattacharya’s, was repelled by the half-inch growth of white beard on Henry Nash’s.

  All this would have mattered little in comparison with Henry’s attitude toward herself, the senior officer. He addressed all his replies to DC Bhattacharya, irrespective of who had made the inquiry. She could see quite clearly that he was torn between racism and male chauvinism but finally decided that talking to an Asian man was preferable to talking to a white woman. When she asked him what time he had gone to bed the previous night he treated her question as if it had sexual undertones, made a sour face, and spoke to Bal. “You want to know what time I went to bed?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Nash.”

  “I don’t know what it’s got to do with you, but it was ten o’clock. I always go to bed at ten. On the dot.”

  Bal said that the elderly were well known to be light sleepers (“Who are you calling elderly?”) and asked him if he had heard anything in the night. Though looking at least eighty, Mr. Nash said he wasn’t old enough to have broken nights. His neighbor John Brooks sometimes disturbed him, slamming his car door and starting the engine at six-thirty, but not this morning. He had slept, had heard nothing and seen nothing until he looked out of the window just before eight and saw “a crowd of folks trampling down” the grass verge opposite. He didn’t know Amber Marshalson to speak to or her parents and didn’t want to.

  “She’s that little chit who had an illegitimate baby. She wouldn’t have dared show her face outside in my young days. And is anyone saying that was worse than what we’ve got now?”

  Hannah was but she knew better than to say it out loud. She, who could hear of any perversion—incest, bestiality, extreme sadism—with equanimity, was deeply shocked by hearing the word “illegitimate” on anyone’s lips. Even more, perhaps, on these wrinkled lips, surrounded by white stubble. Illegitimate! It was unbelievable.

  Bal’s telling this appalling old man Amber had been murdered seemed to cause him no shame or embarrassment at what he had said. He merely nodded, as if the slaughter of a young girl was commonplace or only what should be expected by someone who sinned as she had done. Hannah put very little in her report about him and not much more about John and Gwenda Brooks at number two.

  Gwenda was a young woman of about Hannah’s own age but otherwise very different. Her mid-calf-length skirt was a brown and beige check and her blouse beige with a brooch at the neck. Hannah thought she had seen the last of permed hair when her grandmother died, but Gwenda Brooks had a perm and one that was “growing out.” In her rather querulous voice, she said how she had seen her husband off in his car at six-thirty. Apparently, she had no job herself and she had no children. It mystified Hannah what she did all day. But that was far from the matter in hand. Mrs. Brooks had slept all night until her alarm sounded at six A.M. She announced with pride that she was a very sound sleeper, nothing woke her. One piece of information interested Hannah because it was unexpected and would need further looking into.

  “My husband was sleeping in the spare room,” Gwenda Brooks said. “It’s—well, it’s on account of his snoring. He’s not yet thirty but he snores like a…” She was unable to find any animal whose vocal emissions were comparable to John Brooks’s snoring. “Well, I don’t know, but I can’t sleep through it.”

  “We’d like to speak to your husband,” Bal said. “When does he get home?”

  Not till seven-thirty, it seemed. John Brooks’s days were long. His wife knew the Marshalsons only “to pass the time of day.” She had once spoken to Amber when she was out with the baby because Brand was “so sweet, always smiling and happy.” She loved babies and longed to have one of her own. Her husband had once or twice been to Clifton to teach Amber something to do with a computer. Gwenda didn’t quite know what. She had never been able to get the hang of computers herself.

  “All butterfingers,” she said to Hannah’s disgust. “I expect I’m dyslexic. That’s always the excuse, isn’t it?”

  Hannah put it in her report. If the Marshalsons had a computer, why did Amber want to know how to use it? Couldn’t her stepmother have taught her? Anyway, it was inconceivable that someone of eighteen had no computer skills. They all did, from the age of five at least. Maybe John Brooks was having a secret relationship with Amber. This would be worth looking into.

  Lydia Burton at number three was altogether better and more rewarding, though when Hannah thought about it she realized she might only be thinking this way because Ms. Burton was her kind of woman, single, independent, and with a highly responsible job. Amber Marshalson had attended the school, of which she was head teacher, for several years after her father and by then seriously ill mother had moved to Mill Lane. The first Mrs. Marshalson had died when Amber was seven and her father had married a fellow director of his interior decorating company a year afterward.

  “Poor Amber became very difficult. She never really became reconciled to her stepmother, and that’s a shame because Diana is a very nice woman. She’s been wonderful with the baby.”

  A small West Highland dog came into the room and jumped into Ms. Burton’s lap. Bal asked her again about walking her dog at half-past midnight and she repeated her story of seeing the man in the hooded jacket standing among the trees. No, she didn’t think he was holding anything, though perhaps he had a backpack. Yes, she was sure he had a backpack. If she closed her eyes she could see the bulge on his back.

  “It might have been a sack or a bag slung over his shoulder. I was a bit frightened, you see. It was getting on for one by then and I was out alone with my dog. He obviously isn’t much of a guard dog, as you can see, poor little chap. I crossed the road and let myself in here as fast as I could. I should have called the police, shouldn’t I? One always thinks of these things when it’s too late…”

  In the great heat that continued the next day they went on searching for the weapon, knowing only that they were looking for a brick, a lump of concrete, a breeze block, or even an iron bar. Though he knew not to expect it yet, Wexford grew impatient waiting for the plinthologist’s verdict.

  Leaving her report on his desk, Hannah told him why she thought they hadn’t found the weapon. By then they knew that Carina Laxton had fixed the time of death as nearer to two A.M. than one.

  “Because whatever it was was inside his backpack, guv. The guy Lydia Burton saw had a backpack. What else c
ould he have had in it but the brick or concrete block he used to kill Amber?”

  “Maybe. I’m not calling off the search until the brick man comes up with something definite. He has a specimen from the wound to examine—poor devil.”

  Hannah thought it unbecoming in someone of Wexford’s rank—or indeed any rank—to make remarks with such an undercurrent of emotion running through them. This was the brick person’s job. She was used to it, for God’s sake. It was her career. Hannah deplored Wexford’s use of the word “man.” How did he know this expert wasn’t a woman? The pathologist was, after all, as was the coroner who would open the inquest on Amber’s body tomorrow.

  “He brought the brick or whatever with him, guv,” she said, “and when he’d…used it, he took it away with him.”

  “Or maybe ‘she,’ Sergeant,” said Wexford in a neutral tone.

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  Gated estates were not common in this part of Sussex, but it seemed to Wexford that each time a new enclave of middle- to high-income houses was built, living there wasn’t considered secure without gates at its entrance, a key-operated barrier, and an English version of a concierge in the gatehouse. The one on duty at Riverbank Close, Sewingbury, was a six-foot-five African in black jeans and T-shirt with RIVERBANK in yellow letters on the front. The driver of the car that preceded Wexford’s through the gateway received a hearty “Good morning, sir” and a smile of radiant amiability, while Donaldson was greeted with cool contempt and a demand for identification from all of them.

  “I suppose,” said Burden when they were in, “that if I lived here, if I were the kind of person who’d want to live here, I’d love that guy and feel really safe when he was on duty. As it is, however…”

  Wexford nodded. “I first saw this kind of setup in California and hoped it wouldn’t have to happen here.”

  “Does it have to happen here?”

  “I don’t know, Mike. Where’s the riverbank, anyway?”

  “About half a mile away and the river’s what you might call a tributary of the Kingsbrook if it hasn’t dried up altogether by now.”

  Some sort of building work was evidently going on at number four. A board in the front garden proclaimed the construction workers to be Surrage-Samphire, Specialist Decorators and Restorers, but as is the well-known way of builders, no decorator or restorer was in the house at present, though the hall, which seemed to be in the process of being paneled, was a chaos of wood strips, glue pots, brushes, sheets of paper, and dust sheets. “But no bricks,” as Wexford remarked to Burden later.

  Though expected, they had to ring twice before someone came. She was a teenage girl in a denim miniskirt of extravagant shortness and a bustier so revealing that, much to Wexford’s amusement, Burden turned away his eyes, though whether in prudery or suppressed lust was unclear.

  “Yes?”

  “We have an appointment with Mrs. Hilland,” said Wexford, stepping in among the building materials without waiting to be invited. “And you are?”

  For a moment he thought she would tell him it was no business of his but she relented a little and said, “Cosima Hilland.”

  “Daniel is your brother?”

  Everyone knew that, her look seemed to say. The question was unworthy of reply. Picking her way over pots and a stack of wood strips, she led them to a pair of double doors and said, “In there,” as if she had only just thought better of giving the two of them a push.

  The mother was about the same age as Diana Marshalson, a thin tired-looking woman of faded blond prettiness. She got up from the chair in which she had been sitting, writing something at a desk. Wexford had noticed, from the moment they entered the house, that this was one of the few in the neighborhood with efficient air-conditioning but perhaps only one among many in Riverbank Close. With not a window open, the room was as cool as on an autumn day. Outside the sun glared over parched lawns and distressed trees with drooping leaves.

  The woman said nothing, neither smiled nor held out her hand, but raised her eyebrows to an alarming extent so that the penciled ellipses vanished into her fringe. Wexford took this as an inquiry as to their business in her house rather like her daughter’s “Yes?” Not invited to sit down, Burden sat in spite of this omission and Wexford, once she had returned to her chair, did so too. A phone call had been made before their visit, but she gave no sign that she knew of it. She sat in silence, first gazing out of the window, then turning her eyes on Wexford.

  He responded by asking her if he was right in thinking she was Mrs. Hilland.

  “Vivien Hilland, yes,” she said, her voice several degrees higher up the class scale than the home she lived in. A small manor house would have been more appropriate.

  “You will have heard of Amber Marshalson’s death.”

  “I suppose that’s why you’re here.”

  “Your son is the father of Amber’s child, I believe.”

  “I believe so too,” she said. “From what I hear and read, about a third of all men who think they are their child’s father are wrong. It may be so in this case, but my husband and I prefer to think Daniel is Brand’s father.”

  “Quite so,” said Wexford, sighing inwardly. “Where is your son now?”

  “He’s an undergraduate at the University of Edinburgh.” She paused as if expecting one of the policemen to ask her what an undergraduate was. “At the moment, however,” she went on, “he’s in Finland with friends. By some lake or other.”

  “Does he know of Amber’s death?” Burden asked.

  “My husband left a message on his mobile. He hasn’t yet responded. He and Amber were no longer…er, together. They hadn’t been since six months before the child was born.”

  “We’d like the number of his mobile, please, Mrs. Hilland.”

  She looked as if about to protest but shrugged instead and wrote it down on a piece of paper she tore from a block on the desk. The girl Cosima came in, drinking Coke out of a can. She passed them without a glance, opened one of the French doors and, leaving it open, wandered into the garden where she lay facedown on the lawn. Mrs. Hilland’s eyebrows went up again.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall and a man put his head around the door. “Just to let you know I’m going into town for that beading,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

  He was handsome, blue-eyed, and smiling. Her face softened. She almost simpered. “All right, Ross. That’s fine.”

  “When did you last see Amber?” Wexford asked when the man had gone and Vivien Hilland’s flush had faded.

  “Oh, two or three weeks ago. She used to bring Brand quite often. After all, he’s my grandson.”

  “Yes.”

  “The last time, if that’s what you want to know, would have been—let me see—July the twentieth. I know the date because it was when the builders started. It was Diana Marshalson who recommended Ross Samphire. He’d done some work through their studio. I remember I was talking to him when she and Brand arrived.” There was nothing granny-like about Vivien Hilland, but now she was talking about Brand a degree of animation had crept into her voice. She had even moved on to answering when no question had been asked. “He’s very like Daniel to look at and that’s as it should be.” She didn’t explain this rather cryptic remark. “My husband and I would have preferred it if he and Amber could settle their differences and he live with her during his university holidays. That’s why we were letting her have the flat. You do know about the flat?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “I thought Diana Marshalson would have told you. Of course you’re aware that my husband, Stuart Hilland, that is, used to represent the parliamentary constituency of South Crenge in the House of Commons for the Conservative Party.” That had to be the most circumlocutory way possible of saying the man was a Tory MP, Wexford thought. “When he went into the Commons we bought a flat in Crenthorne Heath, but unfortunately he lost his seat when this terrible Labour government came in in nineteen ninety-seven. We’ve had t
enants in the flat since then, but the present lease comes to an end in November and we offered it to Amber.”

  “She and Brand were going to move to London?”

  “Well, very suburban London. She didn’t object. She was thrilled at the prospect of having a place of her own. Kingsmarkham Council wouldn’t do anything for her. Well, what can you expect?”

  “This offer,” said Burden, “was conditional on Daniel also living there when he could?”

  “Frankly, I thought it should have been, but my husband wouldn’t have it. No, it was just for her. I really don’t understand why you’re asking all these irrelevant questions. It was surely some pedophile or psychotic who killed her, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Wexford. “I’d like to ask another question you may think irrelevant, Mrs. Hilland. Where were you on Wednesday morning between, say, one and three A.M.?”

  “I?” As if the room were full of people. “I? In bed, of course.” Almost before the words were out, second thoughts seemed to dawn on her. “No, I wasn’t. Of course I wasn’t.” She had become almost human. “My husband and I had been to this very long play in town—London, that is—and we had supper afterwards and he drove us home. We got in about half-past two.”

  “I see. Thank you. Your daughter was alone in this house?”

  She took it for criticism. “Cosima is a very responsible sixteen. She’s quite old for her actual years.” As if on cue, the girl got up from her prone position on the grass and sauntered in, dropping her Coke can as she came.

  “Daddy and I got in about half-past two yesterday morning, didn’t we?”