Devices and Desires Read online

  Maitland-Brown had pronounced and clearly expected no questions. Nor was there need for any. He put out a hand for his coat, which was obligingly handed to him by a DC, then took his leave. Rickards almost expected him to bow.

  Rickards looked down at the corpse. Now, with the head, hands and feet covered with plastic, she looked for a second like a giftwrapped toy, a plaything for someone with expensive and peculiar tastes, an artifice of latex and synthetic hair, glass eyes, a mere simulation of a living woman. Oliphant’s voice seemed to come from a far distance.

  “Commander Dalgliesh didn’t come back with you, then, sir?”

  “Why should he? This isn’t his pigeon. He’s probably in bed.”

  He thought, And I wish to God I were too. Already the day was crowding in on him, as if physical weight were being piled on an exhausted body; the press conference about the Whistler’s suicide, the Chief Constable, the press officer, this new investigation, suspects to be interviewed, facts established, the whole cumbersome business of a murder investigation set in motion with the knowledge of his previous failure dragging like a stone on his heart. And somehow or other he had to find time to ring Susie.

  He said: “Mr. Dalgliesh is a witness, not the investigating officer.”

  “A witness, but hardly a suspect.”

  “Why not? He lives on the headland, he knew the girl, he knew how the Whistler killed. He may not be a serious suspect in our eyes, but he makes his statement like everyone else.”

  Oliphant looked at him stolidly. He said: “That’ll be a new experience for him. Let’s hope he enjoys it.”

  BOOK FOUR

  MONDAY 26 SEPTEMBER

  1

  Anthony woke her, as he usually did, just after 6.30. Theresa wrenched her mind through clogging layers of sleep to the familiar morning sounds, the creak and rock of the cot and the sniffs and grunts as Anthony grasped the rails and pulled himself up. She smelt the familiar nursery smell, compounded of baby talc, stale milk and a sodden nappy. She felt for the switch of the bedside light under the grubby shade with its fringe of dancing Bambis and, opening her eyes, stared into Anthony’s and was rewarded by his wide, gummy smile and his ritual small bounces of pleasure, which shook the cot. Gently opening the door of the twins’ room she could see that they were still asleep, Elizabeth a curled lump on the far end of the bed, Marie on her back, one arm flung out. If she could change and feed Anthony before he became fretful, they would sleep for another half-hour, thirty more minutes of peace for her father.

  She would look after Elizabeth and Marie for her mother’s sake as long as they needed her and with all her strength, but it was Anthony whom she loved. For a moment she lay still regarding him, enjoying this moment of their quiet, mutual pleasure in each other. Then he let go of the cot rail with one hand, raised one leg in a parody of a clumsy ballet dancer, collapsed onto his mattress, then rolled over onto his back, stuffed his fist into his mouth and began noisily sucking. Soon he would tire of this substitute comfort. She swung her legs out of bed, waited for a moment until she felt the physical flow of strength into arms and legs, then went over to the cot, let down the side and gathered him into her arms. She would change him downstairs on newspaper spread on the kitchen table, then strap him into his high chair so that he could watch her while she heated his milk. By the time he was fed the twins would be awake and she would be free to help dress them ready for Mrs. Hunter from the Welfare to collect them and drive them to the playgroup. Then there would be breakfast for her father and herself before it was time to set out with her father and Anthony to walk to the crossroads where she would pick up the school bus.

  She had just turned off the gas under the saucepan of milk when the telephone rang. Her heart lurched, then settled into a rhythmic pounding. She snatched at the receiver, hoping that she had been quick enough to stop it waking her father. George Jago’s voice came over strongly, conspiratorial, husky with excitement.

  “Theresa? Is your dad up yet?”

  “No, not yet, Mr. Jago. He’s still asleep.”

  There was a pause as if he were thinking; then he said: “OK, don’t disturb him. When he wakes, tell him Hilary Robarts is dead. Last night. Murdered. Found on the beach.”

  “You mean the Whistler got her?”

  “Looked like that—meant to look like that, if you ask me. But it couldn’t have been. The Whistler was dead, been dead three hours or more. Like I told you last night. Remember?”

  “Yes, I remember, Mr. Jago.”

  “Good thing I rang last night, isn’t it? You told him, your dad? You told your dad about the Whistler?”

  She heard under the excitement the insistent note of anxiety. “Yes,” she said, “I told him.”

  “That’s all right, then. Now, you tell him about Miss Robarts. Ask him to give me a ring. I’ve got a call to take a party to Ipswich, but I’ll be back about twelve. Or I could have a word with him now, if he’s quick.”

  “He wouldn’t be quick, Mr. Jago. He’s sound asleep. And I’m trying to feed Anthony.”

  “All right. But you tell him, mind.”

  “Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  He said: “Good thing I rang last night. He’ll know why.”

  She put down the receiver. Her hands were wet. She wiped them on her nightdress and went over to the stove. But when she picked up the pan of milk, her hands were shaking so violently that she knew she wouldn’t be able to pour it into the narrow neck of the bottle. She took it over to the sink and, very carefully, managed to half-fill it. Then she unstrapped Anthony and seated herself in the low nursing chair before the empty fireplace. His mouth opened, and she plugged in the teat of the bottle and watched as he began his vigorous chomping, his eyes, suddenly vacant, fixed on hers, his two chubby hands raised, palms down, like the paws of an animal.

  It was then that she heard the creak of the stairs, and her father came in. He never appeared in front of her in the mornings without what he used as a dressing gown: an old raincoat buttoned to the neck. Above it his face under the sleep-tousled hair was grey and swollen, the lips unnaturally red.

  He said: “Was that the phone?”

  “Yes, Daddy, Mr. Jago.”

  “What did he want, then, at this hour?”

  “He rang to say that Hilary Robarts is dead. She’s been murdered.”

  Surely he would notice how different her voice sounded. It seemed to her that her lips were so dry that they would look bloated and deformed, and she bent her head low over the baby so that he shouldn’t see her. But her father didn’t look at her and he didn’t speak. With his back to her he said: “The Whistler, then, was it? Got her, did he? Well, she was asking for it.”

  “No, Daddy, it couldn’t have been the Whistler. Remember Mr. Jago phoned us last night at half past seven to say that the Whistler was dead. He said this morning he was glad he rang to tell us and that you would know why.”

  Still he didn’t speak. She heard the hiss of water from the tap into the kettle and watched him as he took it slowly back to the table and plugged it in, then took down a mug from the shelf. She was aware of the thudding of her heart, of Anthony’s warm body against her arm, of her chin gently resting on his downy head. She said: “What did Mr. Jago mean by that, Daddy?”

  “He meant that whoever killed Miss Robarts meant to blame it on the Whistler. That means the police will only suspect people who didn’t know that the Whistler was dead.”

  “But you knew, Daddy, because I told you.”

  Then he turned and said without looking at her: “Your mother wouldn’t like you to tell lies.”

  But he wasn’t cross and he wasn’t rebuking her. She heard nothing in his voice but a great weariness. She said quietly: “But it isn’t a lie, Daddy. Mr. Jago telephoned when you were out in the privy. When you came back I told you.”

  And then he turned and their eyes met. She had never seen him look more hopeless, more defeated. He said: “That’s right, you told me. And that’s what you�
�ll tell the police when they ask you.”

  “Of course, Daddy. I’ll tell them what happened. Mr. Jago told me about the Whistler and I told you.”

  “And do you remember what I said?”

  The teat of the bottle had flattened. She took it from Anthony’s mouth and shook the bottle to let in the air. He gave an immediate wail of fury, which she plugged with the teat.

  She said: “I think you said that you were glad. We would all be safe now.”

  “Yes,” he said, “we’re all safe now.”

  “Does that mean that we won’t have to leave the cottage?”

  “It depends. We shan’t have to leave at once anyway.”

  “Who will it belong to now, Daddy?”

  “I don’t know. Whoever she leaves it to in her will, I suppose. They might want to sell it.”

  “Could we buy it, Daddy? It would be nice if we could buy it.”

  “That would depend on how much they want. There’s no point in thinking about that yet. We’re all right for the moment anyway.”

  She said: “Will the police be coming here?”

  “Sure to. Today, most likely.”

  “Why will they be coming here, Daddy?”

  “To find out whether I knew if the Whistler was dead. To ask you if I left the cottage last night. They’ll be here, most likely, when you get back from school.”

  But she wasn’t going to school. Today it was important that she didn’t leave her father’s side. And she had an excuse ready, a stomach cramp. And that, at least, was true, or partly true. Crouched over the lavatory, she had seen that first pink evidence of her monthly period almost with joy.

  She said: “But you didn’t leave the cottage, did you, Daddy? I was here until I went to bed at a quarter past eight. I could hear you moving down here. I could hear the television.”

  He said: “The television isn’t an alibi.”

  “But I came down, Daddy. You remember. I went to bed early, at eight-fifteen, but I couldn’t sleep and I was thirsty. I came down just before nine o’clock for a drink of water. Then I sat in Mummy’s chair, reading. You must remember, Daddy? It was half past nine before I went back to bed.”

  He gave a groan. He said: “Yes, I remember.”

  Suddenly Theresa was aware that the twins had entered the kitchen and were standing silently side-by-side by the doorway, regarding their father expressionlessly. She said sharply: “Go back and get dressed. You shouldn’t be down here undressed like that, you’ll catch cold.”

  Obediently they turned and padded up the stairs.

  The kettle was spouting steam. Her father turned it off but made no move to make the tea. Instead he sat at the table, his head bowed. She thought she heard him whisper: “I’m no good for you, I’m no good for you.” She couldn’t see his face, but for one terrible moment she thought that he was crying. Still holding the bottle and feeding Anthony, she got up and moved across to him. She had no free hand but she stood very close. She said: “It’s all right, Daddy. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s going to be all right.”

  2

  On Monday 26 September Jonathan Reeves was working the 8.15-to-14.45 shift and, as usual, he was early at his bench. But it was 8.55 before the telephone rang and he heard the expected voice. Caroline sounded perfectly calm; only the words were urgent.

  “I have to see you. Now. Can you get away?”

  “I think so. Mr. Hammond isn’t in yet.”

  “Then I’ll meet you in the library. At once. It’s important, Jonathan.”

  She had no need to tell him that. She wouldn’t be making an assignation during working hours if it weren’t important.

  The library was housed in the administration block next to the registry. It was part staff sitting room, part library, with three walls covered with shelves, two free-standing racks, and eight comfortable chairs ranged round low tables. Caroline was already waiting when he arrived, standing at the publications display stand and glancing through the latest copy of Nature. No one else was there. He moved up to her, wondering if she expected him to kiss her, but then she turned and looked at him and he saw that it would be a mistake. And yet this was their first meeting since Friday night, the night that had changed everything for him. Surely, when they were alone like this, they needn’t meet as strangers.

  He said humbly: “There’s something you want to say.”

  “In a minute. It’s just on nine o’clock. Pray silence for the voice of God.”

  His head jerked up at her. He was as surprised at her tone as if she had uttered an obscenity. They had never talked about Dr. Mair except on the most superficial level, but he had always taken it for granted that she admired the Director and was happy to be his PA. He recalled overhearing the whispered words of Hilary Robarts when Caroline had walked into a public meeting at Mair’s elbow: “Behold, the handmaid of the Lord.” That was how they had all seen her, the intelligent, discreet, beautiful but subservient handmaid to a man she was content to serve because she found him worthy of service.

  The intercom crackled. There was a background, indecipherable voice and then Mair’s measured, serious tones.

  “There cannot be anyone on the station who doesn’t now know that Hilary Robarts was found dead on the beach last night. She had been murdered. It appeared at first that she was the second Larksoken victim of the Norfolk Whistler, but it now seems almost certain that the Whistler himself died before Hilary. We shall in time find a way of expressing our corporate grief at her loss, as we shall at Christine Baldwin’s. In the meantime her death is a matter for police investigation, and Chief Inspector Rickards of the Norfolk CID, who has been responsible for the investigation into the Whistler murders, has taken charge of the case. He will be in the station later in the morning and may ask to interview those of you who knew Hilary best and may be able to help with details of her life. If any of you has any information, however slight, which may assist the police, please get in touch with Chief Inspector Rickards, either when he is here or at the incident room at Hoveton. The telephone number is 499 623.”

  The intercom crackled and was silent. She said: “I wonder how many drafts it took before he got that right. Innocuous, noncommittal, nothing crudely stated but everything understood. And he didn’t irritate us by saying that he could rely on us all to get on with the job, as if we were a bunch of excitable sixth-formers. He never wastes time and words on inessentials. He’ll make a good senior civil servant all right.”

  Jonathan said: “This Chief Inspector Rickards, do you think he’ll want to interview all of us?”

  “Anyone who knew Hilary. And that will include us. And that’s what I want to talk about. When he sees me, I propose telling him that you and I spent the whole of last evening together, from six o’clock until about half past ten. Obviously I’ll need you to back me up. And it depends, of course, on whether anyone can disprove it. That’s what we have to discuss.”

  He stood for a moment appalled. “But we weren’t! You’re asking me to lie. This is a murder investigation. It’s terribly dangerous to lie to the police, they always find out.”

  He knew what he must sound like, a frightened child, petulant, reluctant to take part in a dangerous game. He looked straight ahead, not wanting to meet her eyes, fearful of what he might see there, entreaty, anger, contempt.

  She said: “You told me when you rang on Saturday that your parents were going to spend Sunday night at Ipswich with your married sister. They went, didn’t they?”

  He said miserably: “Yes, they went.”

  It was because he knew that they wouldn’t be at home that he had hoped, had half-expected, that Caroline would suggest that they should be together again in the bungalow. He remembered her words on the telephone: “Look, there are times when a woman needs to be on her own. Can’t you understand that? What happened yesterday doesn’t mean that we have to spend every second of our time together. I’ve told you that I love you. God knows, I’ve shown it. Isn’t that enough?”<
br />
  She said: “So you were alone in the flat yesterday evening. Or weren’t you? If anyone called or telephoned, then obviously I’ve got to think of something else.”

  “No one called. I was on my own until after lunch. Then I went for a drive.”

  “What time did you get back? Did anyone see you garaging the car? It’s not a large block of flats, is it? Did you meet anyone when you got home? And what about lights from the windows?”

  “I left the lights on. We always do when the flat is empty. Mother thinks it’s safer, makes it look occupied. And I didn’t get back until after dark. I wanted to be alone, to think. I drove to Blakeney and walked on the marshes. I wasn’t home until ten-forty-five.”

  She gave a small contented sigh. “Then it looks all right. Did you meet anyone on the walk?”

  “Only in the distance. A couple with a dog. I don’t think they could recognize me even if they knew me.”

  “Where did you eat?” Her voice was sharp, the interrogation relentless.

  “I didn’t. Not until I got home. I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then. We’re safe. And no one spied on me in the bungalow. And no one would ring or call. No one ever does.”

  “Spy.” It was, he thought, a strange word to use. But she was right. The bungalow, as uninspired as its name, Field View, stood totally isolated on a dull country road outside Hoveton. He had never been inside it, never even been allowed to escort her home, before they had arrived together on Friday evening, and it had surprised and a little shocked him. She had told him that it was rented furnished from the owners, who had gone to Australia for a year to stay with a married daughter and had decided to stay on. But why had she stayed on? he wondered. Surely there was a more attractive house or cottage somewhere she could have rented, a small flat in Norwich she could have afforded to buy. And, following her inside the front door, he had been struck by the contrast between its meanness, its vulgarity, and her serene loveliness. He could picture it now, the dun-coloured carpet in the hall, the sitting room with two walls papered in pink stripes, the other two with huge clusters of roses, the hard sofa and two chairs with their grubby covers, the small reproduction of Constable’s Haywain, hung too high to be comfortably seen and placed in incongruous proximity to the ubiquitous print of a yellow-faced Chinese girl, the old-fashioned wall-mounted gas fire. And she had done nothing to change it, nothing to impress on it her own personality. It was as if she hardly noticed its deficiencies, its ugliness. It served its purpose. She asked no more of it. And it had served theirs. But even the hall had struck him chill. He had wanted to cry out: “This is our first time together, my first time ever. Can’t we go somewhere else? Does it have to be here?”